The Russian would compensate Tranh for any losses in that quarter, and so far he had made it clear that he had the money to do so.
It was really that simple. Tranh despised complications and sought to keep things as simple as possible, always.
“We weren’t doing anything, I swear!” The mother looked up at Tranh with tears in her eyes. “Please don’t hurt us! We’ll do what you say!”
“Mom,” the younger woman spoke. “Stop.”
“Yes,” Tranh said, smiling. “Do what the girl says. Your husband. Her father. Jim McAfferty, the government man.” It was not a question, and Tranh’s mediocre English did not diminish the menace in his words. “Yes?”
The mother began sobbing. It was the girl who looked Tranh in the eye, impressing the pirate captain with her mettle. “Yes, my father is Jim McAfferty. You know that already or you wouldn’t have asked.”
Tranh laughed, crumpled the printout of the ship’s manifest and tossed it casually aside. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you right. Wu!”
The Chinese pirate known as Wu, one of the two with a submachine gun trained on the women, stepped forward. He knew his role. Wu had been educated in the West and was fluent in English. He would therefore deliver the written message the Russian had prepared. Wu was easily among the more intelligent members of Tranh’s crew, and could be trusted to do this properly. The Russian had demanded Tranh’s assurances on this, as it was a very important component of the operation. Tranh had no fear of making such guarantees. He had heard Wu drone on in English often enough, about matters that were well above his head. Tranh knew himself just well enough to know that he was not smart. He was cunning. He was ruthless. He was clever. But he had never considered “smart” to be one of his qualities. He did not care, either, so long as he was able to lead his crew and make money.
Of course, also unlike Wu, he was not a child molester and a murderer who had been forced to flee more than one small nation when his habits became known. But such were the paths taken by the floating debris of the world’s people before they came to the docks that Tranh frequented in his recruiting.
Tranh sometimes wondered, when he grew introspective like this, if perhaps he was not more intelligent than he gave himself credit for. As always, he dismissed these thoughts before they could weigh him down.
There was work to be done, money to be made.
He spoke a few words of command to Noor, who nodded. The pirate stepped over several mewling hostages and, from behind one of the circular bars dominating the colorful, decadently appointed lounge, extracted several pieces of satellite video broadcast equipment. With practiced ease—Noor had been some sort of electronics technician before murdering his lover’s lover, if Tranh remembered rightly—he began to assemble and connect the equipment. First he ran the power cables. Then he assembled the small portable reflective dish, positioning it at the end of the lounge at the open entrance to the rear balcony. Finally he positioned the camera and switched it on, motioning for Wu to drag a chair from one of the gambling tables. The Chinese pirate did so, taking up his seat. From his pocket he produced the folded and refolded sheets of paper that contained the Russian’s message.
Tranh pulled back the bolt on his Kalashnikov just far enough to determine that a round was chambered. The hostages would be paralyzed with fear once they heard the message. He could not have any heroes making attempts against him before he was ready.
There would be one or two among the crowd who, understanding the full meaning of the Russian’s transmitted message, would realize there was nothing to lose and perhaps everything to gain by resisting.
Tranh would show them that there were still losses he could inflict. He would shoot for the legs and then torture any who resisted. It would help him pass the time until the Russian’s damnable operation was completed and he could collect his pay.
Noor muttered something, which Tranh took to mean that they were finally ready. He motioned to Wu with his Kalashnikov. The Chinese man cleared his throat and looked into the camera lens, waiting for the light that told him the broadcast had begun. Then he spoke, his English almost without accent, his voice clear, as he read ponderously from the Russian’s sheaf of papers.
“Attention, dogs of the West,” Wu said, his lack of inflection a curious contrast to the words the Russian had written in English. “For too long, the imperialist West has lorded its wealth and its power over the rest of the world. For too long, arrogant Western nations and their lapdog allies have been free to send their troops around the globe, bombing and attacking and killing whomever they pleased. For too long, the world’s smaller nations have lacked the ability to fight back.
“This lack ends today. Included in this transmission…” Wu paused, as was indicated on his notes, looking up at Tranh. Tranh nodded and removed the special transceiver the Russian had given him from the leather pouch at his belt. He pressed a button on the device. The LEDs began to blink green, though the Cyrillic labeling on them meant nothing to Tranh. Finally, the device’s lights winked out, one by one. Tranh nodded again to Wu.
“Included in this transmission,” Wu began again, “is coded data. Those who need to decipher it will know how. Using this information you may contact your benefactor—”Wu stumbled a little over the phrasing “—in order to obtain, for a price, the weapon you are to see demonstrated here today.”
A murmur went up among the hostages. Tranh was not surprised. He was, in fact, pleased. He wanted that fear caught in the transmission. He had made sure the hostages were in the frame when instructing Noor, through sign language, where to place the camera when the time came. He knew what the Russian wanted. He sympathized, insofar as he was capable of caring about politics. First and always, Tranh cared about enriching himself. If he performed well, the Russian would call on him for other jobs. So far their partnership was new, but had already produced certain benefits, such as the Soviet-era surplus weaponry the Russian had been able to provide.
“This weapon is available to all who wish to purchase it,” Wu continued reading. “Provided your goals are to strike a blow at the hated West. In exactly one hour from this transmission, a sample of the weapon will be activated. Video of its effects on those held on this ship will be provided. The volume of the weapon used today is six times the unit of sale. The price and terms for each unit of sale have been included in the coded burst.”
Tranh understood, as the Russian had explained to him, the critical timing of the next hour. His men had gas masks and had been made to understand that these would protect them, but this was a lie. The Russian had been very clear that the substance in the canisters, once unleashed, was corrosive. It would eat through masks and the hull of the ship alike, though of course it would eat plastic much more quickly than metal. Two of Tranh’s men, with their useless gas masks in place, would stay behind and use the small digital phone cameras, transmitting their digital images to Tranh’s own phone. It would be enough for the Russian’s purposes. The men had no idea that they would die before they could leave the ship, of course; their masks would protect them just long enough to let them record the death throes of the passengers before the chemical weapon claimed them, too.
The rest of Tranh’s crew would have to be clear of the ship before the canisters detonated. He was relying on Merpati for this; she would bring the speedboat back when her watch, synchronized to Tranh’s, reached the appointed time. For now she was moored somewhere out in the darkness.
That darkness worried Tranh. The explosion that had drawn some of his men to the bow of the ship had produced no enemies to shoot. Had there been men to repel, Tranh would feel better. With no one to face, the pirate captain was forced to ponder what the mysterious explosion could
