In the Bowl of Night

In the Bowl of Night

A novel by Matt Sorensen

Smashwords edition

Copyright 2010 Matt Sorensen

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Chapter 1 Fire In The Sky

Peder Van Meer stood in a darkened room, watching the storefront across the street through a scrim of lace curtain. To a casual observer, he was wearing what might have passed as a hearing aid. It was a miniature UHF radio receiver. The storekeeper across the street wore a transmitter.

A black Mercedes limousine turned the corner and rolled slowly by without stopping. The windows were darkened and Van Meer noticed, as it passed, that the rear wheels were doubled on their axles to carry the extra weight of armor plate. It turned the corner and reappeared a few minutes later to stop in front of the store

Two men in business suits got out and walked to the door. One went inside and the other stood at the doorway watching the traffic. His coat was unbuttoned and Van Meer guessed from the slight bulge under the left arm that the man was carrying a weapon in a shoulder holster. The door opened slightly and the man inside spoke a few words to the one standing by the door.

Van Meer picked up a pair of binoculars and focused on the car. Someone got out and approached the store. Van Meer could only see his back. The man was medium height with dark hair and dark complexion. He wore an expensive European gray pinstripe suit and highly polished black shoes. He carried a thick satchel, very much as a doctor would carry on a house call. A flash of light glinted from what appeared to be a diamond studded cufflink. The man at the door opened it for him and he went inside.

Glare on the window prevented Van Meer from seeing the interior of the store but he could hear the conversation between the man with the satchel and the storekeeper. Three cargo ships of no less than 5,000 tons, at least 20 meters of clear deck space.

We can supply two container ships. There’s an older tramp steamer with enough length aft of the pilot house but you’d have to remove a mast and cargo boom.

How much for the three of them?

Thirty million each.

Fifty million for the two container ships and fifteen million for the steamer.

You have the cash with you?

Of course.

Van Meer could hear the satchel being opened and the satisfying plop as stacks of bound thousand-euro bills were laid on the counter.

Now, let’s discuss weapons.

The man at the doorway lit a cigarette and stood, bored for awhile. Suddenly he looked up to where Van Meer was watching from behind the curtain. He stared directly into the binoculars as if he could see Van Meer standing there. Van Meer put the binoculars down and stepped back, stumbling against a small table. The man turned away, tossed his cigarette into the dusty African street and lit another.

Half an hour later, the deal was concluded. The three men climbed back into the Mercedes and drove away. Van Meer waited for the storekeeper to bring a large paper bag to where he was waiting. He took the bag with one hand and with the other, slipped a thin blade between the storekeeper’s ribs. There was a look of surprise on the man’s face as he slumped silently to the floor. Van Meer took a handkerchief from the storekeeper’s pocket and wiped the blood from the knife. Then he retrieved the radio transmitter, put it in the bag with the money and walked casually out of the building and up the street to where a car and driver were waiting.

***

Half a world away, in San Jose, California, Jim Chenowyth was unaware of what had just taken place, or of how profoundly it would come to affect him and his family. He carefully placed a prototype computer chip in a static-protected container and closed the lid. He stared at the container for a long time, thinking about how he would be congratulated on the achievement that would vault him and his team of researchers to international fame -- possibly even to a Nobel Prize. The chip was the culmination of three year’s work and the reason he had put so much of his life on hold and withheld so much time from Carolyn and the children. It was the thing that would provide relief from the financial burden of over-indulgence that had become the hallmark of life in Silicon Valley. Nearly finished, he thought to himself. A few weeks more and we’ll be ready to demonstrate.

After graduating from Carnegie-Mellon with honors, Jim had emigrated to California. His paper on "The Implementation of Boolean Hyper-functions To The Design of Robotic Prosthetics" had impressed Doctor Gupta Chandra at IBM and he had been duly wooed and recruited with the promise of a laboratory and a three person research team of his own choosing. Chandra had watched, with growing impatience, as Jim and his team had siphoned millions in precious research funds for a dream that promised to become so much vaporware. But now the critical breakthrough had been realized and the dream was on the verge of becoming reality.

Jim felt like celebrating. Besides, Tuesday was Carolyn’s and his tenth wedding anniversary and he felt a pang of guilt for letting her last birthday slip past without notice. Before going home, he made a side trip to Palo Alto. He purchased a bottle of champagne at Ernie’s Liquors and then drove to Gleim Jeweler’s for a necklace he had seen Carolyn coveting several weeks before. He hoped it was still there. He entered the Stanford Mall and searched in vain for a parking space. Just as he was about to give it up, a space opened almost directly opposite the Jewelry store. What luck, he mused. A good omen.

The manager was locking up as Jim got to the store. He rapped on the glass and pointed to the necklace in the window display. The manager looked annoyed but she opened the door and said, We’re just closing. Come back tomorrow.

Jim shook his head. I want to purchase that necklace. I must have it tonight.

The emerald?

It’s my wife’s birthstone.

The manager hesitated. Finally she let Jim inside and locked the door behind him. She retrieved the necklace from the display and laid it across her wrist. One large emerald and two smaller ones, set in gold filigree, hung from a thin gold chain. The emeralds reflected a deep blue-green light that seemed to come from within. It is very old, she said, The gems are Columbian, part of an estate sale.

How much?

Two thousand, nine hundred dollars.

Jim gulped. Twenty nine hundred, he repeated, almost under his breath. He offered a Visa card and with a slight quaver in his voice said, Okay, I’ll take it.

The manager nodded. Would you like it gift wrapped?

Yes, please. He waited while she fumbled for a box and wrapping paper.

Your wife is a very fortunate woman, she said, to have such a generous and discerning husband.

As Jim turned into the driveway and parked the silver Porsche Cayman, the front door opened and Carolyn stood, waiting, her jet-black hair edged with a halo of light from the porch lamp. You’re late, she said in a flat voice with a hint of irritation. Dinner was ready an hour ago. By now, it‘ll be ruined.

Sorry, he said, offering the bag with the champagne in it.

What’s this?

Celebration, said Jim. I think we’ve finally got it -- the nano-memory. He took a small wrapped parcel from his coat pocket and handed it to her. I know it’s early but happy anniversary.

Carolyn stared at the box, turning it over and over in her hands. Jim. You know we can’t afford extras right now. We’re over-extended as it is with this big house and the car payments. It takes your salary and everything I earn in commissions just to make ends meet.

Jim‘s enthusiasm dulled a little. Open it, he said.

Carolyn unwrapped and opened the box. The blue-green stones glowed intensely in the light from the dining room chandelier. Oh Jim it’s beautiful and I’m grateful for the thought but you’ve got to take it back.

Not on your life, he said. We’re about to become rich and famous. Cheered by his own enthusiasm, he joked, You can wear it when we entertain royalty.

***

About 25 miles South of Mogadishu in Eastern Africa, semi-skilled laborers worked under the supervision of Irani engineers to modify the cargo ships that had been obtained from the Johannesburg broker. The work had taken far too long -- long enough for questions to arise in the teeming port of Merca. It was time to get underway before some nosy official who could not be bought might inquire into the purpose of the strange cradles with their massive hydraulic lifters. The structures on two of the ships were surrounded with empty shipping containers to hide them from view. The third was hidden beneath a false shipping crate and a tarpaulin.

The ships had been hijacked by Somali pirates in the Arabian sea and their whereabouts kept secret for more than a year while they were held for ransom. They were the Hapag Lloyd 12,000 ton Seevelt, the Cosco10,000 ton Pascal Voyager, and the aging, 8000 ton tramp, Eastern Star.

Re-named Durban Express, Orient Trader, and Gibraltar and supplied with forged registration papers, they slipped silently to sea on the early morning tide, mixing with commercial traffic and hugging the shore so as not to attract notice by roving patrols of U.S, and Soviet warships. They rounded the Cape of Good Hope and turned northward toward the equator, working their way along the African coast then across the Atlantic to Barranquilla, Columbia, where they exchanged cargos of innocent trade goods for others more sinister. Each of them also took aboard al-Qaida operatives and Iranian nuclear technicians.

While they were in the Columbian port, the strangely configured deck cargos captured the interest of a high altitude surveillance drone. The ships were photographed and tagged for satellite tracking by the DEA as possible drug transports.

From Barranquilla, the Durban Express made it’s way without incident