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like dead bodies on my ships, so we will take Bouh Adan home with us and place his body in our skiff. My crew will throw your dead man over the side. My other casualty is already in the water.”
    “It is traditional in my country that we too would wish to take our dead home, and for that reason I would ask that Charles Wyatt be placed in a body bag and . . .”
    “Permission denied,” snapped Wolde, pointing at both Tevez and Barnwell. “You’re lucky I did not shoot you all, after your stupid reaction when we came aboard. You started the killing; don’t make us finish it.”
    At this point, the line was opened to Washington and Eugene Marinello was located. Captain Corcoran took the receiver and said, very deliberately, “Eugene, the Niagara Falls has been boarded and captured by heavily armed Somali pirates. My first mate is dead, and we are, as you know, unarmed and without escort.”
    He looked across to Wolde and requested, “May I tell them our GPS position?”
    “Certainly,” he replied. “This is where they are going to deliver the ransom money.”
    Captain Corcoran relayed his precise position on the water and then informed the stunned section chief that the commanding officer of the Somali Marines would be in contact in the next half hour.

    He did not, of course, know that the Somali mole Yusuf, currently on duty in the Ronald Reagan Building in Washington, had furnished Mohammed Salat with the phone number of the senior US naval officer under whose command the Niagara Falls and all USAID ships were designated.
    Wolde now ordered Omar Ali and Elmi Ahmed to guard the three Americans while he returned downstairs to the deck. And once there, he walked forward and telephoned Captain Hassan on board the Mombassa one mile astern.
    “This is Ismael,” he said. “We have captured the Niagara Falls . Bouh and Gacal have been killed, but we have complete control of the ship. I am calling Washington in a few moments with our ransom demands. I expect a favorable outcome. Please inform Mr. Salat.”
    Captain Hassan was saddened at the loss of his young Somali lookout but extremely pleased the mission was a success so far. “Well done,” he said quietly.
    While Wolde returned to the bridge, the Mombassa ’s master called the private line of Mohammed Salat and relayed the news to him. The stock exchange boss was ever vigilant and summoned his driver to take him immediately to the office, one hundred yards away.
    The place was open and doing business. The 20,000 remaining shares in the Somali Marines operation were trading at $20 each, having doubled the moment the Mombassa made contact with the target far out to sea. Salat himself had retained 15,000 shares.
    Salat wrote down the stock bulletin and ordered a clerk to punch the sentence into the flashing electronic notice board. The crowd of perhaps thirty or forty local “investors,” sensing an important update, surged forward.
    They could see Mohammed Salat was there in person, and the Somali Marines’ operation was very topical. In general terms they were aware the Mombassa must be within striking range of their target, but they knew no more.
    The notice board went dark as earlier bulletins were removed. You could have heard a spear drop as everyone waited. Then the board flashed . . . SOMALI MARINES CAPTURED THE 18,000-TON UNITED STATES FREIGHTER NIAGARA FALLS 45 MINUTES AGO. ESTIMATED
$100 MILLION DOLLAR CARGO. TEN MILLION DOLLARS DEMANDED FOR HER RETURN. ENDS BULLETIN.
    The roar from the crowd split the hot night air. Trading in the shares caused pandemonium. Salat’s brokers opened at $35–$38: buy at $35, sell at $38. Traders were almost crushed by the stampede to buy. Everyone in the entire country knew the Somali Marines had collected four ransoms in succession—the big one from the Greeks just one month previous.
    There was a risk and everyone knew it. Maybe the United States would refuse to pay. But the cargo had a value, so did the huge ship.