For Good Men to Do Nothing Read online

  For Good Men To Do Nothing

  by Roland Ladley

  The fourth of the Sam Green novels

  First edition prepared for publication with CreateSpace July 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Roland Ladley 2018

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  The moral right of Roland Ladley has been asserted.

  ISBN-13: 978-1720548348

  ISBN-10:172054834X

  For Claire, who has put up with me through thick and thin.

  And for Rosemary – an eye for detail and an injection of enthusiasm when I needed it most.

  The world will not be destroyed by those who do evil, but by those who watch them without doing anything.

  Albert Einstein

  Prologue

  Sometime in June 2013

  6°11'58.7"N 49°25'10.8"E, off the Somali coast

  Victoria Mitchell’s head hurt. Too much red wine, exacerbated by the pitch and yaw of the yacht and the melodic slap of the sea against the hull. The blistering sun didn’t help, even though she was partially shaded by the open cockpit’s canopy. She glanced at the instrument panel. They were making a couple of knots. Which was nowhere near fast enough for her. Thankfully the wind was behind them - but the western Indian Ocean’s ‘Great Whirl’ current spun clockwise, northward along the Somali coast. As a result, heading south they were pushing against three or four knots. At least with both the mainsail and spinnaker up they were making some headway.

  But a couple of knots was nowhere near fast enough.

  They’d left Suez what seemed like an epoch ago. The canal had been exotic and the real start of their circumnavigation of Africa. They’d jostled between supertankers, huge container ships and the odd traditional Egyptian fishing boat with its sail hung at a jaunty angle from a central mast. Their 43-foot Sega, Money for Nothing II - her husband Paul’s pride and joy - motored nearly all of the 120 miles of the canal under steam. Out in the Red Sea they’d found space and wind to make headway under sail. They’d berthed for a couple of days at Port Jeddah in Saudi to take on fuel, water and provisions - which had been an experience all of its own. A third-world port in a super-rich, second-world country. They’d overnighted again at Djibouti. They next intended to make landfall at Mombasa, Kenya.

  She knew that the 1,800 mile stretch from Djibouti to Mombasa, about 15 days at 5 knots, was the most dangerous leg of the journey. Piracy was rife; from big ships to small sailing boats - no one was safe. They’d been advised to remain at least 50 miles off the coast and Paul had plotted that for them. But with the convex shape of the coastline, the further from land the longer it would take. It was a balancing act. Currently they were about 30 miles offshore and, apart from a far-distant tanker, they’d seen nothing for two days.

  To be accurate, and something she reminded her husband of every couple of days, they’d been strongly advised not to travel this coastline. But Paul was nothing if not pig-headed. And since he’d sold the business, planned and then embarked on this journey, Victoria had experienced a single-mindedness in her husband that she’d not witnessed before. They were going. Nothing would stop them.

  They were both competent sailors and they’d made some pretty significant trips before. They’d completed ‘The Azores and Back’ race in 2011. Other than both of them falling asleep at the helm at points, they had coped remarkably well in difficult seas. So when Paul had suggested the round-Africa trip a year ago, it wasn’t the sailing that bothered her. No, they could do that. It was the piracy - particularly along the Somali coast - that frightened her.

  ‘I’ll go without you, if necessary.’ She remembered Paul telling her as she hummed and hawed.

  ‘Why not sail the Atlantic?’ Had been her response.

  ‘No. It’s Africa, or nothing.’

  That had been the end of the conversation.

  And here they were, just over a year later. Sailing a 40-odd-foot bucket of fibreglass through some of the most dangerous waters in the world. Unprotected.

  Victoria yawned. She shook her head feebly, trying to force the cotton wool that fogged her mind to exit: stage left. She half stood, checking the horizon, placed her finger on the autopilot to make sure the reading was right, and then reached into her blouse pocket for her packet of Embassy Number 1s.

  She lit and dragged.

  God, that’s good.

  She’d smoked all her life. She knew that it would kill her. Eventually. But, along with red wine, it was what kept her going.

  No. That was a crass statement.

  They had £20 million in the bank and, both in their fifties, had no need to work again. Money for Nothing II may have been over 20 years old, but she was still an expensive yacht in immaculate condition - and worth £100,000 of anyone’s money. Victoria remained married to her first husband. And they were on a journey of a lifetime.

  She shouldn’t need anything to keep her going?

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  There were no kids, even though she’d longed for them. And whilst Paul was a brilliant technophile and very capable entrepreneur, he was an inattentive husband.

  Money wasn’t everything.

  If I had my time again?

  She’d met Paul Mitchell at Cambridge. They were both reading computer science, or a subset of that. He was a good coder - she was better. But he had an eye for opportunity that eluded her. Together they made a great business team. Less so as lovers. Success followed, but there was no time for a family. As he ploughed his furrow, making them millions, she became distracted and took to wine to complement the fags. He didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy on the next project. And, wow, in the end, what a project.

  There was noise below.

  ‘What time is it?’ Paul, grumpy after a short sleep. During long legs neither of them took more than four hours before coming on deck to relieve the other.

  She checked her watch.

  ‘Ten-fifteen. You’ve got another 45 minutes yet.’

  There was more clattering down below. He was probably trying to make himself a coffee. He wouldn’t ask her if she wanted one. It wasn’t that he was naturally selfish, his mind was always on other things.

  She looked from the entrance of the cabin where Paul would emerge sometime soon and glanced up to the horizon. Just a dark blue slab of water, above which was a translucent, light blue sky. A single cloud bobbed along like a lone sheep on blue-painted downs.

  More noise downstairs. Paul swore.

  For no reason she checked behind her.

  And double-took.

  Shit.

  She reached for their stabilised binos. She focused them, calculating angles.

  About four miles out was a small boat. It got lost as the sea gently rose and fell. But it was definitely a boat - the light blue sky was tinged with black; probably unburnt diesel.

  Twenty-five degrees from their rear starboard side.

  She reached for the chart. It was like a normal map, but all blues, yellows and whites. She could have used the yacht’s GPS digital screen, but the map had a better scale and, at a glance, showed up to 50 miles. They were travelling south-south-west: 207 degrees. That would make the bearin
g to the boat about due north. She looked at the map following due north from where she thought they were: Dinowda. A small Somali fishing village about 35 miles away.

  Bandit country.

  ‘Paul!’ Her voice higher pitched than normal.

  ‘What?’ More clattering from downstairs.

  ‘Come up here now. We’ve got company.’

  There was too long a pause. He was faffing about.

  ‘Paul!’ More nervous now.

  She checked over her shoulder. The boat was gaining. It was probably doing ten or 12 knots. If it kept its current course it would be with them in half-an-hour. Maybe sooner.

  She stood up and, briefly catching a handrail against an unexpected swell, looked at the radar. The oncoming boat didn’t bleep. It was out of range. She twiddled a knob and the scale on the radar grew. It bleeped now.

  ‘What is it?’

  Paul was at the cabin door, lower than her, his head at knee height.

  ‘Look.’ She pointed behind them. ‘There’s a boat. About 4 miles away.’

  An odd expression, which she couldn’t compute, flashed in her husband’s eyes. Excitement?

  He was out of the cabin and roughly took the binos from her. As she checked the radar, he looked.

  ‘Well?’ She wanted answers.

  ‘It’s too early to say, but it’s probably just a fishing boat, you know, fishing?’

  She didn’t buy that.

  ‘Give me the binos.’ Any red-wine induced fog was gone. She was alert as a sniper.

  ‘Hang on.’ Exasperation[RJ1] now tinged his voice. He looked through the binos again.

  ‘It’s not coming for us. It’s heading more easterly.’

  Victoria squinted, trying to focus on something which wasn’t staying still for long enough. No, it wasn’t heading east, it was coming for them.

  She knew it.

  ‘Give me the damn binos!’

  He did as instructed.

  She looked again.

  It was a RIB. A big one. And it was doing more than ten knots.

  ‘It’s coming for us!’ She was almost screaming.

  Get a grip woman …

  He didn’t seem bothered. Was he still hung over? He looked at the boat that was definitely heading their way, and then back to her. His face was scrunched up - his expression was consternation - when what she really wanted to see was clarity. Action, maybe. He was lifeless. Stuck to the spot.

  ‘I’m calling “mayday” - all stations.’ Victoria reached for the radio’s handset.

  ‘Hang on, hang on.’ He grabbed her wrist.

  ‘What the hell do you want us to wait for? Until we see the whites of their eyes? They’re coming for us!’ She shook her wrist and he let go. She picked up the handset, checked the frequency on the radio set, took one last look at the speck-turned-RIB that was bearing down on them, and pressed the pressel on the handset.

  ‘Mayday, mayday. Hello all-stations, this is British yacht Money For Nothing II, mayday, mayday. We are at …’, she looked across at the GPS numbers and read them out, ‘...6 degrees 11 minutes 58.7 seconds north, and 49 degrees 25 minutes 10.8 seconds east, heading south-south-east at two knots.’ She took a breath. ‘We are being pursued by a RIB-type boat. Possible pirates. Over.’

  Paul was looking in the direction of the RIB. He had one hand on a rail and the other was on his hip. She caught a glimpse of his face. What was that look?

  There was no radio reply, just the slap, slap, slap of water on hull.

  Victoria was about to retransmit the message when the airways burst into life. After a static squelch, the reply was crackly - but decipherable.

  ‘Hello, Money For Nothing II, this is USS Hurricane. Confirm, 6 degrees 11 minutes 58.7 seconds north, and 49 degrees 25 minutes 10.8 seconds east. Over.’

  Paul turned and glared at the loudspeaker that was mounted forward of main instrument panel, then he looked at her. His face was unreadable.

  What is up with him?

  The question was countered as relief flooded through Victoria’s veins.

  She hadn’t picked up the detail of the response from the US ship, so she transmitted their position again.

  ‘We are at 6 degrees 11 minutes 58.7 seconds north, and 49 degrees 25 minutes 10.8 seconds east. Over.’

  Another look in the direction of the RIB. She didn’t need any binoculars now. It was approaching fast.

  Squelch. ‘We have that. Can you confirm that the incoming vessel is hostile? Over.’

  ‘Paul? Surely? They’re pirates?’

  He was mute. It was though some sort of paralysing disease had overcome him. She got nothing in response.

  She raised the binos to her eyes. It was a 30-foot RIB; it was on the plane. Maybe two big outboards. Doing 20 knots? Possibly four or five men. Was that a weapon?

  ‘It’s a large RIB. Pushing out 20 knots and closing fast. Four or five men. I can’t see any more than that. Over.’

  The reply was instant.

  ‘OK, Money For Nothing. We are about 150 nautical miles south of you. We’ll have a chopper in the air in 15 minutes, it’ll be with you in an hour. My advice is …’

  An hour? We’ll be dead in 20 minutes.

  ‘... do whatever the hostiles ask of you. Do not fight. Do not argue. We’ll be with you as soon as we can. In the meantime keep this channel open. Over.’

  Victoria pulled the handset from her face and looked at it as though it were infected.

  ‘They’ll be here in ten minutes, Vicky.’

  It was the first sign of recognition from Paul since she’d spotted the RIB. She was at a loss as to what to do, or say. Did he expect a response? Should she respond to the US ship? She was losing her grip. They were being pursued by pirates. And help was an hour away.

  It was all going to end horribly. She just knew it.

  Fear

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  Hotel Post, Alpbach. Austria

  Sam woke with a start. Instantly she had complete clarity. It was the way her brain was wired. She didn’t need an alarm clock - she woke when she had to. And, unlike most people, she didn’t require that additional five minutes to clear the night’s sleep from her mind. Awake; alive. It wasn’t a trait she necessarily complemented herself on. She wished she could wake, turn over and then sleep all day. Sadly that never happened. There was a bit of her old military training mixed in there somewhere. But mostly it was her unnecessarily overactive brain.

  With one eye open she was looking across at the hotel’s radio alarm: a neon red 7.25 am. She sensed an empty bed. She didn’t move her torso, but lifted her right arm and prodded behind her. Nothing. A vacancy. Zimmer frei. Her German was picking up.

  Last night’s affair hadn’t lasted beyond the entangling of limbs, lubricated by the sweat of exertion. Was it something she had said? She knew she was often poor company, uncomfortable with small talk and pleasantries. After some mild flirting across the bar, they’d spoken about camper vans[RJ2] and skiing, and sturdy footwear (in that order) - they were her chosen topics. She sensed a polite lack of interest, but the fact that they were both on their own and both in good shape, stimulated a physical draw. A sexual magnetism of sorts. But, as was always the case with her, it hadn’t lasted.

  She sat up, blinked and looked around the small, feather duvet-filled room. Nothing. Not a single sign that she’d had company. Naked, she hopped out of bed and checked her wallet. It was a bottle of Riesling lighter than when she had last looked, but it hadn’t been touched by her company. She opened the top drawer of the pine chest. Her passport was there. She absently flicked through it. It still had its Russian work visa, and two West African stamps: Liberia and Sierra Leone.

  Sam put her wallet and passport in her bumbag and took a quick peek out of the window to check that the ski lifts were working. They were. Disappointed but not surprised that she’d be skiing alone, she headed for the shower.

  At the ornate pine reception desk Sam pa
id the very jolly Austrian concierge with cash. She then booked the same room for tonight. This was day five, so the concierge wasn’t surprised by her actions. For her it was force of habit. Always be prepared for quick escape. Never stay in the same place two nights in a row. Pay by cash and take all your important documents with you.

  Her SIS ‘case officer’ and her Army analyst’s training had drummed into her a number of standard operating procedures. As a civvy for the past 12 months they were mostly pointless, it was habit. Well, habit and her OCD. Get real – definitely more OCD than habit. It meant that whilst she was ready for anything, nothing actually happened. And she was constantly worn out. Check this; twice. What’s that? Why is that there? Why isn’t that there? What’s that number plate? Her photographic memory constantly filling up with, now, worthless trivia.

  Since she left SIS, she’d done some internet research into PTSD - it still plagued her from Afghanistan - and OCD. She hoped that the reports would say that time was a good healer. That, at some point, her memory would be so full it couldn’t remember anything else. Perhaps soon she’d be able to see a face and not have its features indelibly inked onto her consciousness.

  Maybe then she’d be able to turn over and sleep all day?

  The reports were inconclusive. Trauma did funny things to the brain. And, if you were on the autistic spectrum to begin with, the results could be significant and long-lasting.

  Outside, having collected her skis and poles from the hotel’s cellar, she made her way to the ski-bus. She really hoped she didn’t bump into last night’s excursion. She wouldn’t know what to say. She’d probably blurt out something like, ‘Did you check the footy? Good result for The Canaries?’ There’d be an awkward silence and she’d mumble and leave - taking her embarrassment with her.

  Alpbach, a very British resort in the middle of the Austrian Tyrol, was half-crowded. Mid-January was neither here nor there when it came to the ski season, but she travelled now because she knew she was pretty certain to get some half-decent snow. And the kids would be at school. During her time in the Army she’d trained here with the Military Intelligence ski team. It was just a season, but it was enough for her to get a bronze at the Army downhills a couple of weeks later. It was a charming, chocolate box resort, even if the skiing was hardly expansive.