Sleeper: When Dreams Converge, #2

By Stephen Massie

Stephen Massie's sequel to When Dreams Converge sees Luke and Tina on the African continent trying to ensure the money they have is used for some good. However they become involved in a civil war which threatens their very existence. 

Pirates, African tribes, SAS, the White House and even The West Mersea Sailing club, are all involved in a thrilling tale of corruption and deceit

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stanhope Books
• Release date: Sep 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781909893283

Book preview

GLOSSARY

Bow –

Front of a vessel.

Stern –

Rear of a vessel.

Starboard –

Right hand side of a vessel when standing on the vessel facing the bow.

Port-

Left hand side of a vessel when standing on the vessel  facing the bow.

Cockpit-

Refers to the area towards the stern of a vessel where the rudder control resides.

Pushpit-

Guardrail at the stern of a vessel.

Pulpit-

Guardrail at the bow of a vessel.

Beam-

The width or sides of a vessel.

Stanchion-

Upright post supporting the guardrails along the side of a vessel.

Boom-

Horizontal pole along which the base of the mainsail runs.

Dedicated to all those free spirits that yearn for adventure in Africa

Chapter 1

Against the driven rain pounding onto the dark sodden streets in the centre of Moscow walked a couple at a moderate pace.  A few paces ahead of them along a poorly lit cobbled pavement strode a smartly dressed man.  With a brolly in his left hand and an attaché containing a laptop computer strung over his right shoulder, he hurried towards the brightly illuminated underpass.  At the top of the steps leading down to the subway a gust of wind caught the umbrella.  He glanced across the road at the unmistakable red brick walls of the Kremlin.  Struggling to close the mischievous umbrella, he shook it furiously, spraying droplets of water onto passers by as he continued his descent.  In the dry world of the subterranean walkway were several small kiosks built along the side of curved white tiled walls, where traders were selling their wares of cigarettes, newspapers, postcards and novelty items including many different designs of Matryoshka dolls.   The bustling crowd pushed him along his way.  He fought to move across the flow of people, each preoccupied with their own thoughts, in order to reach a kiosk.  Never noticing the sombre looking middle-aged man and woman who now flanked either side of him, he moved his right hand forward for a newspaper.  They were pressed hard against him by the force of those behind, each of whom were  trying to catch the attention of the kiosk keeper to pay her from outstretched arms.  The pain was swift.  It pierced through his body.  He tried to call out but there was no air in his lungs.  Mouth wide open and face contorted, eyes fixed in an eternal stare.  The couple either side took his weight,  moving him to one side of the stall, propping him up against the wall, the knife still inserted in his back,  held firm by the woman, now slowly being withdrawn.  The middle-aged man began to smile, the top of his head shining beneath a light above the stall.  Several trickles of water were running from his bald scalp into the remaining forest of greying dark hair which ran in a u shape from side to side and down the back of his head.

My dear, our friend seems to have taken a turn for the worst, he said in a clip clear military English officer accent.

She slowly turned towards him, the tunnel lighting picking out the crow feet wrinkles which curved from the corners of her dark eyes to her smiling cheek bones. She pulled the attaché from their victim’s shoulder and passed it to her partner.  Shaking her bobbed grey hair from side to side very slowly, she replied in a quietly spoken crisp English tone,

Best we carry his load, dear and let him rest in peace.

Releasing their grip, their newly acquired acquaintance slowly slid down the wall into a crumpled heap on the floor.  They turned and briskly made their way up the concrete steps in the direction they came from, melting into the busy throng.  A cry from a woman echoed through the noise of the commuters.  No one stopped; even more forced their way through the underpass, each wrapped up in their own plans for the day.

********

Africa, birth place and cradle of the human race, from here mankind went on to populate and dominate the entire planet, the voice paused.  It is now abandoned by the rest of humanity, a third world continent corrupted by many weak and greedy power mad governments.  And none of the so called first world nations want to help.  He smiled and raised his voice, What a wonderful opportunity for us to exploit!

Compton knew from the response in the room that his audience were interested in what he was about to say.  He had grabbed their attention.

It was strange being here in Alpha’s Washington boardroom without him.  Since Alpha’s limp body had been removed from their operations room by paramedics just over two months ago, having witnessed the complete destruction of their Moroccan operation via CCTV, Compton had become the caretaker Operations and Strategic Director for the West Syndicate. 

He took a deep breath, his gaze moving around the room,  brown squinting eyes taking in the expression and body language of each of the six senior West Syndicate shareholders, five wealthy looking gentlemen and an elderly looking lady dressed in black with a waspish looking face.  They sat there without movement, their reflections buried deep in the highly polished walnut table, waiting patiently for Compton to begin.

He shuffled his stout frame and put both hands on the table, leaning forward towards them.  Many lessons can be learnt from history.  We are in the shadows but operate as an international corporation.  We are one of the most powerful companies in the world.  But there is a limit in our current form to further expansion. Now it is time we looked at successful strategies of the past and one in particular; the British Empire business plan.  With comparatively little resources the Empire ruled one third of the world through fear and bluff.  Just like a toad about to be eaten it made itself seem larger and more powerful than it was.  Its armies were too small so it trained the people it conquered to fight and defend it.  Many countries never realised the control the British had in their provinces. One strategy they used was not to remove the leader of the occupied country, but to have them carry out their orders.  Egypt is a good example; there they had a President but the real power was from the British advisor who suggested how the country should be run.  The President knew his fate if he did not agree with the suggestions.  

Compton paused to let the gathering contemplate what he was explaining.  A year ago we sent our man, Wolfgang Faust, with a moderate size army of mercenaries to Burinda.  Burinda is the third smallest country in Africa.  Even so it has an area of 11,000 square miles.  It is located on the west coast with Cameroon to the north and Gabon to its east and south. The population is 650,000.  There are no natural resources so it is of little interest to the rest of the world.  Seventy percent of the population are living under the United Nations poverty threshold of $2 per day, it also has the worst human rights record in the world.  This is mainly due to its dictator, President Government Zini.  As far as we can tell, the man is not so much wicked as stupid.  He believes in some sort of voodoo and is influenced by his personal witch doctor. Now Zini has a greater influence; Wolfgang Faust was appointed his official advisor last week.  Now we control the entire country.  Just think what we can do.  We are the law.  It’s a safe haven for all our operations and nobody can touch us.  Nobody knows we have control.  So we can manufacture counterfeit goods, grow and process hard drugs and launder money through our own state bank without any risk to our operations.  He paused, A perfect tax haven.

The six shareholders stood up and applauded.  Compton, the female began, you have done very well.  We like the way you plan and implement actions.  You are indeed a natural successor to Alpha. We are agreed as from this moment you are appointed the Director of Operations and Strategy.    

All six clapped.  Compton gave a wry smile, Thank you, I will not let you down.

********

A high pitched scream pierced the still warm air in the night sky of the jungle.  The flames of a tribal fire lashed out into the black sky.  Its orange and yellow glow flickered, illuminating the faces of dancing figures.  Their forms were casting contorted shadows on the surrounding trees and undergrowth.  Men and women, half naked, danced in semi consciousness, induced by the smoking of local herbs, their torsos painted in vivid stripes of white, red and yellow which was in stark contrast to their black faces.  The ritual was reaching a climax with stamping feet, shaking bodies and the occasional high pitched scream above the mumbling chant in Baseke, the language of the Buri tribe.  A giant of a man stood up from where he had been squatting next to the fire.  He loomed above the others.  A fearsome face with a scar carved in the shape of a cobra snake on each cheek.  A lion’s hide, draped about his shoulders, was held in place by a braided leather strap around his throat.  The dancing stopped.  He raised his arms above his head.  In his right hand he held a white chicken by the legs, its wings flapping frantically and in his left hand a large curved knife.  With a flash of steel, its wings continued to flap as the head hit the floor.  Blood ran from the severed neck, dripping onto a small pile of bleached white bones lying at the feet of the executioner.  A shot rang out.  Brilliant sheets of white light fanned out between the tree trunks.  The tribe fell silent.  They heard the distinctive sound of several diesel engines getting ever closer until they were within a few yards.  A metallic door slammed shut and before them the silhouette of a man emerged, the bright vehicle headlamps from behind  preventing them from looking straight towards him.  When near to the fire he ordered,

Turn the lights off!

The firelight resumed its dominance and after a few moments the tribe were able to recognise a familiar figure.  It was Government Zini.  There was no mistaking him; dressed in a blue military uniform, a row of medals on his left breast, holding a short stick in a leather gloved right hand, his large frame almost hiding the flames as they roared into the sky behind him.  Two soldiers, armed with rifles, marched towards him and saluted, awaiting his command.

OK men, have the troops return in the Jeeps.  I will be safe here with my friends.  Leave one vehicle and a driver.  That will be all.

Once again they saluted and marched back into the darkness.  Lights were switched back on and with the sound of engines roaring as they reversed out of the clearing, the troops were gone.

What are you doing, Obiang?  Zini directed his question to the giant who still had a firm grip of the chicken and knife.

It has saddened me how our people have suffered,  especially over the past year with your new advisor,  Wolfgang Faust.  I was asking the forest spirits for help.

Oh Obiang, Wolfgang Faust hasn’t replaced you.  You are still my spiritual guide.  Government Zini stepped forward and put a firm grip with his right hand on Obiang’s shoulder.

Now dear friend, what do the spirits say?

Obiang squatted down, placing the knife and the chicken on the floor.  He grasped the bones in one hand, the blood dripping through his fingers, and then cast them into the fire.  The bones began to burn with bright blue flames.  Nobody but Obiang could see anything beyond the flickering blue flames and charred black bones, and as he looked deeply into the fire,  he spoke, I see a strong spirit is coming.  It crosses a vast expanse of water and is driven by the wind.

Is it a good spirit? asked the President.

I just know it is coming, replied the Witch Doctor.

********

A huge horizon spread out in all directions; the discreet line between the translucent green blue of the ocean and the bright pink illumination in the sky as the sun began to appear, announcing the start of a new day.  Though the wind was light and blowing from the north, the tan sails which were driving Ria south were full and bulbous.  The 26’ Macwester Bermuda sloop showed no sign of her forty-five years as her bow sliced through the clear water.  Her tiller moved from side to side, correcting slight changes in direction as her hull twisted and turned against the long shallow waves.  There was no hand guiding the tiller, her course determined by a computer physically steering her via a rod and an electric motor.  Peering through a brass telescope her skipper stood at the bow.  He was excited by the spectacle of the ocean dawn and the sensation given by the rise and fall of the waves, lost in his world of thoughts and dreams which were suddenly shattered by a familiar voice.

Luke, I have made the tea.  Where are you?  Tina’s head appeared from the cabin hatch.  She stepped out into the morning chill and turned towards Luke with a mug of tea in each hand.  Oh, there you are.  I see ‘Bertie’ is doing all the work.

Tina, what is the point of having an autohelm if you don’t use it?

Tina didn’t reply, she had other things on her mind.

Now look here, Luke Feakin, this might look like paradise and you might think you have no cares in the world, but we have big ones.

How can you be so negative on a beautiful day like today?

Quite easily. May I remind you we have been stoned by a mob, shot and blown up! she said in an irritated voice.

Oh, you do exaggerate, Tina.  We were shot at; I had a mere flesh wound and they missed you.  OK, we were stoned but we were not blown up.  We were nearly blown up.

Oh, that sounds fine! she exclaimed, handing him his tea.

It is beautiful here, you must admit.  He looked at her wondering how in all those years she had remained so young looking with her large blue eyes and long blond hair.  She looked at him and wondered why the hell he looked so old with his grey eyes, wrinkled face and grey hair.  And that white rimmed hat he was wearing did nothing to improve the situation.

Look, Luke, we might be a long way from all that trouble but you seem to be forgetting the twenty odd million dollars stashed aboard Ria.

I see, you’ve been counting.

This is no joke.  We have a serious problem.

We are going to put the money to good use in Africa, replied Luke.

There’s more to it than that. For a start, it takes up too much room on board.  We could be robbed.  I’m afraid we will be caught by those criminals, they might not all be dead.  Someone could be following us.  She drew a breath then changed tack, Perhaps we should have returned to Europe and handed the money over to the authorities.

Maybe we should have.  But if we had, by now the money would have been tucked away in some rich country’s bank account, helping to pay their deficit.  At least with us, we can put it to good use in helping the needy.

Yes, I do agree with you, but I am frightened, replied Tina.

Don’t worry, there is no one around.  We are over 3,800 miles south of Morocco, there is no way anybody can find us.  He took a sip of tea.  But you are right, the money is taking up too much space and it would be more secure elsewhere whilst we decide what to do with it.

Well, what do you suggest, Luke?

Me!  I thought you were about to suggest something. He could see she was getting annoyed.  OK, let’s think. We can’t just bury it.  For a start it would need to be a very big hole and the paper money would probably rot.

You know we should have sailed back to England instead of heading here, we could have put it in a bank, at least then we’d be earning interest on it! exclaimed Tina.

Oh, I am sure no questions would have been asked. What would we say - we found it aboard our boat, no idea where it came from! he said in a raised voice.

Luke, why don’t we sail into the next port and find a bank.  I know questions might be asked but we have to do something.

Have you really counted it?  I mean we must know how much we have to deposit.  He thought for a moment. We are five nautical miles off the coast of Burinda; we could sail down the river Mdini.  The capital city of Aldia lies ten miles upstream.

Good idea Luke, we have nothing to lose.

Just a few million dollars,Tina!

********

Wolfgang Faust pushed open two very large hand carved dark oak doors, to reveal a cavernous room.  Despite the searing temperature outside, in here it was cool.  There was no air conditioning, however the entire room including the ceiling was covered in marble tiles.  The coolness had a relaxing effect on all those who entered.  The noise from each step he took resounded around the great hall, at the far end of which stood a large Victorian style writing desk and seated in a large leather bound chair behind the desk was President Zini.  A slight breeze blew through open windows, gently moving the thin white net curtains which hung the full length of the wall behind where he sat.  The atmosphere felt deceptively calm.

Wolfgang Faust, a larger than life character in many ways, stood out in a crowd due to a deep booming voice and very large frame.  His burgundy bloated nose was evidence of his love of wine.  Government Zini stood as soon as he saw Faust.  He felt nervous and betrayed.  Only months ago he really believed Faust had represented a large business offering help to his people.  Instead the whole episode had turned into a nightmare.  Once Faust had gained his confidence, it became clear what his true intentions were.  Outwitted and overpowered, he had conceded to have Faust as his ‘advisor’.  It was either that, or lose everything, including his life.

How are we today, Herr President? enquired Wolfgang Faust in a sarcastic Germanic tone.  Before Zini had time to reply, Faust continued, I hear you had a jaunt to the country yesterday.

How did you know?  I just went there to ensure my friends were not planning anything stupid.

Firstly I know every move you make and secondly I hope you convinced your Doctor Herr Obiang not to have any plans which might upset me.  It would be a shame to see him burn in one of his own ritual fires,  Faust smiled.

He is not planning anything.  Though truly Zini wished there was something that could be done to rid them of these monsters.

Good and now we can get down to business.  Faust pulled up a gold leafed chair and as he sat down opposite Zini, he could not help thinking why Zini, who appeared to love his people, could live in such opulence while most of the population in Burinda barely scraped a living.  That’s Africa, he thought; a paradigm of behaviour and belief.

Over the next few weeks a number of small yachts will arrive in Aldia harbour.  I want you to arrange for a workforce of fifty men to meet our people in the harbour tomorrow.  They will be given instruction on how to load and unload the yachts and where to store the merchandise they carry.  We will pay them one dollar a day with accommodation.

Before Faust could begin his next sentence Zini interrupted, One dollar a day is not enough to live on...

The large oak doors opened suddenly and in scurried a servant, clad in loose white cotton clothing, looking very nervous.

What is the meaning of this! barked Government Zini.

I am sorry sir, I am sorry sir, repeated the servant, as he scuffled towards the desk.  We have just received an urgent telephone call from the airport.  He stopped to gather his breath.

Well? demanded Faust.

A very large plane has landed.  It ignored our air traffic control instruction not to land.  The pilot said they were bringing the word of God.

Faust’s cell phone rang.  What is it? he snapped.

This is Compton.

I am sorry, sir, a lot is going on here at present,  Faust said in a lowered voice.

"I know.  We have been monitoring Aldia airport via CCTV.  The aircraft which has just landed is an Antonov An-225 Mriya.  It’s a very large Russian cargo plane.  You better get over there and find out what is going on."

OK, I will take Zini with me to meet the dream plane. 

Dream plane? enquired Compton.

Sir, Mriya is Russian for dream.

********

Grains of red sand twisted and turned, blown across the hot sticky tarmac of Aldia airport by a gentle southern breeze.  There on the tarmac, before the small white walled terminal, stood a manmade colossus with a 290 feet wingspan and 230 feet from nose to tail.  The noise from its six ZMKB Progress D-18 turbofan jet engines was deafening.  The fuselage was white and painted in black on the tail was the three barred cross of the Russian Orthodox Church.

With hands pressed hard against their ears, the airport staff had gathered around the aircraft in both wonderment and fear.  The roar of the engines changed to a high pitched whine which gradually became quieter until all six engines were silenced.  Nobody watching uttered a word.  Their hands dropped to their sides, they stood very still awaiting to see what was about to emerge.  It was as if aliens had landed and were about to make their first encounter with the human race.  Two Jeeps arrived, stopping just short of the rear of the cargo plane.  In the rear seat of the first vehicle sat the President and his advisor.  An armed guard saluted and opened the Jeep door for the President to step out.  Side by side Faust and Zini stood, looking up.  There was a large creak and the sound of hydraulics as the enormous cargo door began to open.  Three more Jeeps arrived, soldiers quickly hopping out and forming a horseshoe formation about the  cargo door as it continued to slowly open.  Rifles were pointing at the ramp which by now was almost touching the tarmac.  A large thud and the large loading bay was fully revealed.  In the foreground just inside the bay stood a man and a woman, behind them what appeared to be a Russian Orthodox priest.  All three walked forward into the bright midday sunlight.  They stepped from the ramp.  A