The pole poked him in his ribcage, and the voice yelled at him again. He wanted to turn over and go back to sleep, but he was so damn thirsty. If it weren’t for his thirst, and the continual pokes from the pole, he was certain he would have drifted back to sleep.
Now there were several voices yelling at him in Spanish.
He slowly sat up and opened his eyes.
If Afua had his wits about him, the irony would not be lost on him because the Coast Guard officer who instructed him to leave the jetty across from the airport was the same guy currently poking him with the pole.
Seeing that Afua was awake, the man retracted the pole and handed it to another crew member to stow.
Now that they had Afua’s attention, the officer began speaking in English, apparently recalling the Nigerian didn’t understand Spanish.
“What are you doing here?”
Afua didn’t answer. Instead, he looked around for his fishing pole. Spotting it still stuck into the pole holder, he stood to retrieve it. The pain from the gash on his duct-taped leg sent agonizing bolts of pain to his head, but Afua tried to act stoically. He was dizzy so he quickly sat down, and he pulled his pole from the holder. He made sure that the men on the Coast Guard boat watched him reel in the line. To his surprise, when he pulled the lure from the water, a fish was attached
to it. Afua held up the fish so the Coast Guard officers could see. He didn’t feel he had to offer a verbal explanation of what he was doing there. As the fish was lifted over the edge of his boat onto the floor, Afua ignored the Coast Guard boat, attempting to free the fish from the hook. While doing this, he glanced down at his duct-taped leg. No blood was visible — that was good when they pulled him over. He needed to appear like a typical guy doing some fishing with a duct-taped leg. Not too crazy.
The men on the Coast Guard boat yelled more stuff at him in Spanish. Afua simply shook his head that he didn’t understand. Frustrated, the men on the Coast Guard vessel held an animated conversation among themselves before hauling in their anchor and pulling away from his boat. Afua ignored them, focusing his attention on getting the fish from his hook. He continued the charade until the Coast Guard’s vessel was long gone. He dropped the fish, line and the pole onto the floor of his boat. Then he struggled to get himself into the driver’s seat. There was a bottle of water in the side compartment which he withdrew, drinking the entire bottle in one long refreshing gulp. He had a horrible headache, and his ankle felt like it was on fire. Everything else was going OK. If he could make it to the Nigerian Princess without passing out and dying from blood loss, he should be home free.
Afua realized his anchor was still in the water. He cursed under his breath in Ibibio. Using his good leg, he stood to hop and shuffle to the back of the boat and pulled in the anchor which was tossed unceremoniously to the floor of his boat. It landed with a metallic thud next to the fish and pole. Afua painfully made his way back to the driver’s seat. Now, untethered by the anchor, the boat began banging against the rocks in front of him. Afua cranked the outboard engine and checked his surroundings. He pulled back on the throttle and put the engine in reverse. After backing away from the rocks, he shoved the throttle forward and aimed his boat toward open water. Afua got his bearings and began the two-mile trip out to the Nigerian Princess. He checked his heading on the boat’s compass and made a concerned face. The yacht should be right in front of him, but it wasn’t there. There was nothing but open water. Afua continued toward the coordinates where he had left the Nigerian Princess. Looking in both directions, he attempted to determine the yacht’s location. There were two yachts in the area, both under power. However, the vessels’ outlines on the horizon did not match up to the Nigerian Princess. Afua saw nothing familiar. For that matter, he saw very few vessels of any type anchored off shore of Caracas. Afua took out his phone and brought up the GPS app. It showed that he was nearing the location of where the Nigerian Princess had been anchored. He slowed the engine.
Checking the X and Y coordinates on his phone, he reached where he had left the Nigerian Princess which was now an empty spot in the Caribbean Sea. He killed the engine and opened the glove box, Afua pulled out a portable radio. It was a small heavy Motorola device with green digital numbers and push buttons on both sides. Afua switched on the walkie-talkie and switched to the channel they had chosen to transmit information on prior to leaving the yacht. Afua pressed the TALK key and spoke in Ibibio. He waited a moment for Obano to respond, but he heard nothing. Afua repeated his message and waited. Nothing. He didn’t know what to do, but there was no reason to panic. The absence of other vessels in the area probably meant the Coast Guard had cleared them out for safety and security. They had probably boarded all the nearby vessels to make sure the ships in the vicinity had nothing to do with the downed airliner. They had then told them all to pull anchor and leave the area.
Afua pressed the talk button and repeated his words, this time saying the name of the Nigerian Princess in English.
Nothing.
He glanced down at his leg. Blood had begun seeping out from under the duct tape. Afua caught a whiff of death. The coagulated blood under the tape was beginning to smell. Afua rested his head back on his seat and waited. It was all he could do given his lack of physical reserves — it had taken all he had to lift the anchor and avoid the jetty.
Termez, Uzbekistan
The Uzbekistan Airways Ilyushin Il-114 touched down at 2:05 p.m. on Termez International Airport’s single runway. Kara Ramey had never caught so many connecting flights before arriving at her end destination. She was tired and anxious but pleased to finally reach this secluded town.
The aircraft slowly taxied up to the terminal. Instead of a jetway rolling out to join to the exit door of the airplane, a rolling stairway had been towed out to the plane by a tractor. The passengers had been told to watch their step as they walked down the stairs to the tarmac below.
Kara hadn’t known what to expect, but the weather was surprisingly pleasant. It was neither too hot nor too cold. Goldilocks would have said, “It’s just right.” Kara guessed it was in the high 70s. It didn’t matter that the rest of the world had converted to the metric system. Americans were stubborn and they would be damned to give up on Fahrenheit or miles per hour. Kara considered it a badge of honor.
Not far from the plane, Victor Kornev was standing casually on the black tarmac. No other visitors were standing in that area, so Kara assumed that Kornev had some sort of security pass allowing him into restricted areas. Kornev was not wearing any badge that she could see. He wore a tight blue polo shirt showing off his chiseled arms and six-pack with a tan pair of cargo pants. Sewn on every visible surface were at least a dozen pockets. Considering the warm weather, Kara was happy with her choice of clothes. She was wearing a tight, black sleeveless halter top and a conservative pair of jeans. She had considered wearing yoga pants, which really made her body pop, but she didn’t want Kornev to get too revved up. Even though Kornev didn’t know it, they had places to go and people to see.
When she was about ten meters from the man, Kornev called out in his thick Russian accent, “Tonya!”
Kornev knew the CIA operative, Kara Ramey only as a party girl, Tonya. She smiled. In an upbeat, loving tone she responded, “My Victor!”
They met, kissed and Kornev gave her a hug. “It is so nice of you to visit,” he said. “Do you have any bags, other than your carry-on?” he asked, referring to the small tote she was dragging behind her.