In Treacherous Waters

by Richard V Frankland

  “Huh, they’ll be queuing up for the job, Pieter. Just you look out for the notebook.”

  “What colour is it?”

  “Oh, black.”

  Vermeulen drove on more slowly, both men looking at the ground for the notebook; back at the junction where Anna-Maria had escaped they got out to search, but found nothing. The shooting had emptied the streets and any houses with doors and shutters had them all firmly closed.

  “She got out here. We had better look around for her, she won’t have got far.” Vermeulen stood still in thought for a second or two. “Maybe she took the notebook, she was sitting that side.”

  “Why would she do that, Boss?”

  “I don’t know, maybe she just grabbed it with her bloody make-up kit.”

  Their search of the surrounding side streets and alleys drew a blank and with the increasing risk of another attack from Elmoctar’s men, Vermeulen now settled on another plan of action.

  “I’ll phone my police contact here and tell him that his friend, Elmoctar, tried to kill me. I will also tell him that my stepdaughter has escaped with enough information to have him put in prison for the rest of his life.”

  The call to the local assistant police chief ended with the offer of a reward for the safe return of Anna-Maria and “all” her possessions. A second phone call, made out of earshot of Pieter, was to have unexpected consequences for both Vermeulen and Anna-Maria as he failed to mention the loss of his notebook.

  As Vermeulen got back in the vehicle Pieter asked, “What do we do with your wife’s body, Boss?”

  “We’ll have to take this wreck as far as we can out of here, and torch it.”

  “What about the bodies?”

  “What about the bodies?”

  “You mean burn them as well?”

  “Of course I bloody do. You think I’m going to go looking for a funeral parlour in Rosso with Elmoctar wanting a slice of me?”

  With time rapidly running out for Vermeulen and Pieter in Rosso they headed out of town to a place where they could dump the vehicle and set it on fire.

  White men hitching a lift in that part of Africa was a rare sight, but eventually a lorry stopped for them, and for a price, took them all the way to Nouakchott.

  ***

  Anna-Maria would remember for the rest of her life that she owed her survival that day to the young Mauritanian woman called Nandini. After an hour or so she had recovered enough to begin carefully and slowly telling Nandini of her plight and her urgent need to escape from Rosso.

  “Nandini, my name is Anna-Maria Ronaldo. I was a prisoner of some bad men who sell guns to people who want to cause trouble. I desperately need to get to Nouakchott where I have a friend who will help me.”

  “It is very difficult for a woman to travel there alone, Madame.”

  “Will you come with me? I will pay,” replied Anna-Maria.

  “No, Madame, I cannot go with you.” Nandini looked away obviously deep in thought. “Maybe my man, Lamin, will take you to the market at Nouakchott when he returns with his lorry from across the river.”

  The thought of the journey alone with a man she did not know was terrifying to Anna-Maria but there was, at that moment, no alternative and the sooner she left this town the better, not only for herself but also for Nandini.

  Nandini pointed at Anna-Maria’s trousers, “You cannot safely walk here in Rosso dressed like that. The bad men will learn where you are in a very short time, Madame.”

  Nandini was right, Anna-Maria would attract immediate attention anywhere in Mauritania, there was no way she could wear such clothes, dusty or otherwise, and not be immediately recognised, but how and where could she obtain suitable clothing in Rosso.

  Her rescuer crouched down in front of her, “It is all right, Madame, please do not worry, we will fix this tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 2

  As the Vermeulen party’s ferry had crossed the Senegal River to Rosso, applause was ringing out aboard TAP Flight TP0347 as it touched down at Madeira’s Santa Caterina Airport. In seat G3 Ian Vaughan eased his cramped legs, stretching them out into the aisle and circling his feet.

  “Excuse me, but why does everyone clap?” asked the rather timid looking young lady in the seat next to him who, apart from a flickering smile when taking her seat, had kept her head buried in a book until that moment.

  “Santa Caterina Airport has one of the trickiest final approaches in the world. Crosswinds from the sea or down draughts from the mountains mean that the pilot often has to sideslip the aircraft with great precision to get it to touch down exactly on the threshold and central to the runway; only pilots qualified to land here are allowed on this route and every one of them has had to practice making this approach many times with an empty aircraft before becoming qualified to bring in passengers.”

  “Goodness, I had no idea,” she replied. “Had I known that I wouldn’t have come.”

  “You didn’t seem very concerned until I explained the reason for the applause.”

  “Yes, but had I known before, I…” her voice trailed away as her shyness re-exerted itself.

  Vaughan chuckled. “Ground control here know what conditions make the approach dangerous in which case they would then instruct pilots to land at Porto Santo, which doesn’t have quite the same problems.”

  “Is that far away?”

  “No, it’s only a little over forty miles away, aircraft can wait there until the winds die down and then make another attempt, it’s no real problem.”

  As the plane came to a standstill on the airport’s apron the normal scrum ensued with almost everyone intent on being the first to pass through immigration and customs. Vaughan stood up and stepping to his right blocked the aisle with his muscular frame and indicated to the young lady to leave her seat and go in front of him.

  “You’re blockin’ everyone’s way, mate,” said a short man dressed in a loud patterned shirt, baggy trousers and with a cheap panama hat, one size too small, perched on his head.

  Vaughan turned and looking down at the man said, “How long are you staying on the island?”

  “What?”

  “How long are you staying on the island?” Vaughan repeated.

  The short man was about to tell Vaughan where to go then looked up into those cold blue eyes and made a wise snap decision, “Er, two weeks.”

  “Then being polite and waiting two minutes is not exactly going to spoil it for you is it.”

  “Oh, er, yeh, alright, mate.” But still couldn’t resist adding, “She gonna be long?”

  Just then the short man’s wife prodded him in the back, “’Ere, why you always so bleeding impatient, other people want to get off this plane as well as you. Can’t you see she’s doin’ ’er best to ’urry up.”

  Her husband turned round, glowering. “Oh shut up naggin’ will yer. All I’m sayin’ is that I don’t wanna spend all my ’oliday on this bleeding airplane, alright!”

  “All you ever do, Jack Collins, is moan. This ain’t right, that ain’t right. Gawd I don’t know why I came ’ere with you when Marcie wanted me to go with ’er to Cyprus.”

  “Excuse me, sir, would you mind moving forward, you’re holding everyone up,” said the flight attendant.

  Turning forward again Jack Collins saw that all the passengers in the front eight rows had left the aircraft.

  “Now it’s you that’s ’olding everything up,” said his wife. “Get a move on.”

  On the bus that made the short journey from the aircraft to the terminal building Vaughan watched with mild amusement as the couple continued bickering. The queue at immigration moved forward very slowly, it was only six weeks since there had been an attempted coup on the island and the authorities were still nervous. Clearing customs, Vaughan went straight to the taxi rank.

  “Take me to the marina in Funchal please.”

  “Sim, Senhor, you been to Madeira before yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where you from?”


  “England. Tell me is everything quiet now after the coup?”

  “So so, Senhor. The army is still here but not so on the street like at first. The authorities, they seek those who supported the rebels. They look hard for a Russian man Reshnovic or something like that.”

  “I think you mean Reshetnikov,” prompted Vaughan.

  “Sim, Senhor, that the name. They no find him, so I think maybe he left island and maybe back in Russia by now, eh.”

  “That’s quite likely.”

  At the marina Vaughan paid off the taxi and made his way to the marina office.

  “You return, Senhor Vaughan. We get message from British Consul that you are injured and go back to England. She say she not know how long you are away so we moved your boat to spare finger pontoon berth.”

  “Thank you, that was very good of you. I must owe you a lot of money.”

  “Oh no, Senhor. We have order from municipal office to say no charge.”

  Vaughan was taken aback. “Really, that is very generous of them.”

  The marina attendant shrugged his shoulders and, putting out his arm to direct Vaughan, said, “I show you place we put your boat.”

  “Thank you. By the way has anyone been asking for me?”

  “Oh shortly after you left some newspaper men they come and ask where you are.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I say you back in England.”

  Vaughan placed a fifty euro note into the man’s shirt pocket. “If they ask again I am still in England, understood.”

  Vaughan’s tone of voice was enough for the man to nod and say, “Sim, Senhor, I understand.”

  Then after a couple of seconds he said, “If the lady comes here again do I give her the same answer?”

  “Which lady is that?” Vaughan asked.

  “She say she is Senhora De Lima.”

  Vaughan added a twenty euro note. “Yes, the same answer.”

  “Really, she very beautiful, you sure?”

  Vaughan smiled, “Yes I am sure.”

  They had reached his yacht and having swung his bags onto the side deck Vaughan stepped back and looked at the weed growing on the hull below the waterline. “It looks like she needs a haul out and a scrub to get that weed off. Do you know where I can get that done quickly?”

  “They no longer do it here, Senhor, maybe you must go to boatyard at airport. Good place there under the runway.”

  “Do you have the phone number?”

  “You call by office, I get it for you.”

  “Thanks, I’ll just stow my kit and change and I will be over.”

  Climbing aboard “La Mouette sur le Vent” Vaughan went below and hurriedly checked that no one had entered the cabin. The false bulkhead aft of the anchor locker was as it should be and lifting the quarter berth mattress and baseboard revealed that his service 9mm Browning was where he had left it. He checked the yacht’s safe and under the floors then gave the engine space a thorough look over.

  Satisfied, he unpacked, made some coffee, then changed into shorts and a tee shirt and waited for the coffee to cool.

  ‘So the press want a word do they, damn, publicity is the last thing I need at the moment. Also, what do I do about Amelia? If I contact her, where could our friendship possibly go; as an SIS agent, what future could I offer her, as much as I like her and yes, feel for her. No, the quicker I get out of here the better.’

  Swallowing the coffee he returned to the marina office and made arrangements for his yacht to be hauled out of the water the following day. Back on board he retrieved the Browning and spent ten minutes or so stripping and cleaning it ready for return to the DELCO armourer. On his to-do list was a visit to the British Consul to collect the Browning’s replacement, a Glock 26.

  His next job was to fill up the fuel tank which meant a tricky time manoeuvring the Saltram 36 round to the fuel dock; having a long deep keel is a great advantage crossing oceans but made close quarter manoeuvres in marinas, a very nerve-wracking experience. Finally, back on his berth Vaughan checked the engine oil levels and cooling water flow before cleaning himself up ready to go for a meal.

  Leaving the yacht and wishing to stretch his legs a bit after the flight and work aboard the yacht he took a brisk walk along to the seventeenth century Fortaleza Säo Tiago at the eastern end of the esplanade. On his return he was about to make his way down the pier steps on the marina’s eastern sea wall on his way to the Marina Terrace Restaurant, when he saw Amelia talking to the marina official who, Vaughan was pleased to see, was shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders.

  One sight of her, the hair, perfect figure, immaculate dress and he knew only too well the beautiful face had him tempted for just a moment to hurry down and greet her, “No, definitely no, no distractions, no delays, that’s what got you wounded last time you were here.”

  How he became involved with Amelia and the dark world of her Brazilian uncle, Olavo Esteves, was through her son and his playing truant from school in order to go sailboarding. The boy’s relative inexperience and a new board, a gift from Amelia’s uncle, had somehow got the boy a long way offshore and becalmed on a hot summer’s day. Vaughan, motor sailing towards the island, under cover as a maritime author, came across the boy and, rescuing him, brought him ashore from where the lad was taken to hospital. The following day Senhora Amelia de Lima had come to thank Vaughan for saving the life of her son and a friendship developed during the course of which Vaughan was to learn of her concerns regarding her uncle and his friends who were eventually exposed as leaders of a plot to overthrow the Portuguese Government.

  Amelia’s uncle had escaped immediate arrest and had been on the run before returning to Amelia’s apartment and then cornered by Vaughan and a Portuguese Army Lieutenant. Using Amelia as a shield Esteves had tried to escape, shooting dead the lieutenant, and in a struggle with Vaughan being shot himself. The bullet that killed Esteves however, also wounded Vaughan and was the reason for his hurried repatriation to the UK and specialist treatment at a private clinic.

  Taking one more look in Amelia’s direction, as she turned away from the official, he slipped into the crowd of tourists and hurried back towards the old town to find a restaurant in which to hide himself amongst other diners.

  ***

  In London Lieutenant Penny Heathcote printed off the three passenger lists and, checking down each one, used a highlighter to mark some of the passenger names. After a final check she picked up the telephone and started ringing round hotel reception desks in Dakar. An hour later she left her desk and made her way up a level to the Commodore’s office and knocked at the door.

  “Come in,” the firm but friendly voice of Commodore Alexander Campbell always brought a smile to Heathcote’s face. She liked her boss.

  “I’ve finally got the passenger lists from the airlines, Sir. I’ve gone through them and highlighted names of interest.”

  “Thank you, Penny.” He had taken to using her Christian name rather than her rank when there was just the two of them in the office, a habit that had crept in after she had been a bridesmaid at his recent wedding.

  “Both Vermeulen and his wife appear on the passenger list from Luanda to Lagos but then he seems to disappear, and eventually I found her on the list of a flight to Dakar.”

  Campbell looked up and knew from his lieutenant’s expression that there was more, “And?”

  “They were travelling with his minders, Pieter Scheepers and Karl van Rooyen. When I couldn’t find him on any onward flight for that day I thought at first that it was only his wife who had gone onto Dakar, but his two thugs were listed on the same flight and I then discovered that a Henri Vanderkloof was in the seat next to Mrs Vermeulen.”

  “Oh, well done, Penny. What did I say? I said he had entered Nigeria on a false passport. So now he is hiding out in Dakar is he?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “There is more?”

  “Yes, Sir, I checked around the most likely hotels a
nd found that a booking was made in the name of Vermeulen for just one night at the Radisson Blu, I have requested full details which I am hoping will come in overnight. I have also requested passenger lists from Senegal Airlines, which I hope to have before I leave this evening.”

  “You think he is moving on and so do I. Had he been dropping out of sight in Senegal he would have done so straight from the airport. He either has business there, or Lagos was just a dogleg to put pursuers off the scent.”

  “I’ll leave the lists with you, Sir.”

  “Thank you, Penny, I’ll take a closer look later.”

  It was eight o’clock in the evening when Campbell next glanced at his watch. Standing, he picked up the files on his desk and locked them away in the filing cabinet then cleared the rest of his desk and locked the drawers. Taking the hard drive from his computer he opened the wall safe and put the disk inside and locked the safe again. His evening ritual completed he was just about to gather up his coat when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in. Ah, Sir Andrew to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’ve just heard that your man Vaughan has reported back for duty.”

  “Yes, Sir Andrew, that’s correct; he reported in a couple of days ago having been given a clean bill of health by the clinic.”

  “You know I really think we should let him go, he hasn’t got the background we really need for the type of work that we are engaged in.”

  “And what background would that be, Sir Andrew?”

  “Disciplined.”

  “I don’t fully understand what you are saying.”

  “I know you had good reason to consider Vaughan, particularly after the business at Yealmstock Head, but I’m afraid the way he went off mission in Madeira gave myself and his controller serious doubts as to his real suitability.”

  “As you know, Sir Andrew, I have little respect for the views of Senior Agent Staunton.”

  “Alex, you know, I wish you wouldn’t keep up this thing of yours about David Patterson’s reputation; Staunton has proved himself again and again on missions for other sections.”