After several difficult minutes struggling with the waves, trying to avoid being smashed against the sharp rocks, I was beginning to think I’d gone wrong. Surely I’d come too far, and Laide was behind me somehow – the current was stronger than I thought. Then something caught my eye. Hidden in the fog, for a second I thought it was a person down by the water’s edge. No, as I drew closer I could see it was a brightly coloured boat. It had started life similar to mine, a larger rigid inflatable dinghy, but had been dragged onto the rocks. One of its bright orange sides was ripped wide open, sloshing with seawater, a scene from a Jaws film.
I throttled back, slowing, immediately swept towards the same jagged rocks. I twisted the throttle again and the boat surged forward, just managing to avoid the same fate. The wreck was the boat from the island, no doubt about that, but where was its passenger?
Then the small jetty was there in the fog in front of me. I kept the throttle on full to avoid being driven backwards. Even then, it wasn’t making much headway, just a few miles per hour, so I angled straight for it, preparing to beach on the sloping stones. The boat inched closer, slowing, then surged forward on the crest of a wave, and with a horrific grating I was on the jetty.
I jumped into the shallow water, sliding on the algae-covered stone, racing up the slipway as another wave swelled and cascaded off the sides, carrying the boat with it. The outboard droned away into the fog to join Hurley’s boat, driven onto the rocks somewhere down the coast.
I stumbled, fell, collapsed to the stone, breathing hard, no worries about toxins here. I almost gave in to exhaustion and stayed right there. Blood pooled under me, from my head, the tear in my side, from a thousand smaller cuts when I’d smashed through the window. How much blood had I lost? I began to worry I didn’t have enough left to finish the job.
Self-pity wouldn’t do me any favours, and it certainly doesn’t pay the bills. Get up. I managed it, limping onward, past the brightly painted boats pulled high up next to the lane that led from the shore. Tall bushes flanked a single-track road, leaving nowhere else for Hurley to have gone. I picked up the pace.
After a minute or so I came panting to a larger road, taking the left turn towards the village, jogging parallel to the bay past the scattered houses. None showed signs of disturbance, most still sleeping peacefully, curtains drawn. The gravel-strewn road took its toll, slowing me to a walk. I hopped occasionally to pick stones out of the soles of my feet, breath clouding in front of me as I gasped in the freezing air.
After another couple of minutes the houses started to thicken. I’d reached Laide, and no sign of Hurley. I paused in front of a bungalow as an elderly chap was backing a shiny new electric BMW off his drive.
‘Excuse me,’ I said between breaths, hands on my knees, ‘you haven’t seen a mate of mine up this way, have you?’
‘You all right, lad?’
I looked down at my bare and bloody feet, my broken bandaged hand, my sodden, bloodstained, soot-blackened clothes, God knows what my face was like.
‘Boat problems,’ I said.
‘You’re damn fools to be out fishing in this weather! Aye, there was a lad in his waterproofs.’
‘Did he go this way?’ I pointed up the road.
‘Aye, ’boot ten minutes since.’
I contemplated commandeering his car, or asking for a lift, but I was close now so I waved my thanks and set off again, past more cottages and hardy bushes until the road widened, a neat hedgerow on my right and cliffs to my left. There was nothing in front of me, not a sound. Doubt snuck in but I pressed on regardless.
A squat white building drifted in the fog. I slowed, caution taking over; there was the small matter of a gun, after all. A sign said this was the village store, Post Office, and petrol station. Flashing multi-coloured light spilled from the window, a premature string of Christmas fairy lights illuminating the fog rolling across the gravel. I stepped over a low wall, crossed the front of the shop, peered through a condensation-painted window.
A man was standing with his back to me. I squinted. Possibly Hurley; he’d shed his outer layers, shivering in shirtsleeves. He was talking to someone. I was about to reach for the door handle when he turned. It wasn’t Hurley, but a middle-aged stranger. He saw me at the same time and cried out, rushing to block the door.
I shouldered it, barging it open, sweeping him aside. The little bell above the door jangled and crashed to the floor. A woman screamed, ducking behind the counter. ‘I’ve already called the police!’ she cried as a mug of tea smashed.
The man looked about desperately and grabbed a can of beans from the shelves. ‘Get out!’ he shouted, holding it up ready to throw.
I stepped back, holding up my hands. ‘I don’t want any trouble. I’m looking for someone; I presume he’s been through here?’
‘Yer friend’s long gone,’ said the man. ‘And you’d best follow him. Police’ll be here any minute.’
‘I am the police.’
The man put the can down. ‘Well get after him, then, he stole my Landy!’ I noticed he wore a Royal Mail shirt.
‘Postal Land Rover?’
‘Aye, and four bags of post.’
‘Came barging in here with a gun,’ said the woman.
‘Took ma keys and left.’ The postie was looking me up and down, as if he’d only just realised what a state I was. ‘Hey, just what kind of policeman are you?’ he asked.
‘The only kind there is right now.’ I peeled the ragged sweater off.
‘Undercover, like?’ His eyes widened as he took in the old scars and new wounds, my body held together by a few strips of duct tape and sheer determination.
‘Something like that.’ I looked at the woman still half crouching behind the till. ‘I presume he used your phone?’
‘Your boat go down?’ she asked. ‘You need an ambulance?’ She pulled a cordless from under the counter.
I shook my head, reached over and took it, pulled up the last numbers dialled. I frowned, putting the phone down on the counter. I walked around the aisles, grabbing a ‘Scotland’ hoody from a shelf, the kind sold to tourists, pulled it on. ‘What head start has he got?’
‘Not ten minutes. It’s a serious offence, you know, interfering with the postal service.’
‘And so’s stealing,’ said the woman, pointing at the hoody. ‘You gonna pay for that?’
‘You’ll have to bill the government.’ I took a can of Coke from a fridge.
‘The government!’ the postie said. ‘I told you, Annie, you don’t mess with the Royal Mail. Robbing the post at gunpoint! They’ll throw away the key, and too bloody right.’
‘Which way did he go?’ I asked.
‘Off in the direction of Mungasdale. Heading for Inverness, I’ll bet.’
I downed the can of pop in one and pulled out the soggy map, unfolding it on the counter, asking the postman to point out the road Hurley had taken. I took grid references, scribbled them on the map, and picked up the phone again. Time to call in the cavalry.
‘Just need to make a call outside, okay? It’s local.’
It wasn’t local. The call was answered after just a couple of rings. It was quick, no arguments, and a minute later I was in the shop handing back the phone.
‘He has ma truck and a gun, how are you gonna arrest him?’ asked the postie.
I picked up a Mars bar and winked. ‘Oh, I’m not gonna arrest him.’
‘Don’t you need a licence to kill?’ He thought I was joking.
I shook my head. ‘Just a gun.’ I folded the map and opened the door, then paused to point at his Doc Martens. ‘What size are they?’
Chapter Sixty-nine
I left the shop with the postman staring open-mouthed after me. He must have thought I intended to hike the seventy-five miles to Inverness. No need for that, I knew what Hurley’s plan was.
I jogged around the side of the building. I hadn’t stumbled upon it by chance – I’d done my homework, had a decent knowledge of the layou
t of the village, the geography, surrounding roads. In those few hours at Faslane with Colonel Holderness we’d agreed a rough plan, which included a contingency. Like I said, I like to have a backup plan.
A dirt parking area ran alongside and behind the shop, opposite the petrol pumps. Tucked up close to the building, next to the bottles of gas and bags of coal, was a filthy Mk2 Ford Capri, which should have been bright blue but was now mostly brown, caked in Scottish mud.
Long and low, hunkered close to the ground on fat wheels under huge flared wheel arches, even stationary it looked tense, ready to pounce. My personal pride and joy, the car I’d driven up to Scotland night before last, which Bates had obviously taken immense pleasure in driving through every pile of horseshit and muddy verge between here and Glasgow. He’d parked it, making out to be a tourist hiking locally, around the time I’d been on the beach inspecting Kyle’s body. I envied the drive he’d had; past Loch Lomond, up through Glencoe, along the northern shore of Loch Ness. Through towns with names like Auchterawe and Drumnadrochit, unpronounceable with my Yorkshire tongue and all the better for it. What I’d have given to have driven here rather than suffer that flying fucking deathtrap.
I know what you’re thinking: why is a spy driving a Capri older than himself? Well, like I said, I’m not a spy – I’m self-employed, and this is my own car. Secondly, if they did, it’d be something mundane and ill-suited to high speed, the government doesn’t stretch to custom Aston Martins. Good thing, too, even a bright blue Capri is a damn sight less conspicuous.
I knelt by the rear wheel and crept my fingers under the valance to locate a tiny magnetic box right where I’d asked Bates to leave it. I pulled it free, brushed off the mud, removed the key.
First, I opened the boot, grateful for my foresight in leaving my trusty custom Barbour motorbike jacket in there. It’s old, it’s battered, I’ve worn it from deserts to the Arctic and all the oceans in between, which is why I hadn’t wanted it on the island getting covered in anthrax. I shrugged it on over the hoody, zipped it up and lifted the boot carpet. Always outnumbered but never outgunned, Bates had seen me right. A short, boxy-looking rifle was sitting on the spare wheel, freshly serviced, gleaming. An SA80, the new A3 version just like Marine Jarrett had carried last night. I left it where it was, concentrating instead on the bundle next to it, which revealed a shiny new Glock 17. I checked it was loaded and slammed the boot.
Next, I popped the bonnet, reconnected the battery lead, good to go. I winked at the engine, kissed my fingers and ran them over the NISSAN lettering embossed across the twin-cam head, a stupid sentimental gesture but she could be defiant sometimes and I needed her good graces that morning.
It worked, the engine roared on the first twist of the key, settling to a burble. As I adjusted the hugging Bride bucket seat, the speakers blasted that old Prodigy tune with the Nirvana riff. While the Neanderthal Bates had been just about able to slide the seat back, I guessed he hadn’t been able to work the stereo, he’d been stuck with my music all the way here. I blipped the throttle a few times, she barked angrily at being awoken so early, I gripped the wheel, watching the revs rise and fall. The postie’s boots were stiff and too small, pinching my toes, which wouldn’t be great for heel-toe pedal action, but beggars can’t be choosers. I left the volume up loud; the music was as good a soundtrack as any for fast driving.
I watched the needle of the petrol gauge creep round, pushed the stick into first, and lifted the clutch. It wrenched violently – launching a storm of muddy gravel – out onto the road, climbing through the gears and up the speedometer. I winced, feeling the additional wear on the engine, no time for warmup.
Let loose, the engine howled like a wounded beast, a whoosh and flutter accompanying every gear change with an additional crackle on every downshift, popping and snarling, hot petrol on cold exhaust. Only a two-litre engine under the bonnet, this was obviously not the range-topping V6 model. The badging on the engine gave the game away, but even an onlooker could tell the car was far from standard by the twin black streaks burned into the road – a Nissan SR20DET engine, if you want to get technical, if you don’t then you just need to know it’s potent. Sacrilege to most Ford fans, this newer Japanese heart had come from a mate’s drift car and rather than grumble, the turbo screamed and sucked in foggy air as the needle climbed to ninety. I dropped into second with a crack of flame from the exhaust, burying the brakes, feeling the back of the car lighten, the limited slip differential bite as I accelerated through a corner, heading straight again towards the mountains, sea to my left, endless moor on my right.
A puddle was deeper than I’d anticipated and the Capri drifted, but thankfully the wide tyres chirped and grabbed just enough tarmac to keep me out of the ditch. The road was greasy from torrential rain and hours of fog rolling off the sea; I drove as fast as I dared. It should have been easy to catch a Land Rover but I had to slow and pull over at every farmer’s track and dirt road turn-off to check for any signs of Hurley’s passing. Didn’t want to overtake him without realising.
The Americans. Our allies, but I guess even between friends some things are worth the risk. Their own biological and chemical weapons programme, outwardly disavowed in the UN, was the most advanced in the world. The UK, France, China, Russia, Israel, several Middle Eastern countries and half of Korea; there are a handful of countries that would kill to get their hands on this new strain of anthrax. The United States topped the list.
They had killed to get it.
About a hundred and twenty miles south by road lay the village of Spean Bridge, site of the Allied Forces’ Commando Training Depot during the Second World War. Special Forces units still train in the nearby lochs and mountains, and somewhere down there a couple of companies of US Marines were currently on manoeuvres. I had no doubt that that was where Hurley was headed. From there he could easily transfer to an American airbase and be stateside before British Intelligence knew what had happened. And there’d be no proof, no way of connecting anything together – and importantly, no way of actually proving the Americans had the new strain of anthrax. Plucked from the soil right under our noses. But it was more than that – he’d get away with murder. And let’s not forget he’d tried to cook me, poison me, bludgeon me, shoot me, and drown me – in that order.
Hurley didn’t plan to drive the hundred and twenty miles down to Spean Bridge; I’d checked the numbers on the Post Office phone, knew he’d called his contact. A hundred and twenty miles by twisty country roads but only fifty or so by air, no distance at all for a Black Hawk helicopter. It’d seek out the road then fly low, hugging the valleys until it picked up the bright red Post Office Land Rover.
I ground the accelerator deeper into the carpet.
Chapter Seventy
The sun was up now and trying its best to burn off the fog as I tore along the A832. Glimpses of rocky outcrops rising from a sea of brown heather were snatched away as low clouds rolled across the landscape, parting again to reveal pine copses and endless moorland. Occasionally dark distant peaks beckoned me on before they too were swallowed by grey. As I drove on autopilot I thought about Ingrid’s murder, how it was key to everything.
Everyone had an absolutely cast-iron alibi for Ingrid’s murder, except for two people; Gambetta, who we’d ruled out as we knew he was in the radio room, and Demeter. It was logical and obvious that only Demeter could possibly have killed Ingrid.
It was meant to appear logical and obvious, because it hid the fact that there was one person on the island who we’d never suspected. Because you don’t check a victim’s alibi.
Gambetta was the only person on the island who could have killed Ingrid.
If the radio operator on the ship was expecting a French voice at precisely seven o’clock and that’s what he heard, then he’ll swear it was Gambetta, the only French man in the base. Hurley had left the common room for a short while – not enough time to kill Ingrid, but it had been enough time to cover for Gambetta on the radio.
>
A random Terrorvision song came on, pulling me back to the road, the rev counter, the speedo. I smiled as I pictured Bates enduring five hours of shuffled iPod hidden behind the dash then switched the stereo off, content to concentrate on the revs, the whining turbo, the crackling exhaust.
I crested a hill with Little Loch Broom racing along on my left. I powered through the cluster of houses at Badcaul and the picturesque village of Camusnagaul, and still I hadn’t caught the Land Rover. Doubts crept in again; unless he was a pro racer I should have caught him by now. Had I gone the wrong way? Missed some small turn-off, a hidden farm track? Maybe Hurley knew the area better than I’d thought. Or maybe he’d doubled back and headed directly south through Aultbea. Maybe he had a landing area pre-planned and scouted in advance.
No. His method of transferring the anthrax off the island was to have it hidden in the base when it was shipped away, himself hidden in plain sight among the group of scientists. He hadn’t planned this escape, so didn’t know the area any better than I did. He thought he’d got away, no one following. This was the quickest and easiest route. He had to be on this road.
The fences racing alongside me were broken by tracks, but each time I’d slowed to check a side track or pull-off I was satisfied that the Land Rover hadn’t disturbed them, that it still motored away somewhere just ahead. I did a quick circuit of the Dundonnell Hotel before moving on, the road curving uphill, sporadic trees flashing alongside until soon it was a thick forest clawing out to form a canopy above the road. The tall pines would have obscured any view, even without the fog; no place to land a helicopter.
I used one hand to unfold the map on the passenger seat. Even on the straights the wheel demanded constant attention, minute adjustments as the tyres sought grip, keeping me from bouncing through potholes and flying through the fence. I narrowly avoided a ditch on a corner that tightened more than I’d anticipated, accelerating into the next straight as I split my attention between the map and the road. I almost wished this was a new Aston Martin; I could have done with traction control and satnav.
Anthrax Island Page 26