Dark Oceans

by Mark Macrossan

  ‘Why don’t you join us?’

  His genie, or his magic chair, had done it again. It did mean getting up, though. A small price to pay, he supposed. But why the change in attitude, he wondered? Only one way to find out.

  Walman had gone, but the other guy was still there and Lena introduced him. Edward Lang. No surprises there.

  He had to admit, though, everything about this man set his teeth on edge. An uglier man would have been difficult to find – certainly on Erakor Island, and probably on any of the eighty-three Vanuatuan islands – but the striking thing was the God’s-gift-to-women air about him and the level of arrogance that went with it. He claimed to operate some sort of maritime business in North London and had the strangest English accent Ruart had ever heard (never mind ‘mid-Atlantic’, try ‘Five Eyes’, or even ‘five oceans’). He had stringy, greasy black hair that had to have been coloured, looked like he’d spent the morning marinating in St Tropez bronzing lotion, and had a Japanese-puffer-fish face with the eyes of a pit bull terrier. Ruart had met his fair share of rough Londoners in his time, but this Edward Lang was in a class of his own.

  At one point Ruart made the mistake of querying whether Lang had any “Asian heritage”. Lang had frosted over and told him, icily, that his family could be traced back to Mary Queen of Scots. ‘I’d be willing to wager a considerable sum,’ he said, ‘that you have more Algerian blood in you than I have Asian, let me put it that way.’ Ruart of course had not a drop of Algerian blood in his ancestral line, but he took the comment for the insult that it was intended to be and said nothing. And fair enough too, he thought, it served him right.

  He watched with great interest when, at one point, Lang ordered a glass of water and took what he claimed were two headache tablets. Big night, eh, Mr Lang? Ruart had, in fact, specifically been keeping a close look-out for any sign of affection between Lena and Lang, but they were either keeping it well-hidden, or it was non-existent. Indeed, it wasn’t at all clear what their relationship was, although something told him it wasn’t purely business. Neither were giving anything much away though, so he thought he’d test the waters.

  ‘So Lena, it’s a shame Roy couldn’t be here. Such a beautiful place. Do you know Roy, Edward?’

  The mouth kept smiling, but a flicker of irritation crossed his pebbly pit-bull eyes before Lena jumped in.

  ‘Roy has probably been here more times than you’ve had escargots.’

  ‘I don’t eat them, actually.’

  ‘So, Robert, that’s a nice little bruise you have,’ Lang said jovially. ‘Anything you’re not telling us?’

  And the conversation bounced along in this way for about ten minutes with Ruart learning absolutely nothing. Other than making the annoyingly inconvenient discovery that he was unequivocally attracted to Lena. Even more so after his third Tusker. How dare she be so alluring. Who, or what, was this gorgeous Russian girl with her honey-brown skin and quartz-blonde hair, glowing with obscene health? Bad news, is what she so obviously was, he reminded himself. Even so, she was also, as that terrible cliché in English went, quite “easy on the eye”, thank you very much.

  She was even lightening up towards him, which was fine, it would make his job easier, wouldn’t it? One slip from her, he couldn’t help but feel, and he’d be able to confirm that she knew where Drayle was. After that – and the third Tusker may, admittedly, have played a role in this conclusion – after that, all it would take would be a little “French persuasion” to reveal everything he needed to know. He wasn’t James Bond, for sure not, but he was exponentially better looking than this Edward Lang for a start, and with Roy out of the picture… All bets were off, put it that way.

  Where was Roy, by the way? Back at the Grand Hotel playing solitaire? Unless Ruart’s information had been ‘chinese-whispered’ somewhere along the way, and it had never been Roy in the first place. Perhaps Lena was telling the truth. He supposed all would be revealed in due course…

  It was after he’d paid a visit to the Gents that Lena said precisely what he wanted to hear.

  ‘Robert. Edward and I have a proposition for you.’

  ‘Ah yes?’

  ‘You’ve heard of the island, Tanna?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the volcano, Mount Yasur? It is supposed to be very spectacular. Well, tomorrow we’re flying there. It’s only an hour away. You take a trip to the volcano in the afternoon and you stay there, on the island, overnight. Would you like to join us?’

  The sober devil’s advocate in Ruart’s Tuskered brain put the brakes on a rapid reply. He couldn’t trust Lena further than he could throw her (or even her chunky friend). No way, he wasn’t kidding himself on that score. On the other hand, she was his best lead yet. And as far as leads went, she was perhaps one of the prettiest he’d laid eyes on for some time…

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It might be interesting.’

  ‘I guarantee it will be,’ Lang said.

  Ruart would have preferred the guarantee to have come from Lena, all the same. ‘You’ve seen it?’ he said to Lang. ‘The volcano?’

  ‘Edward’s a bit of a Vanuatu expert,’ Lena said. ‘Anyway the flight’s at eleven-thirty in the morning, there’s only one. Book yourself a ticket, and we’ll take care of the accommodation. No luggage, just bring a daypack, it’s easier. And good walking shoes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ruart said. ‘That is very generous of you. Oh and… a return flight, I assume, coming back the next―’

  ‘One always hopes so,’ said Lang. ‘Doesn’t one.’

  Lena and Lang had some business in town to attend to, so after they left, Ruart sent an urgent message through to the Préfecture’s Vanuatu operation to ensure they were followed in case they were meeting Drayle. After he’d done that, and then booked his flights, he finally allowed himself to relax. Given his location, relaxing came easily.

  He was certainly feeling pleased with himself: it had been a most productive afternoon. And so he sat back, all the better for fully appreciating various pleasant, alcohol-infused thoughts rolling in and over him in waves, like the breakers over the distant reef, and he watched the golden afternoon sun, like a celestial alchemist, turn one end of the lagoon to shimmering silver and the other, to luminous lapis lazuli.

  84. 57° 9' 1" N 2° 5' 40" W

  (Hotel Room, Aberdeen, Scotland)

  9.00am Greenwich Mean Time (09:00 UTC)

  Sunday, 27 October

  The grey was overwhelming. Everything was grey. The sky, the sea, and worst of all, the buildings. All of them, the same grey as the sea, sky, rain, cobblestones and everything else.

  Ishiko was looking out at all this bleakness and, like the turmoil she pictured out there in the North Sea, beyond the wall of clouds on the close, hemming horizon, her mind too was in a state of great confusion.

  She’d just received a message. Finally, which ought to have been a good thing. But there was a lot to worry about.

  On the plus side, it was via an email account they’d used before, and the email was addressed to her in the usual way. But it hadn’t been signed off the way they normally signed off. Her handler, Aleks, always signed off with “love Aleks xx” (it was his little joke, they’d never met), but this one had no sign-off at all. Not hearing from Aleks for over two months was one thing – he’d always been a little unreliable and disorganized anyway, always losing phones and generally slow to respond at the best of times – but to finally hear in this way, without the usual sign-off, was disturbing. Could it simply have been so long he’d forgotten his usual habits on this occasion?

  That was the trouble with this kind of set-up. With cells in general, and the sole-point-of-contact rule in particular. If anything out of the ordinary happened (and let’s face it, in this business that was basically every operation), there was no easy way to get approval for a change in plan. You had to go out on a limb, and if you succeeded, they still got the credit; if you failed it was all your fault. Sure, they’d gi
ven her a special number to contact in case of “extreme emergency” (they called it the Dire Straits number), but her current situation was hardly that. She’d always been told that almost without exception, whenever a problem was encountered they were to just sit tight and wait – up to a year if necessary – and that someone would eventually contact them.

  But the message itself: Ishiko was instructed to make her way immediately, with the Decagon, to Port Vila, Vanuatu. Once there, she was to send an email to the new address provided and a meeting would be arranged. And that was it. No “Aleks”, no name, nothing.

  Vanuatu! That had to be close to the exact opposite side of the world to Aberdeen, hadn’t it? Couldn’t they have picked somewhere a bit closer? Of course, she had to assume they didn’t know where she was. Aleks never used the same email account twice in a row, and she’d always been told not to respond anyway. It was always her waiting to hear from them.

  She was certainly becoming very, very tired of the whole thing, everything. Looking out at the North Sea, she was sorely tempted to hitch a ride out on one of those fishing trawlers – or even better a marine research vessel, it was her dream job – and sail right out, past the North Sea and into the Norwegian Sea, and somewhere out there, at the deepest point, which she knew was almost four thousand metres, she would throw the Decagon over the side when no-one was looking, and to hell with them all, just disappear, and start a new life somewhere.

  Maybe she should never have left South Africa. She loved the ocean and down there, they had two of them right next to each other.

  But there was always the terrible nagging sense of duty. A sense of duty not just to ‘them’ – she was sick of ‘them’ – but to herself, to finish what she’d started.

  And then she thought of the warm waters of the South Pacific. The Coral Sea, even the sound of the name warmed her body. As opposed to the cold, grey bubble she now found herself in. With all that grey stone that served as a constant reminder of somewhere she didn’t need to be reminded of: Lüderitz.

  And she thought of another reason to take a chance on Vanuatu: after her stupidity in approaching Delia, the UK authorities could be expected to launch an extensive search for her, once the information had filtered through to the relevant people. They’d start in London, and then follow the inevitable trail to Aberdeen. Maybe she’d already been tracked, or at least spotted on a CCTV camera somewhere. Not to mention that man in the grey suit, whoever he was, how sure could she be that she’d lost him?

  But every time she thought of the clear, lapping waters of the Coral Sea, she couldn’t help but think that was exactly what they wanted her to think. And she couldn’t help but think Aleks would have signed off properly. And if it wasn’t Aleks, who was it?

  85. 17° 46' 33" S 168° 17' 37" E

  (Breakas Beach Resort, Port Vila)

  11.30pm Vanuatu Time (12:30 UTC)

  Sunday, 27 October

  Lena

  Ruart just liked saying the name, although he wasn’t saying it aloud, or he didn’t think he was anyway, but maybe

  Lena

  He was looking down at her, at her blonde hair pooling behind her head like a halo, a framing nest for her angelic face. And she was looking up at him, with those big loving eyes, but was it love? sparkling blue like the effervescent midday sea…

  He’d tell her that. Later. If he hadn’t already

  And now he was looking down at her “L”, although it looked more like an arrow, an arrow pointing at his lunging, deep-plunging…

  Oh my God. He was so screwed

  It didn’t stop him though, did it

  Was there a creature like her? Anywhere?

  Too late to turn back now anyway, too late to turn back, way too late

  He was so screwed

  How did this happen?

  Dinner invitation, and

  Edward had a “mild dose of sunstroke”

  What else was he going to do?

  He did the right thing. He did it for Constance. He was only doing his best, trying to learn as much as he could

  She was from Siberia, he found that out, from the frozen wastes… And what a waste if she’d never left it, eh?

  He still didn’t even know her surname!

  The bungalow looked like a Coral Sea cyclone had been through it. Cyclone Lena. (They’d been having some fun)

  But how did this happen?

  It was so fast… he couldn’t even remember who suggested the drinks in his bungalow

  What happens when you fall in love with a suspect, a potential accomplice, and you’re a cop, right? What happens when you fall in love and you’re not involved in any sort of operation? You’re on holiday, right? And she’s not even an official suspect, she’s not even wanted for questioning, it’s only you who wants her, no-one else, what happens then?

  You stay the fuck away, man. You stay right the fuck away unless you can handle the heat. And Commandant Laurent Ruart, can he handle the heat? Oh yeah. So if you’re Ruart, what happens?

  You’re screwed, that’s what happens

  Marine

  How would he deal with that? No point in even beginning to blame the alcohol, that didn’t wash these days, never did

  But there was no going back now

  Lena pushed him out and back onto the bed and cupped him, stuck her finger in at the same time, which was just a little too… and then oh God slowly lowered her head down over him, her blonde hair a bridal veil, and her mouth a candle snuffer, embracing the flame, but nothing was being snuffed here, his life maybe, or, rather, his life as he knew it, but that’s OK, long live change, without it you die…

  Oh my God, her mouth, her tongue, she’s a golf ball washer, just a spit and shine and everything’s fine! And… Oh whoa my oh my God she was so amazing and he was so completely screwed… But this sort of pleasure… To experience it just once in your life… would make it all… worth… worth…while

  No going back

  Completely screwed

  Don’t go

  About to come

  86. 51° 30' 46" N 0° 8' 1" W

  (Soho Restaurant)

  The same time

  12.30pm Greenwich Mean Time (12:30 UTC)

  Sunday, 27 October

  It was coming all right.

  Jon could tell from the breeze that was picking up outside – it was what they used to call a “stiff” breeze. The awning across the street was starting to flap around with each gust. The storm was definitely on its way. And it was going to be worse on the coast, but it was just a storm, it couldn’t be helped. Because overnight, he’d had time to think about things (his Bayswater hotel room had been so small, thinking was about all you could do in it), and he’d made up his mind that as he needed Isla’s help and she needed his, he’d try to talk her into returning to Alastair’s house in Peacehaven with him, and sit out the storm there, figure out their next move. Because that look she gave him last night… she did need his help, he was certain of it.

  But where was she? It was already twelve thirty, and she’d said noon. Thirty minutes late and she didn’t exactly have far to go. Twenty yards, max. She could hardly blame the traffic.

  Something had gone wrong.

  He thought the thought, and the moment he thought it – as if his mind had created it rather than perceived it – he heard sirens.

  He didn’t need to wait to find out, he knew they were headed for him. There was a vague notion at the back of his mind that if they were intent on arresting him in this labyrinth of a city, one would expect they’d be more softly-softly about it, but when dark thoughts took hold, they were hard to shake.

  He quickly grabbed his bag and made a move. As soon as he stepped outside the restaurant entrance he could see them, coming up Wardour Street, lights flashing and sirens heehawing. He turned into Peter Street and kept going, walking as briskly as he could without actually running. When the first police car turned into Peter Street behind him, he readied himself for a dramatic arrest combi
ning the squealing of tyres and the springing of car doors… But they stopped. Well before they got to him.

  He kept walking to just past the next corner and turned around. Two vehicles – a marked police car and an unmarked one with a siren planted on its roof – had both wedged themselves at lazy angles about thirty yards behind him. Outside 30A.

  At that point, he knew he should have made himself scarce, but curiosity was a strange thing. It made you do things. And all he could think was, don’t tell me, he’d lost another one: Sabine, Romy, Emerald, Isla… These women, they couldn’t all vanish on him. Could they?

  Three or four policemen jumped out and one of them pressed the buzzer. Someone let them in… Isla? Surely not.

  And then, out of the unmarked car, stepped a man in a dark grey suit. He stopped at the doorway, and as if guided by some sixth sense, he looked up in Jon’s direction.

  For a few moments neither of them moved.

  After which everything seemed to unravel at once. The man, who was stocky and wore a badly-fitting dark grey suit and rimless, rectangular glasses, started walking towards him. And Jon thought he recognised him. The large build, the suit, the purposeful stride. It reminded him of the man who’d tried to kill him in West Kensington. And what had Isla said? Look out for Detective Stephens.

  Likes his grey suits.

  Jon ran.

  His instinct was to seek out the crowds. It was Sunday, the Berwick Street market was closed – he’d passed Berwick Street anyway – which meant somehow getting through to Brewer Street running parallel to his left. In the meantime he was banking on not being shot in front of the other police, although maybe they were all inside… No time to look around, but he was certain he could hear a set of running footsteps behind him. Ahead was the derelict dead end that had spooked him earlier – everything about it screamed death, he probably died there in a parallel universe – so thankfully a last chance left turn presented itself, a narrow lane through to Brewer. He knocked over a chair with his foot to a chorus of American hey buddys, shot round the corner and kept running, dodging the lazy, lucky, Sunday amblers.