66 Metres

by J. F. Kirwan

  ‘Anne’s not doing so well, you know.’

  He slowed. Throwing her into the fjord now seemed lightweight. ‘Not my problem. Divorced, remember? You of all people…’

  His ex had cited Lorne in the divorce, though Anne didn’t know her surname, so the document referred to her simply as ‘a woman named Sara.’ Not that that was the real reason for the break-up of his marriage, especially as Anne had been seeing someone else beforehand, for some time. Besides, Anne hadn’t talked to him in three years, not since… And would never talk to him again. Quite right. He took a few more steps, heard Lorne turn around.

  ‘She’s on a bad track, Jake. Drink, debt.’

  He carried on walking, though it wasn’t easy.

  She raised her voice. ‘And a boyfriend who hits her.’

  He stopped. Replayed it again in his head, to hear the way she’d said it. She’d let some actual emotion slip into her voice. He knew Lorne’s history. Abusive father. This was one area she couldn’t – wouldn’t – fake. So, it was true. Jake felt his blood rise. If someone laid a finger on Anne… His fingers flexed, curled into fists. Anne was on a downward spiral. He wasn’t surprised. And it was his fault. In spades.

  ‘We can help her, Jake. Get her back on track. Persuade the new boyfriend –’

  He stopped listening. He and Anne were over, done. But he still cared what happened to her. And she deserved so much better. If he was there, he knew what he’d do.

  ‘Break the boyfriend,’ he said, knowing full well what he was asking, given Lorne’s resources at MI6, both the official and the dark ones. But men who hit women… it was the one thing for which he had zero tolerance.

  She didn’t miss a beat. ‘If that’s what it takes.’

  He turned around. ‘The Rose, Lorne, and then I’m through. And I work wherever I want. Not the office.’

  ‘Deal.’

  He walked right up to her, his face close to hers, into what she’d once called the kissing zone. ‘And then I never see you or hear from you again.’

  Her hazel eyes, clearer now, became as hard as the pebbles at his feet.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. She opened her purse. Inside he glimpsed a pistol and two identical mobile phones. Nothing else. She handed him one of the phones, then walked away.

  Something didn’t fit. ‘What aren’t you telling me, Lorne? Why me, in particular?’

  She didn’t turn around, didn’t slow down. ‘The guy who stole it was a diver. Check your phone.’

  He watched her disappear around the corner.

  Back in his car, he switched on the mobile she’d given him. It asked for a code. He typed in 0-0-0-0. No good. Two more tries. He keyed in 1-2-3-4. Nope. One more try. He shook his head, swore, changed to text, and keyed in S-A-R-A. He was in. There was no option to change the password. Always got what she wanted.

  He checked for photos. There were four. A helicopter at night, then at a crazy angle just above a bridge, then in the water, then… Hard to make out. A man in the water in a pilot’s uniform, with a stab jacket wrapped awkwardly around him, lit up by a powerful beam. Unconscious. Jake looked closer. Someone just beneath the pilot, underwater. The guy who stole the Rose. The photo was grainy. He played his fingers and thumbs over the smartphone to stretch the image until he could just about see the masked face.

  Lorne had been right. Jake saw things in the data. Patterns, connections, but also faces. He saw things others didn’t. No idea why. But it was clear to him, maybe because he was a diver, and you learned to see behind the neoprene.

  The diver was female.

  Where to start? Easy. London. Scene of the crime. Get the measure of this diver. But in a sense he already had an idea of her. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to save the pilot. And the thought came to him unbidden, that he should find this woman before Lorne did.

  He started the engine, and glanced over to the fjord. ‘Later, Sean,’ he said, then tore away, scattering pebbles into the water.

  Chapter Four

  Nadia nursed her backpack as she tried to forget yesterday’s killing spree. In front of her the harbour was crowded with expensive sailing yachts and sturdy fishing vessels. The sun beat down on her face. The yacht rigging rattled in the onshore breeze. A distant ambulance siren was barely audible above the cawing of seagulls fighting over rancid morsels in the fishing nets left out to dry on the quay. The image of Janssen’s bloody corpse intruded in her mind. Fish would be eating away at what was left of his face. She opened her eyes, gripped the bag hiding the Rose, held it closer.

  Sammy had saved her, but she should have killed Janssen, for Katya’s, if not for her own sake. Why couldn’t she pull the trigger? She’d been living in a fantasy world, believing that she could work for Kadinsky for five years and never kill anyone. Okay, there had been the vow to her mother, and she didn’t want to become her father, but still. She should at least be able to defend herself, or protect Katya. She had to get her head in the game, especially now Sammy was gone and she was on her own. She went over it again, for the umpteenth time. Why can’t I kill?

  Of course she had, once. A bear. As a kid she’d loved animals. Her father taught her to shoot, but when he took her hunting in the woods she would aim to miss, to scare away a deer or a rodent. He never reproached her, just repeated the same phrase: ‘Next time’. Then one day a bear had been terrorising the village, and the men were called out to track it down and kill it. She and her father joined the search, and after several hours, spotted it. He gave her the shot. But even though it had maimed two people already, she aimed high, and it ran off. The other men were furious when they found out, and her father had to send her home with her rifle. As she neared the house she heard Katya screaming in the back garden. Nadia raced around and found the bear on its hind legs, incisors bared, Katya and her mother pinned against the shed. Nadia didn’t hesitate, shot it through the mouth, blew out the back of its skull, and put another two bullets in its chest to make sure. Nadia would never forget the look of horror on her mother’s face.

  But a bear wasn’t a person.

  Her father had been a killer. She’d not known before his death, but had found out later. Her mother had made sure of it. Maybe some of those he’d murdered had deserved it. But one had been a journalist doing an anti-corruption piece on the government. Later, during a short break from Kadinsky’s training camp, Nadia had gone to see his widow, tried to give her money. It didn’t go well, once the woman realised who Nadia was.

  ‘I don’t want your fucking money, suka, I want my husband back!’ She’d slapped Nadia’s face hard, then attacked her. Nadia could have defended herself, had been trained to, but she didn’t, just let the blows rain down on her. After a while the widow, exhausted, tears in her eyes, held up a trembling hand in the crude shape of a pistol, her second finger the trigger. ‘Back of the head. Just a small movement’ – she made a clicking sound with her tongue – ‘and my man’s life was gone.’ She looked down at Nadia. ‘Why the fuck are you crying?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nadia answered, because she didn’t. She left the money on the table, went to a bar and got seriously drunk.

  But the question remained. Could she kill?

  Next time.

  She got up and walked around the crumbling edge of the dock. The horn-blast of the Scillonian, the massive blue and white ferry bound for the remote Scilly Isles, made the seagulls take flight. The Scillies. Her hideaway destination. Off the mainland. Smallville. Most people on the run wouldn’t go there, because it was difficult to get away from. Like retreating into the corner of a chessboard. Limited moves remaining. But that also made it a blind spot for the authorities, and the local police there would be little more than village bobbies. No detectives, no serious military presence.

  She’d considered taking the ferry, until the heightened security made her think again. The heliport was out of the question. Hopping down a few steps onto the creaking gangplanks of the floating jetty, she searched for a smaller boat, ‘Sc
illy Boy’. She’d met Mike, the boat’s red-haired skipper, in a bar the night before. He’d said he was heading to the Isles. Mike had shown interest in her, though he’d seemed shy. She’d noticed that his second finger had a ring-shaped patch less sunburned than the rest of his hand. Probably married. Only wore his ring when back home. Not that she was interested. Since the ordeal with Slick and Pox, she’d forged herself into the female equivalent of a eunuch. Besides, Katya more than made up for Nadia’s abstinence. Maybe when this was all over.

  Maybe.

  At the end of the jetty she spied him preparing to leave. ‘You headed where I think you are?’ she shouted.

  Mike raised his head. On seeing her, his freckled face lit up.

  ‘St Mary’s, Hugh Town.’ He paused, as if gauging his luck. ‘You want a ride? It’s a long trip, won’t be there till dark. The ferry’s much faster.’ Mike appeared to be standing perfectly still, despite the rocking of the boat. ‘You get seasick?’

  ‘Only on large boats.’ Flashing a smile, she passed her backpack down to him.

  ‘Hey, it’s pretty heavy; what have you got in there?’

  Nadia locked her smile into place. ‘Oh, you know, lipstick. Girl stuff.’

  Mike shook his head. ‘Whatever you say.’ He set it down on the short bench at the back of the boat, helped her in, and began casting off. She knew he’d be busy slaloming his way through the other boats anchored in the harbour, so she knelt down with her back to him and delved into her backpack. She’d bought some tape earlier, and tore off three strips and fixed them to one side of the Beretta. Glancing around to ensure that Mike was engrossed, she leant forward and fixed the gun to the underside of the bench, made sure it was secure, then slid her bag underneath it.

  As they chugged their way out of Penzance Harbour, she laid her head back on the smooth fibreglass edge of the boat. Mike was still occupied, and left her alone with her thoughts. Unfortunately, these consisted of Janssen’s last moments, over and over again. She wondered what she could do to change the disk inside her head. She found herself staring at Mike’s fit body, especially his muscular forearms. But images of Pox and Slick kept intruding, and her hormones beat a hasty retreat, as usual. She pitied the next man she slept with. He’d have to be patience on a pedestal.

  Relief spread through her as they quit the choppy waters in the sheltered harbour for the long, smoother rhythm of offshore rollers, finally putting some distance between her and the warehouse. Her right hand dangled over the side. A hissing, cool spray rinsed it every few seconds, and she inhaled the rich scent of the sea, letting it clear her mind.

  Mike came over and planted a hat on her head so she wouldn’t burn, stared at her a moment, then returned to the front of the boat. Her thoughts drifted to Katya, wondering what she was up to, dreamy thoughts of the two of them living together in some small house somewhere, anywhere, nowhere.

  Seagulls trailing the boat peeled off one by one, and headed back to shore. As the engine settled down, she listened to the slopping of the water against the hull, allowing it to lull her as she curled into a foetal position under her anorak, and closed her eyes.

  When she awoke, it was night. Mike was gazing at her, a hint of a smile on his lips, his hair rendered brown by the red and green running lights. A dull yellow lamp behind him shone on the boat’s compact steering console. She returned his smile, but suddenly it stalled, as the blood-soaked image of Janssen pushed into her mind. She pulled her anorak close around her. Mike looked away, and got up to check the controls. He was a genuinely nice guy. Unlike most of the men she’d had to hang out with in the past five years.

  She glanced toward the slowly rocking horizon, stars reflecting on smooth waves, and spotted the distant lights Mike hadn’t yet seen. Another boat, slicing like a shark through dark water towards them. It was moving fast, but was downwind, so they couldn’t hear it. Police boat. No, Navy. She sat up. Not long till intercept. They must be checking all boats that left Penzance. Her pulse sped up as she predicted the consequences of being found with the Rose: accessory to murder; a long prison sentence; Katya in a shallow grave in the woods.

  The Rose was still in her backpack. She’d have to ditch it in the water, without Mike seeing. But once he saw the patrol boat, she might not get the chance. She dug out her satellite-linked smartphone – Kadinsky was generous with his gadgets – and activated the GPS app, then let it drop into her bag while it fixed her location. Joining Mike at the helm, she checked the depth of water beneath them on the sonar display: seventy metres. Seriously deep, but not irretrievable.

  Mike cautiously placed a hand on her waist, their first physical contact. The patrol boat lights were behind him, gaining steadily. She needed more time for the GPS to locate their exact position. She remembered her training for a scenario like this. Distract and misdirect. And she imagined Katya reminding her younger sister that she was Russian, and Russians always did what was necessary. Katya had always said the best cover story was one that stopped people from asking questions…

  Mike set the engine to idle, and moved closer. She swallowed. Maybe she could do this. He was attractive, after all. Confident about his job, yet quiet. Sensitive not pushy. Maybe, if given a bit more time… But the patrol boat was catching up. Mike leant forward and kissed her neck. Normally it would have made her spine tingle, instead she felt prickly all over her body. Her breathing sped up. That seemed to goad Mike on. A reasonable misinterpretation. She made her decision, and kissed him fully, his coarser seafarer’s mouth bitter from the coffee on his tongue. Both his hands gripped her, pulled her to him, his eyes closed. Hers stayed open, and over his shoulder she saw the patrol boat lights in silent pursuit. But as he held her wrists, that night with Slick and Pox came back to life as if it was yesterday, no, as if it was now. She tried to disconnect, to make her body go limp, but she remained tense, her rape memory screaming at her to fight back this time. Her muscles barely held back from lashing out at his pressure points.

  Mike’s breath quickened as his hands went to work on her. Strong fingers slid under her t-shirt, fondled her breasts, his hands less sure on her than they were on the boat. She willed herself to play along, and led him towards the bench above her bag, keeping his back to the patrol boat trailing them. He kissed her harder, pushed her backwards onto the bench. He pulled off her top and savoured her breasts with his mouth, just like… She could hardly breathe. Concentrate. One more minute. The boat will arrive. Then you can dispose of the Rose.

  He unzipped her jeans and one of his hands slid between her thighs, making her gasp. She slipped back on the bench as he peeled her jeans off, his index fingers hooking into the sides of her underpants, pulling them off, too. She wondered if this was how it was for Katya back in Moscow. She shut her eyes. Her lips trembled. And then the rape scene came flooding back to her in all its sick detail: Slick grabbing her forearms, licking her face like a dog, punching her in the stomach when she’d spat in his eye, thrusting inside her as violently as he could, while Pox… She opened her eyes. Her hands shook, her breathing was out of control. Mike was staring at her, a deep frown on his face.

  ‘Jesus! Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘You’ve gone white as a sheet.’

  ‘I’m sorry’ she said, because on so many levels, she was. ‘Mike, I –’

  ‘STAND TO! SWITCH OFF YOUR ENGINE! PREPARE TO BE BOARDED.’

  Mike whirled around. ‘What the…?’ Pulling up his trousers, he hobbled to the canopied engine controls. Nadia sat up, her breasts momentarily lit up for all the crew to see, before the searchlight jerked towards a semi-naked Mike.

  The loud-hailer blared again. ‘CUT YOUR ENGINES! NOW!’ The patrol boat loomed closer, its bow surging through the waves, water frothing white before dissolving into blackness.

  Get a grip on yourself! She stood up, pulled on her jeans and top, then bent down as if to find and fasten her shoes, all the while trying to get her breathing back under control. She leant over the side and scooped some water o
nto her face. She reminded herself that one of those bastards, Pox, was now pushing up daisies.

  She focused, opened the holdall and glanced at the GPS coordinates. They were still changing because the boat was still moving. She had to wait, or risk never finding the Rose again. Its battery indicator read fully charged. Checking first to see that Mike was distracted, she pulled out the Rose and placed it on the ledge behind her, upside down so as to conceal the slowly pulsing red LEDs. Now it looked like part of the boat. Like a brass fitting you’d loop a rope around. She walked over to Mike and handed him his sweatshirt. She kept her body between his line of sight and the Rose. In any case, he was glancing the other way, towards the patrol boat.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, disengaging the engine. The diesel choked off, drowned out by the patrol boat propellers revving in reverse as its prow manoeuvred alongside. She glanced over Mike’s shoulder to the sonar display. Sixty-six metres of water beneath them. But there was something else there, something big – the edge of a shipwreck, judging from its shape. At least sixty-six was better than seventy. As a teenager she’d learned to dive in the Caspian Sea with her uncle Dmitry, though never so deep.

  Mike caught her elbow. ‘Listen, I’m –’

  She placed a forefinger across his lips, just as a gangplank clattered down on the port side. Nadia went back to her place on the starboard side while Mike tied the gangplank down. As she leant over the edge to scoop some seawater onto her face, she lowered the Rose into the sea, held it underwater so it didn’t splash.

  She let go.

  Two sailors stood at the other end of the narrow bridge, waiting for Mike to finish. They were armed, wearing white Navy-style belts and holsters. Nadia glanced into her bag and read the GPS on her phone. It had stabilised. She intoned the figures twice in her head. The two sailors walked across the plank and jumped down into the boat. She looked up at them, hands by her side.