by Adrian Wills
The A-road eventually turned into a motorway, where they encountered the first traffic since leaving Nutwick. Mostly lorries on early morning delivery runs, and passengers and airport staff heading for the first flights out of Gatwick. Blake slotted in behind a seven-and-a-half ton box van that was trundling along in the inside lane, and monitored the movement of the Renault through his phone. Although it was travelling faster on the motorway, it rarely ventured above the speed limit, smoothly changing between lanes to overtake slower moving vehicles. Nothing to warrant the attention of a bored police patrol.
After twenty minutes, the Renault pulled off into a roadside service station with a backlit billboard advertising a fast food outlet and a coffee chain. Blake followed, slowing along the access lane and into a large car park. He noted the Renault pull up in an empty space in a section marked out by low hedges a short distance from a single-storey building housing restaurants, cafés, shops, and toilets. Blake drove past, and found a space a little farther on, killed his lights, and watched the Renault in his rear view mirror.
Proctor and Clark remained in the vehicle, but in the low light, it was impossible to tell what they were doing. It occurred to Blake that they'd discovered the bugs in the cottage and taken the car to talk in private. But it was a long way to travel for assurances they weren't being listened to. They'd driven nearly twenty miles. They could have pulled up in a layby much closer.
Blake had his answer a few moments later when a pair of dazzling headlights appeared in his mirrors and an expensive-looking black Bentley pulled up alongside the Renault. Proctor and Clark climbed in the back, and no sooner had the doors closed than the car pulled away sharply with a throaty roar.
Chapter 32
The Bentley had already vanished into the traffic when Blake hit the exit slip road onto the motorway. He floored the accelerator, and slotted into the slow lane ahead of a fast moving lorry, which flashed its lights at him as a rebuke. With a check in his mirror, Blake switched into the middle lane and watched the speedometer rise to a hundred. The Bentley was a short distance ahead cruising in the fast lane and sitting low on its wheels, humming along at a deceptively high speed. Blake noted the number plate. KL99.
The motorway ran out at an intersection with the M25, London's orbital highway. The Bentley swung through the junction, following an arcing loop heading east towards Kent, with Blake trailing behind, trying to keep up without being noticed. In a few hours, the motorway would be congested with commuters, tradesmen, and lorry drivers, but for now, it was unusually clear and both cars hurtled through the early morning traffic unhindered.
The Bentley eventually turned off onto a dual carriageway that led through the leafy suburbs of Greenwich and the Blackwall Tunnel beneath the Thames. It re-emerged on the Isle of Dogs, where the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf looked down on the city below, lights twinkling from the windows of a thousand empty offices.
The island had once been the beating heart of British trade and industry, with streets thick with the exotic aromas of imported coffee, spices, and rum, the evocative smells of far-off lands. Now it was home to more than fourteen million square feet of office and retail space as the island was reborn as one of London's most significant financial centres.
Open carriageways gave way to residential streets, and the Bentley finally slowed to a more pedestrian pace, with Blake trying to maintain a discreet distance through the tight network of roads.
Its taillights rose and fell as it floated over a lifting bridge with vast girders straddling the carriageway like a great, iron portal. A few seconds later, Blake rumbled over the same strip of road and the Millennium Dome appeared to his left, lit up like an alien spacecraft that had dropped from the skies. To his right, a deep-water quay reflected multi-coloured lights from the high-rise buildings that surrounded it, and three gunmetal cranes stood to attention side-by-side, with their redundant arms pointing to the night sky in perfect symmetry.
The Bentley hooked right through a small roundabout and disappeared in a series of residential back roads. Blake eventually caught up with the car as it slowed on a narrow lane, with its headlights reflecting off a looming white wall between two brick buildings. Blake pulled over, killed his own lights, and stared into the darkness trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The wall was peppered with oval, black holes and he realised it was the fibreglass hull of a large boat moored in the quay.
When the rear doors of the Bentley opened, and Proctor and Clark emerged, Blake threw his car into reverse and made a U-turn. He retraced his route, back to the blue lift bridge, swung hard left onto a gravel track past a storage warehouse, and skidded to a halt at the water's edge. A sleek, white superyacht was moored on the opposite side of the quay, beneath a block of smart flats. She looked like a playboy's toy, with crisp lines, polished metal handrails, and tinted windows, an opulent fusion of high-speed motor cruiser and ocean-going hotel. She was easily two hundred feet long, and reared up over five decks. Blake counted at least three sundecks on different levels, and above the bridge a vast array of navigational bulbs and masts were mounted on a radar arch.
Blake grabbed a pair of binoculars from the passenger foot well and scanned the boat for activity. The stars and stripes of the American flag hung limply from a pole on one of the upper decks that was bathed in a yellow glow from hidden down lighters. Her name had been painted half way along her superstructure, just below the bridge. It sounded familiar to Blake, but he couldn't immediately place it.
Movement on an aft deck caught his eye, and he steadied the binoculars to focus on a thin man with a shaven head. Ben Proctor. A pace behind was Mike Clark. They were confronted by two security guards who appeared from the far side of the vessel, significantly taller and broader than the other two men, with dark jackets and crisp white shirts, which strained against their necks and shoulders. After frisking them for weapons, the guards waved Proctor and Clark inside a cabin and Blake lost sight of them.
He dropped the binoculars in his lap and snatched up his phone. His fingers glided across the screen and found the number he was looking for.
'Marty, I need your help,' said Blake, when Marty Price answered.
'Blake, it's two in the morning.' The intelligence specialist sounded groggy from sleep.
'You know I wouldn't call if it wasn't important.'
'What's up?'
'I need some information.'
'Can't it wait until a more sensible time in the morning?'
'Not really. It's about a boat, called the Clara Barton.'
Marty sighed. 'Hang on a minute; I need to get to the computers.'
Blake imagined his friend and former Army colleague swinging out of bed and padding across the wooden stripped floor. 'Is this something to do with the Phineas Priests?'
'The Phineas Priests?'
'Yeah, Harry called a few days ago. Said it was something you were working on.'
'Possibly.' Blake heard the hollow tapping of a keyboard.
'The Clara Barton? As in the founder of the American Red Cross?'
'I thought I knew the name, but I couldn't place it.'
'Well, she was only one of the most honoured women in American history, Blake. A nurse in the American Civil War before going on to found the American Red Cross if I remember rightly. So what is it? A ship?'
'A superyacht. Expensive-looking.'
'Well, no great mystery. Let me guess - you're sitting in the middle of Canary Wharf looking at it right now?'
'How did you know?'
'It says in the Evening Standard that she sailed in two days ago. There's a nice picture of her, too. She's a beauty. Belongs to the Texan billionaire, Larry Hopper, who's in town to talk at the Oxford Union. You know, Blake, you really could have looked this up yourself. You do have internet access on your phone.'
'But it's always a pleasure chatting with you, Marty. Tell me about Larry Hopper. I've never heard of him.'
There was a pause on the line as Marty d
elved into his databases and cross-referenced with the World Wide Web. 'Are you familiar with the Christian Morality Foundation?'
'Sounds vaguely familiar. Couldn't tell you much about it though.'
'It's a big Christian Right movement based in the States. And Hopper's the main man behind it. He's supposed to be something of a character, and popular too. The organisation's growing at rapid rate in middle America.'
'Is he legitimate?'
'What do you mean?'
'Any suggestion of criminality?'
'Not that I can see.'
So what was he doing inviting two thugs from the BFA on board his luxury yacht in the middle of the night, Blake mused. 'Anything else?'
'I can do a full report, but the headline is that he made his money in the Texan oilfields before turning to God.'
'Hang on, Marty. Something's happening. I've got to go.'
Across the still waters of the quay, Blake had been watching another figure moving purposefully towards the Clara Barton. He was wearing a long raincoat and carrying a briefcase. Although it was late, Blake thought it was feasible it could be a businessman making his way home after staying late to complete an important deal. That is until he appeared on the aft deck waving his arms excitedly at one of the dark-suited guards.
Blake trained his binoculars on the rear deck. The man was tall and slim, and gesticulating with something in his hand. It was clear from his manner that he was remonstrating with the guard who was trying to shoo him off the boat. Eventually, the man turned as if to walk away, but whatever he said as a parting shot seemed to work. The guard beckoned him back on board and ushered him down a flight of steps to a lower deck, and inside the vessel.
Chapter 33
The galley was starkly functional, with pale walls, polished chrome work surfaces, and industrial-sized extractor fans. Trent laid his briefcase flat on the nearest worktop and studied the room with his hands on his hips. He had been surprised at how easy it was to bluff his way on board with a hastily concocted cover story and fake identity card that he'd knocked out on his computer. The guards had tried to turn him away, but he'd been insistent that while Larry Hopper's yacht was moored in U.K. waters, the law entitled him to carry out an environmental health inspection. Finally, the threat of having the vessel impounded did the trick. Reluctantly, one of the guards escorted him along a narrow walkway and through a discreet door in the hull that led to the staff quarters and service areas.
Trent turned a slow circle, surveying the layout of the galley, and was disappointed to find the guard still in the doorway watching with suspicion and clearly irritated at the disturbance in the middle of the night. Trent sucked the air through his teeth and gave a disapproving shake of his head.
'I'll need to see your certification, including all your health and safety documents. Your IO163, your VT88, for example' said Trent making it up as he went along. 'And of course your FDT30-21, which should be on display here somewhere.' He made an exaggerated show of looking for the imaginary certificate.
The guard’s eyes narrowed then widened. Trent forced himself to hold the challenge of his glare until the guard eventually relented with a huff. 'Wait here,' he said.
Trent listened to his footsteps recede, crooked his head out of the doorway, and, satisfied that the guard was gone, grabbed his empty briefcase. It was only as he set off along a poorly lit passageway that he realised he had no idea what he was doing or where he was going. His efforts had been so concentrated on finding a way onto the vessel that he'd given scant regard to what he might achieve if he were successful. He'd come with the hope of finding some evidence to connect Hopper with Ken Longhurst, but with no idea of what that might be he was navigating blind.
His initial thought was to find Hopper's living quarters and with the galley clearly below the waterline, he guessed he needed to ascend a few decks.
He reached a junction between two intersecting corridors, and on a whim, chose to turn right, along a corridor lined with closed doors and illuminated by low-level emergency lighting. The passageway ended at the foot of a wide spiral staircase that appeared to run up through the centre of the yacht, which Trent presumed was used by the staff and crew to service the living quarters above.
Trent stopped at the bottom of the stairs and listened. With the silence punctuated only by the low drone of a generator and the regular slap of waves against the hull, he took his chances and began to ascend. The stairs ended in a spacious hallway, from which, another corridor, lined with thick, cream carpet, extended. There were six doors, three on each side. Trent pushed at each one with light fingers. The first two were locked, but the third was ajar. He eased it open and found an empty, bijou cabin with a double bed under a porthole overlooking the quayside. The bed was undisturbed, with a thick duvet smoothed neatly over a mattress. Trent scanned for luggage, but the room seemed to be unoccupied.
He started to back out of the cabin when he heard an unexpected sound. Muted voices, indistinct under the drone of the generators. Silently pulling the door closed, he listened with head cocked. The sound was coming from the far end of the corridor, and although the life-preserving part of his brain was screaming at him to walk away, his curiosity won over.
Trent tiptoed to the end of the passageway where another corridor crossed it at right angles, and pressed his ear against a door opposite. The voices were clearer. Several people were in conversation, talking in low tones. Trent considered that it might be members of the crew, but dismissed the idea as readily as it occurred to him. At this early hour of the morning, he expected everyone apart from essential staff, such as the security guards, to be asleep. His excitement and trepidation grew as he considered that it might be Larry Hopper himself behind the door.
He shifted his position, and with his legs apart, placed his ear lower down the door, hoping to make out the words being spoken. He laid his hands flat on the smooth oak, and used them to support his weight, balancing precariously, which meant that when the door suddenly swung inwards, Trent stumbled into the room, only just catching himself from falling flat on his face.
'What the hell?' shouted the man behind the desk, jumping to his feet.
Trent's eyes opened wide as he recognised Ken Longhurst. On either side, he noticed two shaven-headed thugs with sneering scowls closing in on him.
'Who are you?' snapped Longhurst.
'Environmental health?' offered Trent, as he regained his balance and tried to reverse out of the room.
'What?'
'I was inspecting the kitchens, but lost my way,' said Trent, his mind working double time on how to escape, regretting the mess his curiosity had landed him in.
'Don't I know you?' Longhurst's eyes narrowed.
'I don't think so,' stammered Trent, a hot flush washing from his feet to the top of his head. He wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow.
'You're a journalist. I've seen you before.'
'No,' said Trent, suddenly aware of a fourth figure in the room. A portly man was shuffling in his seat in the shadows.
'A journalist? What the hell is he doing on my boat?' Larry Hopper's voice boomed in an American drawl.
The Texan had aged considerably since his photo had appeared in the Beaumont Messenger, but he was unmistakable. As he leaned forward into the light, Trent recognised his hoary features. His grey hair was swept over his head, and his thick beard was almost white.
'Deal with it,' Hopper hissed, as he fell back into his chair.
Longhurst snapped his fingers at the two thugs looming at Trent's side. 'Get rid of him,' he ordered.
Chapter 34
A fist to his stomach and a chopping blow across his neck, brought Trent to his knees. He slumped to the floor with the taste of bile in his mouth, fighting a clouding darkness that threatened his vision. Hands grabbed him under the arms, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him from the room. He was aware only of passing along the corridor and descending into the bowels of the yacht.
The
y dumped him in a chair in a cold, dark room filled with shelves laden with provisions. Mike Clark slipped outside, while Ben Proctor crouched on his haunches in front of the journalist, his eyes bright with a menacing cruelty.
'Who are you? What do you want?' Proctor sneered in Trent's face, his breath musky.
Trent quickly decided that playing ignorant was his best hope of surviving the situation. His eyes fell to the ground, trying to avoid Proctor's intense scrutiny.
'We don't like people who stick their noses in where they're not wanted.' Proctor grabbed Trent's face and squeezed his jaw in a powerful grip. 'What were you looking for?'
With Proctor's hand clasped around his mouth, Trent couldn't answer even if he'd wanted to. He looked beseechingly at his captor, with an expression he hoped conveyed his innocence.
'Tie him up. Let's see if we can loosen his tongue,' said Proctor, as Clark returned to the room.
Clark grabbed Trent's arms and bound his hands roughly behind his back, pulling the rope so tight that it chaffed the skin around Trent's wrists. Trent tried to pull his arms free, but found the knots were solid and he was completely at the mercy of the two skinheads. Proctor regarded him as a child might consider an ant on a stone. It was almost as if he was contemplating whether to crush him or toy with him. Either way, Trent knew he was in deep trouble.
'What are doing on this boat?'
Trent shook his head and let his chin slump onto his chest. Proctor took a step forward, and drove the heel of his boot down hard on the top of Trent's foot. A lightning bolt seared up his leg and through his body. Trent howled in agony.
'I asked you a question,' Proctor screamed in his face. 'Who are you, and what are you doing on this boat?'
'Nothing,' Trent muttered, trying to fight the pain that consumed every sense.
The heel of Proctor's boot struck again, and Trent was sure he heard the crack of bone in his big toe. His vision blackened and his head swam.
'Let's not play games.' Proctor paced around the chair in a casual circle. 'What's your name?'
'Trent Garside,' he gasped, his short-lived spirit of resistance deserting him.