The Gilgamesh Conspiracy

by Jeffrey Fleming

  ‘What will have to wait until Monday?’ came a stern demand. Samms mouthed a silent curse towards his computer and then turned round to face Jasper White.

  ‘A possible lead, Colonel.’ He quickly explained the situation.

  ‘So Monday afternoon eh?’ White mused quietly.

  ‘Yes sir,’ Samms replied. Then he suddenly realised that White was on the verge of an explosion. ‘But maybe if I get straight down there I can sort of persuade them to get it done immediately.’

  ‘That’s the smartest thing I’ve heard you say in a while Samms. Get your ass down to Atlanta and check it out. After that the three of us are going out to Bermuda and you and Parker are going to take a boat out to that yacht. I want Tate brought safely back to Bermuda, not disappearing again.’

  Samms drove home, quickly packed an overnight case and then picked up a cab and drove to the airport and took the first flight to Atlanta. He hired a car and drove to the forensics laboratory. After some cajoling and persuasion he had the Coke can retrieved and then with the promise of a two hundred dollar inducement the weekend duty supervisor found a lab technician willing to come out and share the proceeds.

  ‘Yeah we got prints,’ remarked the lab technician laconically.

  ‘And are they any good?’ demanded Samms.

  ‘If you’ll just quit breathing down my neck I’ll have them on the screen just as soon as I can,’ countered the technician, who was beginning to regret volunteering to come out and assist this pushy guy. Samms literally backed away and stared at the ceiling.

  Fifteen minutes later there were slightly smeared partial prints of three fingers and a thumb of a man’s right hand displayed on his screen. ‘It’s not very good,’ remarked the technician staring at Samms as if he was a minor artist who had submitted a work of dubious quality to the National Gallery.

  ‘Yeah ok, but do we have a match?’ Samms asked. The technician hit a button on his keyboard and a face appeared along with biographical details.

  ‘Daniel Edward Hall, former US Marines and now works for some security outfit,’ the technician declared.

  By a huge effort in self-control Samms managed to avoid giving a whoop of triumph. ‘Ok give me back the can and scrub the file from the computer,’ he told the technician.

  ‘Why?’

  Samms grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and pulled him close enough to feel his nervous panting. ‘Cos if you ever breathe a word about it to anyone I’ll come and find you and I’ll rip your fucking head off. Here’s your hundred dollars.’

  Jasper White was mulling over the problem of how to use the full resources of the United States law enforcement in the mere search for a stolen Winnebago without drawing attention to it. Eventually he called up a friend in the FBI who owed him a favour and persuaded him to say that the Winnebago was being used by a man suspected of a bank robbery who had evaded capture but killed an FBI agent in the process. The apprehension of a criminal who had murdered one of their own would ensure their diligence.

  Two days later his friend called back and told him that the vehicle had been found just to the west of the Allegheny Mountains in West Virginia. It was parked in a small camping site privately owned by a dodgy character named Brandon. He had sent out strict instructions to the local police and to the FBI that on no account was the vehicle or its occupant to be approached unless it showed signs of moving off, in which case they were expected to follow it discreetly, but in view of the reason the occupant was being hunted, he encouraged White to get there as soon as possible.

  Two hours before dawn Joe Brandon was woken up by a knocking on his back door. He rolled his ungainly body towards the edge of the bed then heaved himself upright. He was willing to bet that one of those goddam elderly campers had some kind of medical emergency and wanted his help, not that he could offer any except phoning for a doctor, and what the hell, they all had cell phones and internet connections and all that stuff didn’t they? He switched on the bedside lamp and looked around for the clothes he had worn yesterday. They weren’t on the chair or on the floor; then he realised he was still wearing them. He ran his hand back through his hair and then across the three day stubble on his chin and staggered off towards the front door which received another knock just before he reached it.

  ‘Ok, ok I’m here, hold on.’ He undid the latches whilst preparing a small speech about how he wasn’t liable for providing any services to the people on his land except a fresh water supply. He was ready to deliver it as he opened the door but the door was shoved inwards and a man grabbed him spun him round and into an uncomfortable arm lock and shoved a gun into his cheek. ‘Are you Joe Brandon?’ the intruder demanded.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ Brandon replied, hoping his admission would lead to reasonable treatment rather than having his head blown off.

  ‘Good.’ His arms were released and he heard the man step away.

  ‘My name’s Dawson, I’m with the FBI. Sorry I had to treat you like that, but we’ve been tracking a guy who’s been running this marijuana farm over in Atlanta. He’s in that Winnebago at the end of your park.’

  ‘What, the one with the Georgia plates on it?’ Brandon asked.

  ‘Yeah that’s right. They bought it with some stolen cheques. We’re gonna take possession of it tomorrow, and get him for the drugs. I just thought I’d give you some warning that we’ll be moving in at dawn.’

  ‘Well, ok Mr Dawson, I appreciate the warning. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Well we appreciate the offer, but just keep your head down. We’ll start moving into position in a couple of hours.’ He held out his hand and Brandon shook it. ‘I’ll take my leave now sir.’

  Brandon watched him walk away towards the main road and a few minutes later he heard the distinctive sound of a Harley Davidson motorcycle rumbling away into the distance. He waited another minute and then walked towards the Winnebago with the Georgia plates and knocked on the door and then stepped back. The outside flood light came on and then a torch was shone in his eyes as the door opened a crack.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Er look, well it’s none of my business really, but there was this FBI guy snooping around…said they were coming for you in the morning.’ The man who had booked in with him a few days ago jumped down from the door way and gazed around. His gun and the expression on his face made Brandon real uneasy but the man said ‘I’m much obliged Mr Brandon. Now tell me everything and quickly.’

  Brandon did as he was told, and ten minutes later he watched the Winnebago driving along the track away from his home and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was really taking a chance helping them out, but planting marijuana on his dilapidated farm and passing dud checks were two of the crimes and misdemeanours of which he himself had been convicted. He concealed the thin wad of hundred dollar bills the fugitive had given him as a reward, and then he quickly showered and shaved and made himself as presentable as possible. Next he packed an overnight bag and set off for his sister’s place in Beckley. He really did not want to be around when the Feds found their prisoner had checked out.

  The past few days were some of the happiest Steven had spent sailing his yacht. The weather was excellent, alternating periods of bright sun and high cloud and the trade wind blew steadily so they rarely had to adjust the sails or make any course corrections. For the first time since his wife had died he did not feel lonely. He was worried by the probability that Gerry would soon resume her mysterious former existence and he suspected that she would disappear from his life as mysteriously as she had entered it, but for the moment he enjoyed her company. Also he was honest enough to admit to himself that making love or having sex, he was not quite sure which it was, made up an important part of this sense of well-being.

  ‘Bermuda in two days,’ he said, looking forward to spending time with her on the islands, and wondering whether it was a good opportunity to suggest that they meet up again when she had completed whatever unfinished business she refused to
discuss with him. She smiled back. ‘I’m going to tidy up the cabin. I’ll bring you some coffee in a few minutes.’

  Down below Gerry switched on the computer. She had not been able to access her department’s intranet site nor any other where she might get any useful information. She wondered if she should try to fly to the USA and see if she could make contact with Dan Hall, or if she should just go back home and report to Cornwall. She had no idea if there was a termination order out on her, imposed by her own service or by the Americans. She did not know whom she could trust, if anyone.

  She thought about merely disappearing from view. She had hidden away two UK passports in different names and she was almost sure that one of them was not known to her employers. She also had a valid UAE passport that was an MI6 issue and an Australian one that she had officially handed back but in reality she had returned a partially burnt forged copy and retained the original. Unfortunately none of these were of any immediate use to her because they were all stashed in England.

  What she really needed to do was to find out the truth about Gilgamesh because she had decided that the knowledge would protect her now and in the future, and her best chance lay in the USA. There she would find Dan Hall and suggest that together they should go to Baghdad and track down Rashid Hamsin. She had a vague idea that she might call Richard Cornwall, on the basis that he might tell her the truth even if that was merely a warning that a team had been despatched to kill her.

  She contemplated asking Steven if she could sail on to the States with him, but she readily admitted to herself that she was scared and that remaining on board his yacht would merely be procrastination. She began to search airline schedules from Bermuda back to Florida and home to London, but then remembered that she was supposed to be making coffee and hastily set about it.

  After taking his noon sun sighting, Steven pointed to the horizon. Gerry gazed out and saw a thin green tinge appearing as the yacht crested a wave, and then two hours later the islands of Bermuda stretched across the horizon. Steven showed her the chart. ‘We have to enter St George’s harbour through Town Cut channel, just north of Higgs Island and Horseshoe. Then we have to clear customs and immigration at Ordnance Island here. It’s going to be a bit awkward as you don’t have a passport or anything.’

  ‘Could you wait until dark and then, well, drop me off somewhere? Maybe I could swim ashore,’ she suggested.

  ‘Well we could wait until dusk, and then you could slip over the side. Are you happy to swim ashore?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘I’ve got a small inflatable dinghy. If the tide’s right, you could paddle ashore. There’s this little place Building Bay outside the harbour.’

  ‘That seems ok.’

  ‘I’m not so sure; Bermuda’s known for rocks and reefs and this stretch here might be really dangerous. It might be better if you hid on board, and then when I’ve cleared customs I can motor round to Hamilton over here.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s go for that.’

  ‘Ok, well we’re within VHF range now so I’ll call them up.’

  Steven spoke to the Harbour control and reported his yacht’s name, position and likely arrival time in the harbour and declared that he was the only person on board.

  ‘Well, they seem happy enough,’ Gerry said. Then she was startled by a rapid high pitched beeping that she had never heard before. ‘What on earth was that?’

  ‘That’s the radar alert,’ Steven replied, ‘there’s a vessel approaching. They both gazed out over the forepeak and saw an ocean going motor yacht heading towards them. ‘The toys of the mega-rich,’ said Steven.

  ‘It looks like it’s heading towards us,’ said Gerry.

  ‘Well steam gives way to sail, but anyway I think we’ll miss the harbour entrance on this course, so ready about?’

  ‘Aye skipper.’

  With Gerry’s assistance he tacked on to a more northerly heading. They were sipping coffee having completed the manoeuvre when he realised that the larger vessel was once more heading towards them.

  ‘It looks like they’re going to intercept us,’ Steven remarked. ‘I wonder what they want.’ He turned to Gerry. ‘It’s not someone looking for you is it? They can’t possibly know you’re on board, can they?’

  ‘I can’t take that chance,’ she replied. ‘Is there anywhere I could hide?’ She searched around frantically.

  ‘Over the side!’ he said. ‘You’ll have to hold on to the safety line. We’re going quite slowly.’

  ‘But they could still see me.’ She crouched down low. ‘If they’ve got binoculars they might have seen me already.’

  She was right, but there was no other place to go. ‘Hold on I’ll get a snorkel.’

  Steven hurried below and searched frantically in the store cabin and managed to turn up a diving mask with a snorkel attached. He hurried back to the cockpit. Gerry was nowhere to be seen, but he saw her clothes discarded on the seat. He looked over the stern and there she was clinging on to the safety line. He threw the snorkel and it splashed into the sea beside her. She let go of the line and pulled the mask over her face, dragged the straps tight and grabbed the line again. She clenched the tube in her mouth and as the yacht moved along she let the line run through her hands until she was at the far end, and he could just see her head bobbing about in the waves. The blast of a warning siren startled him and then he could hear the chug of the other boat’s diesel motor. He luffed up, spilled the wind out of the mainsail and ran down the jib and watched it pass in front, make a wide turn to parallel his course and then the helmsman skilfully edged it closer. Presumably there was a name and home port painted on its stern but Steven could not see it. There were no other identification marks that he could see. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he called out as indignantly as possible.

  Two men leaned over the side of the boat. One raised a loud hailer. ‘This is Bermuda Coastguard. We would like to come aboard.’

  The man shouting was red haired and grinned down at him showing a prominent gold tooth. He spoke with a southern American accent that seemed incongruous in a Bermudan Customs official, and surely a ship belonging to the Coastguard would have its ownership prominently painted on the hull. ‘I’ll be in harbour this evening,’ he shouted. ‘Can’t it wait until then?’

  ‘We’ve had a report that you have a known criminal on board. Take in your sails; we’re coming alongside.’ Two other men appeared holding machine guns, which at the moment they rested casually on the coaming.

  ‘Ok, hold off a minute,’ Steven shouted. He lowered the main sail and then he threw the fenders down beside the hull and signalled that he was ready. He looked around the cockpit. Shit, there was her bra lying on the seat! He picked it up and shoved it in his pocket. His yacht juddered as the boat came alongside and the red haired man jumped down on to the deck, followed by another.

  ‘Ok where is she?’ this second one demanded in an educated English accent.

  ‘Where’s who?’ Steven asked in return trying to adopt an expression of genuine puzzlement.

  ‘Vince, why don’t you take a look below?’ red hair suggested. The Englishman opened the cabin door and went into the main saloon.

  ‘Hey, wait a minute!’ Steven called out.

  ‘Listen, we know she’s been on board. She accessed the internet and we traced her to your yacht.’

  ‘Traced who?’ demanded Steven. The American hit him hard under the ribs and he fell back on to the seat clutching at his mid-section and gasping for breath.

  ‘Quit screwing around. Where is she?’

  ‘Ok,’ said Steven. I did pick someone up, but two days ago a boat like yours only smaller called the Kingfisher, registered in Miami, intercepted me. They took her off. I don’t know where they went. ‘

  ‘So why did you deny that she’d been on board, you jerk?’

  Steven tried to appear as ingratiating as possible. ‘They warned me not to say anything. They said they‘d be looking out for me in Florida. That’s why I’m going into Bermuda. I t
hought I’d turn round and head home after that. I thought they were a drug smuggling gang; they scared the shit out of me actually.’

  The man named Vince reappeared. ‘She’s not down below, but here’s a DNA sample.’ He held up a brush festooned with long dark hair.

  ‘Ok,’ said the first man, ‘you’re gonna tell us exactly what happened, how you picked her up, what she said; everything.’

  ‘You’re not the Coastguard, are you?’ said Steven.

  He related a quick story of picking up a woman from a life raft who gave her name as Emily. Subsequently she was picked up by another vessel. The two Americans told him to go below. He heard them making a call, presumably on a satellite phone, but he could not make out the words.

  Then the man in charge came and spoke to him. ‘Ok you can go on to Bermuda now. We’ve found out that there are two boats called Kingfisher registered in Miami. We’re going to check a few things out, and if anything comes up we’ll be ready to meet you on shore, and oh boy, if we find you’ve lied to us it will be the worse for you.’

  Steven watched the launch head off back to harbour. He read the name Seahorse 2, Fort Lauderdale, painted on the stern. He wanted to start the motor immediately and retrieve Gerry, however he decided that might look suspicious, so he slowly hoisted the main sail, but he did not sheet it home. When he was sure they were out of sight he began to reel in the safety line, and was relieved to find that it was still weighted. After a minute he saw her head, and waved and to his relief she gave a brief wave back.

  A couple more minutes and she climbed back on board, exhausted, coughing and retching with a rope burn from where she had wound it around her. She winced when Steven hugged her, but she still clung on to him.

  ‘I’m sorry; they knew you’d been on board. They found out about you because of something you used the computer for.’