CHRISTOPHER LOWERY
urbanepublications.com
First published in Great Britain in 2014
by Urbane Publications Ltd
20 St Nicholas Gardens, Rochester
Kent ME2 3NT
Copyright © Christopher Lowery, 2014
The moral right of Christopher Lowery to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organisations and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Apart from historical fact, any resemblance to actual events, organisations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN 978-1-909273-15-3
mobi ISBN 978-1-909273-16-0
epub ISBN 978-1-909273-17-7
Cover design and typeset at Chandler Book Design, King’s Lynn, Norfolk
Front cover images sourced through royalty free photo libraries: © Dunca Daniel | © Billyfoto | © Zim235 | Dreamstime.com
Printed in Great Britain by
CPI Antony Rowe,
Chippenham, Wiltshire
urbanepublications.com
Dedicated to the two ladies in my life,
Marjorie and Kerry-Jane
My thanks for their advice
and assistance go to:
UK: Nick Street, Mike Jeffries, Sig Ramseyer,
Francoise Higson
Switzerland: Kerry-Jane Lowery, Jeremy Lowry,
Martin Panchaud, Carlos Lopes da Silva
Spain: Mo Nay
US: Dan MacDuffie
“For the love of money is the root of all evil”
Timothy 6:1 King James Bible
Contents
Prologue
Book One: Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Book Two: Part One
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Book One: Part Two
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Book Two: Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Five
Book One: Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirth-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirth-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirth-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Book Two: Part Three
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Book One: Part Four
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Book Two: Part Four
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Book One: Part Five
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Book Two: Part Five
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Book Two: Part Six
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
About the Author
PROLOGUE
January, 1960
Peniche, near Estoril, Portugal
Almost at the limit of their eastern reach, the massive waves of the North Atlantic Ocean pounded against the rocks of Peniche peninsular. Intermittent flashes of light illuminated the darkness of the walled fortress as they had done during every storm since it was built in the sixteenth century by Manuel 1, fourteenth king of Portugal and Algarve. Now, almost five hundred years later, the fortress was called Peniche Prison. Under the regime of the Prime Minister-Dictator, António de Oliveira Salazar, it was used to house political opponents of the New State and on this freezing January night, despite the raging storm which battered the peninsular, the bursts of illumination that broke the darkness were not from flashes of lightning, but gunfire.
Followed by the staccato chatter of submachine guns, a group of fifteen prisoners were racing towards the protection of a buttress at the south east corner of the star shaped battlements, where the rocks rose to meet the fortress wall ten metres above a small cove. The men were almost all unshaven, many with full beards and unkempt hair. Their ragged prison uniforms were soaked through by the freezing rain lashing down in torrents from the storm clouds which darkened the sky. Some struggled to keep up the pace and were helped along by the stronger members of the group.
For the moment, the advantage was with the four guards who were less than fifty metres behind them in the prison yard. The prisoners were crossing the pool of light created by one remaining searchlight and were easy prey, even for the poor marksmanship of the warders and the limited range of the Portuguese produced FBP m/948 submachine guns, designed before World War II. One of the prisoners turned and took steady aim, shooting out the searchlight, but was then catapulted backwards by a burst of shots to the chest. The remaining men spread out, to reduce the chances of being hit by a random shot as they ran through the dark.
The leader of the group, a
tall, heavily built man, clean shaven and in the uniform of a prison guard, reached the buttress and threw himself behind the remnants of a low, crumbling wall. He pushed the pistol into his belt and checked his watch. They were five minutes behind schedule. He estimated that the remaining guards would break out of the cell he’d locked them into at any moment. He shouted orders over the noise of the shooting. The other men sought shelter behind tumbled rocks and masonry. Now, for at least a few minutes, the advantage was with the prisoners, as five of them aimed a wave of pistol and submachine gun fire at the guards who found themselves silhouetted in the middle of the desolate prison yard.
Three of the warders ran back to reach the shelter of the prison buildings in the centre of the compound. One of them made a charge, emptying his weapon madly as he ran forward. He was cut down within a few steps, falling in front of the other dead and wounded. Extending the trail of bodies of both guards and prisoners that led from the main fortress building on the western wall. The ‘death house’, as it was known, that contained the interrogation rooms, the solitary confinement cells and the torture cellars.
The remaining prisoners spread out to surround two men, creating a human shield. The smaller of the two was a wiry figure with a shock of white hair and thick, black eyebrows. The other, a stocky man with long hair tied in a ponytail, pulled him to the ground and covered him with his own body, as if he was a helpless child. “Álvaro, fique em baixo! Álvaro, stay down! Wait for Alberto’s signal.” he told him.
Alberto, the leader, shouted out again. “Give me covering fire.” Adding their firepower to the gun squad, the bodyguards discharged their Russian supplied APS Stechkin machine pistols and AK-47 Kalashnikov assault rifles indiscriminately at the guards’ positions. Bullets ricocheted off the ground and the walls, screaming past them as the warders aimed from the protection of the buildings at the flashes of fire from the muzzles of their guns. A rifle shot came from the nearest watch tower and one of the group cried out and fell to the ground. The others squeezed closer to protect the two men in the middle.
Under the cover of the group’s barrage, Alberto scrambled through the rocky debris to the buttress wall and pulled himself up to the top of the weathered stone parapet. He reached down between the metal spikes towards the sea, his hands feeling about, searching for something. After a few moments he grunted, “Bom, está aqui. It’s here.” He pulled up a thin cord until a rope ladder came snaking up to the parapet. When it was clear he fastened it across the metal spikes and threw it down again over the wall to the rocks. He turned and shouted to the two men on the ground, “Álvaro, Mano. Vamos! Álvaro, Mano. Let’s go!”
They scrambled to their feet, and ran towards the wall. Mano climbed over the spikes on the top and turned, kneeling on the parapet to pull Álvaro up and help him over the top. He caught his foot in one of the rungs and scrambled down the ladder to the bottom of the rocky face. Mano and the others followed in turn, until there was only Alberto and the gun squad left behind.
He shouted at them, “Agora! Fora. Let’s get out. Now!”
They moved back, firing as they went. Two prisoners fell immediately as the guards started to advance again, attempting to cut off their escape. A light came on at the fortress building and they could see six more guards running out towards the battle. Two of them set up a Madsen light machine gun in the middle of the yard and a salvo of US manufactured 7.62x51mm NATO type cartridges exploded against the walls and rocky debris around the prisoners. Alberto pushed the remaining three men over the top then he climbed up. He undid the ladder, threw it down and prepared to jump to the rocky shelf at the foot of the wall. A stray round from the Madsen caught him in the leg and he fell onto the rocks. The others manhandled him down the cliff to a waiting fishing boat, moored in the partially protected inlet beneath the fortress walls.
The men cast off the ropes and the skipper throttled the diesel engine to the full. Those with ammunition remaining used it to give covering fire, aiming up at the fortress wall where the guards were now shooting down into the darkness. When the boat cleared the rocky cliff, the skipper fired up the specially fitted twin outboard motors and the craft leapt forward, smashing through the battering waves out to the open sea. Leaving the huge outline of the fortress and the sound of gunfire behind in the pitch black night.
The eleven survivors of the group held desperately onto anything they could find to keep themselves from being thrown overboard, as the boat breached the enormous waves and the adrenalin surge drained away from them in the freezing cold spray from the sea.
Alberto ripped a long strip from his shirt and tied it around his calf to staunch the bleeding from the gunshot wound. It felt as though the bone was damaged and the bullet was still lodged in the flesh. After binding his leg, he limped into the cabin and emerged with a flashlight. He stood on the deck rail and, holding onto the cabin roof, pointed the lamp out to sea, in front of the boat. He signalled with it, switching it on and off. The beam cut through the black void ahead.
Álvaro was in the cockpit of the cabin, looking at a chart with the skipper. He came to the door. “Wait, Alberto,” he said. “Try again in a minute.”
He sat on the deck with his back to the door, holding the binding tight around his leg to try to halt the bleeding.
They were now a kilometre away from the shore and the boat was bouncing about on the sea like a toy, climbing on top of the enormous waves, halting for a sickening moment then dropping almost vertically into the trough below, only to repeat the movement every few seconds. The men were terrified, even more than during the gunfight. Hardly any of them could swim. Even if they could, they wouldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes in the savage, freezing ocean. Several of them were puking over the side, retching their guts out while they tried frantically to hang on for their lives.
“Mano, come over here.” Álvaro yelled from the shelter of the cabin door.
The ponytailed man staggered across and they stood inside with him. He and Alberto bent low, straining to hear Alvaro’s voice against the screaming wind and crashing waves.
“When we get there I’m confirming you, Manolo, as my deputy and you, Alberto, as my bodyguard. You’ll be well rewarded for tonight’s work and for everything you’ve done to get us out. Thank you, comrades.”
The two men shook hands with him and he kissed them both on each cheek.
After a few minutes Alberto went out and tried signalling again.
“Lá está! There it is!” The men in the boat cheered with relief. A yellow, blinking light could be discerned, shining faintly in the darkness ahead. The skipper switched on his searchlight and slowed the engines down, moving towards the source of the yellow signal. When the slowing boat started to wallow in the sideways swell the effect was more sickening than crashing through the waves. More of the men started vomiting and the boat stank with the mess floating in the ankle deep water on the deck.
As they drew closer, they could make out a darker shape on the surface of the sea. A grey cylindrical object appeared ahead of them, about eighty metres long. It was the submarine they had been promised. A coastal patrol, Whisky Class vessel, known as Project 613 in the Soviet Union. The men were still cheering. After years of privation and abuse, their dreams of freedom were finally within their grasp.
“Está perfeito. Muito bem Victor. Obrigado, Well done. Thanks, Victor.” Álvaro clapped the skipper on the shoulder.
In the beam of the searchlight, they saw that the conning tower was open and a couple of sailors were hanging on, roped to the ladders on the tower. A voice boomed over the Tannoy system and said in English, “Come alongside, Captain. We’ll throw ropes down to you. Take great care.”
The skipper carefully brought the boat to the leeward side of the submarine, seeking protection from the wind and the raging sea. He manoeuvred the craft close enough for ropes to be thrown to the bows and the stern. The men caught and tied them to the deck rail and the sailors pulled the boat to a distance of about
fifteen metres. The skipper played with the throttles and rudder to keep in position as best he could without crashing into the sub.
The Russian sailors ran another rope around a stanchion and threw both ends across to Alberto. A two man inflatable dinghy was fastened to the deck rail and the men took it down and held it in place on the decking. He threaded and knotted the rope through the two eyeholes at the front and rear of the dinghy, attaching both rope ends to the deck rail. They lowered the light craft over the side nearest the sub. The men kept it in place with the tie rope as it bounced about on the waves.
“You first, Álvaro,” he shouted. “We’ll go one at a time to keep the load light. It’ll be safer and quicker.”
Tying another rope around Álvaro’s waist, he made it into a harness over his shoulders then threw the weighted end across to the sailors. He and Mano helped the smaller man over the deck rail and into the dinghy, where he lay face down and spread-eagled, hands and feet through the straps attached to the sides. Alberto hauled on the tie rope and it ran around the stanchion like a pulley, dragging the dinghy across the surface until it slid onto the side of the sub. The sailors pulled on Álvaro’s rope, dragging him up the slippery metal. He helped them, drawing himself up hand over hand, until he was standing on the deck of the submarine. He threw off his rope and looked back at the others, “Come on,” he yelled, above the noise of the storm. “If I can make it, so can you.” Then he disappeared down the inside of the conning tower.
Alberto quickly hauled the dinghy and the rope back to the boat, and one by one, he and Mano helped the others to tie the rope around themselves, then hauled them across onto the submarine. Several of them slipped down into the freezing water, but the sailors pulled them up the sheer steel skin onto the deck until only the two of them remained.
“Here, Mano.” Alberto tied the rope around the other’s waist and threw the end across to the sub. Mano grabbed hold of the cabin roof and stepped up onto the rail. As he prepared to clamber into the dinghy, the fishing boat wallowed sideways away from the sub and his feet slipped from the slick, wet rail. With a cry he fell straight down between the boat and the sub, disappearing beneath the waves. The skipper immediately heaved the wheel around to try to increase the gap between the two vessels.
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