Black Reef

by Nick Elliott

  I braked sharply but it was too late. I was forced off the road, smashed through the breezeblocks and down the bank. The last thing I remember was seeing the Audi accelerating away as I plunged over the edge.

  How long I lay in the car before regaining consciousness I’m not sure. Not long. I found myself suspended upside down by the seatbelt but my head was jammed against the roof, twisting it to one side. My neck hurt like hell and I remember thinking that might not be a bad sign. The engine had stopped running and I could hear the sound of the river. I could smell petrol too. Then I heard voices.

  In the end someone managed to release my seatbelt and two men dragged me out through the open window. The doors were too buckled to open.

  They were farm labourers by their appearance. They spoke rapidly to each other in the way men who work together do. I didn’t understand a word of what they were saying. After I’d been laid beside the river I began to take stock of my condition. I moved my legs first, then my arms, which was a mistake. From the pain that shot through my left shoulder I was sure it was broken. And my ribs on that side hurt when I breathed. Everything else seemed to be working, but I didn’t risk sitting up. The men stayed with me. They continued to talk in rapid Italian. It was unclear whether they were trying to offer me reassurance or just discussing the extraordinary vagaries of life, but after a while I heard the sound of an ambulance’s siren.

  I turned my head slowly to look at the car, ignoring the shooting pain in my neck. It was lying on its roof. Steam was blowing out from the radiator. I wondered how many times it had rolled before coming to rest on the stony river bank. The Quadrifoglio badge on the front wing was scratched and smeared in mud. Alfa Romeo had originally introduced the four-leaf clover as a symbol of good luck for their racers back in the 1920s. Mine hadn’t lasted long. God only knew what damage had been done. It was probably a write-off. I looked away.

  Chapter 8

  As it turned out I did get lucky, even if the car hadn’t. The X-ray at the local hospital revealed a dislocated shoulder, which the young doctor cheerfully popped back into its socket applying what he informed me was the Kocher Method: a series of adduction and abduction manoeuvres. I cried out with the sudden intense pain but felt immediate relief after it had been done. In addition I had pulled a muscle in my neck and cracked three ribs. He gave me painkillers and said I should try to breathe normally and avoid coughing.

  ‘You were lucky not to have broken your neck,’ he said as he saw me rubbing it. ‘I would like you to rest here overnight so we may keep an eye on you.’

  I was considering the pain in my neck and the manipulations he’d carried out to my shoulder when a question came into my mind. ‘Tell me, Doctor, when a man is hanged, does he suffocate to death or is it a broken neck that kills him?’

  He looked at me curiously. ‘You’re not thinking of trying it I hope.’

  ‘No, but someone I knew of did hang himself recently. I wondered whether he’d suffered or whether it was very sudden.’

  ‘This is an interesting subject but you should be resting, not worrying about such things.’

  ‘Humour me.’

  ‘What? Well, we do see such cases in Italy of course, as anywhere, and when I was studying it was something we did examine. So, without getting too technical,’ he said, warming to the subject, ‘the best way, if you can call it that, is for the neck to be broken. But it is not so easy. It all depends on two factors you see: the drop and the position of the noose around the neck. If the drop is not long enough then the person will strangle himself and choke to death. Not ideal. But if the drop is too long, then his head may well come off, which is messy of course and perhaps not how he would wish to be found. Also the weight of the person must be taken into account. It is a matter of velocity you see.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ I said still rubbing my neck. ‘Do you think a drop of half a metre would be sufficient to break his neck?’

  ‘No. I would not have thought so, unless he was very heavy indeed.’

  ‘And the second factor?’

  ‘Again, the correct way, if you like to put it this way, is to place the noose under the ear. Here,’ he said pointing to the spot. ‘Snap go two critical vertebrae. Ideal. But you would need to know about these things to master the technique. The hangmen of old certainly did.’

  ‘Tell me one more thing. If he had got the drop wrong and choked to death, would this be evident from … from his features?’

  ‘His face would most likely show it, yes. As I have said, a low hanging is more likely to lead to asphyxia which would quite probably cause facial congestion or distortion and a protruding tongue which might go dark, a blue or purple colour.’

  ‘What if the knot had been at the back of his head?’

  ‘You ask many questions,’ he laughed. ‘But putting it at the back of the neck would almost certainly cause him to strangle.’

  ‘Thanks, Doc. That’s been a helpful lesson.’

  ‘You will be alright, my friend. Get some rest now and we will discharge you in the morning.’

  I sat in the little ward they gave me pondering over what he had told me. The drop between Babic’s feet and the floor had certainly been no more than half a metre, neither was he a heavy man by any measure, yet his face had shown no sign of either congestion or distortion, and his tongue had not been protruding. Also, his head had hung forward and not to one side. The knot had definitely been positioned at the back of his head yet the doctor had said that would not break his neck but more likely lead to asphyxiation by strangulation. And I had the photos as evidence to support much of this. My impressions from meeting Sonia Babic and the overall questions as to the legality of the voyage, the ship’s cargo and destination plus the delay in the production of a post-mortem report from Lisbon, were leading me to believe the captain had not taken his own life. Someone else had, and they’d broken his neck before stringing him up.

  ***

  The ambulance crew had thoughtfully retrieved my jacket, overnight bag and phone from the car and the next morning I called my insurance broker in Athens, who made arrangements for the nearest garage to take the car away. As I put the phone back in my pocket it came to me: it was the phone – that was how they’d known where to find me on the road. I’d been obsessively replacing it with cheap burner phones on advice from the IMTF to avoid the risk of being tracked or listened in on, but that hadn’t helped me this time. Why not? They would have used a Stingray, which in effect is a portable cell phone tower that sends out signals to get a phone, mine in this case, to connect to it. Phones are programmed to connect with whichever nearby tower offers the best signal. When the phone and the Stingray connect, and the signal strength is determined from enough locations, the Stingray centralises the phone and is able to find it. The signals the Stingray send are far stronger than those coming from surrounding towers. So all phones in the vicinity connect to the Stingray without the owner’s knowledge, enabling a particular phone to be tracked. I couldn’t be sure but it must have been a Stingray or some similar device. And that meant they were still watching me.

  There was a payphone in the hospital reception hall. I phoned Gudrun’s number and she picked up straightaway. I asked her what news she had from her friend at Credit Sud.

  ‘I have the information you want, Mr McKinnon,’ she said in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘The company, WADF – West Africa Development Factoring, that is – is a client of Credit Sud. It seems to be, how do you say, an umbrella, a holding company for several offshore companies which are used to invest the sovereign wealth of Kazunda, that country in West Africa you know, with the oil?

  ‘That’s interesting, Gudrun. Did you find out who runs WADF?’

  ‘Well, there are several directors who are non-executive and resident in Kazunda, but the executive director in Zurich is called Jawad Mendesa. This is all she could tell me. Does it help?’

  ‘That’s a big help, Gudrun. Thanks.’

  ‘You are most welcome. And yo
u know where to find me now if you need anything else.’

  Kazunda: I knew little about the place except it had once been a Portuguese colony and was now rich in oil. The reserves were all offshore. The Americans were operating the oilfield and buying most of the production as crude for themselves, making Kazunda one of the richest states in Africa. Which was why they’d set up a sovereign wealth fund. I wondered how much of the wealth ended up benefiting the citizens of Kazunda.

  Next I tried to get hold of Claire in Lisbon, this time using a burner to call her on the latest number she’d been assigned. When I got no response I tried Grant, with the same result. This kind of situation was just one reason why I preferred operating independently. Teaming up with others inevitably slowed things down and now I found myself working with, and supposedly reporting to, two case handlers.

  I was about to switch off my phone and bin it when Grant called back.

  ‘What gives with you? Still enjoying your grand tour of Europe in that old wreck of yours?’

  I told him about the hit squad and how I thought they’d found me. And of what I’d learned from Gudrun Sandmeier.

  ‘Grant, can you get a message to Claire? Tell her what’s happened and tell her to take precautions.’

  ‘Sure. She’s overdue in her reporting schedule but that’s not unusual for her.’

  ‘Listen, Grant. I don’t know what the reporting protocols are nowadays but there must be someone down there, either Six or your people, who can find her.’ I’d learned that Grant wasn’t disposed to sharing this kind of information unless pressed.

  ‘Relax will you. I’ll get hold of her, don’t worry.’

  ‘I am worried. I was nearly killed. And I’m not sure Claire is alert to the Stingray threat.’

  ‘Course she is. She’s supposed to be anyway.’

  ‘Yes, so was I.’

  ‘Okay, leave it with me, Gus. But who the hell did this?’

  ‘I don’t know – yet.’

  What’s your plan now?’

  ‘I was going to Zurich.’

  ‘To see these West Africa Development people? Is that wise?’

  ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve seen them.’

  There was a pause on the line then Grant said: ‘Why don’t you just head for Lisbon now, Gus? I’d feel happier if you were down there after what just happened to you.’

  For once I agreed with him. Before leaving the hospital I asked the reception nurse to call a taxi to take me back to Berbenno. I switched off the phone, took out the SIM card and dumped both separately. I made a mental note to find out more about Stingray – and how to deflect it.

  Once in the cab I told the driver to head in the opposite direction, to Bergamo instead. ‘I’m going to lie down,’ I said. ‘I’m not feeling well,’ which seemed a reasonable remark coming from someone who had just left hospital. Whether the black Audi was still lurking about I couldn’t tell but I’d done what I could to evade the bastards.

  The cab took me to Bergamo’s railway station from where I tried calling Claire again but she wasn’t picking up, so I left a voicemail telling her what had happened and warning her to watch her back. Then I sat down with a coffee to think. Grant was right. What could I really achieve in Zurich? Their banks were the most secretive in the world, so gaining access to the activities of Credit Sud was out of the question. Jawad Mendesa was who I needed to see, but for what? Was I going to walk in and ask him what he was planning to do with a ship full of military equipment? And what if he wasn’t there?

  Someone had tried to kill me, or at least give me a bad fright. Who? I couldn’t answer that. It was tempting to assume it had something to do with the Dalmatia Star case but I’d learned a long time ago that assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups. It had always struck me as an apt warning to investigators like me. And I wasn’t about to jump to conclusions now. Over the past few years I had made enemies. I could count half a dozen or more dangerous men who had reason to want me dead, and had the means to make it happen.

  So not for the first time, the P&I insurance dimension of this case had been usurped by a shady geopolitical agenda. And not for the first time, I’d found myself involved against my better judgement. And once again I was plagued by self-doubt.

  The death of Luka Babic had prompted the CMM’s involvement, firstly because it could lead to claims for compensation and secondly because the ship’s owners, of whom Babic was one, were tied up in the complex legal action over a hostile takeover – a legacy case which Claire had already been handling for some months.

  The focus had shifted to the ship’s cargo, whose legality was also of interest to the CMM, but it seemed of even greater interest to the intelligence community in the form of the IMTF, itself the subject of what appeared to be a coup by Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, MI6. Then there was Grant Douglas, who said he was now the case officer, but reporting to where? Vauxhall Cross, London or Langley, Virginia?

  And now the interests of these spook agencies in the Dalmatia Star’s cargo, centred on what looked very much like an impending coup d’état in the African state of Kazunda, a part of the world where coups were the time-honoured means of effecting a change of government. If Kazunda’s offshore oil reserves were what I’d heard, then no wonder there was interest. And if the Americans were so heavily involved in extracting those reserves, then did that explain Grant’s sudden involvement?

  Now what? Claire was pursuing the case from the Lisbon end and she was right: Lisbon was where the answers lay. I phoned Zoe and told her to get me on the next flight from Milan.

  Chapter 9

  When I emerged through Lisbon Customs I was surprised to see a man holding a sign with my name on it. So much for the covert arrival I’d planned.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked him.

  ‘Sebastian Summers from the Embassy. Are you McKinnon? May I see your passport?’

  He looked like a Sebastian Summers from the Embassy. I showed it to him. ‘Why the reception committee?’

  ‘Come with me would you? I’ve got some bad news I’m afraid. We’ll talk in the car.’

  I walked with him outside to where a black Citroën was waiting at the kerb. I put my bag in the boot and got into the back with him.

  ‘So what’s this about?’ I asked as the car pulled away.

  ‘I’m afraid your colleague, Claire Scott, has been involved in an accident.’

  I took a deep breath but my heart was racing. I turned to face him. ‘Go on.’

  ‘She was in a taxi last night travelling on the coast road. The police aren’t sure what happened but the car ran off the road and overturned. It landed on its roof on a beach. It had gone over a low cliff. The driver was killed. Miss Scott is in hospital.’

  ‘What’s her condition?’

  ‘Critical. She’s on life support. She’s had scans revealing multiple fractures and,’ he hesitated, ‘head injuries.’

  ‘Christ,’ I breathed. They’d pulled the same hit job on her.

  ‘Her next of kin has been contacted – her husband. He wanted her returned by air ambulance to Scotland immediately, but the hospital has said that would be too risky. She’s fighting for her life.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘The Hospital da Luz, here in Lisbon.’

  ‘Take me there will you?’

  ‘We’re on our way.’

  As we headed west, he told me what else he knew: that the police had been called to the scene of an accident at 10.45 the previous evening; that there appeared to be no other vehicle involved; that the driver was already dead at the scene; and that the sole passenger, a woman, had been attended to by medics from the ambulance and transferred to the Accident and Emergency unit at the Hospital da Luz.

  The journey had taken less than twenty minutes and I hadn’t noticed a thing about it. Summers accompanied me into the pristine interior of the hospital where he’d arranged an appointment with Claire’s attending physician. At Reception we were directed to a pr
ivate room and after five minutes the doctor arrived.

  ‘How do you do?’ she extended her hand. ‘I am Doctor Sanches, Jacinta Sanches. I have received authority from your Embassy to share all matters relating to this case with you. Shall we sit here and I will tell you about your colleague’s injuries?’

  She was a slight, dark-haired woman in her fifties. Her white coat was a size too big for her but her manner was professional and commanded respect.

  ‘I’ll wait at Reception,’ Summers said and left us.

  ‘May I see her?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes, you may, but she is in a fragile state, and she is still unconscious. Let me tell you her condition first. The head injury is our main concern. There are diffuse contusions. We have placed her on a ventilator to make sure that oxygen delivery to the brain is optimal; also to lower carbon dioxide, which serves to reduce intracranial pressure. This helps to make more space in case the brain swells in response to the injury, you understand. The scan indicates that there is only diffuse bruising and no blood clotting. But we must be sure. If there is a clot then she will need surgery to evacuate it. So we will repeat the scan as necessary, to be absolutely sure.’