“Ha ha, very funny.”
“What are you doing?”
“Probably going to work in my garden although, after digging up those corpses under the compost heap, I’m a little put off that kind of thing.”
“Can’t say as I blame you. It was pretty gruesome. At least now these poor people have a name and, hopefully, a family we can send their bodies home to.”
De Souza, a devout Catholic, was only too happy to agree with her. “Yes, now they will be able to rest in peace… something we’re not going to be able to do until we solve these crimes.”
CHAPTER 38
He was not happy with the moon. It shone like a searchlight in the unstained blackness of the sky, illuminating the luxury yacht, as large as a small cruiser, anchored offshore. Alexeev had once directed a film about Czar Nicholas III and a scaled-down replica of the ‘Standart’, the favorite yacht of the Russian monarch, had been constructed from copies of plans housed at the Imperial Russian Historical Society of Canada. The original yacht had been built in Copenhagen in 1895 to Czar Nicholas’s personal specifications and, at the time, was considered the most perfect ship of her type in the world. Alexeev had fallen in love with her lines and luxuriousness and, on impulse, together with a couple of business friends, had bought the smaller replica after the film’s successful release. The original yacht had been four hundred feet long and fifty feet wide, weighing over 5,000 tons. Alexeev’s yacht, although scaled back to a quarter of the original size, was still one hundred feet long. Its distinctive three masts and two funnels were immediately distinguishable from the other modern megayachts belonging to Russian billionaires anchored close by.
He waited until the moon disappeared behind a cloud before donning night vision goggles. The luminous hands of his diving watch glowed on his wrist as he adjusted the sleeve of his neoprene wetsuit. Even though it was now two o’clock in the morning, he could make out the movements of a figure on deck and decided to wait a little longer before entering the gelid waters of the Black Sea. He preferred to undertake his mission when everyone was asleep but he wondered if the figure was Alexeev’s bodyguard who might perhaps keep watch during the night. He had read the dossier on him and knew he took his job seriously – and was a black belt in karate, keen marksman and formidable boxer. That would make his task even more of a challenge but he desperately wanted to earn promotion to captain. He would dearly love to wear the star tattoo on his knees for the respect that went with it. He crouched on the rocky shore, his breath steaming in the cold night air, carefully spat into his mask and then rinsed it in the salt water to prevent it fogging up. Donning his fins, he then adjusted the mask to his face. Slipping silently into the freezing water, he felt the reassuring tug of the belt around his waist, even as the shock of the cold water knocked the breath out of him. Good, his cargo was secure. The air tank on his back felt buoyant. Adjusting the weight belt, he submerged a few feet, squirted a little more air into his buoyancy compressor and began his swim underwater towards the yacht using strong, yet relaxed, leg thrusts while keeping his arms crossed behind him on his buttocks. He orientated himself from the direction of the moonlight, which penetrated underwater, and waited patiently when it went behind a cloud. On no account did he wish to draw attention to himself. The instructions had been clear: a swift in-and-out operation. He touched the mines floating in a fishnet bag from his belt. For some strange reason, they reassured him. It reminded him he was a Vor and that lawlessness and danger were not just a part of his life, they were his life. His acceptance into the group defined who he was and he was proud of it.
As he approached the yacht, he swam even more carefully, gliding skilfully through the icy, dark velvet of the sea, using just his fins for propulsion. Surfacing quietly alongside the yacht, the water slapped noisily against its side, covering any noise he might have made. Removing one of the mines from its resting place, he inhaled and, diving down, attached the mine to the hull, well under the waterline. In the blackness, it was more difficult to see what he was doing than he had anticipated and it took him several attempts before he had managed to arm the device. He then took out his waterproof flashlight and located the next area where he needed to place a mine. Once he had finished his task, he knew he had ten minutes to swim to safety and he began to feel his heart race. Perhaps this anxiety made him surface a little too rapidly. Not realizing the boat had swung around on its anchor, he now found himself at its stern, the bodyguard not fifteen feet away from him; he could even smell his cologne. To his horror, the moon made a sudden appearance from behind a cloud, impaling him in its silver spotlight, just as the bodyguard turned towards him. There was a shout and the guard rushed forwards, attempting to draw his gun. As luck would have it, he stumbled over a cleat and fell to one knee with a groan, giving the Vor sufficient time to submerge and begin his swim away. However, the bodyguard, clearly in great pain, hobbled towards the stern, weapon now drawn. The Vor sensed, rather than heard, the bullets slicing into the water close to him. He calculated he had about six or seven minutes to get as far away as possible and prayed the bodyguard would not strike his air tank, otherwise, effectively, he would be strapped to a bomb himself. Legs pumping and arms slicing through the water, in what he knew was poor form for any diver, he felt his breath burning in his lungs as he lunged towards the shore. Later, when he recounted the story, he told them he estimated he was about three-quarters of the way back, when his ears and body had felt the blast. He had been unable to resist the urge to surface and had looked back towards the yacht to see the effects of his handiwork – a huge plume of water and fire shooting up towards the sky, briefly bathing the shoreline in an orange glow, before the yacht became a blistering inferno as the fuel tanks ignited. He did not tell them, however, about the feeling of elation that the sight had produced or that his hearing had been impaired for over a week. He sensed it would have been considered poor form. More importantly, he had succeeded in his most important assignment. He would make captain.
CHAPTER 39
Bermuda was showing off. The day had dawned fair and the sun sparkled on the waves as they crested on the reefs. Jacintha and Burgess were both dressed in their running gear and nervously finishing their breakfasts. The kiskadees were already in full chorus, lined up on the telephone wires like starlings in their Sunday best and calling incessantly to each other.
“We need to get down to Number One Shed in Hamilton for our numbers. Are you nearly ready?” Burgess was excited to be running this year with Jacintha.
“Yep. I’m ready.” Jacintha came out of the bedroom. She looked fresh as a daisy with her long hair in a ponytail, shorts and a T-shirt that read ‘Property of KEMH VII’.
“I love it when you wear your hair like that. You look like a teenager. Did you steal that T-shirt from the hospital?”
“Nah but I’ve seen surgeons scuba diving in surgical scrubs and you can bet they didn’t buy them.” She laughed and began stretching exercises on the terrace as Burgess covertly admired her backside.
“Don’t worry about stretching. We’ll do that when we get to Dockyard. First we’ve got to get our numbers and then go over to the ferry terminal and take the boat out to Dockyard with all the other runners. They’ll have a stage set up there and a couple of people will put us through an exercise routine. It’s quite hard for some people as they wear all sorts of ridiculous costumes for charity. Do you know, one year there was this guy who ran backwards for the entire race?”
Jacintha laughed. “Unbelievable – only in Bermuda. C’mon, let’s get out of here before Digby decides to join us.” She had spotted the dog sniffing around the garden and peeing up against Nana’s citrus trees. He was taking a lot of interest in Nana’s new bluebird houses that Burgess had installed for her on poles in the garden. Nana loved to encourage the bluebirds to nest but always worried about other birds, primarily the kiskadees, preying on them. They, along with the fiery red cardinals, were such colorful members of Bermuda’s bird population.
“Yeah,” agreed Burgess. “I need to get moving. I’m still wearing last night’s lasagna around my waist. Nana always makes that the night before I run on May 24th. She read once that runners need to carb up before a major race and since that time has taken it all very seriously. It tastes so good, I always end up overeating.”
“I know. It really was delicious. Don’t worry. You’ll be grateful for the release of energy from all those carbs about two hours into the run.”
They finished getting ready and drove in Jacintha’s Subaru over to the Number One Shed in the city of Hamilton, where they would register and receive a number. From there, they would need to take the short walk along Front Street, past the famous Bird Cage - an elevated platform with metal railings from where a policeman would direct traffic during rush hour - and over to the ferry terminal, where the authorities had lined up ferries to take them on the twenty minute cruise towards Dockyard, where the race would begin. Jacintha and Burgess continued chatting together as they drove into town. Each was confessing to being nervous, so they decided to make a pact to enjoy the experience, do their best and not to worry about how long it took them to do it.
“No pressure, just pleasure,” said Jacintha. “We both have too much stress in our professional lives. We don’t need any in our personal ones.”
“You’ve got it,” echoed Burgess. “This is hardly the Boston Marathon and I fear we’ve missed any chance at the Olympics. Anyway, you’ll probably finish way before me and will be waiting for me, second piña colada in hand, at the National Stadium as the sun sets behind the bleachers.”
“Don’t be silly.” Jacintha punched his arm playfully as she laughed.
“Hey, I need that arm to help me run faster.”
“Well, I dare not punch one of your legs otherwise you’ll never finish the race.”
They carried along in this vein until they came to the area where the cruise ships berthed and found a parking spot for the car.
Inside the Number One Shed, the atmosphere was festive. Runners of all ages were lining up to register and putting on their personal number. Others were already making their way out of the shed towards the ferries. Jacintha and Burgess chatted to several friends and acquaintances as they stood in line and just soaked up the atmosphere, enjoying the banter amongst the contestants. A group of runners comprising a large rooster, a court jester complete with bells on his hat and shoes, a Kermit the Frog and a common or garden clown were competing in support of their favorite charities. They were enjoying a great deal of attention from the press and other competitors. Burgess estimated there had to be at least two thousand entrants. It was going to be a busy day for the organizers.
As the runners were preparing for the race, people in houses along the race route had gathered for brunch and were already sipping their champagne and orange juice mimosas and eyeing buffet tables laden with food. In the harbor, boating traffic had increased markedly as the morning progressed. Sailing yachts and motorboats, occasionally punctuated by the whine of a jet ski or two, sailed along in harmony as their prows parted the waves, shooting clouds of spray into the air. Girls in tropical bikinis sunned themselves on decks and waved to those on shore who had arrived early to find a good spot from where to cheer on their friends as they made their way from Dockyard to the National Stadium. The race would take the runners along Harbour Road, affording them one of the most attractive routes a person could wish for. On their right, they would be greeted and cheered by friends and strangers alike from the balconies of their homes or from deck chairs in their gardens. Still others would secure a good vantage spot on a stone wall from where they could raise a beer bottle (or two) in salute to the runners as they called out their names in encouragement. On their left, the contestants would enjoy the uninterrupted blue of the harbor, with its cooling breezes coming off the water. They would be able to view a long stretch of Front Street: the pastel-colored insurance buildings, the white-roofed shops and the grey stone of the jewel in the crown: the Hamilton Cathedral. The vistas were breathtaking to those accustomed to them and simply out of this world to any first-time tourist. In this race, however, there would be no tourists. Strictly open to Bermudians and Bermuda residents, the race felt more like a large family gathering. As Bermudians liked to joke, you either knew everyone or else were related to them.
On the ferry, Jacintha and Burgess chatted to fellow racegoers and watched the longtails – seagulls with black and white markings and an elegant long tail from which they derived their name - as they flew overhead. To Bermudians, the sight of the longtails signalled the arrival of spring. The breeze on board the ferry was invigorating and the scenery of the houses with their pastel-coloured white roofs and chimneys nestled in amongst the trees never failed to captivate. The architectural style unique to Bermuda was at once Caribbean yet with Dutch overtones – a style attributed to a Bermudian architect by the name of Wil Onions who had stamped his style on buildings all over the island. The fact that all the roofs were sparkling white added to Bermuda’s pristine charm. Jacintha found herself falling more in love with her birthplace with every year she spent there. It was not long before they drew near to Dockyard, observing the bridge connecting the mainland to the separate island that housed the berths for cruise ships, foreign naval vessels, the Cable & Wireless ship and other floating visitors. Dockyard now played host to a number of shops, restaurants and historical sights, such as the Commissioner’s House and Cooperage. Now it was alive with music, sports fans and nervous contestants all warming up in unison as they followed the movements of a man on a raised platform.
This May Day was perfect for the racegoers and all those enjoying a day off. Not so, however, for two young men in custody in connection with the murder of the Bambases. One was currently in a police holding cell with a nervous stomach, contemplating a bleak future, while his friend recovered at King Edward’s from surgery to a broken shoulder and arm. Neither would be going anywhere in the short term and they could count themselves lucky the media was covering the race and had yet to get wind of their involvement in the murders. They would get more than their fifteen minutes of fame, of that they could be sure.
CHAPTER 40
The Bermuda Day holiday had done everyone a power of good. De Souza arrived sunburned and whistling. Burgess had a spring in his step which belied the stiffness of his legs as he entered the building, while Pamela acted coy. Skinner came in with a smile from ear to ear. Only Archie appeared a little out of sorts. He kept a weather eye on Pamela and felt absurdly jealous of Skinner. He had a sneaking feeling he and Pamela had become an item and he was not sure how much he liked that. Thank goodness the computer expert would be going back to his nerdy job in the private sector. For Archie, it could not come soon enough. He was not coping well with this unaccustomed feeling of jealousy. He found himself dwelling a little too much on Pamela’s friendship with Skinner and that made him testy.
They all grabbed coffee and muffins and made their way to the murder room for an early morning briefing. Mrs. Ming would hold the fort outside and answer any telephones. Archie could hear Burgess talking to De Souza about his race time and how much he and Jacintha had enjoyed it, even though it now hurt to walk. He tried to catch what Skinner was saying to Pamela. What was Skinner doing in the meeting anyway? Had he not finished his part of the case? Archie could feel his temper moving south. Just as he settled himself in a chair in the murder room, he saw Jan Du Bois come in. Great, Jan was good value. If she was here, then there had to be something interesting to report. He found his mind finally turning to the business at hand as Burgess began the meeting.
“Mornin’, everyone. I hope you all had a great day off and have recharged the batteries for today. We’ve got quite a lot to get through, so let’s get started.”
“Jan, would you like to kick off the session? By the way, it’s great to have you on board and I hope you have settled in okay.”
“My love affair with the island grows every day I�
�m here. The guys in Forensics are great and we’ve managed to come up with some stuff for you all which I hope will shed some light on this case… or two cases, as I think we have.”
Burgess smiled at her. “Yep, that’s right. There is quite a time differential between the Bamabase’s murder and that of the young girl and man.”
“Well, what I can tell you is that Mrs. Bambase was knocked out first and then shot execution-style with a Russian-made silenced APB Stechkin. The bullet removed from her was a 9mm Makarov subsonic.” She looked across at the stunned faces of her colleagues. “I can see none of you is familiar with this firearm.”
“I think you’ve got that right,” affirmed Burgess for his team. “Can you tell us a little more about it?”
“Well, I’m no firearms expert but what I do know is that, in the mid-1940s when the APS Stechkin was first designed, it was nothing more than an overgrown Walther PP with a selective fire switch. It was meant for use by special ops troops, bodyguards and so forth. However, in actual fact, few were ever used in combat because it was considered too big as a pistol and too small as an automatic weapon. Its rate of fire was not easily controllable either and the jumpy cycling of the slide and bolt caused by the pure blowback operation, caused it to be withdrawn in the late 1970s.
We know the weapon used in our crime was a later model, the APB Stechkin and should not to be confused with the even more modern 1990s PMS-Stechkin… and before I hear any rude comments about that being a weapon for angry menopausal women, let me assure you it was designed only for semiautomatic firing.” She waited for the laughter to subside. “Our weapon has a collapsible steel stock and a new, more conventional holster. It has a shorter slide in order to expose part of the barrel, which is threaded, thus allowing for the use of a silencer.”
Never to Dead to Talk (Detective Inspector Burgess Series) Page 12