by Chris Simms
As they rejoined the M53, Jon pointed to the radio. ‘Music? It’ll have to be the radio.’
‘OK.’ She reached for the on button. ‘Any particular station?’
‘I’m not fussed. Smooth FM or something like that?’
‘Nothing loud, you mean?’ She turned it on and something thrashy filled the car. They looked at each other and she pressed the scanner without saying a word. Next was a choir singing. ‘Something spiritual for your Sunday?’
‘Had enough of that as a kid. Next.’
The third station was playing Marvin Gaye.
‘This is all right with me,’ Jon said straight away.
She sat back. ‘You like a bit of soul?’
‘You can’t not like this stuff, surely?’
Iona thought of her initial conversation with Elissa. How their taste in music seemed so aligned. Had that coloured her judgement? Made her less alert to the woman’s subterfuge? ‘She was very good.’
‘Say again?’ Jon replied, one finger tapping lightly on the steering wheel.
‘Elissa Yared. The way she hid her anger. It was very good.’
‘You reckon she’s angry?’
‘Absolutely. She’s full of rage – about her family. Her brother. I certainly don’t think she’s motivated by any religious conviction.’
‘So you think she’s a willing party to all this?’
‘Yes. You don’t?’
‘I’m not sure. What if they have something on her? Something that means she has no choice but help the Mystery Man.’
‘Like what?’
‘Usually, it would be a threat to the welfare of her existing family.’
‘But she’s lost them – unless you mean the Atwi lot.’
‘Doesn’t she have relatives on the dad’s side of the family back in Lebanon? Maybe some of them are being held.’
Iona considered the comment. ‘No. I think she’s perfectly willing to help the Mystery Man.’
‘Would that include killing the working girl, Kelly?’
‘Who knows.’
Jon glanced across. ‘I can’t see her being happy with that. She’s a nurse for a start.’
‘Did you have a religious upbringing?’
‘My mum tried her best. Irish Catholic. But she didn’t have much luck.’
‘Your dad?’
‘British and a total atheist. They met when she came over to do her nurse’s training in Manchester. He was never into all the church stuff. You sniff it out as a kid, don’t you? Any chinks in your parents’ united front. I soon learned that mini rugby with dad on a Sunday morning got me out of having to go to mum’s church. Dad was relieved, I know he was.’ He caught the knowing smile on her face. ‘How about your family?’
‘Scottish mum, Pakistani dad.’
‘Either of them religious?’
‘Dad’s side of the family – back in Pakistan – they all are. He’s not though. In fact, he moved to Britain to escape from it all. There isn’t much contact now. They kind off cut him off.’
‘What does he do for a living?’
‘He’s an academic. Lectures in Persian Studies at The University of Manchester. He met my mum when working at Glasgow University. She was in the support office.’
‘And she’s not religious?’
‘Completely not.’
‘Kieran mentioned your dad was a top hockey player.’
‘You two were discussing me.’
‘No, well – not much. It was brief. Kieran was explaining your nickname and mentioned your old man.’
‘Yeah – he played for Pakistan. Won gold at the 1982 hockey World Cup and at the Olympics two years later.’
‘That’s bloody impressive. And he taught you as well?’
‘For hours. Up and down, up and down. Practise, practise, practise.’
‘Until the stick was an extension of your arm?’
‘Basically.’ Her phone gave a chirrup. ‘Here we go,’ she said, examining the screen. ‘Thurstaston Boat Club.’ She sent an acknowledgement back then consulted the map. ‘Come off at junction four and follow the A5137. It’s not far at all.’
The string of cub scouts walked in pairs, green jumpers adorned with badges of various shapes. Flanking them at regular intervals were adult helpers and a few parent volunteers.
The boys were having trouble keeping their alignment; a transport plane was being wheeled out of a hangar to their left. Heads were twisting round, heels were being trodden on, bodies were colliding.
‘Come on lads, stop dawdling.’
‘Harry, look where you’re going!’
At the head of the column was a man in a crisply pressed shirt. His stride was a little too fast for a group of eight-year-old boys, but neither Akela or any of his assistants seemed prepared to point that out.
The low buildings they were aiming for were positioned at one corner of the airfield. As they drew closer, the area beyond them came into view. Out on the tarmac was a bright yellow helicopter, its long rotor blades drooping slightly. A squat dragonfly taking a nap.
‘Sea King!’ one of the boys exclaimed, arm, wrist, hand and forefinger stiff as a lance. ‘Sea King!’
Excitement radiated back along the column. Boys started to hop and jump. One placed his hands on the shoulders of the cub in front to pogo above his companions. ‘Awesome!’
‘Boys! Keep in line! Stop bunching at the front, you’ll all get a look.’
The painted pathway led to the main entrance of the building. The RAF officer halted at a knee-high notice board on the neat grass verge by the doors. He waited as the group gathered round, hawk-like eyes locking on any boy who wasn’t being quiet. Once he had silence, he tapped the white wooden frame. ‘Who can read this?’
Arms shot up.
He nodded at a taller boy towards the back. ‘Go ahead.’
‘C Flight, twenty-two squadron, RAF Search and Rescue.’
‘Very good. Britain’s search and rescue capability is made up of twelve detached flights. Of these, the RAF provides six, including the one here on Anglesey.’
Akela surveyed his group uneasily: every single one of the boys was staring across at the helicopter. Not one was listening to the talk.
The RAF officer pressed on, oblivious. ‘Each detached flight has a very particular type of helicopter, which you may have spotted behind me. Who knows what type – ’
‘Sea King!’ Eighteen voices simultaneously shouted.
The officer smiled. ‘That’s correct. In the building behind me is the First Standby Crew. If a SAROP comes in, they can respond. How long do you think they need to respond?’
‘What’s a SAROP?’ A small boy with curly black hair asked.
‘A search and rescue operation. How long?’
‘Two minutes.’
‘An hour.’
‘Quarter of an hour.’
‘Ten seconds.’
‘Thirty two minutes.’
‘Whoever yelled quarter of an hour was correct. If a call comes in at night, it’s a little longer: forty-five minutes. That’s because the crew would have been asleep.’
‘So they live there?’ the same boy asked.
‘For their shift, they do. Each shift lasts twenty-four hours, commencing at nineteen hundred hours. All detached flights are self-supporting. In the building behind me are offices for flight planning, medical stores, specialist equipment stores, bedrooms and a rest lounge with basic cooking facilities – though the crew here get their meals delivered from the main canteen in hotlock containers.’ He paused. ‘Now, before we go inside, were you told about the well-known person who is currently working on this airbase?’
Heads eagerly nodded.
‘Right. I have a feeling he may well be inside.’ He dropped his voice down. ‘Shall we go and see?’
The boys edged into the building like they were entering a shrine. No one was in sight. At the far end of the corridor came the massed rumble of voices. As they got nearer, the rumble
grew louder. Shouted words started breaking through the general din.
‘Jammy wanker!’
‘Unbe-fucking-lievable!’
‘Bastard!’
The RAF officer signalled for the group to stop, then hurried ahead. He leaned his head through the doorway and spoke quickly. The noise subsided. A few people laughed. He looked back down the corridor and beckoned to the boys. ‘This is the rest lounge where the crews can relax. In you come.’
Goggle-eyed, the boys shuffled in from the corridor. The first had to be pushed forward by the ones behind. Dotted in the soft seats were several crew. Most had books in their hands: Wilbur Smith, Tom Clancy, Michael Crichton. One of the books was the wrong way up. They grinned amiably at their visitors.
‘As you can see,’ the guide announced. ‘There’s a TV and games console and an upturned bin with a red spot on the bottom.’ He bent down and righted it. ‘But the crew generally prefer to read in their free time, don’t you lads?’
A chorus of agreement.
‘Although sometimes, they also like to play with this.’ He crossed to the central table and picked up a miniature helicopter. ‘Mmmm, still warm. Strange. Any of you got this type of toy at home?’ He held it up to the cubs.
A few hands tentatively lifted.
‘Yes, I think it’s very popular with people who are under ten.’ He sent a mocking glance at the crew. Using his book as a screen, one lifted his middle finger. ‘The boys here were hoping to meet the resident member of the Royal Family.’
‘Ops room,’ came a reply.
The cubs were led across the corridor and into a large open-plan room. On the far side, a tall man was seated at a computer screen.
‘This person,’ the guide announced, ‘is known around here as Howie. You’re probably all used to his other title: The Duke of Cambridge.’
The man swivelled his chair round and stood. ‘Hello there.’ He smiled at the mass of awestruck faces. ‘Which group are you from?’
Once again, Akela had to speak. ‘Conwy County District.’
‘Ah, I can see a fine collection of badges on your jumpers. You are all obviously very committed. How are you enjoying your visit to our airbase?’
A few of them dared to move their heads.
‘And are any of you thinking of becoming a pilot when you’re older?’
The boy with the curly hair croaked a reply. ‘Yes.’
‘You are? Excellent. And what would you like to fly?’
‘Sea Kings.’
He clapped his hands softly. ‘A superb choice. Has anyone explained to you what’s involved with a search and rescue operation?’
Silence.
‘Would you like to know?’
Heads nodded with comical speed.
‘Well, we always have a crew ready to respond to an emergency call. That crew is known as First Standby. If you look at the roster board on the wall over there, you’ll see the fourth name down is Howie. That’s my nickname here. Something to do with House of Windsor, I believe. The red line indicates if you’re on a shift: as you can see, I start tonight at seven o’clock and I’m on duty until seven o’clock tomorrow evening. How many other red lines can people see for tonight?’
Eventually, someone floated an answer. ‘Three.’
‘That’s right. Each search and rescue crew is made up of four people. I’m First Pilot and Operational Aircraft Captain for the coming shift. That means I’m in charge. There’s a second pilot and there’s a radar and winch operator, or Rad-Op. He or she has a really good job because, while we’re flying to the incident, they operate the Searchwater radar and the thermal camera so we can find whoever needs rescuing fast. Once we’ve located them, the Rad-Op leaves the radar shack and goes to the rear cargo door to operate the winch. The last member of the crew is the winchman, who may be female. In fact, we have two female winchmen serving here at the moment. They’re the ones you see dangling beneath the helicopter. Almost all winchmen are registered paramedics because, on board, we carry a lot of first aid items. Things like neck braces, limb splints and special little tanks of oxygen for pain relief.’
His fascinated audience watched him move closer to the white board. ‘Tonight is my last shift, then I’m off for three nights. Which means, tomorrow, I can see my two sons again – and sleep at home in my own bed.’
‘Do you live here on the airbase?’ a small voice asked.
‘No, there are family quarters, but we rent a house not too far away.’ He looked at the group. ‘Any other questions?’
‘Does your younger brother also fly helicopters?’
‘Harry? He does. But he’s in the army, so he trained to fly helicopters known as gunships. That’s what he’s doing at the moment over in Afghanistan.’
‘Do you speak to him much?’
‘We Skype a bit. Sometimes he even reads my children their bedtime story.’
The guide gave a cough. ‘Thank you for that, Howie. We’ll let you get back to preparing for your shift. What do you say, boys?’
A chorus of thankyous filled the room.
‘My pleasure. And, if you’re still on the island later and spot a Sea King taking off, give it a wave: I’ll be flying it!’
CHAPTER 38
When they arrived at Thurstaston the sun was still well clear of the horizon, but fast-losing strength. Dozens of boats on trailers lined the road, shadows from their masts laddering the long strip of asphalt leading to the clubhouse. They pulled up in a cramped car park, the corner of which formed a slipway down to the water’s edge.
Three boats were moored at the jetty as the owners tossed kitbags, lifejackets and other items onto the sun-bleached boards. There was a contented looseness to how they moved. One woman paused to sip from a bottle of beer and Jon watched her carefree state with envy. To their right a piece of paper stuck to the door of the clubhouse reminded members that mooring fees were now due. The door opened and a bronzed man of about sixty wearing shorts and a baggy polo shirt looked them up and down with a faintly amused expression.
For the first time, Jon got a sense of how odd they must look standing side-by-side. He reached for his badge.
As club secretary, it only took the man a moment’s thought to confirm that no new members with a Rib had recently joined. Iona asked if he checked the type of vessel each new member claimed to own was the one they actually brought on site. He did, to ensure they were being charged the correct amount.
‘And about how many of these Ribs do you have here?’
‘Five. But they all belong to long-term members.’
‘If I had one of these boats,’ Iona said, ‘and I wanted to launch it somewhere here on the Wirral, where might I keep it?’
‘Well, presuming it’s on a trailer, take your pick: a friendly farmer’s field, a large driveway, a garage if it’s big enough. Just tow it to a slipway and you’re off.’
‘How many people would you need to do that?’
‘One could manage, but two is ideal. You reverse down the slipway, preferably at high tide, until the trailer is submerged. The boat then floats free; it’s really not difficult.’
After thanking him and leaving their contact details, they made to go. ‘By the way,’ Jon said, turning round but continuing to walk backwards. ‘The phone line in the clubhouse is out. Colleagues back at our unit couldn’t get through.’
The man pointed up. ‘Local idiots. They climbed up during the week and took the satellite dish. Ripped down the cabling while they were at it.’
They were almost at the car when Weir’s name appeared on the screen of Iona’s phone. ‘Sir, we’ve just seen – ’
She stopped talking, eyes losing their focus as she listened intently. ‘This was when? OK.’ She listened for another minute. ‘Yes, understood. I will, yes.’ She cut the call but continued looking at the screen. ‘Shit.’
‘Tell me in the car,’ Jon said, pipping the lock and climbing swiftly in. The interior was stuffy and hot, so he left the door partly
open.
Iona sank into the seat beside him, both hands clasped protectively around her phone. ‘It wasn’t there. The surface-to-air missile. Not at the private residence or the storage facility.’
‘They struck both places?’
‘Yes – joint operation with the Afghan security forces. Now they’re not sure it was even there in the first place.’
‘Why do they think that?’
‘Our people put out an appeal. The Egyptian intelligence services came back with something almost immediately. It’s almost a fortnight old and since then, nothing more relating to it has come up.’
‘What did they say?’
‘An informant linked to a group in Libya reported them receiving payment for the safe passage of a small group who had some sort of cargo. This group had originally come by boat from a port in Syria. The Libyan group were accompanying them to the border with Algeria.’
‘That’s sounding bloody vague.’
‘Yes, but the sum of money the group in Libya were paid suggests it was of significance. How much do you remember of geography from school?’
‘Not a lot, why?’
‘The country that borders Algeria is...’ She looked at him with eyebrows half-raised.
He didn’t even bother trying to search him mind for the answer. ‘Put me out of my misery, please.’
‘Morocco. And from Morocco, you’re a stone’s throw from the southern tip of Spain – and Europe.’
It suddenly felt too hot in the car. Jon pushed the door fully open. ‘Timings-wise, if that information is a fortnight old...’
‘Exactly, it could be anywhere by now. What’s more worrying is how it tallies with a separate report our embassy staff in Athens filed nine days ago.’
‘What the hell was that?’
‘An asylum-seeker brought ashore on the Greek coast who’d crossed from Libya. The boat that brought him over originally set off from a port in Syria – but rather than aim for Turkey, it went East. They eventually landed in Libya hundreds of kilometres away. Not what was promised.’
Even though he knew it was stupid, Jon had to check his mirrors to make sure no one was in earshot. ‘Libya? What did he say?’