by Chris Simms
Jon took the phone from her and studied his face more closely.
‘It gets worse. You know how the Russians are active in the conflict over in Syria? They picked up some chatter recently: it was about a surface-to-air missile that had been transported into North Africa and then up into Spain. They intercepted that information six days ago.’
Jon gave the phone back. His head was bowed as he stirred the two cups. ‘Are we now treating all of this as connected?’
‘There’s a top-floor meeting first thing in the morning, but Weir’s already making contingency plans. He’s bringing everything under Operation Stinger.’
Jon placed her cup on the desk. ‘What are your thoughts?’
‘This guy – Zakayev – is in the UK, we know that much. We don’t know how long he’s been here. But the car involved in the RTA was stolen one week ago, so it seems reasonable he’s been here from around that point.’
Jon sat on the end of the bed. ‘If we’re working on the assumption the cargo spirited into Libya was that missile, it got there – what – around two weeks ago?’
‘Which means, potentially, it reached mainland Europe a few days after that.’
‘Southern Spain to northern France. You can drive that in three days, I should think. Iona: it could be here already. Brought across the channel on that bloody great Rib. Or on a private yacht. Anything.’
‘They’ve discussed that. A highest priority alert has gone out to security services across Europe. Wylfa is not being regarded as under threat. The SBS boys said a strike is highly unlikely to have much effect because the nasty stuff is stored mostly below ground. They’re staying on site though, and keeping up patrols off the coast.’
‘So what are the priorities now?’
‘Airports. We know they took the M53 into the Wirral. The easterly shoreline looks directly across the Mersey estuary – ’
Jon clicked a finger. ‘John Lennon Airport. Earlier on, I watched this plane flying over. I could almost see the passengers’ faces, it was that low.’
‘As international airports go, it’s not nearly as busy as Manchester. But there are still plenty of flights leaving from it: New York, Orlando, and one each day direct to Tel Aviv.’
‘Jesus. I was wrong. I thought this was where they’d be.’
‘I wouldn’t say you were wrong. There’s footage taken not far from a nuclear power station. That’s not something to ignore.’
He put his cup on the carpet so he could stretch both arms above his head. ‘The airports are where it’s at,’ he said, fingers reaching towards the ceiling. ‘Has to be.’
‘Now it is – but only given the information the Russians finally sent.’
Jon’s arms dropped like someone had cut his strings. He rotated his shoulders and leaned his head from side-to-side. ‘It’s all right. I can take being wrong.’
She shrugged. ‘There’s still the question of where they’ve put that boat. Find that thing and we find them, surely.’
‘So we’re going back to the Wirral?’
‘Not yet. For the moment, we stay here.’
‘Really?’
‘He said other teams are being deployed there.’
Jon stared down at the carpet. So the Wirral looked like where all the action was going to be. And they were almost two hours’ away, on a warty outgrowth off the far edge of Wales. Shit. ‘What’s he want us to do here?’
‘We’re to get a map of the island and start marking down where that boat could be.’
‘What happened to the support from the office?’
‘Everything’s being focused on the Wirral.’
‘Does he realise how far it is to go right round the coast of Anglesey?’
‘Probably not. Mind you, I couldn’t say either.’
‘My old man fancied walking the ring path when they opened it a few years back. He changed his mind when he realised it’s over 124 miles long.’
CHAPTER 41
Sudden movement stirred Elissa from the depths of sleep. For a heart-wrenching instant, she had no idea where she was. It wasn’t her own bed; she sensed that. Beside her, she could hear breathless words being spoken. By a man. Her entire body went tense. And, when a hand came down on the bare flesh of her shoulder, she nearly leapt to her feet.
‘Mne nuzhna ruchka!’
Everything came back to her. Oh my God. I’m naked. She turned her head. He’s naked. Sitting bolt upright, looking down at her with a look of... astonishment. They hadn’t even drawn the curtains. Pre-dawn grey lay like a sheen on his skin.
‘Mne nuzhna ruchka.’ He wrote across his palm, as if requesting a bill in a restaurant. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and hurried for the door. She watched his buttock muscles bunching alternately with each step and remembered running her hands across them.
Her clothes were nowhere to be seen. Probably on the floor of the kitchen, mingled in with his. The memory of leading him by the hand along the corridor to the ground-floor bedroom. His face, made boy-like with an expression that was at once thrilled and apprehensive. She’d soon got the feeling it was something he’d never done before. Knowing his shoulder was vulnerable, she’d lain him on his back and taken the lead.
There was a bath towel on the rack in the en-suite, so she wrapped it about herself and stepped into the corridor. The kitchen light was on and she found him sitting at the table, a red biro in his hand. He’d ripped the sleeve of a cookery book and had folded it over to expose a blank area.
On it, he’d scrawled a single word and was adding another. He stood, unconcerned, or oblivious, to the fact he had nothing on. ‘Ya vspomnil! Xbox.’
What he so needed has re-surfaced in his memory, she thought. Now he could find out when and where the boat that was coming from the continent would be. She also knew that, as from seven o’clock the previous evening, the prince had been on shift. Any distress call that came in until seven o’clock that evening would be responded to by him.
The mission was on.
Brushing past her, he hurried toward the living-room and a part of her registered disappointment at his lack of affection. She glanced at the kitchen wall clock. Almost five in the morning.
The TV was already on when she caught him up. He was kneeling before it, controller from the console in his hands. The computer game was up on the screen and he was busily selecting the letters he needed.
‘I vsyo eto vryemya oni poyavilis vo snye.’ He looked back at her, face full of delight. ‘Neveroyatno.’
Smiling, she ran a hand down the back of his head, leaving it resting lightly on his neck.
‘U nas yeshche yest vremya,’ he said, dragging letters into the upper field. She decided to get the phone, otherwise she’d just be nodding at him like an imbecile. It was still on the kitchen table. The sight of all their clothes strewn on the floor caused a brief smirk as she grabbed the handset.
The dragon had the eyes of a deer, liquid brown and beautiful. It lowered its heavy lashes every now and again as Doku searched through a map in a panel at the bottom of the screen. ‘Tam ona.’ He moved the cursor back to the dragon and, by manipulating the controller’s buttons, it launched itself off the mountain ledge and into the endless blue sky. Each beat of its wings made a swooshing sound as it hovered in the air. Doku pressed the front of the cross-shaped button down and it began to fly forward. Other dragons of varying sizes and colours were also flapping languidly about. Whenever one came close, he’d veer round it. Sometimes, speech bubbles appeared beside these other dragon’s heads, but he didn’t respond. Every now and again, the layer of fluffy cloud beneath was punctuated by a mountaintop. Smoke rose from some and occasionally a flaming rock would arc up as if fired from a catapault deep within the crater. The smoke trails they left slowly dwindled to nothing. She presumed the floating text boxes contained the name of each of these peaks.
From the compass in the mid-point of the screen’s base, she could see he wasn’t straying from a bearing of north
by north-east.
Eventually, another peak came into view below them. ‘Crolobin,’ he announced quietly, taking the dragon into a gentle dive. The top of the mountain drew closer and, once at eye-level, Doku circled round it until he caught sight of a dark opening. As he made for it, the beat of the dragon’s wings slowed to a stop. Gliding silently in, it alighted on the ledge before a cave. The wings folded in and, stubby tail sweeping from side-to-side, the creature moved forward.
Now it was at the threshold of the opening, Elissa could see a pair of wooden doors set deep into the rock. The dragon got to within touching distance of them but could go no closer, even though its feet continued to move.
Doku brought up another panel and selected an envelope icon from the menu. In the text box, he copied out the first word he’d written on the cookery book’s inner cover. The little envelope sealed itself and flew through a crack between the two doors. Doku stared at the screen. Nothing was happening. After a minute, he turned to Elissa with a confused expression. ‘Ih nikogo net doma.’
She held the phone out to him so he could speak into it. The double beep. ‘They’re not at home.’
CHAPTER 42
‘Never got to have the hotel breakfast,’ Jon muttered as he drove out of the police station’s car park. The biscuits from his hotel room had been a very poor substitute.
‘Is it always on your mind?’ Iona replied. ‘Where your next meal is coming from?’
‘It’s not my fault I have a high metabolism,’ he protested. ‘I’m like a mouse, really.’
‘Yeah,’ she laughed, ‘a hippopota-mouse.’
‘Oh! That’s bullying, that is. I might take that to Weir and get you done.’
Iona pushed her feet as far into the foot-well as they would go. There was just enough room to fully straighten her legs. She tensed her thighs and felt her hamstrings stretch. Too much sitting in a car. It was beginning to feel like a cage.
The sky had lightened but the streetlights were still on. There were a few people up and about; workers trudging in the direction of the ferry terminal, some in fluorescent jackets. Sitting motionless in the harbour was an enormous vessel, glowing lights strung out along its decks. The trail of smoke rising slowly from its tower-like chimney was white against the lead-coloured sky. ‘I don’t suppose a surface-to-air missile would have much effect on one of those things,’ Jon observed while negotiating a roundabout.
Iona looked across at the ferry. The neat lines of waiting lorries and cars were dwarfed by it. ‘Not so it would sink.’ She checked her phone against the map of the island which they’d borrowed from Holyhead’s police station. ‘Nearest marina, then, is straight along this road.’
Jon scowled. ‘This is such a long shot. I mean, say you were planning to hold-up a cash-delivery van, would you park the car you were going to use in the local multi-storey?’
‘Could be hiding in plain-view. And don’t forget, they’re unaware we even know about this boat. If it wasn’t for that junk-mail, we wouldn’t have a clue.’
‘True. Though my money’s on a lock-up or something similar. Somewhere safely out of sight until it’s needed.’
‘Need a bloody big lock-up. Some of those things are nearer the length of a bus.’ She pointed. ‘Take a left at that junction.’
The road took them alongside the sea. Thin waves ruffled against the edge of the empty beach. As the road curved inland, Iona focused on her phone. ‘They’ve put the intelligence on this Zakayev into the shared file.’
‘Go on then, what else has he done?’
‘This bit is interesting: his parents were among the fatalities when a Russian missile hit a crowd queuing outside a building in Shali, a town in the mountainous region in Chechnya’s south. At the time, it had been declared a safe area for civilians.’
‘For real?’
‘That’s what it says. Nine days later, the Russian army transport helicopter was brought down by a surface-to-air missile. Guess what type of missile.’
‘Stinger?’
‘Yup. They think he fired it.’
‘So revenge, then?’
‘Maybe.’
A large driveway appeared on the left. Penrhos Wharf Marina.
Jon turned in and followed the smooth asphalt to a two-storey building. A wide balcony ran along the side of it that faced the ocean. ‘Spoilt for choice,’ he said, taking one of the empty parking spaces near to the building’s side door. A single light was on in the foyer but, apart from that, the building was entirely dark.
They followed the path that led to the water. At regular intervals, walkways sloped down to narrow jetties. Lined up on either side of each one were dozens of vessels.
‘There’s some money in these places,’ Jon stated, gaze settling on some of the larger boats on the far side.
‘Seven jetties, about eighteen boats along each side. That’s about two-hundred and fifty boats,’ Iona replied.
Jon nodded knowingly, wondering how the hell she’d worked that out so fast. ‘My calculation, exactly.’
‘Anything with a mast, we can forget – that’s about half, at least.’
‘And that far jetty, looks like it’s reserved for your floating gin palaces.’ He pointed to a line of larger yachts, many with jet skies attached to their rears.
‘Shall we start on the right, then? I do one side of the jetty, you do the other?’
‘Sounds good.’
Their feet made hollow thuds as they made their way down the walkway. Many of the motorboats had covers stretched over them. Judging by the volume of seagull droppings they’d collected, some hadn’t been touched in months. By the time they’d checked four of the jetties, they’d counted eight Ribs, but only three of those appeared new. Iona carefully noted the berth number of each one.
‘Hey up,’ Jon said, as they made their way towards the fifth walkway. ‘There are people in that end one.’
Iona looked up. ‘Oh yeah.’
A head and shoulders had appeared at the rear of the single mast yacht moored at the very end of the jetty. Looking more closely, Jon could see cracks of light in the row of windows running down the vessel’s side. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted to them on the breeze. ‘Jesus, that smells good.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Iona murmured.
By the time they reached the jetty’s end, the person had been joined by another. Jon could tell they were a couple, both into their sixties. ‘Morning.’
The man was wearing a faded red baseball cap. He glanced round slowly and intelligent eyes swiftly assessed Jon. ‘Hi there.’
The twang in the man’s voice was unmistakeably Australian. His partner was casually raking fingers through her short hair. What is it about boats? Jon thought. Everyone seems so damned relaxed. The man’s t-shirt read, Waratahs, a rugby team based in New South Wales.
‘You’ve not sailed here all the way from Australia, have you?’ Jon tapped his chest and pointed at the man’s top.
He glanced down, realised what he was wearing and gave an easy smile. ‘No, just up from Almeria. Originally, we sailed from Greece. Been making our way round since Spring.’
‘Some holiday.’
‘Retired, mate. Life’s one big holiday now. I’m Mike, this is my wife, Sue.’
‘Jon and Iona.’
The woman rose to her feet, toes flexing in her flip-flops. ‘Can I get you two some coffee?’
Jon glanced at Iona and imagined the craving in her eyes matched his. ‘No, don’t go to any trouble – ’
‘There’s a pot just brewed, it’s no trouble. Milk and sugar?’
Iona spoke up. ‘One plain black, one with milk, thanks.’
‘On its way.’ She stooped down and disappeared below deck.
The man gestured to his side. ‘It’s a bit cramped, but you’re welcome to come aboard.’
Seeing they’d be almost on each other’s laps, Jon raised a hand. ‘No, you’re fine, thanks.’ He looked back along the jetty. ‘We shouldn’t stop too long
: we’re working.’
‘Something told me you didn’t own a boat. What kind of work?’
‘Police,’ Jon replied.
The man tipped his head in response.
Something about the gesture prompted Jon to ask, ‘Were you in the job?’
‘Australian navy, thirty-five years.’
The woman reappeared, an enamel mug in each hand. ‘Here you go.’
Once they all had a cup, the man said, ‘Can we be of any help?’
‘Well, we’re looking for a particular type of Rib. How long have you been moored here?’
‘Arrived Saturday, we carry on today. Heading north.’
‘How does it work, sailing between one country and another?’ Iona asked, glancing back at the closed building. ‘Do you have to report in somewhere?’
‘We did on first arriving in British waters,’ he replied. ‘We sailed into Dartmouth and got our passports stamped there. You’re expected to show your faces at the harbour master’s office as soon as it’s practical. This place, we phoned ahead to see if they had any spare berths. We paid in advance for two nights.’
‘What’s to stop someone just sailing into a larger harbour, mooring up among other boats, then sneaking off without paying?’
He looked at her for a moment. ‘Well, nothing in theory. But other boat owners might not be happy. These berths are all numbered.’ He nodded to their feet. ‘This is forty eight.’
Jon looked down: a small brass disc had the number engraved on it.
‘It’s like an office car park. Rock up in someone else’s berth and the owner won’t be happy. These things don’t come cheap. Then there’s the harbour master. It’s that guy’s job to keep an eye on things. You’d be surprised at how good they are at it, too.’
‘Even in busy harbours?’
‘Oh yes. His office will be somewhere with a good view. Big pair of bino’s to hand. They develop a mental map. Any boat appears that they don’t know about, they pick up on pretty damn fast.’