A Killing Moon

by Dunne, Steven

‘Wicked, Uncle Greg,’ said Nick. ‘Been playing AC4 Black Flag with Ashley and I’m up to—’

  ‘What about your studies?’

  Nick took a deep breath. ‘I wrote a story this morning. And after lunch I learned about different chemicals.’

  ‘Tell me one thing you learned about chemicals, Nicholas.’

  Nick concentrated hard. ‘Well, did you know that water contains one oxygen …’

  ‘Atom,’ prompted Ashley.

  ‘Atom,’ repeated Nick. ‘And two atoms of hydrogen.’

  ‘I did know that,’ said Ostrowsky.

  Nick grinned. ‘Thing is, if water contains oxygen, why can’t we breathe at the bottom of the swimming pool?’

  ‘A good question, Nicholas. You start to think with logic.’ Ostrowsky looked at his watch. ‘It’s late.’ Nick leapt from the sofa. ‘Wait, I forgot to tell you. I have to go to Poland tomorrow night, on urgent business.’

  ‘Poland?’

  ‘My home country,’ said Ostrowsky. ‘Would you like to stay here and study or would you like to come with me? We’ll be sailing overnight across the sea to Amsterdam. If you want to come, I can book cabins, otherwise Tymon and I will snooze in chairs.’

  ‘The sea?’ said Nick. ‘I’ve never seen the sea.’

  ‘You’ve never seen the sea?’ smiled Ostrowsky. ‘Then you shall see it tomorrow.’

  ‘Can Ashley come?’

  ‘Well maybe Ashley has other plans, Nicholas. We shouldn’t presume he wants to spend all his time with you.’

  ‘Will you come, Ashley?’ pleaded Nick. ‘Will you?’

  ‘Never been to Poland,’ said Ashley sheepishly. ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ said Ostrowsky. ‘Then I shall book two outside cabins and you can look at the sea until you fall asleep.’ Nick clenched a fist in triumph. ‘On condition you get a good night’s sleep. Then it won’t matter if you stay awake tomorrow.’

  Ashley and Nick set off for their rooms and Ostrowsky drained his drink.

  ‘Business, boss?’

  Ostrowsky’s steel-blue eyes burned fiercely into Ashley’s back. He turned his gaze on his loyal bodyguard until Tymon nodded his understanding.

  ‘He’s asleep,’ said Ashley.

  Ostrowsky smiled. ‘It’s all the excitement. He will see the sea on the return journey.’ He gestured at Tymon, waiting in the narrow corridor. ‘Ashley, can you help Tymon bring something back from the car? It was too heavy for me.’

  ‘Sure, Mr O.’ Ashley closed the cabin door behind him.

  ‘This way,’ said Tymon.

  The pair emerged from the well-lit walkway into the wide-open spaces of the main boutique and bar area. At two in the morning, few people were around, and those that were were slumped in their seats trying to sleep. Tymon pressed the button for the lift, and on entering hit the Deck Nine button.

  ‘That’s not the car deck,’ said Ashley.

  ‘Sorry.’ Tymon fired an imaginary gun at his own forehead before pressing the car deck button. ‘Idiota.’

  The doors opened on Deck Nine at the top of the ship and Tymon put a hand to his mouth. ‘Seasick.’ He stepped out and scuttled for the external door into the cool cloudy night, running across to the rail to lean over.

  ‘Seasick?’ gloated Ashley, looking out over the North Sea stretching flat as a mirror, then back at Tymon’s huge bulk. ‘It’s like a sodding millpond.’

  The burly figure pushed himself back to his full height and turned to Ashley with a malicious gleam in his eye. ‘You right. I better.’ He grinned. ‘But you not look so good.’

  Ashley pulled a face. ‘Yeah, whatever, mate. Come on. Let’s get a shift on.’

  Tymon’s hand was on Ashley’s throat in a split second, belying his cumbersome frame. As the big Pole walked the lightly built young man back to the rail, he moaned and gasped for breath, his tongue protruding and his eyes beginning to bulge.

  At the rail, Tymon loosened his grip, but before Ashley could get his breath, he swung his forearm sharply across the younger man’s cheek. Ashley crumpled like a cheap umbrella, held upright only by Tymon’s pudgy hand wedging him against the handrail.

  Tymon took a precautionary look round, then hoisted the unconscious figure above the height of the safety rail.

  ‘Goodbye, Ashley.’

  Tymon’s smile warped at a strange pain in his spine, and he turned to see a tall, powerful man at his back. A second later, Ashley crashed to the deck as the big man’s arms and legs gave way and he slumped forward, his fat head now jammed against the handrail. Paralysed, he was powerless to resist as the man, dressed head to toe in black, wrenched the knuckle knife around ninety degrees before withdrawing it from his spinal column. If Tymon could have controlled his vocal cords at that moment, he would have screamed in agony.

  The assailant dragged Ashley’s unconscious body to the safety of the vibrating bulkhead, returning to haul Tymon’s unresponsive carcass up the rail. He lifted the big man, not without difficulty, and held him against the barrier, feeling him beginning to spasm.

  ‘You carry too much weight, my friend,’ he grunted in Polish, as he forced Tymon’s upper torso over the chest-high metal. He bent to the ankles, lifted them up and flipped Tymon over the side. ‘May I suggest a fish diet?’

  A soft knock on the door signalled job done. Ostrowsky unscrewed the cap on a fresh bottle of vodka. ‘Come and have a drink, old friend,’ he said as he poured two large measures. He looked up to see a tall man dressed in black trousers, gloves, sweater, shoes and woollen hat pointing a gun at him. He paused briefly before resealing the bottle. ‘You’re just in time.’

  The man in black pulled off his hat and screwed a silencer on to the end of the gun barrel before sitting on the bunk opposite Ostrowsky, out of arm’s reach.

  ‘Drink?’ said Ostrowsky. The man in black shook his head. ‘Mind if I finish mine?’ Again a head shake. For obvious reasons, Ostrowsky took a more conservative sip than usual and studied his uninvited guest. ‘I know you,’ he said, breaking into a smile of recognition. ‘The photograph she kept by her bed. Special forces, right? Major …’

  ‘Colonel Marius Proch,’ said the man in the interests of clarity.

  ‘Colonel,’ repeated Ostrowsky. ‘She was very proud of you.’

  ‘And I of her.’

  Ostrowsky wagged an admonishing finger. ‘I made her promise not to mention me to her parents.’

  Proch smiled. ‘Kassia was a good girl. She kept her promise.’

  Ostrowsky puzzled over this for a second before arriving at a solution. ‘Brook.’

  Proch didn’t confirm or deny. ‘Drink your vodka.’

  Ostrowsky drained his glass before placing it on the floor. He straightened his tie. ‘Would you allow me to pray first?’

  ‘Did you allow my Kassia to pray?’ said Proch. Ostrowsky hesitated. A bullet smashed into his heart and he crashed back on to the mattress, dead instantly. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Proch searched Ostrowsky and removed car keys, wallet and telephone before opening the window. He lifted Ostrowsky’s head and shoulders through the gap and pushed him incrementally until gravity did its work and the body splashed into the black water below. He dismantled the gun and flung both parts into the North Sea after Ostrowsky. He did the same with the businessman’s smartphone, the bullet casing and his gloves, stained with Tymon’s blood.

  Using his handkerchief, he opened the cabin next door and placed the car keys and wallet quietly on the floor. Ashley was still unconscious on his bunk, but Nick was snoring for England. Proch closed the door, wiped the handle and returned to the outdoor deck, where he took out a pre-paid mobile phone and rang the only number on the speed dial.

  ‘Hello,’ said the voice on the other end.

  Proch paused for a second. ‘Sorry, I have dialled incorrectly.’ He rang off and dropped the phone over the side, then returned to his cabin for the rest of the journey.

  Brook put down his mobile a
nd sat on his bench watching the moon emerge from behind a dense cloud. Tigerbob sat on his lap asleep, and Brook was reluctant to move, despite his thirst for tea.

  An hour later, he texted Noble to set up a meeting with Jake Tanner and his solicitor at the earliest opportunity.

  ‘Sorry, Jake,’ he said aloud, a tight smile forming around his mouth. ‘If justice is to prevail, there can be no peace.’