Sam had to make a split-second choice: get out and run or, however ridiculous it sounded, drive? The passenger of the Impala made the choice for her. The tall man was in the process of pulling a handgun from his belt. He wasn’t raising it to fire - yet, but the intent was there. The driver, on the far side of the car, was also out on the tarmac.
It was snakeskin-belt man.
Go!
She rammed the Lexus into drive and floored the accelerator.
The man with the gun didn’t have a chance to get out of the way. The Lexus hit his door which pinned him against the Impala. Sam caught his face. Surprise. Terror. Pain.
The Lexus didn’t have anywhere near enough momentum to force a side-parked Impala out of its way. But it was heavy enough to do for the driver of the Impala.
On the other hand the Micra behind her, with its wheels in the Lexus’s direction of travel - that’s possible?
‘Sam?’ It was Wolfgang. A squeaky voice from her groin above the sound of a thrashing engine and metal against metal (and bone).
Sam found reverse. And floored it.
Smack!
She kept the revs high, looking over her shoulder for an opportunity to disengage from the Micra. It was moving - they both were. But not very quickly. She glanced forward. The driver was in a heap. He was out of it, his handgun on the floor. But snakeskin-belt man was alive and well, and coming round the front of the Impala.
And he also had a gun.
Shit.
Sam threw the Lexus into drive. There were now a couple of metres between her and the Impala, and a half a metre between the front of the Impala and the next along car - the Cube.
The 430 badge on the back of the Lexus meant 4.3 litres. That’s four times larger than the Swift she’d abandoned yesterday. Add in two metres of tarmac, and that was enough to turn the SUV into a battering ram - and for snakeskin-belt man, a potentially lethal weapon. Sam wellied the accelerator at the same time as she turned the steering wheel hard right.
Snakeskin-belt man made the right choice. He was raising the gun to take aim at Sam, but that would have meant standing still long enough to fire off a shot. Which would have put him in the way of 2.3 tonnes of accelerating SUV.
As he launched himself over the bonnet of the Impala, the Lexus smashed an SUV-sized hole between it and the Cube. The grating sound of metal against metal hurt Sam’s ears. But she’d cope. The shot that snakeskin-belt man fired off a second later was ear-shattering as it smashed the Lexus’s rear glass and ... Sam wasn’t sure where it went after that. But all of her limbs were working well enough. She checked.
‘Sam!’ A squeal.
It was still Wolfgang. Still at groin level.
‘I’m busy! Give me a minute!’
But a minute wasn’t long enough. She may have smashed the Impala, but she hadn’t lost a tail. As soon as she was on the main drag she spotted an old, white Nissan 720 pickup - driven by a local - right behind her. She turned down a side street. It followed. She accelerated. It did the same.
‘Shit!’
‘Sam!’
The Nissan was no match for the Lexus in a drag race. But this wasn’t a drag race. It was a busy city with pedestrians and plenty of cars.
‘Wolfgang.’
‘Yes. Are you OK?’
‘Maybe. Look, what time is the …’, she hunted for the right word, ‘... passage booked for?’ She had no idea why she was trying to disguise her speech. They were on her tail.
‘He’s on call. Why, are you in a rush?’
‘I’ve had some local trouble and I need to leave as soon as possible. The problem is I still have a tail.’
‘I’ll get him ready now. Give me five minutes. You’re after Potters Cay, under the bridge. Look for a boat called The Price of Freedom.’
Sam had taken a couple of turns and the Nissan had stayed with her. Heavy traffic prevented her from pushing hard.
‘You’re joking? The Price of Freedom?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘OK. Look, before I go. Müller’s phone …’
‘Yes?’
‘It had a missed call.’ The bile rose in her throat. ‘From an RB.’
Sam took another right. She was trying to stay in traffic - in the middle of the city. Where she had lots of company. It took a few seconds for Wolfgang to respond.
‘OK. Got it. Stay calm and focused. Let’s get you off the island. I’ll tell my man to expect you at any time.’
‘Thanks.’
As the phone disconnected Sam noticed that the temperature gauge on the Lexus was registering that it wasn’t happy - a flashing-red LED-lit radiator sign. She’d probably put a hole in it barging between the cars.
Shit.
How long did she have before the Lexus’s vehicle management system shut the car down? What then?
Think.
She had to lose her tail. And then get to Potters Cay. If she headed east she’d hit the far end of the island in about ten minutes. Then, a left turn on East Coast road and follow it north, then west along the seafront back into the city centre. There must be some decent straight bits of road in that seven miles or so - where she could lose the Nissan?
If the Lexus keeps going for that long.
Sam was right. There were a couple of long, straight tracks of road where the Lexus easily outgunned the Nissan. Before long she was a couple of hundred metres ahead of her pursuer. At the end of the island she had to wait a few seconds to turn left onto East Coast Road - as a result she was sure that the Nissan saw the direction she took. But, after a couple of dodgy overtaking manoeuvres on the coast road, she was well ahead of her tail.
And enjoying herself. The coast road was beautiful. Calm, azure blue seas with the hint of an atoll in the distance. Huge, wealthy estates with names such as Brigadoon, Spanish Landing and Dreamy Skies. And, with the increase in speed of the Lexus, its temperature gauge had dropped out of the red warning zone. Two miles or so to the cay. She might just make it.
Her optimism lasted less than a minute. A flash of blue pulled onto the road behind her. A few seconds later the severely dented wing of the blue Impala was on her tail. There was just the driver - snakeskin-belt man. But she’d already learnt that he could drive.
She pressed the Lexus as hard as she could, always aware that she’d rather leave herself to the mercy of the thug who was following her, than knock over a pedestrian. As a result, the Impala didn’t budge. And snakeskin-belt man looked really pissed; his handgun laying blatantly on the dash of the Impala.
Traffic.
Sam reckoned they were no more than a mile from the cay. The tall, pink towers of Atlantis rising incongruously above the two-storey, townhouses. She spotted the bridges - and then the road split, with her lane bearing left onto a single-direction, urban dual carriageway. She pushed the Lexus through the meandering traffic, as its temperature gauge rose again. She needed to turn right. Soon.
She put a bus between her and the Impala. Then a car.
Now!
She braked hard and turned right. Cutting down a single-track road between more poorly maintained houses. She’d made some ground. The Impala was 40 metres behind her. Ahead was the second urban dual carriageway, moving in the opposite direction. She didn’t stop - she squinted and braced her arms against the wheel - and pulled out, hard right, into moving traffic. There was a screech of tyres - and horns. And more horns. But no sound of metal on metal. No smash. She checked her rear-view mirror. The gap between her and the Impala was now 50 metres.
Just ahead of her were the concrete arched bridges leading onto Paradise Island. She’d need to take a left between the two. Down onto Potters Cay. To the wharf. And then find The Price of Freedom.
She pushed on, slipping the Lexus between two cars. More horns. Sod them. She looked at her dash. The temperature gauge now well in the red.
There it is
Sam sped to the junction, braked sharply and then pulled down hard left on the steering wheel. The L
exus’s front tyres protested as its back end struggled to keep up.
She accelerated again - she could see the end of the road about 400 metres ahead, a small marina of boats on the quayside directly in front of her.
Sam checked her mirror. Nothing. No, shit, not nothing. There was the Impala. What should she do? She was caught. Driving down a dead end. Looking for a boat which could be anywhere.
She was 200 metres from the quayside. To her left was a row of dilapidated wooden shacks masquerading as chandlers, fish cafes and bars - immediately beyond was the sea. To her right was a tall, rusty metal fence running along the complete length of road. Behind it was a worn-out parking lot and one of the sets of stanchions for the ‘off’ bridge. The lot was empty apart from a couple of shells of cars.
The whole place looked ominous. Seedy. Dangerous.
Just when she needed complete control the Lexus took it from her.
The SUV’s engine management system had decided that enough was enough. If the woman persisted on driving the car in these conditions she would do permanent damage to the engine. And it wasn’t having that. It cut off all the power and, as the car was automatic, almost instantaneously the engine drag slowed the Lexus down to a crawl. And then it stopped.
Fuck!
Sam knew it was lost. The Impala was gaining. There was a madman at the wheel. And he had a gun. She had an unscalable fence to her right. And, to her left, was the sea. Ahead of her, somewhere, was a boat to freedom.
She had to do something.
Try something.
She grabbed her rucksack from the back seat and launched herself out of the Lexus. The Impala was 100 metres away. But it was faced with a road block. Snakeskin-belt man might struggle to squeeze his car between the Lexus and the fence to the right, and the SUV was too close to the shacks on the left for a car to pass. But with both cars clearly expendable - he’d make room?
She ran. As fast as she could. She’d be at the quay in under a minute. Then she’d need to find The Price of Freedom.
Crunch. Metal on metal. She felt the fence to her right vibrate - and then bend away from her. The Impala was forcing itself through. The fence was giving way. Of course it would. It would be free in no time. And then it would be over.
Fifty metres. The boats came into focus – the quay stretching to the right.
Three yachts. No. An old fishing boat. No. A couple of small speed boats. No.
The fence gave its final wave, and she heard the revs of the Impala pick up. It was hopeless. Even if she made the boat, snakeskin-belt man would be climbing aboard with her.
And then a new noise. The nee-naw of police sirens. She couldn’t stop herself from taking a glance behind. The Impala was free of the fence and gaining. She might make it to the corner - start looking at the other boats before it reached the quayside.
Maybe.
The fence started shimmering again. More traffic? The nee-naws were getting louder. She turned the corner as the Impala screeched to a halt. It was left hand drive - the car’s body was between her and snakeskin-belt man.
She had seconds.
She sprinted harder. Looking left at row upon row of boats.
And there it was, a huge powerboat. At the end of the next boardwalk. Pointy - long - and with four engines on the back. There was a local with dreadlocks looking her way. He had a single, nonchalant hand in the air.
Clump!
Shit! A shot. From a hand gun. Probably 9 mm. A miss. She recognised the sound.
Nee-naw, nee-naw.
‘Police! Put down your weapon.’ A shout from the corner.
Clump! A thump in her back, lurching her forward - she almost toppled over.
Shit! Was she hit?
Am I hit? Keep going!
She turned left onto the boardwalk. She heard the thud-thud-thud of marine outboards burst into life. The smell of petrol a new sensation.
Clump! Clump!
Not at her this time, unless snakeskin-belt man had forgotten how to aim. More distant. Nee-naw, nee-naw. Shouting.
The man with the dreadlocks was holding out his hand. As she took it, she spotted the name - The Price of Freedom - in exaggerated italics across the back of the white fibreglass hull. He launched her into the boat - she stumbled, falling unceremoniously in a heap on the floor. Then a flash of dreadlocks as he moved quickly to the controls.
More shouting - still at a distance, but closer now. Nee-naw, nee-naw. She composed herself. Sat up. Got orientated.
The front of the boat lifted. The back dropped. It accelerated with a turn of speed that threw Sam backwards. She was, literally and metaphorically, all at sea. She glanced up. There was someone on the quayside at the end of the boardwalk. She recognised him.
White, late middle-aged, sunglasses and a turquoise Miami Dolphins’ baseball cap.
The man from the bridge. With the camera.
He was staring at her. And then he did something that surprised the hell out of her. He put his thumb up and smiled.
Another harbour-side boat obscured her view. And then they were in the channel, travelling faster than she thought was possible without being airborne.
Samostan Monastery, Punat Bay, Krk, Croatia
Jakov was already at his wit’s end. Two days in the garden outside the monastery building, but still contained within an unscalable brick wall. Two days of endless toil. Dig here, sweep there, plant that stuff - no, not like that, like this. ‘Karlo’, his name for his monk minder, was at his side most of the day. He was kind and forgiving - as, Jakov guessed, any monk would be. They had fed him well, and the antibiotics had started to do their trick. The tracking up to his shoulder looked much less angry and he was beginning to feel better. Even though his shoulder still hurt like hell.
But he hated it. He hated that he was trapped and forced to work on menial tasks. He hated that his parents almost certainly thought he was dead; that he wouldn’t get to see his brother, Miklos, or any of his relatives again. He hated that he wasn’t able to scull - he had such a good season planned. And he hated that nobody said a word. Nothing, apart from ‘Hannibal’, the deranged man who he hadn’t seen for two days. It was all torture beyond torture.
He’d rather be dead. Or die trying to get off the island.
The problem was, he wasn’t a particularly brave man. He was big and strong - 1.90 metres in his rowing shoes and hovering on 110 kg, nearly all of it muscle. But physical courage wasn’t his strong suit. He’d shied away from fights at school. Much too young to have been forced to serve in the Balkan war like most older Croat men, when some of his friends had queued up to join today’s Army he’d stayed in the village and worked in his father’s shop. He was artistic - and sporty. He found more than enough guts and determination to become a very good rower, but he avoided confrontation.
This, he knew, provided him with a dilemma. He couldn’t stay here, no matter how benign his environment. He couldn’t. But did he have the courage to try and escape? To face the dogs? Was it possible to get off the island? Was his shoulder strong enough to allow him to swim? Wasn’t the water far too cold? Was there a boat?
It was getting dark. Karlo had collected all of the tools and had returned them to a shed which was at the bottom of the walled garden. Jakov checked his watch. It was 5.17 pm. It would be suppertime soon.
The food was good.
But he couldn’t stay here.
Karlo took him gently by the forearm and led him through two sets of locked double doors. The monk opened them as he always did via, what Jakov thought was, iris recognition. Now in the quadrangle, his monk pointed at his own watch. It read 5.20. He then flicked up both hands - signifying 20 minutes. He then pointed at the ground.
Here in 20 minutes.
‘Am I free to make my own way to my room?’
The monk nodded.
Brilliant.
Jakov grabbed the monk’s hand and shook it. Other than sleeping, this would be his first 20 minutes of freedom.
; ‘Thanks. Thanks very much.’
The monk smiled and nodded some more. He mouthed, ‘twenty minutes’, and then made his way across the courtyard.
Jakov paused. He looked for the closest bench and made a beeline for it. He sat. And thought.
I could be here forever. I’m 23. Time is on my side. I should get to know every nook and cranny of this place. Fit in. Earn some trust. Work out patterns. And then, like some Second World War escape movie, I should make my move. That’s what I’ll do.
He looked around the quad. He counted the windows. Tried to second-guess what was happening behind each one. If the top floor matched the bottom, there would be a corridor running along the inside with rooms on both sides. He spotted the grainy image of a monk moving left to right on the top floor, window to window of the wing in front of him.
Monk in window. Wall. Monk in window. Wall. No monk.
Logic dictated that the monk was in a room that was at least two windows long. Bigger than his room. He kept looking to see if the monk silhouette returned to the window he had just transited.
Nothing.
He had started. He’d need to write all this down somewhere.
His stare was interrupted by a low-volume siren. He’d heard it before, but had never managed to understand what it was associated with. Now he knew.
The main entrance arch and the associated metal doors were in the wall off to his right. A yellow flashing light above the arch (which he’d not noticed before) accompanied the siren. Both were signalling that the doors were opening. He counted in his head: one - two - three. The doors were now fully opened. Another fact; he’d need to write that down.
Then a shiver of fear spasmed down his spine.
Into the courtyard walked ‘Hannibal’. He was accompanied by a medium-build black man, who was smartly but casually dressed. He was holding a silver drinks-can in his hand. They were in animated conversation.
‘What do you mean, she got away?’ Hannibal was angry - incensed. His voice raised.
‘There was a fracas at the docks. Our man was shot dead; a second was badly wounded somewhere inland. We can only assume that she escaped on a boat - headed for Florida.’ The black man replied. He seemed casual; unworried by Hannibal’s histrionics.
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