by Peter Tonkin
‘Zemlya,’ answers Harry, beginning to waken up, an elegant Boston accent coming and going. ‘It’s one of only two afloat at the moment but there are more in the pipeline according to the IAEA PRIS.’
‘The what?’ The Pitman’s Dutch intonation is thick enough to sound almost Afrikaans again and matches the blonde crewcut and hard blue eyes.
‘International Atomic Energy Agency’s Power Reactor Information System,’ Harry explains, brown eyes blinking owlishly. ‘It’s all online.’ One hand thoughtlessly tries to tidy a mop of brown curls while the other straightens a severely cut grey suit jacket and open-necked shirt.
Their conversation is interrupted by an immaculate air hostess who comes to explain in person that they should prepare for landing now. It’s a message repeated immediately by the captain in Japanese, Russian, American-accented English, Finnish and Dutch. All of which languages Harry and the Pitman speak with varying degrees of fluency.
Their luggage is checked through automatically for the internal connection to Asahikawa so, after they have performed the necessary procedures, Harry and the Pitman wander into Café de Crie to wait for their flight to be called. Although it goes against character and flint-hard reputation, the Pitman has an achingly sweet tooth and so they order their waffles American style with crisp-grilled bacon and syrup. Harry asks for the closest they can get to bacon, eggs over easy and wholewheat toast. And the blackest, bitterest coffee the café can come up with. Then the two of them settle to their long-awaited breakfast – and are for once focused on what they’re eating rather than where they are and who might be coming close to them.
So it comes as more of a shock than a surprise when an enormous man wearing a single-breasted, elegantly tailored, mid-grey gabardine suit, a white cotton shirt and a gold silk tie sits down beside them unannounced and uninvited. Harry looks across at his smiling face and frowns with amazement.
But when the Pitman looks up, squinting a little to see beyond the massive stranger, there behind him, standing tall in a black business suit that looks like Chanel, with a sable wrap carelessly open over the top of it, stands a woman whose simple beauty takes the Pitman’s breath away. It is a moment before the Dutch mercenary registers the identity of the stunning vision. Then the little half-smile, familiar from hundreds of news clips and photographs gives it away. That and the ID badge beneath the sable and the rope upon rope of black pearls: Mme Anastasia Asov, Chief Executive Officer, Bashnev Oil and Power.
The seated giant runs his hand over his shaven scalp as he leans forward. ‘We have some bad news and some good news. What do you want first?’
‘The bad news,’ says Pitman through a mouthful of waffles and syrup.
‘The bad news is that Richard’s in deeper shit than he realizes,’ Ivan announces. ‘I’ve just received word that some Eskimo fisherman has pulled half-a-dozen dead bodies out of Rat Island Pass. It seems that the recently deceased are a team hired by Tristan Folgate-Lothbury of Lloyd’s of London to test the security systems on board Sayonara. The Folgate-Lothbury syndicate apparently gave them all the access codes and whatnot in order to make this as severe a test as possible. But precisely what they were given is hard to be certain of because this Tristan Folgate-Lothbury has apparently been found floating face-down under a bridge in London. And it may be that he was pushed rather than that he jumped. The news services are going wild. And it is only reasonable to assume …’
‘To assume that whoever killed the men have taken the codes and gone aboard in their place; and may, indeed, be associated with whoever pushed Tristan Folgate-Lothbury,’ continues Anastasia Asov smoothly as she eases herself into the fourth and last seat at the table and signals a hovering attendant. ‘The dead men’s kit has been found on Hawadax Island. All their dummy guns and so forth. It seems only reasonable to assume that the men who have replaced them do not have dummy guns.’
‘They have the real thing,’ Pitman calculates.
‘And then some, in all probability,’ adds Harry thoughtfully. ‘They certainly seem to have state-of-the-art signal jammers.’
‘Coffee,’ Nastia orders as the waitress approaches. ‘The same as they have. Two cups. No sugar. No cream.’ She rejoins the conversation, locking her eyes with the Pitman’s. ‘We assume they have state of the art everything. We don’t yet know for sure what their overall plan is, but Robin Mariner’s been in touch. The ’Ndrangheta connection you already know about may have widened into setting Sayonara up to sink as part of an insurance fraud. All we know for certain, though, is that their men seem to have gone aboard at Rat Island Pass fifty hours ago and Sayonara is due at the NIPEX facility in fifty hours’ time – unless they have managed to reprogramme the control computers. Which is, of course, a strong possibility because they’ve shut the remote control team at NIPEX out and seem to have screwed the communications system communicating with NIPEX and HM altogether, though I understand there are still locator signals coming through from the automatic black box system. That’s only supposed to stop if the ship goes down.’
The coffee arrives and a short silence falls as Nastia and Ivan pour themselves a cup each and sip thoughtfully. ‘Could these pirate guys have done that?’ Ivan asks Harry. ‘Reprogrammed the engine and navigation computers so that they have control of the ship then blocked almost everything else so we only know where the ship is and where she’s heading but not what’s happening on board?’
‘Hard to say,’ Harry shrugs. ‘Robin sent me everything available about the systems the last time we were in contact and I have it all on my Apple’s hard drive. I went through some of it last night as we were coming over the Pole. The systems are so complex, with so many checks and balances, information streams and cut-outs that it would be a tough job to re-programme the whole lot. But I guess if they were careful, they could tinker with the edges. Maybe vary the speed and heading. Fool the engine monitoring system and even the GPS. I mean, I know GPS has come on leaps and bounds since the early days, but we all remember stories about cars being sent the wrong way down one-way streets, trucks being guided into municipal parks instead of car parks, or being trapped at the end of dead-end streets they couldn’t turn round in or reverse out of. It’s still got built-in room for error. And on top of everything else, there are GPS jammers easily available over the internet.’
‘OK,’ interrupts the Pitman impatiently. ‘So we can assume these guys have the ability to mess with the ship’s management systems and if they haven’t done so yet then that’ll be part of a larger plan. One that will probably involve Sayonara coming to a violent end, involving at least some of the people currently on board her. Or those planning to go aboard her – us. Unless we can stop what they’re up to and screw up their plan instead. That’s the bad news. Now what’s the good news?’
‘The good news,’ says Ivan expansively, ‘is that we’re here to help.’
The Pitman gives a shout of derisive laughter. ‘Thanks! But I have to tell you, Ivan, that we’re all the help we need.’
‘Not so fast, Sergeant Van Der Piet!’ snaps Anastasia, leaning forward. ‘Hear us out. You’ve come all this way relying on Heritage Mariner to get you the last few miles. We at Bashnev can do that faster and more efficiently. You can’t have brought much in the way of weaponry halfway round the world with you. We can put that right. There’s no way you would be able to get aboard Sayonara without alerting friend and foe alike. We can get aboard so quietly that even the alarm systems will probably not notice. And, although we look like corporate amateurs, I have to tell you that we can hold our own even in your company. More than hold our own.’
Something taps against the top of the Pitman’s thigh. And there, on the black cotton of the cargo pants is the tip of a metre-long blade as wide as Ivan’s palm, curving wickedly, steel-bright and razor sharp.
‘It’s a matchet,’ explains Nastia. ‘The blade they use in the jungles of Congo, Rwanda and Benin La Bas. It’s what the Interahamwe, Boko Haram and the Lord’s Resistanc
e Army cut off your hands with. And your feet if you piss them off. The only difference is that this one’s made of composite. It doesn’t show up on airport scanners. But it still does the job. I’m an expert in its use. You didn’t know I was carrying it. You didn’t see me get it out. And if I wasn’t on your side, your guts would be lying on the floor now.’
‘Not really a match for my plastic and polymer Glock, though,’ observes the Pitman conversationally. ‘I know it’s only partially composite but quite clearly the guys at Schiphol, Helsinki and Narita haven’t had the latest up-to-date training on how to recognize it. And it’s now pointing at the bits of you that you and your boyfriend here would least like to have damaged. Good though you may be, Ms Asov, I’m afraid you just brought a knife to a gunfight.’
‘My God,’ laughs Ivan, throwing himself back theatrically in his chair and knocking Anastasia out of the line of fire, apparently by accident. ‘This is fun! In fact, Madame Asov will not be joining us on board – she has quite enough to keep her occupied here. But I will, with your permission – and I have brought one other less lethal sweetener with me – I have Richard’s laptop, which contains all the information available about everyone that he put on board. And a memory stick with further information, and a remote hard drive courtesy of my father and one or two associates of his, which contains everything that the FSB will release to me from their records on organized crime – especially the Mafia and the ’Ndrangheta.’
In the infinitesimal moment of silence while all four of them exchange glances, Harry Newbold gives a secret smile. They are all so out of date. Harry can send an email anywhere in the world containing the specifications of a gun. A 3D printer like the one flat-packed in the case with the Apple laptop will print it out. Then all that’s needed to make a weapon as powerful as the Pitman’s Glock is a firing pin the size of a biro nib and a little ammunition. Harry, still smiling, gives an infinitesimal nod and the Pitman rasps. ‘OK, Ivan, you’re in. Just don’t get under foot, that’s all!’
Ivan gives a bellow of laughter that turns heads right across the cafe. ‘Fair enough!’ he agrees. ‘I am so going to enjoy playing with you people!’
48 Hours to Impact
‘Of course it’s a trap,’ Richard agreed. ‘But I still think there’s a way round it.’ He gestured at the screen of his Galaxy. They were still relying on that because the techies had so far failed to break into the ship’s own computers. And, while the Japanese experts tried in vain to undo Rikki Sato’s original good work and find ways around the barriers they themselves had designed and erected, their laptops were all spoken for. Besides, the seven-inch screen showed what Richard meant as clearly as anything stored on the larger laptops.
The hours had flown by in a mixture of argument and frustration as they had tried to work out a way of helping the missing men – any way short of going down there themselves. Ship’s time was ten a.m. – but that was well adrift of terrestrial time now – or of lunar and solar time. According to the moon – the sun being somewhere below the horizon – it was not quite dawn. Like the chronometers, the computers had proved to be of little help. ‘It is the system’s automatic override,’ Dr Sato had explained apologetically on behalf of his increasingly helpless colleagues. ‘We programmed every fail-safe and protective device we could into the control and command system when we set it up. They come on automatically if an outsider tries to tamper with it. Clearly one of two things has happened. Either the men who came aboard before us tripped these by accident when they tried to access the system …’
‘But they had all the other codes,’ probed Richard. ‘Why would they not have the emergency override codes for these devices?’
‘That is my second supposition,’ said Sato. ‘They may have used the codes, changed or damaged the programmes, then tripped the cut-outs on purpose to frustrate anyone seeking to find and fix what they had done. The effect at the moment is the same.’ He looked around, trying to think of an analogy that would make his predicament clear to all of them at once. ‘It is as though you have misremembered your online password,’ he said at last. ‘You have tried three times erroneously. And everything is closed against you until you contact the service provider and get a new password.’
‘So why …’ began Steve Penn.
Dr Sato raised his hand and the American fell silent. ‘We cannot contact the provider in this instance, of course, because we have no external communications. And even if we did, we could not reset the password in mid-voyage. The back-up emergency override codes are no use now; we would have to wait until the ship prepares to dock and the GPS alerts the relevant satellite to send the master unlock codes so the skeleton crew and pilot can come aboard and take control.’
‘And you can’t even hack it?’ asked Richard, frowning.
‘My engineers are not hackers, Captain Mariner,’ answered Sato severely. ‘And even if they were, it would take a genius-level hacker to break into our system. Someone such as the Chinese government apparently employs to worm their way into Western systems.’
Richard nodded, silently praying that Harry Newbold was as good a hacker as gossip, reputation and research led him to believe. And that Harry and the Pitman would be here soon. He shrugged and reached for his Galaxy. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Keep trying, though, while we attempt to work out the more immediate matter of getting our men out of the engine room.’ Aleks squinted a little as Richard turned towards him and continued, tapping the Galaxy’s screen gently to enlarge a section of the diagram it was showing, ‘Look, Aleks. There are two shafts reaching from the upper weather deck down into the engine room. The one we opened and this other one here. They’ll both be covered by groups of Macavity’s men waiting for us to make a move and try and rescue our friends. And I would suggest that Macavity is sufficiently on the ball to have the main doors in from the engineering decks covered too – always assuming he hasn’t booby-trapped them. But here – you see it? – here there is a ventilation shaft. It’s not the sort of thing you’d expect even Macavity to notice or know about. I only saw it on this schematic because I was looking for it. But it’s over a metre square. And it leads from the engine room up into the funnel system. We could get into it up there and worm our way down and round behind him. There’s only a grille covering it at the engine room end and that should be easy enough to kick out.’
‘It’s all a bit Die Hard,’ observed Dom DiVito sceptically, and Steve Penn nodded. ‘I mean, what would you do once you’re down there?’
But Aleks took the idea more seriously. ‘If we timed it so that Macavity and his men were watching someone coming down the main shafts, then you could get the drop on them. Then we could do quite a lot. You wouldn’t be able to take much kit, though. Not if you’re crawling along a tunnel one metre square.’
‘I couldn’t in any case,’ Richard answered. ‘Those things aren’t designed to carry much weight. We should really be looking for the slimmest and lightest people here.’ He glanced round the bridge as he spoke. The slimmest and lightest were Steve and Dom. After them, a couple of Japanese technicians; an engineer or two. The people they could actually trust to do the work – Aleks’s men – were all built like brick outhouses.
‘Hey,’ said Dom suddenly, ‘if you’re serious, I’m up for it. I’ll tag along. I should be able to go anywhere Richard goes.’
Aleks looked at the young Canadian executive speculatively. ‘But will you be able to do what Richard can do when you get there?’ he asked.
‘Probably not. Sure as hell not, if everything in his Greenbaum International file is true. But I can carry a gun and I’m a real good shot.’
‘Even so,’ said Aleks, ‘we’ll need to send at least two of my men with you.’
Dawn was just beginning to threaten as they came back on to the topmost deck. There was just enough light to see the door on the side of the funnel that allowed access to its inner workings. Like the funnels, it was a bundle of shafts of various widths, shapes and sizes, heading off
in various directions at various angles to various depths of the vessel. Once again, Richard’s Galaxy gave them enough detail to ease their way in through the maintenance door and to the hollow funnel itself. There was a toolbox secured beside the doorway and that contained the spanners needed to unbolt a section of the shaft they were planning to crawl along. Then it was simply a matter of Richard and Dom easing themselves into the steeply angled duct. And then Aleks’ men following them.
As they prepared to climb in, Richard gave them all a short course which was a combination of wide experience and prescient imagination. ‘It’s not the most elegant of positions,’ he said tersely. ‘But when you’re crawling along the ducting, try and keep hands and knees out in the angles of the corners. Don’t put your weight on the centre of the panels. They’ll bend and make a noise. If push comes to shove, lie on your belly and pull yourself forward by pushing your hands against the walls on either side. If the duct becomes steep, we’ll have to go that way and use our hands as brakes in any case. I’ve gone over the schematic and it doesn’t have any vertical sections of more than a metre or two, so we should be able to negotiate those. And it’s a constant airflow system that operates without fans to assist it, so there’ll be no problems there. OK?’
‘As OK as I’ll ever be,’ said Dom. Like Richard and the Russians, he was dressed in black roll neck, bulletproof vest, black cargoes and boots. Neither man wore a balaclava, though both had one rolled in a cargo-pants pocket. Both men wore thin black gloves. All four carried Glock nine-millimetre handguns with red-dot sights in side holsters and carbines with torches under the barrels and stocks folded shut slung across their backs.
‘Give us plenty of time,’ said Richard to Aleks, as he settled everything into place. ‘Then start down the main hatch.’