by David Carter
She smiled and nodded and presented a clenched fist.
‘Agreed.’
He touched hers with his, and they returned to the car.
She opened the towels and wrapped each knife individually, before placing them in the cheap reed holdall she’d picked up in the street market. When she’d finished, he started the car, over-accelerated to induce wheel spin, and squirted away from the lay-by in a cloud of white dust. She buzzed the window down and tossed out the knife block. It bounced once, then over the edge of the cliff, dropping away to oblivion.
Over the noise of the car on the rough road he yelled, ‘In the morning, sis, I want you to look really sexy.’
‘Don’t I always?’
‘Yeah, you do, but make sure you do tomorrow. I want the guys at the boatyard to be more interested in you than our application to hire a boat.’
‘I know how to take a man’s mind off things...’ she pouted.
He finished the sentence for her, ‘And to turn them on again.’
They laughed together and barely spoke until they pulled into the car park at a local Co-operative Grocery Store. They bought two bottles of red wine, a bottle of whisky, and enough provisions for four days, and returned to the hotel and slept well in the twin beds in their air-conditioned room. The next morning they rose early, showered and breakfasted, and left the hotel just after nine to join the queue of fume ridden traffic heading for Piraeus, Athens’ port city.
‘Do you know where to hire a boat?’ she asked, checking her pink lipstick in the vanity mirror.
‘I’ve a good idea. I found it on the Internet. They hire out Sunskipper cruisers, remember, like the one we took out of Abersoch last year.’
Her mind returned to the seaborne visits they’d made to Dublin to watch the rugby, and the parties that followed, and Colm McGhee who’d kissed her uninvited, and ended up bunking down with them in O’Reilly’s hotel.
‘How could I forget?’
‘I figured it would be better to take a boat we know. I don’t want to take lessons again.’
He’d thought it through. Of course he had. He was his father’s son. Another Ridge trait; always had been. Planning and thoroughness was everything.
They found the local Sunskipper boat hire company after having to turn the car around just the once. Midge drove through the gates, where two neat young Greeks were painting the hull of an old beached cruiser. They smiled across at Coral without noticing Midge.
The boat company office was at the end of a rutted concrete approach road. Over the top of the single story building were bold cream letters in Greek announcing the company’s name. The sign needed painting. Below, in English, for the British and American tourists, were smaller letters that read The CORINTH CRUISING COMPANY.
‘Wait here,’ said Midge, as he tapped on the clear glass door and went inside.
There was a grubby Formica clad counter that looked as if it hadn’t changed in thirty years, and behind that stood a short, swarthy bald man who was talking loudly in Greek to a middle-aged woman. The man turned towards Midge and said, ‘Hello.’
‘Do you speak English?’ said Midge.
‘Of course.’
‘I want to hire a boat.’
‘You’ve come to the right place.’
‘I want a Sunskipper Cambria 50. I saw two of them outside at the quay.’
The Greek rolled his hangdog eyes, impressed the young man had knowledge of his boats.
‘You know this cruiser?’
‘Yeah, we had one in England.’
‘It could be done. When do you want her?’
‘Today.’
‘Today! Why are you English always in such a hurry? Today doesn’t give me much time.’
‘Spur-of-the-moment thing. Can you do it, or not?’
‘Maybe, but it will cost.’
‘How much?’
‘That depends on how long you want her.’
‘A week. Maybe less, not more.’
The man pulled a face, as if assessing his costs and his potential customer. How much could this kid afford to pay, and how desperate was he to hire a Sunskipper Cambria? But before the price, a few vital questions. A Sunskipper Cambria 50 with its 350 mile range could take him to Turkey and back, and reports of drug smuggling were rife.
‘You want her for business or pleasure?’
‘I want her to be alone...’ and Midge stood to one side to give the guy a clear view through the glass door of Coral, in her pastel blue miniskirt and matching bikini top. ‘With her. Would you call that business or pleasure?’
The man stared through the dusty glass at the girl. He tried to imagine how it would be to have her for a week on a Cambria 50. It didn’t bear thinking about, and there wouldn’t be much cruising done. He coughed and looked back at his booking forms and messed about with some figures with his pencil in an old cream notebook, and dashed numbers into a calculator. He reckoned the young guy would pay anything to be alone with her.
He pursed his lips and said, ‘10,000 Euro plus gas.’
Midge sucked in his cheeks and nodded. ‘That’s expensive. Take less for cash?’
‘We only deal in cash, take it or leave it.’
Coral began parading up and down along the face of the premises like a young show pony at its first gymkhana. Midge caught the man watching her through his hawk-like eyes.
‘OK, I’ll take it,’ said Midge in a rush, opening his wallet.
‘I’ll need your passports; they’ll be locked in the safe. You get them back when we get the boat back.’
That would make it difficult for them to visit Turkey, thought the boat owner. See if he objects.
‘Fine,’ confirmed Midge, he’d been expecting it. He took two passports from his jeans and placed them on the counter with the cash.
‘Will a thousand cover the gas?’
The man nodded, opened the passport, and began noting details on his booking sheet. Another crazy thought entered his mind. He’d remembered a report in the Athens’ newspapers a few weeks before about a rash of counterfeited passports that had been used across the bay to secure various fraudulent transactions.
‘What’s your date of birth, Mr Nichols?’
Midge suppressed a smile and quoted the date. They’d both taken time out on the flight memorising new identities, and by the time they had arrived in Athens he was Brian Nichols, born 16th December, accompanied by his beautiful young wife, Brenda. It was how he’d booked into the hotel, and how he’d hired the car. On his father’s advice he always maintained false passports, two fresh identities each, to be on the safe side. He remembered his father’s actual words: You never know what’s round the corner; you never know when you might need new ID. Anything could be bought with money, a passport, a driving licence, a politician, a judge, a woman, a boy, a gun, an assassin, a car, a boat, a hotel room, a new kidney, anything. Money ruled. Always had, always would. The man nodded and grunted and seemed convinced. He collected a bunch of keys from the locked cabinet behind him and muttered, ‘Follow me.’
Midge trailed him outside and smiled at Coral as he grabbed her hand. ‘Come on lover, we’ve a boat to catch.’
Coral giggled and kissed Midge’s ear. They were so much in love, the man imagined, and what a lucky bastard he was. It didn’t bear thinking about what was in store for her in the days ahead, and for him.
Chapter Twenty-One
1974. THREE WEEKS AFTER returning from Turkey, Vimy did something he’d never done before. He left the office early, fifteen minutes early, to be exact. He said he had an important appointment, yet no assignation existed in any diary.
He strode across Liverpool in the weak sunshine to where he’d parked his car in Bixteth Street, close to the old boxing stadium where local hero John Conteh was battering allcomers. The sun bounced off the bonnet of his bright red Lancia Beta. He opened the door, tossed his briefcase on the tiny rear seat, and jumped behind the wheel.
He punched the radio bu
tton and was greeted by the new Abba single, but he switched to the early evening news as he dashed down towards the new Kingsway Mersey Tunnel. There was nothing on the news about the fowl pest sweeping North America and that disappointed him. In the week since he’d stumbled on the story he’d sold maize short, and locked away in his desk drawer were contracts for 43,500 tonnes of maize he’d sold and didn’t possess.
In an effort to stabilise prices, the U.S. government had introduced trading limits on the Chicago grain exchange. If the index fell by the maximum amount, the market would close and prices could not fall further. So went the theory, but markets hate restrictions. It’s like a fat body forcing itself into a tight corset. Sooner or later, something explodes.
The scheme was designed to take the heat out of the situation, but did the opposite. It concentrated the vultures’ attention on the floundering carcass that the maize market had become. In the first three days that market movements were restricted, prices hit the limit down button within minutes of trading opening. Chaos reigned. Growers were not amused. Traders were ecstatic, providing they were short. Those that were long thrashed around in panic, desperately trying to correct crippling positions, while vainly attempting to talk the market up.
The Lancia Beta flashed into the tunnel and the radio cut out. In the silence, his mind turned back to Laura. He hadn’t rung, and he didn’t really know why. Or perhaps he did. He’d been busy, it was true, but there was more to it than that. Treat her mean, keep her keen, or so they said. He would treat her mean for sure, for a little while longer, and anyway, if she were thinking about him in his absence, wondering why he hadn’t rung, that would show she cared. If she wasn’t, then perhaps she wasn’t the right girl, anyway.
He parked the car in front of his garage at the Cliff, and dashed into the block. The lift was empty and waiting, its mouth open and inviting like a basking shark. He bustled inside and slapped the ninth button with the palm of his hand.
His apartment was hot, the sunshine intensified by the floor to ceiling sliding glass doors that opened out to the balcony. He flung the doors open and fresh sea air swept in. He changed into slacks and a T-shirt and returned to the balcony and stared out across Liverpool Bay. Went back inside and began opening the large cardboard box that was stored along one wall in the sitting room. The box revealed gleaming equipment, steel precision engineered, like a gun. He checked the pieces and blew out his cheeks and glanced at the instructions. They were in Italian. Vimy cursed. He began assembling the tripod and when completed, he placed it in the centre of the balcony. He slid the main body of the Grizelli telescope into the neat slots on the top, and swivelled the giant scope round to face the sea.
Many of the residents in the Cliff were retired people, and some had taken up the trendy hobby of ship spotting. Perhaps it was a reprise of a childhood train spotting habit of years before. But none of the ship twitchers boasted equipment as powerful as the Grizelli Model 395. The kit peered out to sea like an invisible searchlight.
Vimy scanned the horizon. Directly ahead, due north. Nothing there. He scanned again. All clear, a quiet day in the shipping lanes of Liverpool Bay, not so many ticks for the professionals to slap in their ship spotting books. He made a pot of tea and when he returned to the scope, he spotted a smoke stack steaming towards him. Could this be the one? Three minutes later, he had his answer, and it was negative. The smoke belonged to the Ben-my-Chree, the Isle of Man steamer, resembling a miniature Cunard liner. The next smokestack quickened Vimy’s heart. A larger beast. It had to be the babe he had dashed home to see. But it was a tanker, large, dark and brooding, scruffy, dirty and unkempt, like the worst of the tarts that traded along the docks. She was old and toothless and approaching the breaker’s yard. Vimy followed her all the way in as she approached the mouth of the river.
He swivelled the scope back across the horizon. All clear, vacant, and it was seven o’clock. But the sun was still high in the evening summer sky. Across the road, he could hear gentle waves lapping against the sea wall. The tide was coming in and in the sunshine it looked and sounded more Mediterranean than Mersey Bay.
Vimy swept the skyline again. He was getting anxious. Could it be his quarry had been delayed? Left to right, he scanned, right to left, nothing at all, and there she was! His pulse raced, adrenaline began to flow, and he could hear and feel his heart rate quickening. She was tall in the water, carving through the sea like a shark, new and gleaming, the m.v. Shikoku Maru on her maiden voyage, the pride of the NYK, the Nippon Yusen Kaisha, the Japanese National Shipping Corporation.
The Shikoku Maru was a record breaker in every sense; she’d completed the trip faster than any other vessel, and was about to bring the biggest cargo ever into the Port of Liverpool. She was a breath taker, a scene-stealer, a true beauty of the seas, a Queen in all but name. Vimy stared at her unblinking, as she came rushing on, the huge red circle visible on the single stern mounted funnel, the rising sun. Japan on the water. He glanced across at Charlie and several other residents. They were all shouting to one another and taking pictures.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ yelled Charlie.
‘Incredible.’
‘Amazing!’
FOR ONCE, THE HYPERBOLE in the shipping press had been well founded. The silver ship had taken on an aura that a merchant vessel rarely possessed.
And of all the watchers from the flats and big houses and curious crowds that had assembled, pointing, on the promenade, squinting through their hotchpotch of viewing devices, only Vimy Ridge could have known that she was carrying 89,500 tonnes of gold. Golden maize. Number 3 Yellow American Corn, and Vimy was the only man alive who knew he’d sold half of the total cargo on that fine ship, yet he didn’t possess a bean of it, not a husk. A trusted company can sell what the hell they like. Delivering is the problem.
To assist her with braking, four of the biggest tugs the Rea Towing Company could put on the sea, were making their way out to meet and greet her. Scurrying after them, as if late for the party, were the pilot boat and a separate HM Customs vessel, desperate to rendezvous with an extraordinary piece of engineering.
Vimy swung round to inspect the new silos across the river. The waiting berth, which yesterday housed a rusty Russian freighter, was vacant. The silo stood proud, as if waiting to be mated, her unloading gear drawn back, and hanging ready to embrace and engage the new star.
The tugs had hold of the Shikoku, and puny they looked, struggling with the giant like something from Gulliver’s Travels. She slipped into the head of the river, dead slow. The New Brighton promenade, thronged with late day-trippers eager to catch a glimpse of the oriental lady. She stopped dead in the river mouth, the tugs pushing her to port, before shepherding her through the mammoth lock gates, and on towards the sanctuary of Seaforth Dock.
Journey over, alongside and secured, and the unloading elevators swung over and embraced the newcomer, as if to welcome her, as if to reassure her that all would be well, as if to pat her on the back in recognition of her amazing achievement.
‘Quite something!’ yelled Charlie.
‘Unbelievable!’ said Vimy, unable to keep the excitement from his lips.
He thought of ringing Laura, of sharing with her where he was and what he had witnessed; yet he wanted to see the ship close-up. He wanted to watch her discharge. He slipped on a light jacket and slammed the door behind him, and though he could see the silos and the ship from his balcony, it took him thirty-six minutes to drive down the Wirral, scamper through the Mersey tunnel, and turn back north on the dock road through Liverpool to Seaforth.
There was a huge convoy of tipper wagons waiting patiently to haul away some of the booty. Vimy walked the line of trucks and counted forty-two, and each of those lorries could cart away more than 20 tonnes, yet that huge wheelered fleet would struggle to move a hundredth of the total cargo the Shikoku had deposited on British shores.
Vimy stood on the quayside and stared up at her, as the grain elevators purred and
hummed. She smelt new, like a new car. She’d travelled from the far side of the earth, slicing through fearsome seas, and she still smelt new. The cargo was flowing off at a record rate and the total landed in one day would be another record. He remained until it grew dark before bidding her farewell.
When he arrived home, it was late, too late to ring Laura. He’d ring her the next day, for sure. He opened a bottle of claret, sank most of it, and collapsed on the bed.
CORDELL MULRONEY CAME out of Belfast fifteen years before. No one knew which side of the religious divide had spawned Cordell, and no one cared. He’d come to the notice of the trading community after a series of clever-dick trades and manoeuvres bordering on the reckless that only a man of nineteen could have dreamt up. He harboured no fear of failure, he never had, and early in his career, his card had been marked. He was approached and poached by the Dufaux Group, and moved his wife and infant son to London, where he became part, if only for eighteen months, of one of the most daring and successful trading teams the city had ever witnessed.
Unlike some of the grain trading families, the Dufaux were never slow to reward and promote success. They moved him to their central European trading arm in Geneva. Further success and notoriety followed. He had not so much flowed through the Swiss trading rooms as a breath of fresh air, more a whiff of acute halitosis. It had the established traders reeling, recoiling at his methods and practices. They had never seen anything quite like Cordell. No one had.
Rumour had it the staff in the Dufaux trading room were not too devastated when the mighty Merignac Corporation came calling via a head-hunting agency. They whisked him off to their eyrie high in the sky in New York City. In America his methods and brashness were right at home. Cordell Mulroney fitted right in. He hardly turned a hair, and results continued to impress, and he was adored by the powers that mattered, the Merignac family.
It was no surprise when he was chosen to head their European infant, Silver Sword Cereals. In the four years he’d been there, he’d established SSC as the heaviest hitter of any European cereal trading business.