by Chris Ryan
The second item was his rebreather. It looked like a heavy black life jacket, with the addition of air tubes, a mouthpiece and a face mask. It had been specially adapted to house two small canisters of compressed air and two waterproof storage pouches. One of these contained a string bag with a magnet at the clasp. A set of military-grade fins were tied to the rebreather, which Zak undid before turning his attention to the third item.
The Heckler & Koch P11 was identical to the one he had fired back at the basement range on St Peter’s Crag. Chunky. Heavy. Zak hated to admit it, but he felt a lot better with it stowed, along with his iPhone, in the second waterproof pouch of the rebreather. Especially given the nature of the fourth item he had pulled from the cache.
It was a small metal case, about thirty centimetres by twenty by ten. Zak knew enough about demolitions, however, to realize that a tiny package like this could cause a lot of damage. It weighed about five kilograms and had a rubber seal and heavy metal clasps. On one side of the case were four steel carbine hooks, welded to the metal. As Zak slipped the rebreather over his head, he saw that these hooks clipped easily to a harness across his front. He attached the device, then put his fishing gear and the polythene wrapping back in the hiding place under the pier.
Footsteps.
Zak looked down the pier. Someone was approaching. He couldn’t tell who it was in the darkness, but he knew he couldn’t be caught like this. He quickly slipped his feet into the fins, grabbed the swim board and the P11, shuffled to the edge of the pier and pushed himself into the water. There was a drop of three metres. And then a splash.
The water was cold and black. Zak had a flashback to the awful minute or so he had spent dragging Raf along the dark corridor of HMS Vanguard. He kicked himself back in the direction of what he hoped was the pier, before coming up for breath as quietly as possible.
He found himself just by one of the wooden legs of the pier and he grabbed hold of it. The footsteps were directly above him. They stopped, and the light of a torch shone down through the boards of the pier into the water just a couple of metres from his position. Whoever had the torch was searching for something. Him? It was impossible to say for sure. He clutched the pier leg a bit harder.
As his eyes grew used to the darkness underneath here, he made out the wooden frame beneath the loose board above. And he’d only been looking at it for five seconds when, to his horror, someone lifted the loose board.
He couldn’t see the figure who had opened it up. Just the dazzling sight of the torch as they shone the beam through the narrow opening and onto the water. Very slowly he let go of the pier with his arms, clutching onto it with his ankles. He held onto the swim board with his left hand and aimed his P11 towards the opening with his right.
Five seconds passed.
Ten seconds.
He shivered. It wasn’t just the cold water. It was a creeping sense of dread and panic. He’d made himself too obvious earlier in the day. Someone was on to him …
The beam of light disappeared. The loose board was replaced and Zak heard footsteps moving over his position and back towards the shore. And then just the lapping of the sea against the legs of the pier.
He pulled the dive mask over his face. Little droplets of water covered the inside. He inserted the mouthpiece of the rebreather and took a few breaths. Air flowed into his lungs. Looking in the direction of the Mercantile, he switched on the compass light of his swim board. A faint, pale green glow spread out from the board as Zak checked the direction in which he needed to travel. The vessel was south of his position at a bearing of about 179 degrees. He fixed that figure firmly in his mind. Then he let go of the pier leg with his ankles.
The metal flight case acted as a weight to take him below the surface. He estimated that he was a couple of metres down. Hopefully the rebreather was doing its job and stopping any bubbles rising to the top of the water as he breathed out. The sound of the sea disappeared. All he could see was the illuminated compass on the swim board. He adjusted his trajectory so that he was heading at a bearing of 179 degrees, flipped his fins and darted through the water.
Time slowed down. Zak felt himself being buffeted by the underwater currents and he had to use all the strength in his body to keep his bearing correct. There were shadows on the edge of his vision. Sea creatures, he assumed, or maybe just the play of the moon on the waves. Anything down here will keep its distance, he told himself. He did his best to forget about the moray eel that had attacked Raf. The last thing he needed right now was memories like that. He concentrated hard on what he was doing. That way, perhaps he could forget that this was just his second mission, and that it didn’t matter how much training he’d had; the real thing was a hundred times harder and more dangerous.
The cold water slid past. He suppressed a sense of panic. Surely he’d been swimming too long … Surely he should have reached the Mercantile by now …
The hull appeared suddenly, just two metres in front of him, vast and dark. Zak kicked upwards and seconds later emerged into the open air. He looked around. He was underneath the jetty against which the Mercantile was moored. Immediately up above, he heard voices. It was the three Angolans, he reckoned. It sounded like they were talking in Portuguese.
Zak moved away, swimming above water now as he was camouflaged by the jetty. The Angolans’ voices faded. The water was washing against his dive mask so his vision was divided by sea and air. As he reached the end of the jetty, however, he submerged himself again and followed the line of the Mercantile’s hull until he reached the end of the vessel. Here he turned back on himself and started swimming along the far side of the ship.
He was about halfway back down the length of the Mercantile when he arrived at the ladder. The bottom rung was about three metres below the water line. Zak came up to the top again and grabbed hold of it.
He needed to ditch his gear. That was where the string bag came in. He removed it from the rebreather pouch and used the magnet to attach it to the metal hull of the ship, then he stowed his swim board and fins in the bag before removing his P11 from its pouch and tucking it into his shorts. He pulled the rebreather over his head. Before stashing the kit away, he removed his iPhone, shoved it into a damp pocket and unclipped the metal flight case. Holding it firmly, and now free of his dive gear, Zak started climbing the ladder.
It was difficult to climb and hold the flight case at the same time, especially with the gentle but unnerving yaw of the ship. Zak’s ascent was slow – a good two minutes before he arrived just below the level of the deck.
He stopped and listened.
Nothing.
Zak was just preparing to climb the final rungs when something stopped him. It was a smell: a waft of cigarette smoke. He froze. Somebody was up there, smoking. Zak might not be able to hear him, but he could sure smell him. He remained where he was, the muscles in his arms burning from holding on so tight.
A minute passed, and so did the smell of cigarette smoke.
Two minutes.
He heard footsteps. They walked directly past his position. Whoever it was up there, all he had to do was look over the railings and he’d see him, pinned against the hull, just a metre or so from deck level. Zak was suddenly very aware of the P11 tucked in his shorts. It wouldn’t come to that. Would it?
Nobody did look. The footsteps faded away and Zak knew he had to take his chance.
He pulled himself up the ladder. The deck was in view now. Its floor was made of steel and at the level of his eyes, against the body of the ship, he saw a ring-shaped flotation aid. He checked left and right. Nobody there. Ignoring the fearsome pain in his muscles, he climbed up the final few rungs and pulled himself over the railings onto the deck.
Sea water dripped from his sodden shorts and T-shirt. Zak held the flight case in his left hand. With his right he removed the P11. Now he needed to get the explosive device into the engine room. It meant getting inside the ship.
He headed along the deck in the direction of
the shore. He saw nobody. After fifteen metres, he came to a door on his left. He pushed it open. It was heavy. Once he was inside the ship he had to use all his strength to stop it banging shut.
He shivered. The water had leached all the warmth from him – he needed to keep moving. He was in a corridor. On the wall to his left was a laminated poster giving details of the safety regulations of the ship. Up ahead, the corridor stretched for ten metres before ending in another door. To his right was a flight of metal steps.
Zak stashed his weapon back in his shorts, activated his iPhone and swiped to the fourth page of apps. On the bottom row was a red icon with the image of a bicycle and a spanner. If anyone looked at it, they’d just assume it was a bike maintenance app, but when Zak touched the screen it morphed into a green 3D line drawing of the exterior of the Mercantile. Using just his forefinger he spun the image round until he was looking at the starboard side. Once he had identified the door he’d just walked through, he zoomed in. The schematics changed with his touch. He knew the engine room was in the bowels of the ship, and thirty seconds later he had identified his route and committed it to memory.
It was difficult to move quietly. His shoes were soaked and he had to take care not to let them slap noisily on the metal steps. Once he reached the bottom, he found himself in a large empty cabin. It was some sort of laundry room – big baskets of dirty linen were stashed in the gap underneath the metal staircase and two enormous, ancient washing machines. They were so covered in dust they looked as if they hadn’t been used in years. Clean clothes, he surmised, weren’t that high on Black Wolf’s list of priorities.
Voices.
They came from beyond a door at the other side of the cabin. Zak’s heart jumped and he looked around for a hiding spot. His only option was the linen baskets. He crept behind them and hunkered down, keeping hold of the little flight case and gripping his P11 firmly in his right hand. It wasn’t a great hiding place since he was right underneath the stairwell and there was a gap of about thirty centimetres between each step. If anyone climbing the steps was paying attention, they’d see him. No question.
The door opened. The voices were speaking English.
‘If you ask me,’ a gruff, male voice said, ‘Karlovic is getting too big for his boots.’
A spitting sound, and then a second voice, slightly shrill. ‘You’re worrying about the wrong man, Barker. Karlovic is nothing. It’s el capitán who calls the shots round here. Karlovic wouldn’t go to the toilet without the boss’s say-so.’
Both men were obviously English. They had London accents. The first of them – Barker – laughed. They were halfway across the room, heading for the stairwell. Zak gripped his P11 a little more firmly.
‘I still don’t see why we’re not allowed ashore. I haven’t had a drink for weeks.’
Zak could see their feet on the first step. He could smell the tobacco on their clothes.
‘Get used to it. We set sail tonight. Moan about it too loudly to Karlovic and you’ll be drinking sea water. Straight from the sea, if you know what I mean. He might be el capitán’s stooge, but he’s got a nasty streak in him. Thinks he’s Blackbeard the pirate or something …’
They were halfway up the steps. Zak held his breath.
They reached the top.
‘It’s all wet here,’ said Barker. ‘It looks like … footprints.’
A pause.
‘The steps are wet too,’ he continued. ‘What the hell …’
‘Ah, forget it,’ said his mate. ‘It’s probably nothing. Tell Karlovic and he’ll have us searching the ship from top to bottom.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right …’
Five seconds later they were gone.
Zak stayed where he was for at least a minute. Only when he was sure all was silent did he venture out from his hiding place. He crept across the laundry room and gingerly opened the door through which the two men had come.
Another corridor, running the length of the ship. There were five doors on either side, spaced about four metres apart. Crew quarters, Zak knew from the plan. At the far end of this corridor was yet another staircase heading down. He hurried towards it, half expecting one of the doors to open at any time. None did. He sensed that Michael’s intelligence had been correct: the Mercantile had only a skeleton crew.
He found the engine room at the bottom of the second staircase. It stank of diesel and oil. It was nothing like as large as the engine room on HMS Vanguard, but it was still the biggest space Zak had seen on the Mercantile so far and, according to the schematics on his iPhone, it was one of the largest on the whole ship. But this room was deserted too. There was a metal cylinder lying on its side, about five metres long. Attached to it were six pistons and a perplexing network of pipes and valves. The floor was vibrating and the noise in here was loud enough for Zak to realize he wouldn’t hear anybody approaching.
Another reason to move quickly.
He headed round to the far-side cylinder and crouched down. There was a space between it and the floor of about fifteen centimetres. He laid the P11 on the floor next to him, undid the clasps on the metal flight case and opened it up.
Even though Zak knew what he’d been carrying, it was still a shock to see it. The explosive device was very simple. There were eight square cakes of a material that looked like wet clay. Zak recognized it as C4 plastic explosive. The cakes were bound together with thick black tape. On top of the C4 were two very ordinary AAA batteries – the sort of thing you could find in almost any kid’s toy. A wire probe led from the battery housing into one of the cakes of C4. There was also a small receiver, the size of a fifty-pence piece. Zak didn’t know how or from where Michael intended to activate the remote detonation, but that receiver would detect the signal and send the electric charge into the explosives.
And then … bang.
Zak gingerly lifted the device out of its flight case. On its underside there was a magnet. He turned the device upside down and attached it to the bottom of the metal cylinder. The magnet stuck to the metal no problem.
Job done …
Except suddenly there was a massive noise. Zak started and looked around. There was nobody there, but he realized the cylinder was giving off a churning, grinding sound. The pistons were hissing and the floor was vibrating even more. With horror, he realized the engines had started up. It meant that the ship was preparing to leave …
Zak closed the flight case and desperately looked around for somewhere to hide it. He found a detachable panel on the wall just next to him. It was stuffed full of wires – these were vibrating too – but there was enough room to stow the case. Once it was hidden away, he picked up the P11 again and, without wasting another second, headed for the exit.
Zak urgently had to get off the ship. An Atlantic cruise might be some people’s cup of tea, but Karlovic and el capitán weren’t exactly his idea of good shipmates and he didn’t much fancy the idea of releasing his dive gear and taking to the water while the ship was moving. He ran up the stairs, past the crew quarters and into the laundry room. Stopping at the bottom of the first flight of stairs, he listened for a few seconds. Nothing, so he ascended and turned left, through the heavy door and out onto deck.
The whole ship was vibrating now, but he couldn’t tell if they were moving. He looked towards shore to get a frame of reference. It looked still. They hadn’t started off yet, but it was just a matter of time …
He turned and ran towards the ladder. It was ten metres away. But suddenly there was a problem.
Shouting!
‘I SAW HIM! HE’S ON BOARD!’
Zak stopped. A shrill voice was ringing in the air. Female. Young.
‘HE’S UP TO SOMETHING! I SAW HIM! HE’S ON BOARD NOW!’
Zak couldn’t tell which direction the shouting was coming from, but he could certainly recognize the voice.
Bea.
He swore under his breath – what was she doing? – and sprinted towards the ladder, trying to bloc
k out the sound of Bea’s screaming. But the deck wasn’t deserted now. He could see figures up ahead. Two men, running towards him.
They were going to get to the ladder first …
Zak stopped and raised his P11. The two men – they both wore jeans and T-shirts – halted immediately. They eyed the weapon.
‘Get back!’ Zak shouted. ‘Get back now or I’ll shoot!’
The two men stepped backwards. ‘OK, kid,’ said one of them. ‘Take it easy.’ How were they to know Zak would never have shot them? Zak edged towards the ladder. If he could just get down to his dive gear before too many others discovered his location …
Too late.
Zak felt his hair being clutched tight before he saw the blade. Someone was behind him. They crooked their right arm around his neck and pressed a sharp blade against his skin.
And then they spoke. A man’s voice with a foreign accent.
‘Have you ever cut butter with a hot knife?’ The voice was no more than a breath.
‘I’m not much of a chef,’ Zak whispered back. His voice wavered as he spoke, and he immediately regretted sounding cocky.
‘What a shame. If you had, you would know how easily this blade will cut through your jugular. I think it’s time for you to drop your show-off’s weapon, don’t you?’
Maybe it was Zak’s imagination, or maybe the artery in his neck really was pumping against the wickedly sharp blade of that knife. Either way, he knew he didn’t have a choice. He let the P11 fall and it landed with a clatter on the metal floor of the Mercantile’s deck.
13
DO NOT ESCAPE
‘YOU’RE GOING TO turn round very slowly. I’ll probably be killing you at some point tonight. I don’t care if it’s now or later. Make any sudden movements, do anything I don’t like – it’ll be now …’