Sea of Gold

by Nick Elliott

  ‘I’ll keep you in the picture, don’t worry.’

  ‘He’s right, Boris,’ Dougal said. ‘Let him play this his way.’

  He didn’t look happy but he accepted Dougal’s advice. I didn’t tell them that the situation was pretty much out of my control.

  Spyros was speaking into his walkie-talkie. ‘A car has arrived,’ he announced.

  Spyros and I left them under the watchful eye of the AB and went down to the main deck. The car had drawn up fifty metres or so from the ship’s side beside one of the sheds that lined the quay. I saw a figure emerge into the rain and walk towards the ship. He was wearing a parka jacket and a cap. I couldn’t see if there was anyone else in the car. The ship was carrying only a fraction of her cargo capacity and was high in the water, so he had a steep climb up the gangway to the main deck where Spyros and I were waiting.

  It wasn’t until he reached us that I could see who it was: Stephen Barclay, the classification surveyor.

  ‘Well, well, Angus Mackinnon. I’m not entirely surprised.’ I was though.

  ‘Hello, Stephen. Welcome aboard. I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Funny old business this, eh Angus?’

  ‘Yes. You don’t mind if we search you? Spyro here will be gentle.’

  ‘Open your coat and remove your hat,’ Spyros commanded. Barclay had no choice. And I had the Webley in my coat pocket.

  ‘You here by yourself?’

  ‘I’m here to check the gold consignment, as you might have guessed. Where is it?’

  ‘Number four tween-deck. Spyro, can you get your bosun to show Mr Barclay the container? He may open it if he wishes.’ Spyros spoke into his walkie-talkie and a minute later the bosun arrived and took Barclay off with him.

  ‘Spyro, you’ve got a watch on the portside, right? Can you check whether the Laila’s about yet?’

  Spyros went over to the other side of the ship. I walked to the hatch coaming and looked down into the tween-deck. The ship’s cargo lights illuminated the scene clearly. The container was stowed in a fore and aft position and secured to flush dovetail foundations in the deck by sliding twistlocks at each corner. A secondary lashing system had been added, using wires and turnbuckles. No one was going to remove it in a hurry. I saw Barclay and the bosun descend the access ladder and walk across to the steel box. I could see the doors were locked but not Customs sealed. The lock was a bracket wrapped around the locking bars, clamping them together and secured by a heavy-duty padlock. The bosun had a key. The captain would have insisted on getting a key from Kaliyagin. Having removed the padlock and bracket he started pulling open the locking bars then wrenched open the right-hand door. He stepped inside with Barclay behind him.

  So Barclay was part of this. Surely not Kershope’s nemesis though, not the man who’d toppled him. I’d deliberately not pressed him. It seemed safer to get him down below decks where he could be contained. But was he here alone, or was there someone else in the car with him? My mind went back to the Geo Venturer and my conversation with him. He’d been cagey when I’d asked him if Kershope had sent him. He was Kershope’s man, I reckoned – or had been.

  At that moment I heard gunfire. I looked over to the portside of the ship where the shots had come from, pulling the Webley from my pocket as I did so. I saw Spyros and another crewmember fall to the deck and disappear behind the hatch coaming. I couldn’t tell whether they’d been hit or just dived for cover. A dozen or so men were swarming over the ship’s rail, all in black and with semi-automatics swung across their chests. But there was no sign of the Laila. Who were they?

  I ducked down behind my side of the hatch coaming and moved forward. Between hatches three and four was a cargo crane. I climbed up to the operator’s cabin and onto a small platform from where I could see what was going on below. But the illumination from the cargo lights also meant I was exposed and vulnerable up here. Off to my right, some two hundred metres from the Delfina’s port side I could see the Laila. She was standing off, not moving. I could see now that the men who had just boarded had come from a large RIB that must have approached from the Laila undetected. I counted fourteen men in all. Three of them were trying to breach the watertight doors into the accommodation block. Two more were peering over the hatch coaming into the hold where the container was stowed. The man who seemed to be leading them was standing looking around as if deciding their next move. It was clear they were having difficulty breaking into the accommodation, but their priority would be the container. Then his eyes lit upon the crane where I was crouched. As he looked up I recognised him. It was Malatan’s henchman, Sakib. He spoke to several of his men, pointing up at the crane’s cabin, then started climbing down the ladder into number four. Were they planning to bring the Laila alongside and use the crane to lift the container from the tween-deck over onto the Laila’s deck? Maybe the Laila’s crane was out of commission. Then I realised. They’d need to use this crane. The Delfina’s freeboard was much greater than the Laila’s. The Laila’s crane would never reach that high. No sooner had I figured this out than another burst of gunfire struck the crane housing around me, the rounds zinging off the steelwork. Several shattered the cabin window showering me with small granular fragments of tempered glass. I was a sitting duck up here.

  But as I moved round the crane platform for cover I heard the thump-thump of rotor blades. I looked up and saw two helicopters coming in from the seaward side, their searchlights sweeping down across the water. As one of them came closer I recognised it as a Greek military aircraft I’d seen before on NATO exercises, an NH90. The other stationed itself above the Laila while this one flew in and hovered above us, causing a downdraft that blew the rain into swirling patterns on the ship’s steel decks. As I watched, two thick ropes uncoiled like snakes from the helicopter’s belly, followed by men fast-roping down one after the other to land on the hatch cover of number three hold just behind me: twenty-odd troops all wearing protective helmets and carrying assault rifles, and dressed in black.

  The decks were crowded now, with men running, some falling as a firefight developed with sudden intensity. I caught sight of Spyros. He was dragging his fellow crewmember along the deck towards the fo’c’sle. One of Malatan’s men had seen them too and turned his gun on them. I gripped the Webley and, using the rail of the platform as a support, fired off two rounds. The gun had an alarming recoil but my second shot hit the gunman. He fell, clutching his stomach. Spyros looked up to see where the shot had come from, then disappeared from my view.

  The military assault team was moving aft from number three. I guessed they were seeking to force Malatan’s men up against the steel wall of the accommodation block. The escape routes open to them were limited but I saw no sign of surrender. It was turning into a bloodbath, and I was in the middle of it.

  I climbed down the crane’s ladder and made my way towards the gangway under cover of the hatch coaming again before I lost my chance. The shock and awe of the two attacks had lasted no more than ten minutes or so, but I’d been expecting something like this. I wasn’t surprised that Malatan had acted pre-emptively. And although Alastair had refused to give specifics, I’d guessed he’d be working with the Greeks to organise a reception committee of some kind, but I cursed myself out loud for not having insisted on a getting full briefing of his plans.

  Now, looking down onto the quayside from the relative safety of the starboard deck alongside the accommodation block, I saw Barclay’s car had moved. It was parked close to the ship’s side up by the bow, facing back towards the gangway – a black Mercedes, its paintwork glimmering in the light and the rain whipped up by the helicopter’s downdraft. I went down the gangway and, keeping in the shadow cast by the ship’s side, walked slowly towards the car, holding the gun in my coat pocket. The noise from the helicopter and the recurring bursts of gunfire were rattling my brain. Suddenly the car’s headlights came on, full beam.

  A voice rose above the din. ‘McKinnon, you stupid bastard. What did you thin
k this was? One of your cases? A claim?’ I was blinded by the headlights and couldn’t make out his face: just a man in an overcoat standing in front of the car with his arm raised.

  ‘This is bigger than anything your limited imagination could ever cope with,’ he shouted. ‘But you’re a persistent bastard aren’t you.’ I kept hold of the Webley in my pocket. I was sure he had a gun. He was on the move now, getting closer, so I walked backwards seeking the limited cover of the gangway. He was still ranting. ‘You of all people should know the sea is lawless. And it’s no different in Georgia or Mindanao or anywhere else we choose. Did you think you could defy us, bring down our enterprise?’ He was coming towards me slowly, absorbed in what he was telling me, eager to continue his tirade despite the mayhem around him.

  I knew who it was now from the voice. I had the Webley out and had edged behind the gangway.

  ‘Stay right where you are, James, and drop your gun. It’s over.’ I was behind the gangway now and rested the gun on one of its treads to steady my aim.

  Then, as if suddenly realising what was going on around him, he shouted, ‘Where’s Barclay?’

  ‘He’s gone. The odds are against you, James. Drop the gun, now!’

  I could see his face clearly. It was contorted into a grimace, an attempt to hide his anger. He swung his gun towards me.

  Perhaps I should have tried to negotiate with him but instead I fired the Webley. Despite the stability of the gangway tread, the shot went wide, ricocheting off the ship’s side. He was barely fifteen metres away now. He fired. It was a lucky shot that came through the gap between the treads - a sledgehammer and a red-hot branding iron hitting me at once, deep into my side. Another shot. This time it missed. I fell to my knees, breathless, holding my side, and fired again hitting his leg. He yelled and reached down instinctively. Leaning against the gangway for support, I took aim again, but I needn’t have bothered.

  The next shots came from over to my right by the shed on the landward side of the berth. Two in rapid succession, barely distinguishable from the noise of gunfire on the ship. One of them hit James Hamilton-Hunter in the neck. A look of surprise appeared on his face as a thin fountain of blood sprayed upwards from the wound. His hand went to his throat to try and stem the flow. He made a gasping noise and turned as if to confront his assailant. Then two more shots: bang-bang. The second hit him in the chest. Blood was still spraying from his neck. He staggered backwards, his arms flailing the air as he tried to keep his balance. Then he pitched over the edge of the quay.

  I never heard the splash above the noise going on around me. I was still on my knees. I looked to see where the shots had come from. Two figures emerged, silhouetted now by the yellow lights behind them. The one in front, a slight figure in a black coat, was holding a gun in both hands. They were walking towards me.

  ‘There’s our man,’ said Alastair pointing down at Hamilton-Hunter. He was floating face down in the oily water. ‘You flushed him out of his burrow, Angus.’

  I looked at Claire. The gun was hanging by her side now. It looked way too big for her. What was she doing with it? She was wide-eyed and pale, staring at me. I felt under my jacket. My shirt was sticky and warm with blood. I tried to stand but felt myself falling forwards.

  CHAPTER 39

  ‘You are a lucky man, Mr McKinnon.’ I would have laughed if it hadn’t hurt. ‘Don’t try to move,’ said the voice. I swivelled my eyes. It was the doctor, a tubby little man wearing a white coat with a name tag saying he was Dr Yannis Economides, and a stethoscope round his neck just in case anyone doubted it.

  I was in the same private clinic I’d been to weeks before. But this time tubes were going in and out of me, leading to an array of plastic bags filled with fluids and suspended from a frame to the side of the bed.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said.

  He hesitated, then sat down beside the bed. ‘You suffered a gunshot wound to your right side. No thoracic or abdominal injuries and I believe we have saved your right kidney. We’ve carried out a transabdominal exploration and removed the bullet. I could have left it where it was, it would have been safe enough, but I thought you might want it as a souvenir. We’ve drained the retroperitoneal region; and we’ve given you antibiotic prophylaxis. You should be fine.’

  ‘How long do you want me in here for?’

  ‘Barring complications? Ten to fourteen days. But don’t hold me to that. Your body has suffered a trauma. Let’s see how you get on. Now rest.’ I didn’t feel like doing much else.

  Eleni was my first visitor. Alastair had called her. I don’t think she quite knew how to react. She wasn’t her usual vociferous self but I could see she was still wanting to give me a good telling-off. She sat down by the bed. She had her hair up. I thought how lovely she looked. ‘What happened then, pethi-mou?’

  ‘I was in Perama, on that case. It’s over now, Eleni.’

  She stared at me and she sighed. Then she began to cry, softly. I reached out and held her hand. After a long while she said, ‘Are we still together, Angus-mou?’

  ‘We’re still together, Eleni, if you want us to be, if you can put up with me.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘Yes, I mean it.’ I did, but I wasn’t sure she believed me. She looked troubled.

  ‘That woman from the CMM saved you, didn’t she? I heard from Alastair. I forced him to tell me what happened in Perama. I know she’s part of your past, and part of all this….’

  She saw me hesitate.

  ‘All right. I don’t want to know more. You can tell me when you’re well – if you wish. Alastair is outside. I’ll tell him to come in?’

  ‘Yes. Will you come again tomorrow?’

  ‘If you want me to.’

  ‘Of course I want you to. Come here.’ She leaned across the bed and kissed me.

  ‘I love you, Eleni.’

  ‘You smell of antiseptic,’ she said. She gave me a hug.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Sorry pethi-mou. I love you too, really.’

  A nurse came into the room as Eleni was leaving, escorting another visitor; this time it was Alastair Marshall. ‘They’ve given me ten minutes, old boy. You need to rest they say.’

  ‘I have a thousand questions, Alastair.’

  ‘Of course.’ He had an air of self-satisfaction about him. ‘Look, we got our man. And you’re going to be all right. That’s what matters.’

  ‘What about Claire? She shot him – Hamilton-Hunter.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What the hell was she doing there, Alastair? And with a gun!’

  ‘Angus, old boy, these questions can wait. We want you fit and well. Then we’ll have a proper debrief – on the island. Spring’s coming early. The place’ll be carpeted in wildflowers in a couple of weeks. You can recuperate up there. Do you the power of good.’

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ I said. ‘What happened to Kaliyagin, and Malatan? Where’s Dougal?’

  ‘All absolutely a-okay. Kaliyagin’s on his way back to Georgia under a heavily armed escort. Malatans Senior and Junior died along with all but two of their cohorts.’

  ‘They were both on board the Laila, right?’

  ‘Yep. The ship had a small citadel – a safe room – so the crew locked themselves in there, but the Malatans resisted – and paid the price.’

  ‘So Hamilton-Hunter was our Mr Big.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And he toppled Kershope.’

  ‘Correct. I must go or Nursey will be after me.’

  ‘What about the Delfina, and the gold?’

  ‘On their way back to Georgia – Poti to be precise. It was some haul – fifteen tons. Equivalent to six or seven years’ production for Georgia. But then we don’t really know how much comes out of the Caucasus unlawfully. Seems there’s more in those mountains than anyone ever thought.’

  He got up. ‘Brought you some cherries. Hope you like them.’ He had the door open.

  ‘Where’s Dougal then?’
>
  ‘Dougal’s back in Scotland with that woman of his.’

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘Galina, I think she’s called. He seems to think you know her. I gather they’ve become an item.’ Was this the woman with Boris in North Berwick? Was this why he’d looked so smug when I’d seen him on the Delfina?

  ‘What about Barclay? He was down in the tween-deck with the bosun.’

  ‘He’s gone. Questions, questions. Get some rest, Angus.’

  ‘What the hell kind of explanation is that, for Christ’s sake?’ I exploded. ‘Why are you being so damned evasive? And why didn’t you bloody well tell me what you were planning. I should have been in on the plan, Alastair.’ A nurse came into the room. She must have heard my outburst.

  ‘He’s dead. Him and the bosun, I’m afraid. My time’s up old boy,’ he said seeing his opportunity to escape. ‘Glad to see you’re on the mend. Listen, before I forget, young Zoe wants to visit. I told her to come round in a couple of days. Is that all right?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, slumping back onto my pillows.

  The visits had exhausted me but after Alastair had gone I lay thinking for a long while. My world had changed. I’d come close to death – again. I wasn’t sure what lay ahead, or what I wanted either. Life seemed very different somehow, but no less complicated.

  On my fourth day in the hospital Zoe came to see me, armed with flowers, grapes, an armful of folders and her laptop.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, Zoe. I’ll be out and about before you know it.’

  ‘What happened, Angus? They say you were shot. Who did it?’

  ‘It was the case. It’s all over now. We’ll need to write a report and get the file closed off.’

  ‘Is that all you can think about? Closing the file?’

  It wasn’t. There were plenty of other things going through my mind but Zoe just needed to know things were returning to normal. ‘Show me what you’ve got there.’

  As the days passed, my strength returned. They put me in a wheelchair, still on IV drips with the bags attached to a pole, but at least I could move about. Economides came round promising that the tubes, needles and cannulas would all be removed the following morning.