Eternity's Sunrise (A New Doc Palfrey Thriller)

by Richard Creasey

  “Where the hell is he going now?” Dame Marion muttered to herself. In fact she knew exactly where her son was heading.

  Screaming down Deadman Hill where the B3080 formed a T-junction with the B3078, on his Ducati motorbike.

  Marion detected this on her touch-screen when Benadir had alerted the local police to turn a blind eye to Tom’s speeding — he was on Z5 business.

  Marion took a deep breath to stop herself from pinging a knee-jerk, top priority message: “What Z5 business?”

  Putting aside her motherly instincts Marion knew full well that her job, as boss, was not to interfere with the senior manager’s decisions about junior agents.

  Benadir was a senior manager and a very good one, and Tom was a rookie agent. What they did in their private lives was not the concern of the head of Z5.

  But it was. Tom was her son. Having just lost a leg he was about to break his neck.

  “What Z5 business?” Marion couldn’t stop herself from whipping the keyboard.

  Benadir’s reply was instant. “One of five agents standing by to track Durand, four on the ground, Pete Whettem in the Squirrel Helicopter.”

  “Why Tom? He’s...” Marion paused, letting Benadir jump back in.

  “Doc’s a Z5 agent, which you agreed to. Our agents take risks, we all do.”

  “Aren’t your worried? You’re living with him.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  A second’s pause.

  “Yes I know what you mean, and I am worried. And one worrier is enough.” She signed off: xx B.

  Marion stared at the huge screen. She knew Benadir was right, of course she was, but standing by? Tom was going like the clappers. Nearly double the 60 mph single-carriageway speed limit.

  And he was loving every minute.

  Like a knight of old, Doc was passionate about his steed, and the Ducati 1098 R — the most advanced, most powerful twin-cylinder motorcycle ever — made that easy.

  The aging oak trees reverberated with the roar of the 180 horse power engine, the Ducati’s trademark. A red dot pinged on the GPS in Doc’s HMDS and zoomed in on the Dead Duck Inn. A coded instruction to stop.

  Fed and rested Doc waited, monitoring Z5’s encrypted channel, ignoring, as best he could, occasional, excruciating spasms of cramp in his left leg.

  Every now and again he’d thwack it, just to prove the spasms were phantom, his leg wasn’t there. This one was an outstandingly good leg, designed by Sofia, but it wasn’t his. And the sooner his spasm-making brain got used to that, the better.

  The spasms usually occurred when he was waiting, inactive, practicing the art of patience.

  “Durand’s out.” Sofia in Milan was the first to know.

  “And no collateral damage.” commented Benadir in London.

  “No one is sure how he did it. One minute he was in his cell, the next he was gone. Like Houdini.” Sofia sounded impressed.

  “Or you.” Sofia was the best cracksman in Z5. There wasn’t a lock she couldn’t pick, a cell she couldn’t get out of. Provided of course she was on her toes when she went in.

  And she hadn’t been when Durand had kidnapped her. One day she’d get him for that.

  But Durand was good, although, Sofia mused with a smile, not good enough to realise he had swallowed a tracker.

  “He’s now moving fast. Nabbed either a car or a motorbike.”

  A black circle was flashing Durand’s position on Doc’s visor display.

  “Where do you think he’s going? Southampton Airport? The Docks? Or Portsmouth perhaps?”

  “Could be anywhere.” Marion couldn’t resist a hasty dig at her impetuous son. Doc, resisting temptation, stifled a riposte. It couldn’t be anywhere; Durand was heading southeast and that meant the airport, the docks or Portsmouth. Spot on where Doc had predicted and positioned himself.

  “I’ll head down to the M27, and intercept him at the A36/M27 junction.”

  Sofia jumped in. “Great, Doc. Go for it.”

  “You’re looking for a mustard yellow Ford Mondeo.” Benadir, matter of fact.

  “Not the greatest of taste.” A knee-jerk quip from Sofia.

  “He chose it because the owner left his mobile in the car,” said Benadir.

  “I still don’t think we should forgive him.” Everyone knew Sofia much preferred competing with those addicted to the top of the range — Ford Mondeos and indeed Robinson helicopters didn’t do it for her. Benadir and Doc released a spontaneous giggle.

  “Has Durand called anyone?” Marion was not amused.

  “Yes, but we don’t yet know who, or what they said. I’m working on that.” Benadir snapped to attention.

  “Doc, when will you be on him?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  Doc was cruising north-east on the M27 just as Durand joined the motorway at Junction 2, Sofia in Milan and Benadir at Digby Mews homed in on possible destinations for an escaped prisoner.

  Sofia was searching her map. “Southampton Airport is the most likely choice. After all Durand’s a pilot. If he keeps going east at Junction 3 then that’s where he’s going.

  Benadir hit her keyboard.

  “I’ve located a Citation jet there, fully fuelled but no pilot.”

  “I can swap from the Squirrel to the Citation, if needed.” Pete Whettem’s voice was loud and clear despite the roar of two turbo engines and the whirling rotor blades.

  “Thanks Pete.”

  Doc was the first to realise something was amiss. “Durand has slowed down.”

  Why would he do that, if he was racing towards a private jet? He wasn’t. Doc followed Durand down the busy M271 south to the A35.

  Minutes later Pete’s Squirrel helicopter intercepted the yellow Ford at Millbrook, where the A35 meets the A33. Its camera, which could read a car manufacturer’s logo from 5000 feet up, locked onto the target.

  Pete had the image on his panel. Marion, Sofia and Benadir were tracking it on their touch-screens, Doc on his visor.

  Durand was clearly on his way to the centre of Southampton.

  Doc throttled right back until Durand was out of sight, a certain way of making sure a tail isn’t spotted.

  Durand’s turn south opened up two new options.

  One: Southampton Central railway station.

  Two: The docks.

  “What the hell’s he up to?” said Doc, mostly to himself.

  Benadir checked the timetable. A train from London would be arriving in ten minutes. The timetable popped up on all their screens.

  Benadir threw up Durand’s ETA too. Four minutes.

  “Everyone agree that Durand’s rendezvous is Southampton station?”

  “Maybe.” Benadir was hesitant.

  “Let’s assume that until proved otherwise.” Marion knew well that if you held off making a decision for too long you could lose everything.

  “Doc move up. Pete pull back — right back. Benadir, give the Southampton police a heads-up.” Sofia took the lead. She and Marion were of one mind.

  Seconds later Benadir announced that Detective Sergeant Clegg would be at the station in five minutes. “Two constables are already in place.”

  “Isn’t Clegg one of us?” Marion had a good memory. The database on her touch-screen confirmed he was.

  The Ducati surged forward as Pete soared up into the sky heading north, away from the station, in the expectation that Durand would spot the helicopter leaving and breath out a huge, but, knowing Durand, silent sigh of relief.

  Would he guess the helicopter’s camera was still locked onto his Ford Mondeo?

  Durand pulled into the car park.

  Benadir came through. “The London train is on time.”

  Pete’s camera showed Durand climb out, and stride towards the station. He strode straight past the ticket machine. His horseshoe moustache had gone.

  Doc reached the station just in time to see Durand walk inside. He sprang off the Ducati and whipped off the h
elmet, leaving it on the saddle.

  A policeman nodded.

  As he dashed, Doc whipped out his iPhone, linked it to his helmet so he too could see everything on the HMDS visor, strapped the iPhone physically to the underside of his forearm, and fixed his Bluetooth earpiece.

  Sprint, climb or vault, nothing would come loose.

  “Doc. Sergeant Clegg is wearing an olive green tweed jacket. He’s on his way to your bike and will take your helmet.”

  Sergeant Clegg was to keep in communication with Pete with his eye in the sky and Benadir at HQ — ready to call in police support. Ready for whatever emerged. Doc was to follow Durand on foot.

  “Can you see Durand?” That was Benadir.

  “Not yet.”

  “Try the coffee shops. A background note says he’s a coffee addict.”

  “Who isn’t?” Doc slipped on a scruffy, booney hat, drew it down to his eyes and slouched towards a Caffè Nero.

  “Got him. Good thinking.”

  Durand was taking a cappuccino to a table for two. He sat with his back to the station so he could stare into the large mirror.

  No fool, Durand, thought Doc as he moved back to a newsstand where he could see Durand, but not see a reflection of himself. He could also see Sergeant Clegg through the station entrance.

  It had started to rain.

  “Train’s pulling in.” Doc glanced at Clegg, who nodded back.

  “Expect a surprise.” Sofia’s remark wasn’t needed but was welcome. Doc at the station, Sergeant Clegg by the Ducati, Pete in the air, Marion at Brett Hall, Benadir at Digby Mews, all silently nodded agreement.

  Hundreds of passengers started to pour out of the train, filling the platform.

  Doc watched and waited, wondering who was coming. A big chief or a flunky?

  And then he saw a gang of seven, all dressed in dark-navy, rain ponchos, hoods up, trooping towards Durand’s café.

  Durand stood up. They encircled him, hiding him from view. The mirror helped only to show Durand slipping on a poncho. The gang circled, confusing any onlooker.

  Doc raised his left arm. Pointed the iPhone camera, clicked and sent half a dozen grab shots.

  “Got them.” Benadir.

  “Me too.” Sergeant Clegg.

  The gang was already splitting up. Who to follow? Doc looked down at their shoes.

  One pair stood out, Prada. Expensive. Not Durand’s and not likely to be part of a flunky’s wardrobe.

  “Sergeant, one guy’s wearing Prada shoes. Z5 will need to question him.”

  “Ok”

  Doc watched as the gang split up, each member, hooded. Four pacing toward the south platform, five including Prada Shoes, exiting to the car park. Only Benadir could track which group included Durand.

  “He’s heading south.”

  “Sergeant, I’m after Durand. Prada boy is yours.”

  “Call in what help you need. Including Pete.” Benadir added.

  “On it.” Pete.

  The four black ponchos moving south, through the increasingly heavy rain, started running down Western Esplanade. At the junction with South Road and Mountbatten Way they split. One went straight on, three went south.

  “Benadir. Help me out.”

  “Keep south.”

  Doc knew the one who ran straight on was too tall to be Durand. Get a grip.

  Doc was now chasing after three of them.

  One glanced around and spotted him. They raced away like athletes, gliding over the ground. They wove through the traffic on West Quay Road, the A33. Brakes squealed. Car horns barked. The three sped straight on, south to South Road.

  Doc followed.

  His prosthetic leg was designed to work outdoors, whatever the conditions.

  Doc had no problems keeping up but he did have a problem with Tall Poncho, who had doubled back from Mountbatten Way and was now charging up behind him.

  “Doc. You need back-up. Pete’s overhead.” Doc should have guessed Tall Poncho would do that. He could immediately hear it — hear what?

  Get a grip. Keep involved. A busy mind does ten times the work of an idle one.

  “What about Clegg?”

  “On a non-stop express train back to Waterloo. We’re having it met just outside Basingstoke.”

  “Good. That’s one job done.”

  “But not the most important one.” Marion never applauded until the job was finished. “We need to know what Durand is up to.”

  At the roundabout the three in front had slowed down. Doc instinctively slowed too.

  That’s what the Ponchos wanted. It gave Tall Poncho vital seconds to catch up.

  Pete’s voice hit Doc’s headset. “Watch your back!”

  Doc span round as Tall Poncho plunged a knife into his back, cutting through the baggy fleece, stopping at the Kevlar bullet-proof vest. Nevertheless the force of the thrust and slipperiness of the rain-soaked road, brought Doc down.

  He winced, shook his head and thanked Pete. And silently thanked Sofia again for his cheetah-strong leg.

  Tall Poncho charged on. Now there were four racing towards the docks.

  In front of them stood a three-storey conveyor belt designed to quickly bridge iron ore from trucks directly into the holds of cargo ships across the service roads.

  The four men scaled the maintenance ladder like flies on glass.

  As Doc approached the bottom one of the men turned to glower at him.

  Climbing it was no more an option than scaling a castle wall topped with buckets of boiling tar.

  Doc charged across the avenue knowing Durand and his cronies were already on top of the Canary Island Fruit Terminal’s giant roof. Why?

  “Pete. Where are they heading?”

  “There’s a Russian cargo ship tied up alongside the terminal.”

  “Is that where they’re heading?”

  “Possibly,” said Benadir.

  Doc rounded the corner of the terminal, saw the modern Russian ship, its huge bowline hawser right in front of him, one of six massive ropes that held it to the quay. Doc sped up beside the ship, the ‘Orlan’, as Benadir called. “They’re going for it.”

  Doc looked up to see the four ponchos leap from the Terminal to a crane that was swinging towards the Orlan and onto the top layer of containers. Five high.

  Doc ignored the bow line and leapt onto the after bow spring, and off it onto the deck before scaling the containers.

  “Three of them are lining up above you.” That was Benadir.

  “I’m going lower.” That was Pete.

  “Where’s Durand? He’ll be on his own.”

  “Aiming for a container on the starboard side.”

  “Move forward to where you’ll see a stack of just three containers.”

  “Wilco. And?”

  “I’ll herd the three down to the top one.” The tenor of Pete’s excitement rose above the roar of his helicopter.

  On her screen Benadir could see the three men following above where Doc was running. And as he moved to the stacked containers, Pete dropped the Squirrel, charging at the bewildered hoods, creating a thunderous, rain-soaked wind with the helicopter’s roaring rotor blades.

  The three skidded on the iron container’s rain-swept top before tumbling down to Doc’s stack.

  By now he was on top of it.

  Doc, with extra strength from his prosthetic leg sprang at them like a lion pouncing on a gazelle. Doc chose one, Tall Poncho who had stabbed him, knowing the second two were likely to need a second to find their feet, hoping they would slip.

  They did, and with help from Pete’s ferocious wind machine they both torpedoed off the side of the container, crashing like rag dolls down the side of the ship into the murky harbour water.

  Tall Poncho was furious. He rushed at Doc.

  Doc sprang away.

  Tall Poncho skidded, collected himself and turned to see Doc already one container higher and leaping to the top level.

  Pete was covering him. Pointing
to show where Tall Poncho was. Doc span round and saw Tall Poncho, drenched in rain, rising inexorably. Doc’s karate swing smashed into the Tall Poncho’s face. The hammer blow should have sent him skimming down to join his drowning mates, but he was like a fuming bull, uncontrollable with rage, invincible in mind, and focused wholly on revenge.

  Pete lifted his helicopter like a rearing eagle. Doc slipped, crashed down and looked up to see the iron door of a container slam shut in the wind. There was Durand kitted out in a US Diver’s wetsuit, a spear gun at his shoulder.

  He aimed.

  “Pete, watch out!”

  In slow, slow-motion Doc watched as the spear left the gun and smashed into the Squirrel’s rotor blades.

  Pete lost control. The Squirrel, on an unstoppable forward trajectory, crashed into Tall Poncho.

  Blood covered the outside of the windscreen first, then the inside.

  The roaring noise crescendoed as the Squirrel toppled off the container ship onto the quayside.

  For a moment everything stood still.

  Doc looked twenty five-yards across the containers at Durand. Durand stared at Doc, then raised two fingers, paused for the intended effect and shoved them into his mouth. He quickly turned downwind and vomited, he turned back to Doc and smiled vengefully. And turned for a third time and dived off the side of the ‘Orlan’ into freedom.

  “Merde,” whispered Sofia as it dawned that throughout the chase Durand had known exactly what he was doing while the Z5 team had been left guessing.

  Doc limped to the puddle of vomit.

  The tracker, swallowed what seemed like a lifetime ago on the Sea King helicopter, glistened in the rinsing rain.

  He crushed it under his heel and swore.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  U.S. SUBMARINES

  http://www.ussubmarines.com/

  Précis:

  The Phoenix 1000, a 65-meter (213') personal luxury submarine has more than ample space. The total interior area of the submarine is in excess of 460 square meters (5000 square feet). The significant volume and the potential for relatively large open spaces, result in a vehicle as luxurious as the finest of motor yachts.

  The Phoenix provides the opportunity to explore the depths of the world’s oceans in perfect comfort and safety. The Phoenix is capable of making trans-Atlantic crossings at 16 knots yet can dive along the route and explore the continental margins of some of the most fascinating waters on earth providing a ride unsurpassed in quality, unequalled by the finest motor coach or the most luxurious executive aircraft.