Truly Deadly: The Complete Series: (YA Spy Thriller Books 1-5)

by Rob Aspinall

  35

  How We Roll

  Once we got out of the bay it was a rough old ride, choppier than a kid’s karate class. I shivered me timbers under an ankle-length yellow mac Gregor had given me.

  “Keep your eye on a fixed point,” he said, after my third consecutive heave over the side, the local fish snaffling it up.

  “That way you wanna feel so much o’ the roll.”

  The word roll set me off again. The fishy stench of the boat didn’t help. At least it was good for the abs. I moved to the front of the boat and joined Gregor on the bridge. I thought my fear at the size of the waves might distract me. Gregor stood at the wheel, steering the trawler up and over each one.

  “So what’s a bonny wee girl like yae doin’ in all this bother?” he asked.

  I didn’t like the word bonny. It made me sound big boned or chunky. Like when people say bubbly. What they really mean is morbidly obese.

  “If I told you,” I said, “you wouldn’t believe me.”

  The journey between Lavistock and Stavanger, Norway, was close to four hundred miles. Twelve hours give or take, plus a couple extra while they trawled for fish along the way. Gregor had run up alongside another fishing boat on its way back home and two other men had jumped on board to help with the catch. His sons, he told me, Fergus and Angus. Strapping, ginger-haired lads who looked like extras off Braveheart.

  I was getting in the way on deck and the waves were rolling in monster-big.

  “Best go doon inside unless yae wanna get soaked through,” said Gregor.

  I clambered down into the cramped living quarters. There was a bunk bed in one corner, a small, chipped white table and a couple of benches fixed to the floor, plus a toy-town kitchen you couldn’t safely make a sandwich in. I pulled a face at the dinky, minging toilet that still had a poo in it and decided right then to stop feeling seasick or else I’d be bent over with my head in it.

  It wasn’t easy. Everything creaked and groaned and rolled and stunk of fish and diesel. I drank some milky water, got under one of the blankets and tried to sleep. I must have drifted off for a few minutes when Fergus nudged me firmly awake.

  “Miss, miss,” he said.

  I slowly came to. “Yes?”

  “You’ve gotta hide noo. Coastguard’s comin’.”

  For some reason, I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust anyone. I pushed past him and made my way up top. It was early morning. Gloomy. I’d been asleep for hours. A long, sleek military boat pulled alongside us, camouflaged by the dull greys of the sea and sky. There was a guy in an orange life jacket with a megaphone telling us to slow down and prepare to be boarded.

  I got about halfway out through the hatch before Gregor herded me back down and told me to follow his son. I didn’t need telling twice now I knew I wasn’t being double-crossed or sex-trafficked.

  Fergus led me into a room where they sorted through the fish and put the good ones on ice. It stunk to high heaven and the sight of the poor buggers flip-flopping around was soul-scarring.

  “Get in,” Fergus said, pointing at what looked like a giant cool box with a blue tarpaulin spread out over the base.

  “I’m not hiding in that,” I said. “There must be somewhere else.”

  “Get in or we all get caught,” he said.

  I climbed inside and lay down on my side, a fist for a pillow. Fergus whipped another blue plastic sheet over the top of me and padded it down around my body.

  Then came the real shocker. The bastard poured an avalanche of ice and poor dying fish over the top of me. There was a tiny hole in the tarpaulin and all I could see was the oily stunned eye of one of the fish staring blankly at me. I managed to twist onto my back and avoid further eye contact.

  “Keep quiet and dunna move,” Fergus whispered.

  A few seconds later, I felt a heavy bump – the two boats touching together on the sea. Footsteps above deck. Muffled chatter. Concrete boots down the stairs into the cabin.

  “Look, wha’s this all aboot?” I heard Gregor ask.

  “Straying a bit far from home, aren’t you?” a man with a Scandinavian accent said.

  “We trade with a supplier in Stavanger,” Gregor said. “I’m half Norwegian. I’ve got a permit and passport. Here …”

  I heard another man with him. “It checks out,” he said.

  “What’s through there?” the first coastguard asked.

  “Processin’ room.”

  “Can we take a look?”

  “Aye, if you dunna mind the smell.”

  I heard the three men enter the room. They stopped right next to the cool box.

  It was then I felt a weird tickling sensation down my left leg. It was moving up my thigh. Up onto my tummy. It was driving me crazy, but the only muscles I dared move were my eyeballs.

  (Are eyeballs muscles or just balls? Ah, who cares. It’s my story. They’re muscles.)

  Something was moving between me and the tarpaulin. Something spiky and hard and, oh fuck, it was a crab.

  OMG! OMG! OMG!

  I wanted to run, jump, scream, cry and shower. I thought about giving up. Maybe they were looking for drugs, guns, someone else. I couldn’t take that chance. All I could do was lie there and watch it amble up towards my chest, its bony legs spidering their way over my boobs.

  One of the coastguards dug an arm in the ice. I could see the shadow of his hand, rooting around. I held my breath as Gregor told him there was nothing in here but fish, and, what was he looking for again?

  This was Fear Factor times a billion. Or maybe I was being punk’d. Yes, that was it. Ha ha ha, let me out now please.

  No such luck. The coastguard pulled his hand out of the ice, but the crab was up on my neck, chunky rough claws in my grill. It snapped its pincers and glared at me with its stalky little eyes. The thing was huge, slimy and gross.

  The men stood there for what seemed like an age.

  Things were about to get worse. The crab opened a pincer and snapped it down on my bottom lip, pulling at it like an elastic band. In my head, I screamed. Even worse, it clamped the other pincer onto the thin bit between my nostrils. I screamed in silence again and squeezed my eyes shut. A couple of its creepy crawly legs ended up in my mouth, on my tongue. OMG blurgh!

  “Okay, we’re good here,” said the first coastguard. “Sorry for the interruption, gentlemen.”

  “Nay bother, pal,” said Gregor. “Yae gotta do wha yae gotta do.”

  As the crab tried to climb into my mouth – Why? What do you think’s in there, you little shit? – I heard the stomp of feet heading back up top. Then another bump – the two boats pushing away.

  Suddenly, rapidly, hands dug into the ice and fish, removing the weight. The tarpaulin was pulled off me and I shot out of that cool box like a horse on fire, leaping, screaming and wanting to pull the crab off my face, but at the same time not wanting to touch it with my hands. Angus and Fergus grappled with me and the crab, telling me to be still.

  Still? Still? The time for being still was over. I had a bony sea monster hanging off my face. Now was the time to panic.

  “Get it off me! Get it off me!” I screamed.

  Gregor leaned against the hatchway, laughing himself to tears. Angus grabbed me in both arms while Fergus carefully pried away the pincers. He held it up by its shell. “Look at tha. It’s a wee beast. We’ll get a few quid for this fella.”

  Eventually, I calmed down and came back on deck. It was light already and the sea was a lot calmer. In the distance, I could see land. Craggy green Norwegian land.

  The water soon became calmer and the constant churning in my stomach began to die down. I drew in the fresh air as we chugged into port, a much bigger harbour than the fishing village, a row of cruise ships dominating the skyline and the cries of gulls welcoming us in.

  This was Stavanger.

  “Right, wee lassie,” Gregor smiled. “Time ta go back in the box.”

  36

  The Food In Norway

 
The box wasn’t quite as bad the second time. No fish eye or crab horror. Just the pong, the claustrophobia and the cold from the ice. From what I could hear, I was loaded off the boat into the back of a van and driven along a couple of streets. Eventually, a cherry-faced fat man with arms like hams pulled me out and I stepped down from the rear of the van into the relative fresh air of a narrow alley full of rubbish. The van driver nodded, swung the doors shut and high-tailed out of there. I arranged myself and emerged into the sunlight, reeking of eau de mackerel.

  Stavanger was small potatoes for a city. A quaint place with red-roof buildings. It didn’t take long to find the café located just off the harbour. I took a booth by the window and ordered something called smørrebrød. It sounded like the least sinister thing on the menu. I tried my best to look sophisticated. Like I belonged anywhere but had nowhere in particular to be. But I was edgy. My bum twitched on the red padded cushion of the booth. Where was this guy? He was twenty minutes late.

  The food came before Fingar. I guess you’d call it an open sandwich. Some poo-brown bread, tomato slices and, oh no, oily fish. One sniff and I pushed the plate away. It was just for show anyway. I stuck to the mineral water. My phone bleeped. A text back from Fingar.

  Men’s restroom. Last cubicle.

  Oh, how wonderful. I left a hundred-kroner note on the table and made my way to the back of the café. The boys’ toilets were shabby and grim. I stepped inside the last cubicle on the right and shut the door. I reached around the back of the toilet bowl; then I tried the cistern. It was an old-fashioned toilet with a metal chain. I dropped the lid and stood on top. I hauled the heavy porcelain slab aside, revealing a small, black plastic bag taped to the inside. I climbed down off the toilet, shook the water off the bag (blurgh) and opened it up. Inside was a see-through plastic pouch with a zip. There was a passport, a hotel room key and a folded paper something or other. We were in business.

  I’d never stayed in a hotel before. The room was scratchy and basic with a dated maroon colour scheme, but it would do for a quick shower and change. Wedged up against a set of drawers on which an antique TV sat, there was a tiny brown fridge with a wood-effect door. I opened it up and shazam! A fridge stacked full of free drinks and snacks. I munched through half the peanut M&Ms, stuffing the leftovers with the rest of the goodies in my bag, including a couple of bottles of posh mineral water, a Scotch miniature and the free notepad and pen.

  While drying my hair on the bed, I sifted through the contents of the pouch again. There was an EU passport with my photo in it, in the name of Katerina Alaverdy. My cover story: wealthy Italian student on a trip of self-discovery across Europe. The folded paper thingy was a train timetable with a first-class ticket to Oslo. There was a route circled in red: the Oslo Express.

  Seemed like a good suggestion. I’d train it to Oslo, seek out some replacement medication, then make my way to Russia. Inside the passport was a debit card of the same name with a slip of paper giving me the PIN and the account balance. Six whole thousand euros. Woohoo! I was rich! All courtesy of Giles’s trusty trust fund.

  How did they arrange all this stuff so quickly? Who knew and who cared? I had money, a new identity, and at last a phone. I felt human again.

  After I’d aired the fish out of my dress and wig in the window, I packed up and made the short walk to the train station. Soon I was on the Oslo Express, chilling in first class. It fit my high-maintenance image perfectly, which I wore with icy indifference.

  Inside I was a little thrilled. I’d made it out of the UK and was on my way. All I had to do was keep on trucking to Mother Russia then work out a safe, untraceable way to make contact with Auntie Claire. Let her know I was alive and well.

  I sat on my own by the window with a steaming herbal tea and free spicy bean sandwich on the table in front of me. A proper sandwich this time. And it was yum too. The ride was like velvet. Not like the noisy, clanking Manchester trains packed with crooning drunks and BO machines. People in here were civilised, wealthy business types. They kept their heads down and fingers running over their laptop keyboards.

  The landscape outside the window was like epic CGI, from the greener than green hills and trees to the clear blue fjords and the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Everything was super-lush. I took another bite of the sandwich and sipped on the herbal tea. A pencil-thin woman in a cream pantsuit slipped into the seat in front of me and dumped what looked like a laptop bag on the seat next to her. She had a long, thin face with freckles and dinky features, her blonde hair clipped neatly to the back of her head.

  She smiled and said something in Norwegian. I think it was hello. I smiled back and said hello in English, in my mock Italian accent. I sipped on my tea and gawped out of the window.

  “Where’s that accent from?” the woman asked, switching to English.

  “Italy,” I replied.

  “Ah, where in Italy are you from?” she asked, suddenly speaking Italiano.

  It took me a few seconds to work out what she said.

  “Milan,” I replied in Italian. “Your Italian is good.”

  The woman arched a barely-there eyebrow, as if surprised.

  “I lived there for a few years,” she said. “What brings you to Norway?”

  She seemed nice enough. Maybe a little up herself. I took another sip of tea and reeled off my student cover story.

  “Travelling in style,” she said, “for a student.”

  Okay, now we were back to English again, almost like she was trying to catch me out.

  “Money from parents,” I said.

  She nodded. “Well, Oslo is a beautiful city. All the designer labels,” she said, bitchily running her eyes over my dress. I tried not to look at her directly. Prolonged eye contact made me uncomfortable.

  “Strange,” she said, trying to contain her own smugness. “Don’t see many Italian girls with blue eyes.”

  What did she mean by that?

  I shrugged. “My mother is English.”

  “Ah, I see,” she said, pulling her phone out of her bag.

  She dialled a number. “Yeah, it’s her,” she said, suddenly staring at me like I was cat shit. “Okay,” she said, ending the call.

  Whatever was happening here, it wasn’t good. She took her eye off me for a second while she fiddled with her phone. I quickly slipped a silver dinner knife off the table. It was heavy. Steel. It could do damage to the neck, throat or ribs. Maybe the soft part of the skull either side of her head.

  “You won’t be needing the knife,” said the woman, without even looking up. “I’ve got something to show you,” she said. “Better if you don’t make a scene.”

  I kept hold of the knife anyway. The woman took an iPad out of the bag and spun it around in front of me. She tapped play on the video. It was an empty room during daytime. Bare, patchy walls and a concrete floor. The camera fixed on a tripod.

  “What is this? What am I watching?” I asked, keeping up the Italian accent in case it was a trick.

  Smugorella, I’ll call her, didn’t answer.

  On the video, two men in black combat gear and ski masks dragged a woman with a brown sack over her head into the middle of the room. They set her down on her knees in front of the camera. The woman was short and pudgy, dressed in a dowdy green blouse and khaki pants that were too tight. She trembled and moaned. One of the guys pulled out a hunting knife big enough to cut a buffalo in two. The other untied the sack and yanked it off the woman’s head. Staring into the camera, hands bound and mouth gagged with silver tape, was a plain, mumsy lady in her forties, eyes popping with fear and veins bulging up the side of her neck.

  It was Auntie Claire.

  Oh fuck! They had Auntie Claire!

  The heavy with the hunting knife snapped her head back by the hair. She screamed through the tape as he held the thick, serrated blade to her throat.

  “No!” I blurted through a quivering hand, tears already ruining my eyeliner as a few of the first-class passengers tur
ned their heads to see what the fuss was about. I tightened my grip on the table knife in my hand.

  The video stopped and Smugorella nipped in before I could react. Not, I think, to calm me down, but to stop me taking it out on her.

  “Your aunt is safe. For now …” she said. “They’re waiting for us.”

  She firmly gripped my hand, now table top-side, clutching the knife. “If you come with me, we’ll let her go, unharmed. If you fight and run, she dies.”

  She let go of my hand and swiped the iPad away.

  “We’d all prefer the first option,” she said. “But it’s your choice.”

  Some choice. Why were the only options in life the kind of stinkers you didn’t want? I released my grip on the knife and slumped back in my seat. Smugorella relaxed into hers and played Candy Crush Saga on the iPad. The weather outside gloomed over, giant clouds rolling over the landscape, casting the whole world in shadow.

  “You really shouldn’t have taken from the minibar,” Smugorella said. “The hotel called the police when you left without paying.”

  You had to pay? Who knew?

  “We had their lines monitored,” she said. “Tracked you down on CCTV. Wasn’t hard at all.”

  “The number-one rule of staying in a hotel,” she continued, zooming a finger across the iPad screen, “is never take from the minibar … And if you’re pretending to be from Milan, speak like you’re from the North, not the South.”

  The train sped to Oslo. I felt like a baby chick waiting in line to become a chicken nugget. Suddenly, I remembered why I was a veggie burger girl.

  We got off the train and I followed Smugorella to the front of the station. She walked fast in flat shoes that matched her suit and clapped noisily over the buffed concourse.