by Sewell, Ron
The Collectors
Book Two
by
Ron A. Sewell
ISBN-13:978-1500187699
ISBN-10: 1500187690
EAN
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
'The Collectors – Book Two' is published by Appolonia Books:
'The Collectors – Book Two' is the copyright of the author, Ron A. Sewell, 2012. All rights are reserved.
The cover is designed by Berni Stevens Design. All rights are reserved.
http://www.bernistevensdesign.com.
All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.
In an abandoned village there is an ancient chapel dug deep beneath the earth, its entrance known to one man.
Chapter One
Petros Kyriades glimpsed the flash of the seat belt sign. He turned to the small window on his left, where in the distance the sandstone plateau of Table Mountain loomed majestically and appeared to move progressively closer. His hands tightened on the armrests as the hydraulics droned, and the undercarriage descended and locked.
Dry mouthed, a wave of relief washed over him when the tyres made contact with the main runway of Cape Town International Airport. He nudged his friend, a giant of a man with the build of a rugby player.
“Wake up, Bear.”
Bear stretched his arms upwards. “I’ll be glad when we can travel around like those characters in Star Trek. Beam me down, Petros, and we’re there.”
“We’ll be long gone before that happens.”
“Whatever you say, PK.”
The fasten-seat-belt sign went out and the senior member of the cabin crew approached. “You may now disembark,” she said with a smile.
With their backpacks over their right shoulders, the two men proceeded through the jet bridge with the rest of the first class passengers and entered the terminal building. Once through immigration and baggage collection, they strolled into the bright sunlight of a warm March day and waited at the pick-up point.
* * *
Peter Johnson paused to glance once more at the photograph in his hand. That’s them, he murmured to himself. One white, wearing an Armani jacket, and a big black with a shaved head. With large strides he marched towards the two men.
“Mr Kyriades and Mr Morris?” he said, in a broad Afrikaans accent.
“Yes,” said Petros.
“Peter Johnson. Captain Eachan Eliopoulas of the Morning Glory sent me to collect you.” The three men shook hands. “Grab your bags, my car’s over there. Good flight?”
“I hate flying but all things considered, not bad.”
Johnson’s BMW six series cruised out of the multi-storey car park and headed for the city and Duncan Dock.
Petros and Bear lay back on the seat. Johnson drove sedately, observing the speed limit and pointing out landmarks of interest.
“You’ll be sailing first thing tomorrow,” he said. “Eachan told me to tell you that everything’s arrived.”
For the duration of the journey, they discussed the weather and the South African economy. As if rehearsed, Peter ranted about the empowerment deals that required companies to sell stakes to black investors. From his tone, he was not a happy man.
Half an hour later the car stopped on the jetty at Duncan Dock in Table Bay. “There she is, Morning Glory.”
Petros’s eyes scanned the one thousand feet of rust-streaked hull.
“Could do with a paint job.”
Peter laughed. “Paint costs money. So long as she’s fit for sea. Paint’s for fancy cruise liners. It’s a luxury we can’t afford. Believe me, in a force eight she’s a good ship.”
Petros and Bear grabbed their bags, thanked Peter and exited his car.
“Duty calls. Must get back to the office. Have a good trip.”
The two men stood on the jetty. The deafening roar of crane motors resounded as cargo found its way into the holds.
The noise stopped. “Don’t stand there. Get on board,” shouted the crane boss.
Without replying, they ran up the gangway to the main deck.
“Can I help?” said a young man who barred their way.
“Petros Kyriades and William Morris. Your Captain’s expecting us.”
The man’s mouth tightened and he frowned. He turned a page attached to a buff folder.
He was still checking when a middle-aged man approached. “Mr Kyriades and Mr Morris, welcome. Captain Eachan Eliopoulas.” They shook hands. “Follow me and I’ll show you to your cabin. It’s not much, I’m afraid, but it’s clean and functional.”
“If it’s got a bed, that’s fine by me,” said Bear Morris.
Although cramped and austere the cabin contained two bunks, a washbasin, two chairs and a small fold-down table.
“Sort yourselves out. When you’re ready, come to my cabin and we’ll discuss the finer details of your trip.”
“This will do nicely, Captain,” said Petros.
“Definitely, home from home,” said Bear.
“Okay, I’ll be off.”
Petros let his eyes drift around the tiny cabin. “Top bunk for me. Don’t want your fat arse falling on me during the night.”
“Funny, I was going to suggest that.”
“Not exactly the Ritz. I’ll lie on my bunk while you unpack.”
“That’ll take five minutes.”
A knock on the door interrupted their banter. Bear slid it open. In front of him stood a tall thin man wearing a white jacket. “The captain sends his compliments. He’s gone ashore to speak with the Harbour Master. I’ve made a plateful of sandwiches and a pot of coffee. Please follow me to the officers’ lounge.”
Bear’s eyes shone at the thought. “You lead and I’ll be right behind you.”
Petros followed, noting their cabin and deck numbers. They clambered up two flights of steel stairs before entering a large comfortable room. Down the centre and secured to the deck was a long table. Bear went to pull out a chair but found it also shackled to the deck. He smiled.
“Makes sense. You don’t want stuff crashing about at sea.”
Both men sat in silence, ate the sandwiches, and enjoyed the coffee.
“I wonder if the captain’s back?” said Petros.
“There’s one way to find out.”
They found him on the bridge talking to an officer. “Mr Kyriades and Mr Morris, let’s stand out on the bridge wing. That way I can see my junior cargo officer at work and talk to you at the same time.”
A fresh breeze blew from the east, tumbling a big white cloud across the top of Table Mountain. An assortment of tugs manoeuvred across the other side of the harbour, berthing a bulk carrier.
“We sail in the morning but you’ll be pleased to know that all your equipment is in the forward hold. Tomorrow, once we’re clear of prying eyes, my bosun will assemble both craft. In addition, my men will build the false deck you requested. If there’s anything I’ve missed or forgotten we have most of tomorrow to rectify it.”
“Captain,” said Petros. “we mustn’t keep you from your duties.”
“Thank you. You’re right. Make yourselves at home but until we finish loading stay off the main deck. Dinner won’t be until completion of all loading.”
“No problem, Captain. After our flight a good rest is what we need,” said Petros.
“Could someone give
us a shout for dinner?” said Bear. “I’m starving and I’d hate to miss a good meal.”
“How unusual,” Petros added sarcastically.
“It’s all right for a bag of bones like you.”
The captain smiled. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said.
They left the bridge and returned to their cabin.
“Come on,” said Petros, “let’s get some rest.”
“Fairy fluff,” said Bear.
Chapter Two
Off the Skeleton Coast, Namibia
Petros Kyriades brushed his short blond hair from his forehead and stretched his lean six-foot frame. In a calm detached manner, he checked the details on his clipboard, cross ticking everything. He gave special attention to the power-driven hang gliders secured to the green-painted steel deck. His frown deepened as his mind mulled over the thought of launching from a moving ship, even though the weather and local sea state reported as fair to good. His gaze wandered across the more or less clear sky. A few wispy clouds drifted on the easterly wind.
With his inspection almost finished, he heard a familiar voice call out. “You’ll wear that pen out, PK. Everything’s fine.” He lifted his head and faced his long-time friend, Bear Morris.
“Never hurts to double check, and at two thousand feet I prefer not to have to worry.”
“Spoken like a man on a mission. Anyway, if there’s nothing for me to do, I’ll visit the galley and scrounge a sandwich or three.”
Petros slapped Bear’s shoulder as the big man lumbered off into the superstructure. Satisfied with his safety check, he strolled to the stern guardrail, leant against it, rested both forearms with his hands clasped and stared at the foaming wake. A warm wind wafted over him as he scanned the thin line of the Namibian shoreline, thirty kilometres distant.
The sound of a door clipping shut disturbed Petros’s thoughts. He turned when Captain Eachan Eliopoulas spoke.
“You’re stark raving mad,” he said, pointing to the hang-gliders, “trusting your lives to those machines. Give me a good solid deck and I’m happy.”
Petros laughed at the short, dumpy man with weathered features. His pristine white shorts and shirt adorned with gold epaulettes glowed in the sunlight.
“Bear and I have been collectors for eight years. It’s what we do. We survive by our wits and technology.” He grinned. “For us it’s exciting and pays the rent. Don’t forget, your owner’s paying us a percentage to retrieve his package.”
“What if the pirates found it?”
“That’s the gamble but we’ll know soon enough, won’t we?”
“You know that if you end up in the water it might be difficult to recover you. There’s constant heavy surf right up to the beach and a blanket of dense ocean fog every morning.”
“You mean it’s a long swim home.” The captain opened his mouth to reply but Petros kept on talking. “It’s a risk I’m prepared to take.”
“You’re both deranged. I’m not sure I understand you.”
“Captain, all we need is your co-operation.”
“You have that. What you two do for a living makes you unique.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s three hours until sunset. Slack water at twenty-three hundred and my ship will be in position at twenty-two. There’s no moon tonight, so you’ve three hours of next to no tidal stream. Before you go and rest, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“You talk like a Londoner, have a Nordic appearance, a Greek name and your partner Bear’s as black as the night. Not that it’s any of my business, but an intriguing combination.”
Petros’s eyes sparkled. “My mother gave birth to me in Famagusta, a town in Cyprus. My great-grandfather, a sailor, came from Norway and to cut a long story short, my great-grandmother ended up pregnant. God knows how because in those days a chaperone would escort young women everywhere. Even so, she did. In truth, he came back and married her. After the honeymoon he returned to his ship, sailed away, and was never seen again. Now, Bear’s a long story. If you ever find a friend like him, you’ll know why we’re together. I trust him with my life.”
Petros checked the time on his lucky two-dollar plastic watch. “I think I’ll go for that rest.”
* * *
Petros woke up flat on his back and stared at the deckhead. The ship rode in a different way, its movement changed. Having slept fitfully, unease made his mind race and his heart beat faster. His feet hit the carpeted deck and the slow rolling motion forced him to hold the bunk’s wooden edge. With a quick glance at his watch, it was time. From the wardrobe he removed his black two-piece wet suit, life jacket, and battery-operated night vision helmet, dressed and made his way to the bridge.
Bear, fully clad and ready to go, leant against the table and chatted to the captain as they studied a chart. Petros sidled over and joined them.
“We’re here,” said Eachan, “and Evening Star is there.” He jabbed the chart with his finger. “A distance of twenty kilometres, give or take a few metres. From the insurer’s report, the pirates removed the cargo, then holed and set her on fire. Her hatches are open and her stern’s under water at high tide. I’d suggest you land on the helicopter pad on top of the bridge and from there make your way forward.”
“Captain,” said Petros, “who are these pirates?”
“They are well organised and function beneath a mask of respectability,” Eachan said, glancing at the bridge chronometer. I’m told the Triads have operatives in many of the major ports and they choose ships with a high value cargo. This is usually sold on before the ship leaves port. More often than not, one, if not more of the crew are members of the pirate team. These men are in daily contact with the shore using mobile phones. At the correct time the ghost or mother ship will be in a position to launch an attack.”
“How on earth do they board a moving ship without being spotted?” asked Bear.
“Simple,” said Eachan. “During the night watches, ships at sea have two, maybe three, of the crew awake and on the bridge. It’s difficult to monitor the whole ship from here. Take a look. There are more blind spots than a Dalmatian has spots. These bastards use high-powered craft and approach their target directly from the stern. From that angle, they can’t be seen visually or by radar. I’m sure you must have noticed, my vessel has infer-red cameras mounted at high points covering, I hope, any vulnerable position. That bank of monitors enables the bridge officer to constantly check the deck. I’m fortunate I know every member of my crew well. Many captains do not and that’s the weakest link. One man with a gun can take over and stop the ship. In most cases, the crew are forced into a boat or life raft and left to fend for themselves. The crew of the Evening Star was not that fortunate. How she ended up here, we’ll never know. Most ships either become phantoms or they’re sunk. There are many variations and I must try to be one step in front, but that’s it in a nutshell.”
“So Black Beard and the likes of Captain Jack Sparrow still exist, and from what you’ve told us it’s big business,” said Bear.
“A billion dollars,” answered Eachan. “Come on, it’s time you two made a move.”
“Ready, Bear?” said Petros, his brow furrowed as he gazed at his friend.
“No problems as far as I’m concerned. As always, I’ll watch your back. Let’s do it.”
“Turn the ship out to sea, Mr Whitaker,” Eachan ordered. “I want the wind across the deck, and reduce speed to maintain steerage.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The three men strolled to the main deck. Off to port a few ships, their navigation lights clear against the moonless sky, plied the route to the Cape and beyond.
“Petros, what do you think of our runway?” asked Eachan. “My bosun and his team did bloody well.”
“Captain, as you never know who might be listening over the airwaves, it’s prudent to call you Control on the radio until we get back. My call sign will be Ghost and my other half, Night-Fighter.”
“I under
stand.”
Having examined the construction earlier, Petros simply nodded while Bear scrutinised the packages attached to each control frame.
Petros gazed across to his powered hang-glider tethered to the deck. He clambered onto the wooden planks, snapped on his harness and released the securing buckle. In his mouth he positioned the throttle so as to have both hands free. Finally he put on his helmet, equipped with integrated night vision goggles, transceiver radio and satellite navigation display.
His pulse quickened as he pressed the starter button. What could go wrong, he reasoned? The engine might fail. He shook his head and concentrated. “Not tonight,” he muttered, “I’ve double-checked everything.”
The vibration of the two-stroke engine pulsed in his hands. “Control, this is Ghost. Radio check, over.”
“Ghost, this is Control. Hear you loud and clear, over.”
Bear gave him the thumbs up.
With his eyes fixed on the end of the deck, he started running, increasing the engine speed with each stride. The weight of the glider lifted off his shoulders and he pulled back the control frame, shifting his body into the seat. Airborne, he climbed into the black crown of the sky, the constant beat of the motor reassuring. Gaining altitude, he circled and waited for Bear to launch. He checked his night vision; at this height, the black and white images of the ship displayed crisp and clear. Bear’s craft rose into the air and Petros altered direction towards Evening Star.
“Night-Fighter, this is Ghost, all okay?”
“Ghost, shift your arse.”
“Night-Fighter, glad to know you care.”
Petros constantly checked his speed, wind direction, and sat-nav position as he flew closer to Evening Star. “Wind’s from the shore, speed and altitude good,” he muttered.
Forty minutes elapsed before he scanned the landing area for anything that might obstruct his approach, but he noticed nothing of any consequence.