“I think so.” He’d shown Riley the details Charlie had sent from London concerning the extent of Mitcheson’s involvement in the Bosnia business. Her relief had been palpable. “But time will tell.”
When he’d gone, Riley closed the laptop and lay down on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The image of Mitcheson’s face became that of McManus’s, leering down at her with blood streaming from his smashed nose, eyes glinting with hate and frustration. She shivered and wrapped her arms across her chest, and wondered if Mitcheson would have nightmares about the gunman’s death down the shaft.
The following morning Riley’s mobile bleeped with a message from Mitcheson. His voice was low and hurried, and she guessed he was calling from the garden of the villa. She listened intently, then rang Palmer and arranged to meet him downstairs for breakfast.
By the time he joined her she was demolishing a plate of bacon and eggs.
He sat down and poured a cup of coffee before lighting his first cigarette of the day.
“For Christ’s sake, Palmer,” Riley protested, waving the smoke away, “at least let me get some food down before you smoke us both to death. God, you’re so unhealthy.”
He doused the cigarette. “So what’s the news from our man on the inside?”
“According to John, Lottie Grossman’s got it into her head she can cheat the Moroccans and take the drugs and the money. She sweet-talked the one called Segassa into dealing direct with her instead of through his boss, and got Mitcheson’s men seeing things her way. He thinks he’d have joined McManus by now if he’d showed signs of backing out.”
Palmer whistled silently. “So much for army buddies. And Lottie must be off her trolley. Segassa will bide his time then skin her alive.”
“We should try again to get Mitcheson to bale out.”
Palmer shook his head. “It won’t change anything. And he’s not stupid; he’ll know when to jump. When and where’s the deal going through?”
“There’s a stretch of coast just before Motril where the government’s doing some underwater survey work. Boats come and go all the time; another one won’t be noticed. The Moroccans have tested it out twice recently and reckon it’s safe. They’re going for an exchange at midday today.”
“Did he say how?”
“The Moroccans are using a flotation device to drop the drugs off from a small fishing boat. The device keeps the package just below the surface. The Grossman boat dumps a small buoy over the side with the money, and each boat picks up its package as it goes by.”
“Neat,” Palmer commented. “With two ex-Royal Marines working the pick-up, it’ll be easy money.”
“Right. And the boats go their separate ways with nobody the wiser.”
“Until the Moroccans find they’ve been cheated. If Segassa doesn’t do his part it could get messy.”
Riley looked sombre at the idea. “I know. John doesn’t like it, either.”
“So what’s he going to do?”
Riley frowned. “He didn’t say.”
Chapter 41
Had anyone stopped the Soukia as it ploughed a course off the island of Alboran, they would have found an ordinary fishing boat that had been making the same run for years. A cursory inspection would have uncovered nothing more interesting than nets, ice-boxes and wet-weather gear, with a crew of three tanned, grizzled men in their fifties.
The only unusual piece of equipment would have been a set of scuba gear with some minor modifications which one of the men was sitting on while he mended a stretch of damaged netting. Attached to the equipment by strong plastic strapping was a large rubber-cased box that no fishing vessel normally carries, and which the man was ready to dump over the side should any naval or coastguard vessels come too close.
In the tiny wheelhouse the skipper cocked his head to one side and answered his mobile phone. He listened for a while, then glanced at a map and gave their position before switching off the phone.
Midday off the coast near Motril, and they could begin their journey home.
Riley pulled the car off the road near a short stretch of beach and glanced at her watch. It was 11.30. She looked across at two small hotels nestled against a backdrop of sandy rock and coarse, scrubby trees. The Hotel Palma was neat and brightly painted in white and sea-blue, while its rival, the Flores was a modern aluminium and glass creation. The road here followed a sharp curve in the coastline, clinging to a steep drop down to the sea, and other than the small line of sand which had largely been man-made to bolster the two hotels, there wasn’t much to attract tourists.
Offshore a cluster of small vessels was moored in haphazard fashion, with bright marker-buoys bobbing gently on the waves among them. Other vessels moved back and forth, heading east and west towards Almeria and Malaga. Most were gleaming white with flashes of shiny chrome, crewed by people for whom this was a highway to pleasure and relaxation, not work.
Palmer raised his head from the back seat and picked up a pair of binoculars he had purchased that morning in Malaga. They wouldn’t have impressed a naval officer or a bird watcher, but they were quite sufficient for his needs.
“I hope you don’t intend claiming for those on expenses,” Riley said dryly.
“Of course not.” He focused on the moored craft. “I put them on yours.” There was little activity except for a small semi-rigid boat with two men on board. They were holding station near the marker-buoys and as he watched, a black-suited figure popped up from the water and passed up what looked like a large, yellow underwater camera. One of the two men on board took it from him, while the other helped him clamber over the rounded gunwale.
“Might be part of the survey crew,” he said. “Looks like they’re getting ready to go to lunch.”
Riley was looking towards the hotels, where a few vehicles were parked and a coach was unloading tourists. A Land Cruiser was just pulling in from the Malaga direction, its tinted windows masking the occupants.
She had been toying with the idea of seeing if they could rent a sea-facing room for the afternoon, but dismissed it. It would have been a good observation point but would probably lead to idle speculation among the staff. And she doubted the Grossman group was the only one interested in current comings and goings at this particular point today.
She pulled a floppy hat from the back seat and grabbed a beach bag. “Come on,” she said, donning her sunglasses. “Time to hit the beach. I think the enemy’s arrived.”
Palmer followed her glance towards the Land Cruiser in front of the Palma hotel. “Right. But which enemy are you talking about?”
He clamped on a baseball cap and got out of the car, dropping the binoculars into a plastic bag. His pale legs stuck out from a pair of tan shorts, and his loose cotton shirt flapped in the breeze.
Riley looked at him and raised her eyebrows. “Palmer — you’re a sight.”
“Don’t knock it,” he murmured cheerfully. “I’ve had my moments.”
“Yes…but when?”
They walked down onto the beach and sat just below road level. From here they had a good view of the sea, the beach and, if they peered over the top, of the hotels and car park as well as the road from both directions. There were few people on the sand, and they guessed many had gone in for lunch. Out at the survey site, the boats were silent and deserted.
They settled back to wait. Occasionally Palmer raised his binoculars to scan the horizon, while Riley applied sun-cream to her arms and legs.
After a few minutes Riley heard a car door slam, and risked a peek back at the Land Cruiser. She was just in time to see a man walking away from the vehicle and entering the Palma. It was too brief a look to see whether it was John Mitcheson or one of his men.
A crunch of tyres on gravel drew her attention to the other end of the car park, as a nondescript white Toyota stopped near the Flores and parked away from the other vehicles. When no one got out, Riley nudged Palmer.
“Fancy some lunch, Frank?” she asked. “My treat.”
They picked up their bags and walked across to the Flores, away from the Land Cruiser. As they neared the Toyota, Riley risked a glance from behind her sunglasses. She could just make out the shape of a driver through the glass, but no detail.
Inside, the Flores was cool and airy. A lounge area ran along the front of the building, with a canopy over the glass to provide shaded viewing of the sea and beach. Riley ordered sandwiches and drinks, and they sat and waited to see what happened.
Six miles out from the coast the Soukia was nearing the end of its run before landing its catch at a small harbour near Almeria. The skipper scanned the horizon, eyes alert for a boat approaching or the sudden arrival of the Spanish coastguard. He also checked the sky for the tell-tale dot of a helicopter; the drugs patrols were using newer and more modern methods to track down boats like the Soukia and the risk was increasing daily.
Yet they had been lucky for a long time. Easy runs with no problems other than having to deal with the drunken Englishman, Bignell. Now, though, things had changed; the Englishman had gone and a woman had taken his place. He hawked and spat over the side. She wouldn’t last, the fat woman. She didn’t sound as though she knew what she was doing. Still, there would always be someone else to take her place, eager to trade for the powdered gold or anything else with a commercial value.
A shout from one of his men made him look ahead. A speck was curving round on an intercept course towards them. He throttled back and shouted for his men to get the package ready.
The speck became a fast, white launch favoured by the pleasure-seekers on the beaches of Spain. A would-be rich man’s toy that would not stand the first big wave that hit it. Ideal for this kind of job, though.
With another glance skywards to check for aircraft, he waved a hand and his men jettisoned the rubber package and scuba-gear over the side, where it sank just below the surface, its position marked by a small coloured buoy.
He saw a similar marker-buoy fall away from the approaching launch, and increased his own speed towards it. The launch growled by a hundred metres away, its twin screws lifting its nose clear of the waves. There were two men on board, both in their middle thirties, looking tanned and fit. The skipper noticed they stood in the launch with a relaxed stance, like men accustomed to the sea. With a faint hint of anxiety he realised these men weren’t amateurs.
As the launch fell back and curved round to pick up the package, the skipper picked up his mobile phone and watched. It was as he thought; the boat had not even stopped and was now powering back towards the mainland. Very smooth.
He slowed the Soukia alongside the marker-buoy and watched his men lean out with a grappling hook to snag the rope. After the other boat’s display of expertise, he hoped they caught it first time and didn’t expect him to come round for a second try. He was about to press the send button on the mobile to confirm all was okay, when he saw that, instead of having a rope and package attached to the buoy, there was nothing but lead weights hanging from it to keep it upright in the water.
He turned to shout at the launch. To his horror, instead of disappearing towards land, it had slowed and crept up alongside and was now reducing speed to match his own. One of the men was standing against the gunwale. He was holding a gleaming black machine pistol and smiling in anticipation.
The skipper desperately slammed the throttle open and felt the engine rumble beneath his feet. With his free hand he stabbed the send button on the mobile, but it was too late. The gun chattered briefly, and he looked back to see both his men knocked overboard as they tried to run.
As he screamed out what was happening into the phone, hoping someone was listening, the launch surged forward until it was alongside the wheelhouse. The man with the gun grinned mirthlessly, his face absurdly young, and changed magazines. Then, as casually as if he was spraying flowers, he pressed the trigger and spewed the contents of the new magazine through the open wheelhouse door.
Chapter 42
The white Toyota was halfway across the car park before it registered on either Riley or Palmer that something had happened. With tyres screaming it skidded on the gravel and out onto the road heading towards Malaga, nearly hitting a local bus coming the other way. In the Flores lounge, tourists craned their necks, muttered disapproval, then returned to their meals.
“Someone forgot an appointment, you reckon?” Riley asked.
“Either that or something much closer to home,” Palmer replied enigmatically.
“Segassa’s men?”
But Palmer was already rising, and Riley grabbed her bag. “You pay — I’ll get the car,” she said, and hurried through the sliding doors out to the car park.
Palmer called the waiter over and settled the bill. As he was about to follow Riley, a figure stepped up alongside him carrying a rolled-up beach towel. He turned and found himself looking at the smiling face of Doug.
“Well, as I live and breathe,” Doug smiled, “if it isn’t Frank Palmer, ace investigator.” He prodded Palmer in the ribs with something hard. It was a large automatic pistol with the safety catch off, wrapped in the towel so nobody would see it.
“I didn’t bring my computer with me today,” Palmer said dryly, “if that’s what you’re after.” He risked a quick glance across the road to where Riley was digging in her bag for her car keys. He guessed the ex-Marine hadn’t spotted her and turned to keep the man’s attention on himself. Very carefully, he put his cigarette lighter down on the table beside his binoculars.
“Good one, Frank,” Doug smiled. “Very funny, considering your position. Come on — we’re going for a ride, you and me.” He bent and picked up the binoculars Palmer had put down and motioned for him to lead the way out of the door. They walked across to the Land Cruiser, where Doug opened the door and shuffled Palmer into the driver’s seat. Then he hopped into the rear, the gun never shifting away from Palmer for an instant, and threw the binoculars into the back. “Okay, Frank. Let’s go to Malaga.”
Palmer pulled out of the car park and followed Doug’s directions. He’d never driven one of the big cars before, and found the size uncomfortable after the small hire-car he’d been using. The gun at his back didn’t help. As he passed Riley, she was leaning on the roof of the car, staring out to sea, unaware of what had happened behind her. He sighed with relief and pressed his foot down.
“Have you been following me?” he asked Doug. He could feel the man’s gun resting on the seat against his back and detected the familiar smell of gun oil.
“You kidding? I thought it was the other way round. That’s what you snoopers do, isn’t it — follow people?”
Palmer said nothing, aware that if he let too much slip it could endanger Mitcheson’s position. It wouldn’t take the gang long to work out that Mitcheson’s earlier absence could have been for entirely different reasons than searching for McManus. And as one of the handful who knew the arrangements for bringing in the drugs at this point along the coast, the finger of suspicion would soon be pointing his way.
“Where’s the girlfriend?” Doug asked. ‘Had a row, have you?’
“She in Malaga. Shopping,” said Palmer.
The gun tapped on his shoulder. “Speed, Frank. Keep it down, there’s a good fella. We don’t want to get hauled over, do we?” He chuckled at the thought, then leaned closer to Palmer. “Now, while we’re all comfortable and that, what were you doing out here? Sun-bathing all by yourself? You don’t look very tanned — and where did you get those shorts?”
Palmer racked his brains for a reason that would sound halfway plausible without dragging Mitcheson into it. If they suspected the ex-officer was looking for a way out, they would have no choice but to deal with him the same way as Bignell.
“The white Toyota in the car park back there,” he said finally. “Did you see it go like a bat out of hell?”
“Yeah — I saw it. Thought he was goi
ng to bend himself round that bus for a moment. Spanish drivers, eh? What of it?”
“He was supposed to be one of Bignell’s men. He said he had information about the set-up.”
“Set-up?”
“The drugs route Bignell had been using. He said if I came to this beach, he’d show me where the stuff used to be landed. They used the survey boats as cover, he reckoned.” Palmer added a touch of accusation to his voice. “He must have spotted you and decided to take off.”
The seat back shifted as Doug leaned back to consider the details. Evidently it sounded likely enough to the ex-Marine. He shrugged and pointed through the front window. “See that sign for new apartments?” They were travelling along a short, deserted stretch of road with arid grass and rock on either side. Up to the right on the hillside, two or three ramshackle farm buildings were the only signs of local habitation. A giant hoarding advertising a building development was coming up on the left. “There’s a small turning just after it. Swing left there.”
“Where are we going?”
Palmer sensed the grin on Doug’s face. “We’re going shopping, Frank. Like your girlfriend, only we didn’t spend any money.”
Riley swore silently as she waited for Palmer to appear, and drummed impatiently on the roof of the car. Whatever had got into the Toyota driver she felt sure it was connected with the Grossman business. And if that was the case, she hoped it wasn’t going to be bad news for John Mitcheson.
Out on the horizon a boat was cutting a white path through the waves, its prow high in the air. It looked as though it was heading down the coast towards Malaga and the vast boat-parking lot they called a marina. Where the hell was Palmer?
When she looked round towards the hotel to see where he’d got to, she felt a sudden jolt in her stomach. The Land Cruiser was gone.
Palmer followed Doug’s directions and swung round the hoarding onto a narrow track heading towards the sea. The surface was rough and overgrown with grass but the Land Cruiser flowed over the bumps and through the potholes with barely a sign. They passed derelict huts and some rusting machinery before emerging between two small hills onto a tiny plateau above the sea. The water was a deep, brochure blue, and melted into the sky along the horizon. As they neared the edge a white arrow cut across the blue surface of the water and moved inshore, the boat bouncing from wave to wave.
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