by Mark Sennen
‘Marine parts?’ Holm scanned the documents, noting the container number at the top right, the driver’s name – Ivan Kowlowski – top left. He peered at the side of the container and checked the numbers matched; they did. ‘Good, good. All OK.’
Javed slipped towards the rear of the vehicle and disappeared. Ahead, the line of trucks had moved on and a space had opened up.
‘Come on. I got to get moving. Long way I drive.’ The driver glanced in his mirror. ‘What your man doing back there? He mustn’t get me into trouble.’ The driver was rising from his seat, swinging himself down from the cab. ‘I need to see.’
Holm followed the man towards the rear of the vehicle and turned at the end.
‘Where he go?’
‘Um…’ Holm tried to think of something to distract the driver, but he was already moving on round to the nearside. The driver cursed in his own tongue and then laughed.
Holm rounded the end of the truck. Steam billowed up around Javed as he stood urinating against the rear set of tyres.
He shook himself and zipped up his fly. ‘Sorry, boss. Had to go. You know how it is.’
The driver continued to laugh as he walked back round to the cab and hauled himself up. The port police officer waved him on and the lorry slipped forward, then stopped at a barrier where a number of vehicles were waiting at a set of traffic lights.
‘The toilets are one hundred metres away.’ The police officer frowned. ‘Are you finished?’
‘We’re done, thanks,’ Holm said while glaring at Javed. ‘You run a very efficient operation. I’ll be putting in a favourable report to my superiors. I think there’s a lot we can take from the way you structure things here.’
The officer turned and walked off. At the control building entrance he spoke to another officer, jerking his thumb back in the direction of Holm and Javed.
‘What the hell were you doing?’ Holm said. ‘You’re a disgrace. Pissing on that man’s truck.’
‘Boss?’ Javed looked hurt. ‘It was a diversion. He won’t remember me poking around the back of the vehicle, only the stupid little British guy with the weak bladder.’ Javed pulled out his phone, the screen a beacon of light in the darkness. Holm peered across. There was a map of the port of Rotterdam, a little icon in the dead centre of the screen. As the lorry moved through the traffic control and edged round towards the main road, the icon slid across the map. ‘And look, I’ve attached the phone so we can follow our truck wherever it goes, day or night, rain or shine, hell or high water.’
Chapter Twenty
They drove through the Dutch countryside, the darkness punctuated by an orange glow from dozens of greenhouses. Up ahead the truck rumbled on at a steady fifty. After a couple of hours they passed into Germany and Kowlowski took the opportunity to stop, pulling off the autobahn and into a rest halt set amid a forest of trees. The interior light flicked on and they had a clear view of the Pole as he clambered into the rear of the cab. A curtain slipped across and the light went out.
‘You’re kidding me.’ Holm looked round. There were several other lorries parked up, a gentle hum of an engine on a refrigerated trailer on one of them. Away from the lorries the halt was deserted, lines of empty car-parking spaces washed by the light from above. This wasn’t like a UK motorway stop. There was nothing. No restaurant, no petrol station, nowhere to grab a snack or buy a newspaper.
‘It’s going to be a long night, boss,’ Javed said. ‘A very long night.’
* * *
The clock on the dash crawled through the hours. Twelve, one, two, three. Holm contorted himself into various positions but couldn’t get comfortable. He rested his head against the side window and gazed up at the cloudless night sky where thousands of pinpricks of white light inched across the heavens. Javed lay across the back seat, sleeping as if he was in a luxury hotel bed. Another one of life’s paradoxes, Holm thought: the young slept easy, whereas when you were old and tired and your head was full of worry, sleep wouldn’t come.
At five, the morning light began to filter across the eastern horizon, and half an hour later Kowlowski was up and checking the truck. A cursory kick of the tyres and a more sustained examination of the rear doors of the container and then he was back in the cab, the engine firing up and the Pole easing the lorry down the slip road and back onto the autobahn.
Holm started the car and followed. Javed continued to sleep until Kowlowski pulled into an Autohof for breakfast.
‘I’m starving,’ Javed said, sitting up and gazing across to the service station building. ‘Do you think…?’
They could see Kowlowski loading a plate with food before finding a seat in the cafeteria. He’d bought a newspaper and was thumbing through the sports section.
‘Yes,’ Holm said. As much as he needed food, he was desperate for the loo. ‘You grab some snacks while I powder my nose. Then we swap. If Kowlowski heads off we’ve always got your app, right?’
‘You’ve changed your tune.’ Javed slipped out his phone and checked the screen. ‘But yes, it’s working fine.’
‘Good, let’s go.’
An hour later they were back on the motorway with a load of food and several bottles of water. The girl on the till had looked at Holm with some suspicion as he’d piled up a huge selection of snacks on a tray. ‘English,’ Holm said, and the girl had nodded as if that provided an explanation for just about any kind of deviant behaviour.
They travelled south, the Swiss mountains looming ahead. Holm began to feel uneasy. Where the hell was Kowlowski going? Javed sat with a European road atlas open on his lap. His forefinger ranged the page as he studied the map intently.
‘Italy,’ he said.
* * *
Silva woke to the smell of fresh bread and coffee and the sound of a rap on the door.
‘Colazione.’ Gavin’s voice floated in. ‘Breakfast.’
Silva blinked. A harsh light sliced through the window shutters and painted bands of gold on the wooden floor. She rose from the bed and walked across and opened the shutters. The view was incredible. Below, a turquoise sea shimmered in a breeze, dozens of boats bobbing on a gentle swell. To her right, cliffs soared above the town, layers of houses beneath stepping down to the beach like some sort of lopsided wedding cake. Away from the dense cluster of apartments and hotels, individual villas dotted precipitous slopes that climbed to a blue sky, a wisp of cloud caressing the clifftops. Then she blinked and her eyes were drawn across to the far side of the town and the green house with the terrace, and she remembered the reason she’d come to Positano. Her heart sank and she trudged back into the room.
Breakfast was leisurely and Gavin chatted about his time with Fairchild. He, like Silva and Itchy, was ex-military, but navy rather than army.
‘Logistics,’ he said. ‘That’s why Mr Fairchild took me on.’
‘What about Lona?’ Silva said.
Lona had eaten quickly and disappeared into town on what she said was a reconnaissance mission; even so, Gavin lowered his voice.
‘She’s new. I only met her a few weeks ago. She’s cool, very assured, but I have no idea what her background is.’
‘Do you trust her?’
Gavin reached for his cup of coffee. He took a sip. ‘Not really, but I trust Fairchild.’
After breakfast Gavin left them to it while they got to work. Silva set the rifle up in the centre of the room a couple of strides in from the balcony. The barrel rested on a small bipod, while the stock sat nestled in a gel bag. A camping mat provided some cushioning from the hardwood floor. Out on the balcony, Itchy rigged the video camera. Ostensibly he’d be filming the fireworks, but in reality the camera was zoomed in on the Hopes’ villa. A feed from the camera was displayed on a monitor inside the room. A pair of drapes hung over the doors to the balcony, a narrow slit giving Silva enough field of view so she could see the villa. Itchy poked his spotting scopes beneath the drapes. They loaded cartridges into spare magazines and placed them within easy reach. There wa
s a water bottle, a towel for drying Silva’s hands, a foil strip of painkillers, some snacks, tools for making adjustments to the rifle, a first aid kit, binoculars, lens wipes for the optics.
‘We’re done,’ Itchy said. He walked across to Silva and gave her a fist bump. ‘If this doesn’t work out it’s not for lack of planning, right?’
Silva nodded. Itchy hadn’t meant it that way, but his words implied that if it didn’t work out it was down to her.
They packed all the other kit away and stowed the bags near the front door; when they left it would be in a hurry. Gavin prepared a cold meal for dinner that evening. He began to wipe down the surfaces in the bedrooms to remove any fingerprints.
‘There’s a family of five arriving the day after tomorrow. Beforehand a cleaner will be coming in. If the police ever do manage to work out this place was where the shot originated from, any traces will be obscured by the holidaymakers who stay here in the next few weeks.’
‘Logistics?’ Silva said. ‘I can see why Fairchild employed you.’
The rest of the day ticked away with a slow inevitability and eventually the sun disappeared behind the cliffs leaving a shifting sea of orange behind. The orange faded and white light flared from the boats lying offshore. During the day they’d arrived one after the other, each finding their own little spot to anchor. Now it was dusk the parties on board were in full swing.
‘It’s another world out there, Silvi,’ Itchy said as he panned his binoculars from boat to boat. ‘Where do these folk get all their money and why haven’t we got any of it?’
Once it was dusk, Silva lay prone and checked the rifle. Itchy stared through his spotting scope, looked at the DOPE book and calculated the numbers for the umpteenth time. He suggested some adjustments, but the time for any last-minute changes was slipping away.
Lona had slipped away too. After her morning reconnaissance she’d returned and announced she had business elsewhere. Gavin muttered something under his breath, but whatever his complaint was it was silenced by a stare from Lona. When she’d gone, he was more vocal.
‘We’re the ones taking the risk,’ he said. ‘If it goes pear-shaped, we’ll be the ones in the penitenziario. Lona will be miles away.’
Silva ignored Gavin. Grunts always complained about their superiors and that’s what Gavin was, a grunt. Itchy and her too. Soldiers in the line of fire. Obeying orders, taking the shilling, generally getting shat on. Still, with zero hour nearly upon them, she wondered if she’d been foolish in following Fairchild’s plan. Given the information, she could have tracked down Karen Hope and taken her out herself. That way she’d have been in control of the situation.
‘Silvi?’ Itchy. Moving. Beginning to fidget. ‘You OK?’
‘Yeah.’ She’d spent countless hours with Itchy, sometimes in the most uncomfortable or dangerous situations. Confined in a makeshift hide with the enemy all round, the pair had developed a sixth sense about the other person and now was no different.
‘Good, because the party’s starting.’ Itchy gestured at the screen to one side of the room. The brightness had been turned way down so as not to dazzle them in the darkness, but the picture was clear enough. A man had emerged onto the terrace. He had a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. He put the glass down on a small table and raised his hand and ruffled his glossy blond hair.
Silva bent to one of the spotting scopes. The image was framed by a myriad of white flowers and greenery which spiralled round an iron trellis. Low lighting on the terrace illuminated the figure in the centre: Brandon Hope. Hope moved towards the edge of the terrace and looked out to sea. He took a drag on his cigarette and a sip of his wine. Then he turned to his left and stared across towards Silva.
Silva flinched, for a moment uneasy, but then she calmed. There was no way Hope could see her. Not at a distance of over a kilometre and into the shadows of a darkened room.
She peered through the spotting scope once more. Brandon had been joined by an elegant and well-dressed Italian woman Silva recognised as his wife, Pierra, and an older man with little hair and round glasses. There was no sign of Karen Hope.
‘Well?’ Silva said to Gavin. Fairchild’s aide was pacing the room, every so often making a whispered telephone call. ‘Where’s our target, Gavin? We haven’t seen sight nor sound of her since we arrived yesterday.’
Gavin stopped pacing. ‘She’s supposed to be at the party. I can’t tell you any more than that.’
‘Great.’
A few minutes later there was movement on the terrace and Silva looked through the scope again. A tall woman wearing a pale dress breezed into view. High cheekbones, glossy brown hair, nods to the other guests as they parted to let her through.
‘Panic over,’ Gavin said. ‘She’s here.’
Chapter Twenty-One
They drove through Switzerland and into Italy. Long periods of mind-numbing tedium spent tailing the lorry were interspersed with brief moments of anxiety whenever Kowlowski stopped for a break; Holm and Javed had to do their own ablutions in those breaks, aware Kowlowski could move on at any moment.
They passed Florence, still headed south, and as night fell they were on the outskirts of Naples.
‘It figures,’ Holm said. ‘This is the perfect place to pick up a couple of terrorists who’ve made the crossing from North Africa. There are ISIS training camps aplenty over there.’
‘Yes, but why don’t they rendezvous with the container in the Netherlands?’ Javed shook his head. ‘All Kowlowski has to do is stop in a lay-by somewhere outside Rotterdam and meet them there. They don’t need all this subterfuge.’
Holm took his eyes off the road for a moment and looked at Javed. He hoped the lad wasn’t right because if he was they’d just driven over a thousand miles for nothing.
‘Look, boss.’ Javed pointed ahead. ‘We’re here.’
The indicator lights on the truck flashed yellow and a sign above the motorway showed the route to the port off to the right. Holm merged onto the exit slip, keeping a few vehicles between their own and the truck.
Twenty minutes later the truck rolled into the port. Kowlowski stopped at a barrier, produced his papers and was let through.
‘We could show them our ID,’ Javed said. ‘Stress the need to cooperate across borders.’
‘We could,’ Holm said. ‘But we won’t. I don’t trust the Italians.’
‘Cosa Nostra and all that?’
‘Whether or not the Mafia have their dirty fingers round the neck of the port authorities or not is irrelevant. I simply I don’t want anyone to know we’re here.’ Holm pointed at Javed’s phone. ‘Now stop wittering and make sure we don’t lose him.’
After half an hour of negotiating some ill-lit and very dodgy backstreets, they managed to park outside the port but alongside a fence close to a quay. The truck had pulled up on the quayside beneath a set of floodlights and they watched as a forklift unloaded a number of crates from the container.
‘Volvo Penta,’ Javed said, lowering a pair of binoculars from his eyes. ‘Marine engine parts, like the guy said.’
‘A cover story, you’ll see.’
‘You mean there’s something else in those crates?’
‘No. They probably do contain engine spares. It’s what’s coming back to the UK we’re interested in, remember?’
‘There’s something else written on the crates.’ Javed shifted his position and refocused. ‘It says MV Angelo.’
‘Motor vessel Angelo. Right.’ Holm climbed out of the car. This part of the port was away from the container ships and the general cargo. The quayside was clean and tidy and a number of expensive-looking white fenders were stacked in a pile near an empty berth. He took out his phone and held it up. ‘Stay in touch.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘For a wander. Sit tight.’
Holm walked along the fence, trying to appear as if he was simply a lost tourist wandering in the dark. A hundred metres farther on a litt
le cafe sat sandwiched between two derelict warehouses. A table and a couple of chairs had been arranged outside on the narrow pavement and an A-board sign was adorned with a scrawl of chalk and the name of the cafe at the top: Luigi’s. Light shone from inside where there were three more tables and a long counter. The wall behind the counter was adorned with football posters and press cuttings, some of the posters going back decades. Holm strolled in. There was a little handbell by a plate of pastries. He picked up the bell and gave it a shake. Moments later a man entered through a back door. He wore an apron, the white material curving over a substantial stomach. A round face mirrored the stomach, while the top of the man’s head wore a dusting of grey hair shaved razor close. Luigi, Holm assumed.
‘Could I have a coffee?’ Holm spoke slowly in English. ‘A cappuccino?’
‘Si, si. Un momento.’ Luigi turned to an ancient-looking machine and began to prepare the drink. ‘English, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Manchester?’
‘No, London.’
‘Ah, Arsenal, Chelsea, Tottenham Hotspur.’
Holm wasn’t much interested in football, but his father had taken him along to Millwall when he’d been a kid. He doubted the owner would have heard of the team.
‘Napoli,’ Holm said. He spotted the front page of an old newspaper stuck on the back wall. ‘The UEFA Cup in ’89, yes?’
Luigi turned, a broad smile on his face. ‘You know about that? All the way up there in England?’
‘Of course.’ Holm nodded. He took another glance at the headlines on the paper. ‘You beat Stuttgart. Maradona scored a penalty.’ He paused for a moment and pulled out some euros. He spread the coins on the counter. ‘How much?’
Luigi shook his head, his expression almost dreamlike. ‘For you, my friend, it is gratis.’
‘Thank you.’ Holm glanced round the cafe. The place was empty. ‘Quiet, yes?’
‘Not always like this. It’s busy in the day, but I like to keep open all hours. Gives me something to do.’
