Cruise the Storm
David Chilcott
Chilcott, David
Cruise the Storm
2014, David Chilcott
First edition
Published at Smashwords.com
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Also by David Chilcott: Murphy's Heist
Cruise The Storm
Chapter 1
Michael Morton was an MI5 operative, late thirties, been with them since he left college. Sometimes he got good postings; sometimes he was given terrible jobs.
The last job had been a lousy one, so he deserved better this time. His last posting had been in Manchester, where it rained for much of the year. Or so it seemed. He was keeping surveillance of a middle-eastern gentleman. His boss was convinced that the man was about to blow up the big Arndale Centre in the middle of the city. Morton knew he wouldn't, because the Irish had already done that one, about twenty years ago. Terrorists like to be original.
After Morton had lived in a dingy flat for six months spending his time going through old CCTV tapes and discs. When he wasn't doing that, he would be sitting in vans up back streets, watching, always watching, and never seeing anything of note.
Keith Bourne had come up on the MI5 radar screen recently, when he had left the English Defence League, and started a terrorist league of his own. The White Christian League, or WCL for short. He took with him about twenty of the bad boys from the English Defence League, and they were pleased to get rid of Bourne, and even more pleased that he had rid them of the trash as well.
The White Christians had a rudimentary aim and object, fighting Muslims and Jews. After they had done a few street marches through Muslim areas of cities, taunting them with banners making derogatory remarks, they progressed to setting fire to mosques. Usually when the congregations were praying. This drew huge publicity to Bourne and his gang, and the membership rose fast. Morton estimated that they already had at least ten thousand members.
MI5 had missed information that not only Bourne, but about a dozen of his colleagues had booked a cruise on the Helena sailing from Southampton the day they found out. The owners of the Helena had phoned Morton, and asked him if he was aware of the party sailing that afternoon. And what crime were they about to commit. In the opinion of Sun Cruises plc, it might well be a hijack, to take place in the Med. It had happened before, although it failed miserably. That might allow it to happen again with no loss of face.
MI5 vowed that it would get its act together in future, and Morton told Sun Cruises that he was grateful for their alertness. Furthermore, he would like to join the voyage, perhaps boarding the Helena at its first port of call. This would be Vigo, in Spain. There was no way that he could join the voyage in Southampton. There just wasn't time. He calmed their fears by pointing out that there had never been a successful hijack yet. You couldn't count the Somali affairs, which was piracy, a different kettle of fish. He also mentioned that he was very keen to nobble the League, and together, they could do it.
Bourne had planned his proposed hijack, for that indeed was what he was going to attempt, with remarkable attention to detail. He knew that he couldn't get arms through with passenger luggage, because of the scanning equipment, so he had made other arrangements. They were going to have a bit of a holiday before the hijacking, the gang of them. Bourne was feeling laid back as he boarded the vessel.
Morton went to see his boss the day before he left for Spain. It wasn't often he got to head office. He arrived on the bus, and walked through the sightseers for the balance of the journey. Baxter met him in the foyer to ease him through security which was very tight at the moment – sometimes it was very lax, he didn't know why, and probably no-one else did. Baxter's office was on the third floor, and they went up by the stairs. This was Baxter's fitness regime. On the way down the corridor on Baxter's floor, they stopped by the coffee machine, and bought drinks, which they carried into the small office, which was solely occupied by Baxter. Apart from Baxter's desk and chair, there was just room for a visitor's chair, and a single tall filing cabinet. Baxter kicked the door shut after Morton had entered, walked round his desk to his chair, carefully placing the plastic coffee cup on a coaster, and pushed another coaster over to Morton, for his cup.
Morton took a sip of his drink, shuddered, and put it back on the desk.
"I think it is a very good idea to join the cruise ship, at least you will give you a break from Manchester. You might meet a rich young widow, bring her home, and leave the service to live on her fortune."
Morton smiled.
"That would be nice. As I say, Sun Cruises are convinced Bourne's going to attempt a hijack. The guy's an absolute nutter, so they could be right. And since we didn't tip off the cruise line, I suppose we owe it to them to take it seriously."
Baxter looked at Morton. "It could be really serious if we are sending innocent passengers into a hostage situation. It doesn't bear thinking about. Maybe we could suggest to Sun Cruises that they turn the ship round, come back to Southampton. Then we could have the police arrest the terrorists on some trumped up charge. By the time they got out of the cells the ship would have sailed without them."
"I can't see Sun Cruises being happy about that. They think there won't be a hijack, because there are no weapons aboard. I tend to agree."
Baxter pondered for a couple of minutes, and Morton was on the point of standing up thinking the conversation was over, when he spoke.
"Let us say for the sake of this debate, that the ship is clean, no weapons of any sort on board when it left Southampton." Another thought suddenly occurred to him. "The crew don't have arms on board, or do they?"
Morton shook his head. "I have been assured by the chairman that they only carry six tear gas grenades. To quell riots, the chairman said."
Baxter laughed loudly. "Riots? On a posh cruise ship? God, the average age of the passengers is probably about eighty!" He carried on laughing for a minute or so, tears streaming down his face.
"He did say that they never had occasion to use the tear gas," said Morton. He waited while Baxter had finished another bout of laughter. "I don't really find it funny. So, as I was saying, we can take it that there are no weapons aboard as we speak, and the only way they can get aboard, is when they take on stores during the voyage. About a couple of occasions only." Baxter said, "They really need to tighten up on their security, if they think there is going to be a hijack. There really should be no way to get weapons aboard, and if that is so, there can be no hijack. Unless it is going to be a bare knuckle fight." Baxter smiled at his wit, and Morton smiled because Baxter was his boss.
"That is what I shall be looking at, when I'm aboard. Security. The Line are sure that there are no weapons are aboard at present, because of their security measures, so I have to stop anything happening during the voyage. I can concentrate on that one hundred percent."
"Good," said Baxter, "What about Vigo, where you board. Could anything come aboard before you arrive there?"
"I've checked that out, already. They take no stores aboard before their next port of call, which is Malaga."
"Well, I wish you luck, and 'bon voyage'. If you have any problems, give me a shout."
"On the pretty young widow front do you mean?" said Morton.
"Not unless you want to
tell me about that. Really, I was talking about the hijack."
Morton left his cup of coffee undrunk, and left the building wondering why the service couldn't do something about the ghastly drinks.
Chapter 2
Keith Bourne had last been in Spain over a year ago, before he was under surveillance by the MI5. Which as just as well, because then he was going to buy arms.
He recalled flying in on easyJet to Malaga and catching a bus to Fuengirola where he had booked a two bed studio apartment. This was as the money in subscriptions had started pour in.
He arrived in the early afternoon, found his apartment, left his luggage and headed for a bar he had seen from the bus. It was called The John Bull Bar, with a union jack fluttering from a flagpole angled from the wall over the name. You didn't need to be a genius to bet they spoke English, and moreover that they were English, or Scottish or Welsh. There were A-boards in front of the outdoor tables saying Roast beef dinners, fish and chips on one, and John Smith Bitter, on the other.
Bourne went inside, nearly dark in there, no customers, except himself. There had been no customers outside either. He stood still until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, all plastic beams and panelling. A guy, in his fifties, stood behind the bar, reading an English language newspaper. He was wearing braces and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Bourne leaned against the bar. "A pint of Smiths, please"
Out of the door he could see the sunny weather, and not far off, the tower blocks of flats, built closely together.
"Four euros please mate."
Bourne pulled local currency out of his pocket.
"Have you lived here long?" he said.
"Five years."
"Time enough to get to know your way around."
The bar owner examined his face. "What does that mean?"
"I'm looking to get in touch with one of those English criminals that are supposed to be living on the Costa del Sol."
"They don't live here mate, too down market for them. They're up the coast, in Marbella, and in Puerto Banus. If you were to go up there, and pop into an English bar, and ask the same question, you would hit the jackpot."
"Can I catch a bus there?"
"Yes, sure. The bus station is just down the road, on this side. Takes about twenty minutes, to Marbella." He wiped the already clean bar down with a wet cloth, when he had served the pint.
When the bus reached Marbella bus station, Bourne got off, and then realized it was a long walk into town. Outside the station was a taxi rank. Bugger the expense. He took a cab into the centre.
When he arrived in town, he could see why the criminal class didn't live in Fuengirola. There were shady squares with orange trees, beautiful old buildings. He hadn't thought a city centre could be so attractive. He realized that the pub area was a walk, back the way he'd come. He'd noticed this from the taxi.
Eventually he arrived in an area of bars, not all English. He chose an English bar that was moderately busy, people sitting on tables outside, a lot of beer being drunk from pint glasses, a buzz of conversation in Bourne's native language. He walked inside, and there were even a few people there, mostly standing by the bar. A barmaid, Spanish looking, came along the bar towards him. "Si?" she said, smiling.
Bourne smiled back. "Is the boss in?"
"It is the boss lady," the girl said. "Tell me your name and I go and ask."
"It's Keith, she will know."
The girl picked up the phone, spoke in Spanish, put the phone down again. Went back to serving drinks.
Shortly, a stout lady in her fifties came pounding down the stairs. She stood, surveying the customers, looking puzzled, probably wondering whom she knew called Keith. Bourne was the only person not accompanied so she said to him, "Call you Keith? I don't know you."
"Yes it was me that asked for you. I knew you wouldn't come down except if it was someone you knew. Sorry about that. There is only one question I want to ask."
She was already turning to climb back up the stairs. "Well, ask it. I might not tell you though."
"Do you know any of the expats who would sell me some rifles?" He kept his voice low, and she had to lean forward.
"Not in this bar. We don't have no time for the crims."
She paused, and then made up her mind. "There is a lot of British ex-cons drink in the Spanish bar. Turn right out of the door, next door but one."
"Thank you," said Bourne over his shoulder, on the way out.
The Spanish bar, with no name above the door was heaving. Lots of tables out front, all taken, lots of people drinking espressos, one or two eating tapas. Inside the bar, a marble floor, a wood-faced marble counter, with men, no women, leaning over their drinks, talking and occasionally laughing, some drinking the local liqueur, or else beers. A large espresso machine stood on a counter at the back of the bar. There were two barmen, and several waiters to tend the tables. All were dressed in the same uniform, white shirts, bow ties and black trousers.
Bourne wondered what question he was going to put to the barman behind the counter. He chickened out and wandered back outside. A table was just coming free, two people getting up and leaving. The table adjacent to a group of men speaking English, and judging by the repartee between them and the waiters, long term customers.
He took a chance, and sat at the now vacant table. Within seconds, despite the rush and bustle, a waiter had spotted him and came over for his order. He sat back to listen to the conversation at the large table.
The nearest person, a red-faced man in a white cap, short-sleeved shirt and white chinos was the ringleader, the most popular of the group. He told the most jokes, tall stories, and everybody listened with rapt attention. One didn't have to listen for long to know his name was Biff. And half his stories or more concerned the police, and how he evaded them, what places he and his friends had turned over. How they had been banged up, and how often. The tricks they had got up to in the slammer. That the others found this compelling indicated that they had trodden the same career path. One thing was certain to Bourne – he had reached the right people.
He sipped his espresso, carried on listening. When the waiter came by half an hour later, he ordered a bottle of beer – San Miguel. Eventually Biff's friends started to drift away, in ones and twos, until there were only a few people at any of the tables outdoors, though inside still remained busy. When Biff was eventually alone, and had ordered another beer, Bourne spoke to him.
"I couldn't help but hear your escapades. Do you know how I can buy some rifles here?"
Biff didn't turn his head. He casually picked up his copy of The Times, and opened it somewhere in the middle, and started reading. "Don't look at me, because they're watching me from across the street. Carry on talking but look back at the bar, then they won't see your lips moving."
Bourne did as he was told. "I need about twelve rifles, oh and a pistol. I don't need them now, but about one year's time. The idea is for you to get them in a consignment of fruit, being picked up from Malaga, and loaded on a cruise ship. I don't have to spell it out, do I?"
For a few moments Biff didn't speak. He turned a page of his newspaper, still with his head buried in it. "You plan a long way ahead, don't you? It could be done. Russian rifles are the cheapest, AK47's still one of the best. For a pistol I would use an American one, there's a few to choose from. I'll tell you what, how long are you in Spain?"
"For a couple of weeks, well twelve days actually."
"Say a week on Wednesday, eleven in the morning walk up the west side of the Plaza de los Naranjes, it's in Marbella old town. There are public benches. I will be sitting on one of them reading The Times. Wearing what I am wearing now. Bring a copy of The Daily Express with you, and sit down on the seat next to me. Open your paper, and start reading it. I'll have some answers for you then. Things like prices. And I'll give you one of my mobile numbers. Buy yourself a pay-as-you-go mobile phone, and use it to contact me, three months before you need the arms
. Only contact me once on the number I give you, and chuck the phone away. Smash it up first. There are governments doing nothing but listening in to phones, looking for keywords like 'bomb', 'drugs' 'guns'. When those words are spoken, the recording machines are activated. Then live people go through the recordings, picking off telephone numbers.
"One day, there's a knock at your door, and burly armed men take you away, and torture you until you tell them what you are doing. That is just the British government. Other governments can be nastier."
"I'm finding out how bad they can be. I'll see you a week on Wednesday, eleven, on the Plaza de los Narenjes, then."
He drained his beer, waited a moment or two, and then got up, stretched, and sauntered away. At no time did he look at Biff. Although when he crossed the road, he glanced at the buildings and wondered where the watchers were. He couldn't see any. Maybe Biff was play-acting to drive up the price.
The following day he spent the morning on the beach at Fuengirola swimming and sunning himself.
The days passed slowly. Bourne spent one of them taking a bus to Malaga and looking round the port area. He went down to the cruise ship terminal. There was a ship in, the day he went. As he walked down to the port the ship towered above everything else, included all the terminal buildings. There was an entry bridge from the terminal to a door in the side of the hull. He could see passengers walking to and fro, since the bridge sides were glazed. The only other exit from the ship, was up towards the bows, and a conventional gang plank led into the crew quarters. Even as he watched, a forklift approached the gangway and deposited cartons on pallets. Interested, he watched the forklift trundle back towards a warehouse with a large sign on the gable end: ship's chandlers the sign said. So that was how it was done. All Biff had to do was intercept a cargo and add extra cartons containing arms. And thought Bourne, to get them to our cabins, we need to get a couple of kitchen porters working for us. How much would that cost? But it wouldn't matter soon, as the subscriptions had already started flowing in. And every time the WCL organized a riot, or a protest march, the people it attracted would sign up in their hundreds, in fact it had become thousands. The last figures Audrey had shown him, they had passed the fifteen thousand mark, three hundred thousand pounds a year, and hardly any expenses. It was like owning a bank.
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