by D C Macey
Howard turned to look at the advancing couple. Sam could tell he recognised the girl, her previous smiles abandoned to reveal a hard-set face.
The courting couple broke into a sprint as they realised their cover had been blown; they came to a halt against the locked access gate and immediately started to climb over it.
‘Get in, now!’ Sam pulled on Howard’s arm again. Howard allowed himself to be pulled on board as Sam untied the inflatable dinghy and pushed off hard with his hands. They floated gently away from the side and by the time the couple arrived, the dinghy was just too far off for a good jumper to bridge the gap.
The couple stood and glared at the receding dinghy while the man resumed his phone conversation. As Sam pulled the engine into life and headed the dinghy away into clear water, the man ended his phone call. Sam watched the pair turn and run back along the pontoon.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ said Howard. ‘Who were they? What are you mixed up in?’ He looked back as the couple reached the top of the ramp. They split up. The man ran along the quay, keeping the dinghy in sight, the woman disappeared in the other direction.
As the distance between their dinghy and the quayside widened, Sam eased back on the throttle; gunning it seemed to make no difference anyway. The outboard was so old that even when running flat out it scarcely moved the dingy above walking pace. He headed the boat over to the opposite side of the dock.
‘It’s a long story, and there’s certainly not the time for telling it now. They’re part of a dodgy group that are after some Templar information or relics. I don’t know quite what our scan of the Templar grave marker means to them, but look, Howard, I’m sorry to have got you involved in all this. It’s something you really don’t want to get too close to.’
‘What are we going to do? Shouldn’t we call the police?’
Sam shook his head. ‘I’m going to drop you over there,’ he said, pointing at the waterfront flats ranged along the south side of the dock. As the distance closed, the domestic lights suddenly looked reassuring, safe. ‘Get a taxi back to the hotel, get to your room and keep your head down.’
Sam stopped talking for a moment as he concentrated on bringing the dinghy safely alongside the quay.
‘It’s not good enough, Sam. Those people were chasing us. I need to know why.’
‘No you don’t. It’s safer not to know. Look, they don’t know who you are. Just slip quietly into the night, you’ll be fine. I’ll lead them off and be in touch tomorrow with a proper explanation, okay?’
‘And what about this dinghy’s owner?’
‘Howard, you need to go now, before those people catch up with us. Believe me, they’re a bad bunch. Look, take a taxi and get away while you can, please.’ Sam almost pushed Howard out of the dinghy.
‘Get a taxi and get back to the hotel now,’ repeated Sam, as he started to nudge the boat away from the side. Distance ended the conversation and Sam watched for a moment making sure Howard moved on. With a parting wave of encouragement, he headed the boat away and through the docks. Glancing to his right, he thought for a moment he could make out a figure running along the pedestrian walkway on the far side of the dock. He looked more closely; there was nobody there. He told himself to get a grip; it was just his imagination running riot. Looking ahead, he focused on getting the dinghy to his planned destination.
He knew the waters of this dock well from his time teaching at the university. For two years, he had been a member of one of the city’s sub-aqua clubs. If he kept going, he would soon reach their boathouse and store, where he could leave the dinghy in safe custody for eventual return to its owner.
Equally important, at this time of evening there could still be two or three of the old hands hanging about there - cleaning dive gear, swapping stories, tinkering with boats. Some of them seemed to have no existence beyond the club, and the pub. Right now, he was banking on things not having changed much since he had left the city.
Looking over his shoulder, he scanned the north side of the quay again. Suddenly the running figure appeared. There was no doubt this time; it was the man. He disappeared again behind a screen of ornamental bushes, or were they low trees? It didn’t matter which, a few moments later the man re-emerged as the run of shrubbery petered out completely. The chase was on. Sam tweaked the throttle, got the engine going full out. Any increase in speed was marginal but he was not concerned, the boat’s straight line course through the water would eventually outrun the man who had to follow the longer line of the quayside, and he was on the far side of the dock anyway.
Sam looked ahead again, focusing all his thoughts on how best to shake off his pursuer. The sight of the SS Great Britain’s masts looming ahead flagged to Sam that a turn in the dock was coming. He guided the dinghy as close to the side as he dared. Keeping in tight beside the SS Great Britain’s dock at the turn, his route would be much shorter than the long arc the running man would have to cover on the north side of the quay, more advantage. As he reached the old ship’s dry dock, he gave it one admiring glance, then turned the dinghy hard into the bend, straightened out and let it move ahead into the stretch of open water.
Sam looked back, confident he had left the runner well behind on the far side of the quay. He groaned to himself, the man had stopped running. Two cars had pulled to a halt beside the man, now he was gesticulating, shouting orders to the drivers. Then, with a jabbing hand point towards Sam’s dinghy, he got into the lead car. Escape was not going to be so easy after all.
Suddenly the odds had changed. Pressing on at dinghy speed, Sam knew he could not win this race; he could tell the cars were struggling to keep their speed down as they tracked him from across the far side of the dock. He did have one advantage, the cars were driving along the north side and he was following the south side. True, if they simply kept going, their paths would eventually converge at the locks. But that was not how he saw things panning out. He knew that in a few moments the road would take the cars away from the quayside. He would have three or four minutes while out of their sight to play his hand.
Here on the south side there were several inlets, wharfs that indented into the long run of quayside. One such inlet housed the sub aqua club. If he could get his timing right, he would be able to turn into the inlet and be hidden, leaving the cars to speed to the end of the dock and cross to the south side by the old swing bridge that spanned the narrow channel between the dock’s inner and outer basins.
Sam swung the dinghy hard over, manoeuvring into an inlet between two wharfs. Looking over his shoulder, he watched the cars on the north side of the dock pause for a moment and then accelerate away and out of sight just as he turned to check he was on course. Directly ahead was an old warehouse. Several boats were moored alongside it. A big impressive dive boat dominated and a variety of RIBs, rigid inflatable boats, both large and small bobbed beside it. He knew the hunched shadow on the quayside was winching gear - used for getting boats into the warehouse or on to trailers. He could make out a light in the clubhouse yard; someone was still around.
Sam took the way off the dinghy and allowed it to nudge between two of the smaller RIBs. He jumped out and tied its bow mooring line to a ring set in the dockside then he turned and sprinted into the yard. The office door was open and music wafted out.
‘Hello, anyone home?’ shouted Sam while rapping on the doorframe.
‘I know that voice,’ came a cheery shout from within. A chair scraped and footsteps brought a middle-aged man to the door. Once ultra-fit, a body honed to perfection through youthful service in the Royal Marines and the Special Boat Service was now starting to run a little plump, and his long uncombed black curls were streaked with grey. ‘Sam Cameron! You old reprobate. What are you doing here, Cameron? Why didn’t you call? The guys would have loved to see you.’ He put out a hand to shake Sam’s but it morphed into a bear hug. Then, with a guiding arm round Sam’s shoulder, he drew him inside. ‘Come in. You’ll want a drink. I know I need a top up.
’
Sam allowed himself to be led inside but spoke as he walked. ‘Listen, Bill, it’s great to see you -’
‘You too. It must be getting on for five years, more even. What’s kept you away so long? And what’s brought you here in the dead of night?’
‘That’s just it; I’m in a spot of bother, trying to give someone the slip. Thanks for the offer, but I don’t have time for a drink and catch up. I need to keep moving.’
‘Oh, what have you done?’
‘Nothing, well…’ Sam collected his thoughts for a moment.
‘Bill, long story short, there are people chasing me. Archaeology stuff, if they get me it will be bad. I’ve left somebody’s dinghy tied up outside on your wharf; I pinched it over at the Waterfront Square, can you make sure it gets back to them? But most important, is there any way I can get out of here without being spotted?’
Bill didn’t betray any surprise. Perhaps it was the effect of several whiskies or just years of diving experience; staying calm and complete trust in your dive partner were essential for survival. ‘How bad if they get you?’
Sam looked him in the eye. ‘Terminal bad.’
Bill gave a little grin. ‘I always knew there was something in that Indiana Jones stuff. Always said you’d come to no good. How far behind you are they and how far do you need to go?’
‘Two, three minutes maybe, and as far as possible. What do you think, can you help?’
Bill scratched at his unshaven jaw for a moment, ran his hand through his hair, swept it back from his forehead and whistled air out between his teeth. He finished his whisky in one gulp and banged the glass down on the table.
‘Oh, I can help alright. I’ll want a full explanation later and a drink, lots of drink.’ He crossed the room to a key cabinet, unlocked it and pulled out a set of ignition keys.
‘You’re going to owe me big time. Come on. And grab that lot, you’ll need them.’ He pointed towards a set of waterproofs. Sam picked them up and followed Bill out into the yard. Back at the quayside, Bill pointed out one of the larger RIBs. ‘Take that, it’s got a full tank; I’ve just got it ready for a dive trip tomorrow.’ He passed the ignition keys to Sam. ‘You’ve used this one before, it’s old but sound. And watch out, it had a new engine fitted last year, so it’s got a lot more power than when you last took it out.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I heard some folk talking over at the pub earlier. Think they’re planning to get out through the locks about now. If you’re quick, you could get through with them. Any problem there, have them call me, but you know the ropes anyway.’
The men looked at each other, Bill stretched out a solemn hand, and they shook. ‘Good luck. I wish I could come but I’m past all the action man stuff these days,’ he shrugged. ‘And anyway, I’ll have to get another dive boat ready for the trip tomorrow, thanks to you. And here was me planning an early night.’
The sound of tyres screeching on the road behind the warehousing announced the pursuers were in the area. Sam jumped aboard and got ready to move off. Bill untied the mooring line and Sam pulled the loose end on board.
‘Whatever you do, take care of the RIB. Damage it and the committee will crucify me - you’re not insured for it anymore. And they’re my waterproofs too.’
Sam gave a wave of acknowledgement, pulled away from the sub-aqua club moorings and headed out of the inlet and back into the open dock. He turned the RIB in the direction of the locks, all the time scanning up and down the quaysides; there was no sign of the chasing cars anywhere. He might just get away with it.
Moving steadily ahead, he steered the RIB under the old swing bridge. Beyond, at the far side of the outer basin, he could see the locks. They were open, three or four small cruisers had already entered and were waiting for a big RIB to join them - its antenna and radome radar housing marked it out from the other boats - it was kitted out for serious work. He opened the throttle, with a little bit more speed he knew he would make it. The RIB’s bow rose as the propeller’s thrust kicked in. Impressed at the power, he eased back a little, certain now he would catch the locks before they closed and not wanting to attract unnecessary attention by racing.
The final obstacle between Sam and the locks was the flyover bridge. As he lined up to pass beneath it, he saw her - one of the cars must have taken the outer route and dropped her there. At the midpoint of the bridge, standing on the pedestrian walkway was a young woman; she leant almost casually on the guardrail but was scrutinising him and his RIB carefully. Sam knew exactly who she was. He bent down, rummaged in a storage net and pulled out a cap, which he slipped on his head before rising. He was careful to avoid his face showing as the RIB slipped under the flyover bridge.
Passing out on the other side, he dared not look back. If she had crossed the dual carriageway to maintain her surveillance, any such movement by him would mark him out in an instant. He covered the remaining distance to reach the lock gates without incident. With some relief, he nudged the RIB into the lock and secured a line to hold his position amongst the other boats as the lock gates closed. He had made it. Slowly the water level in the lock dropped to carry its flotilla of boats down to river level.
The locks opened on to the river and Sam got the engine turning over, then released his mooring rope and pulled it in. He pushed ahead slowly, taking his turn to exit. As he left the lock, he glanced back and his heart sank. The young woman had indeed crossed the carriageway to peer down into the locks; she was scanning the boats and their crews. She spotted Sam’s glance towards the bridge and focused in on him. As soon as she recognised Sam, he saw her produce a mobile phone and make a call. He knew she was calling her car back.
He was found, but he had a little time. Her car was again caught on the wrong side of the docks. It would need to double back to pick up the woman before giving chase. Calmly he headed out into the river and turned downstream towards Avonmouth.
Just as he started downstream, Sam noticed the big RIB had pulled into the riverside; it was towing one of the smaller cruisers towards a mooring. The cruiser skipper was trying to restart the engine, without any joy. Sam could see the big RIB had things under control and he was happy to pass quietly by.
The sides of the Avon Gorge rose rapidly to form a claustrophobic channel that hemmed the river. Ahead of him and high above was the Clifton suspension bridge. His RIB would pass under it in a minute; then he would start to relax. He knew it was an entirely notional boundary and offered no protection but it was a marker. From there it was only a short run down river to Avonmouth where he would berth Bill’s RIB and hire a car; slip away into the night.
Looking back, he saw the big RIB was now tied up alongside the cruiser it had nursed to the side. The RIB’s skipper had hopped over to the cruiser to help with the engine problem. He smiled, normal problems, luxury! Just as he was turning his head to monitor his progress downstream, another movement on the road caught his eye. The smile left his face.
A car was driving fast down from the flyover towards the riverside road. He gunned the engine, for the first time he really pushed the RIB along. With a final glance over his shoulder he saw the pursuing car had halted near the mooring, somebody had got out and crossed from the car to the river’s edge and was peering down at the big RIB. Then he had to turn his attention back to navigating the river.
Two or three minutes later, he became aware of the car again. Now it was driving parallel to his RIB on the run downstream. They were too far apart for him to make out who was in the car but more than close enough for them to spot his boat. He powered on, silhouetted in proud isolation against the dark shimmering of the river.
For much of the distance between Bristol and Avonmouth the road followed the course of the river, hugging the north bank; the gorge suddenly felt more like a trap than a channel, he could never outrun a car. He knew that only on the last stretch, as they approached Avonmouth, would the road and river separate as riverside developments forced the road a little inland. Sam revised his plan again
. He would leave the boat beyond the point when his pursuers were forced away from the river. Find a spot to berth on the south bank and get a taxi.
From his Bristol diving days, he recalled frequently passing a little tidal inlet at the village of Pill on the south bank: he had never stopped but remembered there were always a few boats moored there. Instantly, he knew it would be ideal. With no local access bridge across the river he could get well away before the people in the car even realised he had left the RIB. Perhaps he’d even double back to Bristol; that would throw them.
Happy with his plan, Sam relaxed and a little while later he eased back on the speed as the RIB approached the great bend in the river that came immediately before Avonmouth. Here the road and river parted company. He had to push the engine revs up again as the power of the incoming tide almost brought the RIB to a halt. While steering into the bend he chanced a look at the car and gave a theatrical wave goodbye as river and road parted. He was puzzled at the happy wave he received in response. Then the car was gone and he was alone.
The village of Pill came up on his left hand side and he spotted the inlet where he planned to moor. Just as he started his turn, some instinct made him look astern. The big RIB he had last seen up river at the locks was coming up fast. Too fast, it was not following the river rules. That could only be for one reason - it was following him. His pursuers must have commandeered the big RIB back at the mooring when it stopped to help the little cruiser. There was no advantage in stopping now. With a boat, they could be on the south side of the river at the same time as him.
Abandoning his plan, he gunned the RIB downstream again, passing under the great road bridge that carried the M5 motorway into the West Country. He could see the docks at Avonmouth ahead and pushed on harder. There was no stopping here.
