He clears his throat – aware that he needs to take this seriously. After all, he’s about to take control of a powerful yacht and guide it into open waters using only whatever knowledge he can glean from the residual traces of all the people who had sat at these controls. And many weren’t exactly sober at the time. What could possibly go wrong?
‘You have the bridge, Mr Mastriano,’ he says, in a terrible British accent, leaning forward to begin the sequence that will activate the controls. As he does so, a sensation grips him – an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, which, given that he’s a telepatico, is not exactly unusual. This time it’s different.
He tries to shrug away the warning. Perhaps it’s about what happened before – that time he can scarcely allow himself to think about – when he’d driven the classic Jaguar that belonged to Krista Sigurðardóttir’s grandfather into a tree and almost killed them both.
A lot has happened since then. Shouldn’t it encourage him that Nero and the others have entrusted him with this task? They must have complete faith in his abilities. Then again, if he can make a near-fatal mistake in an old car on dry land then, knowing next to nothing about the sea, what are the odds of him pulling this off?
Lights move across his vision. Despite the mist, he can see it’s a fishing trawler. It’s leaving the dock and heading for the harbour entrance. Her crew must be keen to get away before curfew begins. A second fishing boat is lit up and manoeuvring away from its berth.
It occurs to him that, rather than wait for nightfall, it would look less suspicious if this yacht were to do the same thing – her rich occupants eager to be on their way while they can. In fact, it would surely attract less attention if she’s lit up in the regular way.
By leaving now, he’s jumping the gun a bit, but it can’t be that difficult to park her up, or whatever the nautical term for that is, once he’s round the headland and outside the range of the harbour’s hydrophone detection sensors – all that stuff Nero had warned him about.
He seems to recall something about boats needing red or green lights on their sides. Below the joystick, there’s a row of ridiculously old-fashioned switches with various words like starboard and stern on them – he might as well flick them all down.
His mind made up, Bruno’s hands begin to vibrate before he even touches the joystick. Once he has a solid grip, his fingertips become so hot he wonders if they’ll be burnt when he lets go. So many people, so many past lives to navigate; his brain grows heavy with the burden.
When he opens his eyes, they retreat. He’s been left with the technical knowledge he needs – it’s all there hot at his fingertips.
He knows now the controls are both simple and ingenious at the same time. Though she’d been converted to run on electricity two decades back, the yacht itself had been built in an era when self-indulging executives had still been able to gad about the world showing off their helmsmanship to would-be admirers. Her designers knew she needed to be more or less idiot proof.
Like snakes retreating into their nests, the shorelines slip their bollards and automatically retract into place. With the minimum of actions, it chimes to tell him it’s ready. Her near silent engine is purring as, with a series of clunks, she moves away. Then he just has to use the visual feedback from the sensors to help position her. Slowly and gently he steers her pointy-end – he should call it the bow – towards the open water.
As soon as they’re away from the berth, he feels her rise underneath him, moving with the flow. Wow – who knew you could have this much fun with your invisibility suit on?
Bruno steers her to the right – an invisible chorus tells him he should be calling it starboard. Pretty soon she’s tucked in behind the wake of the fishing trawler and heading for the gap in the harbour wall.
Losing concentration for a moment, he adjusts too much and she starts to get away from him just as the wall looms closer.
‘Keep her steady, Mr Mastriano,’ he says, emulating the elderly Englishman who once owned her. Shit! Approaching from this angle the opening looks way too narrow to pass through.
The schematic in front of him is lit up and anticipating his wishes – all he has to do is keep her on the marked track. Bruno tightens his grip on the joystick and holds his nerve.
It seems extraordinary that the boat is, quite independently, plotting his safe passage away from Eldísvík.
She steadies. Glancing back over his shoulder, he sees the harbour monument with its pinnacle flashing red. Behind that, the towering lights of the CBD are already retreating into the background. She’s holding her course – is going to make it through okay.
It occurs to him that anyone watching from the harbour wall will only see his head at the helm. Luxury Yacht Stolen by Bodyless Head – a great story but who would believe it?
Once he’s clear of the harbour, Bruno steers her along the deep waters of the fjord, towards the kind of freedom he’s never know in all his nineteen years of life.
Five
Nero looks out across the ice-laden water, pleased that the wind’s earlier ferocity has begun to abate. The perimeter lights come dancing across the harbour at him. He can see the hazy outline of a fishing trawler heading off towards the harbour entrance – such a tough way to make a living.
It’s clear the tide is already on the turn. He pulls his collar up against the cold. His hat – the fedora he’d borrowed – is miraculously still on his head. Perhaps he should go in for this look, cultivate a habit of peering out beneath a tilted brim like some long-ago sleuth.
When they’ve finished here, they’ll stop off at the pleasure boat to pick up the two backpacks in her galley. He can return the hat at the same time – maybe it’s just as well.
The bow lights of a sizable craft come at them through the mist; she would appear to be heading in their direction. As she turns into the wake from the fishing trawler, the words MARINE POLICE are visible along her side.
‘Skíta!’ Quentin says. ‘This could go either way.’
‘You need to have faith,’ Nero tells him. She’s a good length, looks capacious enough. He can just make out the orange tip of the boat’s derrick. As the boat gets closer, it’s clear there’s only one person at her helm.
A movement off to one side draws Nero’s gaze away. Though there appears to be nothing there, he’s quite certain it was a fox. Could have been a feral animal searching out scraps but much more likely it was one of Freyja’s vixens. The two decoys could have rendezvoused while he was sleeping; in fact it’s more than likely. If so, Quentin might well have used the meal he’d brought back to distract suspicion.
He glances behind him half expecting Freyja to be standing there with her weapons drawn but there’s only the empty walkway and the dark flank of the ship that’s dwarfing them.
The police boat is drawing nearer and now it’s easy enough to spot Kass inside the cockpit. ‘It’s her,’ Quentin says. ‘That’s a relief.’ He’s smiling now. Nonetheless Nero can sense there’s mounting tension in the man. Since they shared their impromptu meal, the decoy has become increasingly reluctant to look him in the eye. And the man’s too quick to snatch his hand back if there’s any danger they might accidentally touch. Could be he has a thing about physical contact but that’s not it. To all appearances, Quentin is going along with all this, but he’s hiding something; the man has his own agenda.
‘And right on time,’ Nero says, ‘just like I told you she’d be.’
Quentin continues to look out at the open water as if expecting to see more boats heading their way. ‘You know, Cavallo,’ he says at last, ‘it can be a really annoying habit – this business of always being right.’
‘So I’ve been told, many times.’
As agreed, Nero signals with the torch he’d borrowed from Svensson. Dot dot dash dot; dash dot dot dot.
The bow lights flicker back the same sequence spelling out an F and then a B – the international code for fine business – meaning everything is okay on board.
As the boat nears the jetty, he can clearly see Kass’s face, how she’s trying not to look too smug. The woman is in her element. Seeing them, she waves while steering the heavy vessel towards the empty berth where they’re standing.
Once the boat has stopped moving, shorelines emerge from her sides automatically seeking out the metal bollards they fasten themselves around.
Kass makes a point of folding her arms as the boat is pulled alongside the jetty. As the gap closes, it comes to a shuddering halt against the fenders.
Nero peers in through one of the portholes but can’t see a thing. He’s confident the hold will accommodate the 35 crates and the weight of weapons they contain. Once these are safely stowed down below, the derrick can begin to transfer the palleted bales containing the suits. They’ll have to store these on the open deck. He can see a rolled-up tarp and various anchorage points that should keep them securely in place even in the heaviest swell.
Kass clambers down the ladder, straightens her back and gives them a mock salute. ‘Acting Inspector Kassöndrudóttir at your service, sir. Nice hat by the way.’
‘Good to see you.’ Nero returns her salute after a fashion.
‘I must say,’ Quentin says, his hands still in pockets, ‘you and that boat are a sight for sore eyes.’
‘Well, she may be getting on a bit and not exactly luxurious but she’ll do the job.’ Kass pats the side of the boat like it’s a compliant horse or a well-trained dog.
Two men in high visibility clothes are now sauntering along the jetty towards them. A port officer pops out from behind them; Nero recognises Andersen. In the half-light, the man’s face looks grey, his uniform crumpled from his earlier nap. ‘These two will help you transfer the cargo, Inspector,’ he says, not quite supressing the yawn that follows.
‘Thanks for your help.’ Nero nods towards the stevedores. ‘Should be a straightforward job.’
He draws Andersen aside. ‘Let me assure, this will be officially noted. You and Svensson have gone above and beyond your duty in assisting us during this highly sensitive operation.’
Andersen begins to shake his head. ‘Only doing our jobs, Inspector.’
‘That may be, but we fully appreciate the help you’ve given us. You must be exhausted. Once we’ve transferred everything into this boat, I’ll stand my officers down.’ He looks away towards the perimeter, scanning the whole harbour area to suggest the full range of these imaginary colleagues. ‘We’ll be out of your hair in no time,’ Nero says. ‘And I don’t mind telling you, I for one can’t wait to have everything safely under lock and key inside a high security storage unit.’
He offers his hand. ‘Thanks for everything.’ When it comes, the connection confirms the man is exhausted and running on empty.
‘Before I forget, you’d better have this.’ Andersen hasn’t noticed the glaring omissions in the signed-off manifest he’s handing over.
‘I see no need for you to stand around out here in the cold,’ Nero tells him.
‘Well, if you’re sure you can manage without me.’ Andersen looks back towards his warm office.
‘If I’d been on duty for as long as you have, I’d feel fully entitled to finish that nap we so rudely interrupted.’
A wide smile spreads across the man’s face. ‘You must have read my mind, Inspector.’
The weapons are safely in the hold and all the suits loaded onto the deck. In the stevedores’ practiced hands, the whole operation had gone like clockwork. Once they’ve secured the final pallet, the men unfurl the tarp. It’s an old, weather-beaten thing but, as far as Nero can tell from the shore, there are no holes in it. With speed and efficiency, the two men cover the pallets and secure the tarp to the deck on all sides.
Both stevedores straighten up. ‘Nothing’s going to shift that little lot,’ the taller one says. Once they’re both ashore, his colleague pulls the lever to the side of the two-man unit. There’s a lot of jarring and scraping as, one section at a time, the gangplank retracts into the body of the vehicle.
‘Anything else we can help you with?’ the shorter one asks.
‘No, that’s it – we can manage things from here on.’ Nero slaps him lightly on the back. ‘Thanks again for everything. Hope you have a quiet evening.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he mutters.
‘That’s us done. Goodnight.’ The taller one jumps into the passenger seat. ‘Make sure you mind your backs now,’ he calls out as the two drive away.
An odd farewell. Nero checks to see if Freyja might have stepped out from the shadows behind them. There’s nothing there but he knows full well she’s close.
The light is fading fast and the ebbing tide is nudging at the boat. High time they left. Kass is already taking the ship’s ladder two steps at a time; he wishes he could do the same.
Once on deck, Nero looks down to see the decoy is resting a foot on the bottom step as if he’s about to change his mind and storm the vessel. ‘I know what we agreed,’ he shouts up, ‘but wouldn’t it make more sense if I come with you? After all, many hands make light work and all that.’
From the vibrations running through the metal rail in his hands, Nero knows Kass has started the motor. He looks at the hooded figure below. Trying not to show concern, he says, ‘It’s much safer if I’m the only one who knows where these are.’
‘If you’re hell-bent on keeping the location secret,’ Quentin says, ‘logically speaking, one of us should shoot you as soon as you step back on shore.’ There’s quite a pause before he holds up his empty hands and smiles. ‘Only joking.’
The shorelines are back in place. Nero braces himself as he stands at the head of the shore ladder. As it begins to retract, the decoy reluctantly shifts his foot and the boat pulls away from the harbourside.
Nero joins Kass in the cockpit. ‘If you ask me,’ she says, ‘that decoy’s a liability. I’m seriously beginning to wish I’d shot him back in the factory.’
Behind them, the man in question is disappearing into the mist. ‘It’s too late for him to do anything to stop us,’ Nero says.
Above them, the clouds are being hurried past a pale moon. It’s a relief to be heading into open water with the whole damned consignment safely stowed on board. They need to make a quick stop at the breakwater berths to retrieve the final two backpacks containing the last four suits.
‘We may be lucky with the weather,’ Kass says, looking up. For a moment she’s silent. Then she says, ‘It’s not used very much these days, but have you heard the word – Raðljóst?’
‘Whatever it is, it sounds nasty,’ he says, shaking his head.
She smiles across at him. ‘First of all, let me teach you how to say it: Rath-lyo-st. You try it.’
‘Rathh l-yoo. St.’
She’s laughing with her head thrown right back. ‘That was dreadful – truly diabolical.’
‘Never mind that,’ he says, ‘tell me what that wretched word means.’
‘As you know, it’s hard to translate these things accurately. In English, I guess it means something like – Enough light to find your way by.’ She touches the screen and the boat speeds up. ‘Isn’t that all anybody needs?’
Six
Bruno steers Naglfar west around the point of the headland. Hugging the shore, he’s relieved to be entering calmer waters. He kills most of the lights. In the shelter of the land, the wind has dropped. Through the onshore mist he can just make out the sparse lights of a small fishing village some 3 kilometres or so away.
Surrounded by darkness, he can hear nothing except the lapping water. It’s a weird sensation – he can’t remember ever experiencing such solitude. The yacht is now well outside the city’s jurisdiction; however, this near to the shore, someone must control the waters he’s ventured into.
The echo sounder tells him the yacht is 76.4 metres – 41.8 fathoms – above a mostly sandy seabed – the perfect anchorage point. Once he’s selected DEPLOY, the left-hand monitor begins to show the
anchor’s downwards progress. The boat shudders as the metal arms bite into the sea floor.
ANCHOR SECURE – the system assures him. It must be safe to turn the motor off.
Nothing dreadful happens when he does. More confident now, he sits back to get a proper feel of the captain’s padded chair. What with the detour and so on, he knows Nero won’t be showing up here for quite some time.
Naglfar – such a terrible name for a lovely boat like this. Examining his surroundings more closely, he half expects to find himself hemmed in by clawing human nails instead of polished wood and leather.
Piloting the yacht had been thrilling but now the buzz begins to subside; the adrenaline rush is draining away. Bruno yawns. God, he’s knackered. Lacing his hands behind his head, he puts both feet up on a blank section of the instrument panel, wishing he had a braided hat to pull down over his eyes while he takes a nap.
It’s no good – he’s far too uncomfortable to snooze. Maybe that’s what the boat’s designers intended. There has to be a comfortable bed somewhere on the lower deck, though it’s not immediately obvious how you get downstairs.
He picks up his backpack and walks back through the galley towards what he’s learning to call the stern. There’s a proper staircase leading down with a sign of a pointing hand and the word cabins underneath. No room for confusion there.
Squashed in behind the stairs, he locates the door of a tiny room with a cramped couple of bunks – so spartan it has to be for the crew.
Walking the other way, he activates a series of lights embedded in the floor; they follow his footfalls like they’re playing some Twister game with him. The close air reeks of stale wealth. Every surface seems to be covered in veneers from exotic trees that should have been better protected. He counts three further cabins each one with an inner door marked “head”, which turn out to be bathrooms. Bruno decides on a tour to assess each one’s pros and cons. Right now he’s the Cinderella of the seas. The final cabin is labelled “The Citadel”.
Within Each Other's Shadow Page 3
