by AJ Frazer
Paul parked the car and, without saying a word, opened his door and got out.
Slightly bemused, Dominic exited the car. “Are we here?”
Paul didn’t answer, he just went to the back of the van and opened one of the rear doors, which was thickly coated in gray dust. He pulled out two walking poles and slammed the door shut. Brushing past Dominic, he handed him one of the poles, still not saying a word. Dominic took the pole and looked at it, unsure what to do. With no other option, he took his bag from the car and set off after Paul, who had not waited.
The sun was now very low. The light was a sultry burnt orange, bleeding into a crimson sky. As they walked down a narrow dirt path, the trail became steeper and more difficult. The dimming light made it even more treacherous. The limestone rocks were loose and uneven and he was grateful for the walking pole. Flanked by cliffs either side, they descended into a small cove, which was completely sheltered from the wind. A few young, tanned people were leaving the beach as the orange sunlight disappeared from the sandy shore.
Paul stood looking out over the long narrow cove that led to the Mediterranean. Dominic walked up beside him dropping his walking pole on the pebbles.
“This is Calanque d’En Vau, a very special part of our coast,” said Paul. His French accent thick and graveled.
“It’s stunning,” said Dominic, staring out at the water.
“There are many stunning calanques along this coastline, but this one is very special to me. My family can be traced back hundreds of years, to smugglers and thieves who used this coast to offload their wares and get it to Marseille by land.”
Dominic took in the visual feast of the rocky cliffs in the twilight. “Like a cherished family heirloom.”
The sarcasm was lost on Paul. “And now I am here to smuggle you out of Marseille. There is a certain historical symmetry, non?” He turned and looked hard at Dominic.
Dominic returned the look. “Yes, I suppose there is.”
As they stood there, the light dimmed further toward darkness.
“The people following us in Marseille were your intelligence agents.”
Dominic nodded. “I figured as much.”
“We had been warned that they may try to track you.”
It made Dominic wonder how long they had been following him. If they were tailing him in France, they must have been watching him in London.
After a while, the sound of a boat’s outboard motor broke the silence and stillness of the cove. Paul started to walk slowly down to the water’s edge and Dominic followed. There were no waves in the sheltered cove, not even a rhythmic surge of swell painting the shoreline. The smell of the Mediterranean overwhelmed Dominic’s senses and, for a fleeting moment, he forgot what was happening and enjoyed the cool, sea air.
The outboard motor slowed almost to idling. They still couldn’t see it—the pitch-black night had descended—but they could hear it, the noise bouncing off the narrow walls of the cove.
Out of the darkness, a bright white light swung out from the incoming boat, reflecting off the water. Paul waved casually then lowered his arm to cover his eyes from the glare. The engine tone changed again as the helmsman inched the vessel forward slowly.
As the boat got closer, Dominic could make out its bow. It was a large inflatable tender. He’d been on plenty of “ribs”—as they called them in the Royal Marines—but they had been smaller. This one looked like the kind of boat the America’s Cup racing yachts used as support vessels. Long and fast, the inflatable sides meant it could pull up close to another boat or ship and not damage either vessel. This one was completely black and had no cabin, just a center console where the helmsman and passengers sat. Dominic recognized the make: Naiad. A business acquaintance used one as a tender for his super yacht based in the Caribbean.
“Bonsoir,” said Paul.
“Bonsoir,” replied a young man at the bow.
The inflatable eased up gently onto the sandy shoreline.
“Jump on!” Paul commanded.
The crewman on the boat reached out his hand to help Dominic. Paul pushed the boat off the sand, wading out into the water. The helmsman reversed the boat around in an arc before heading out of the cove. Dominic didn’t say goodbye to Paul; he was obviously a man with little interest in niceties and politeness. Looking back, he could just make out his silhouette strolling back up the beach. A bandit, a smuggler, a phantom in the night.
The crewman beckoned Dominic back down the side of the boat to a seat behind the helmsman. The intoxicating smell of gasoline mixed with the briny saltwater reminded him of his time in the Royal Marines commando unit and set his heart racing. He sat down and the young man handed him a black wet-weather jacket. “You’re going to need this, Mr. Elliston.” The young man had what Dominic took for a Canadian accent.
“Fine. Where are we headed?” Dominic stood up to put on the jacket.
“We’re heading back to the Eclipse Horizon. About twenty-four miles off the coast.”
“How long will that take?” asked Dominic.
“Once we’re out of this cove, Steve here will open her up and we’ll be hitting around forty-five knots, which should get us back in about thirty minutes—provided we don’t have to slow down for any ferries or ships. We’ll be crossing the main ferry routes, but should be fine.”
“Forty-five knots—that’s pretty quick.”
“That’s what a pair of 425-horsepower motors out the back gets you. At full noise she’ll pull close to sixty knots,” said Steve, the helmsman, who had been listening. He sounded English—a Northerner, perhaps.
They chugged out of the cove slowly before entering the expanse of the Mediterranean. The chop slapped against the hull and the wind had picked up.
“All right, Davey, you all set?” asked Steve.
“All good here,” replied the young Canadian.
“Mr. Elliston, you can hang on to the Jesus handle in front of you,” instructed Steve.
“Right,” said Dominic. What a pair these two were.
Dominic clasped the stainless-steel railing that protruded from the seat in front of him. He knew why it was called the Jesus handle, because that’s about all you can scream when you need to grab it.
“Holding on now!” said Steve. Then he pinned the throttles, and the inflatable lifted its bow immediately as the engines screamed at the back.
The air rushed at Dominic’s face as the bow settled back down and the boat leveled out. The engines wailed in a high-pitched mechanical cacophony. The boat bounced and jumped slightly but felt solid and stable at speed. The wind was now tearing at Dominic’s face and he pulled the chin guard of the jacket up high over his nose.
The Canadian howled in delight.
Dominic held on with white knuckles and tried in vain to shelter himself from the brutal onslaught of wind. The boat shot into the blackness of the night, leaving the distant, twinkling lights of Marseille far behind.
Per Mare, Per Terram—By Sea, By Land—as they say in the Royal Marines. He’d been too old for this shit a few lifetimes ago.
Chapter Thirteen
Steve drew back the engines and the planing boat dropped down into the water. Just as Davey had said, it had taken them about thirty minutes to reach their destination, which turned out to be a large ship.
Dominic could make out the lights illuminating the rear deck. There was no activity that he could see, except for a small group of men gathered around the side of the vessel. As they got closer, Dominic could see two thick cables hanging down, swaying gently across the hull of the ship in time with the swell.
Steve maneuvered the boat expertly and brought it to a stop right beside the cables, which he and Davey grabbed and attached quickly to the fore and aft points. With a wave from Steve, men up on the ship activated a crane winch. The wires pulled tight, and the boat was hoisted slowly out of the water. Once they were a few feet above the ship’s lower deck, the crane swiveled and the inflatable lowered to its dry berth
on the rear deck.
Dominic stayed in his seat for the entire exercise, knowing it was easier to wait to be told what to do.
“OK, Mr. Elliston, you’re free to go,” said Davey.
“Thanks.” Dominic stepped onto the deck where a few men helped Steve and Davey fix tethers to the inflatable to keep it secure while at sea. A white sea door opened on the main superstructure and Victor Sagen stepped through. He was wearing filthy jeans and an old, dark-blue woolen jumper. He was unshaven but looked bright and alert.
“Dominic, welcome aboard! I’m so glad you could make it. We’re already underway as we’re on a tight schedule.” Sagen shook Dominic’s hand.
“So where exactly are we headed?” asked Dominic.
“Come on, you must be exhausted. We have a cabin all set up for you. I’ll show you the way.”
Noticing Sagen’s deliberate evasion of his question, Dominic knew not to push it. He’d find out in time.
Sagen led Dominic into the ship. They climbed steep, narrow stairs and then walked through a maze of narrow, low-ceilinged corridors. Finally, Sagen opened a door and switched on the lights.
The room was simple but contained all the essentials: a small bed built into the wall and a desk jammed up against the side of the ship with two rectangular portholes above it. Opposite the bed was a cupboard and a small kitchenette with a kettle, toaster, and a few utensils. The smell of engine oil and chemicals permeated everything and was strangely comforting, as was the inescapable, rhythmic thrum of the ship’s engines. Dominic put down his bag and took off the waterproof jacket, hanging it on the coat hook beside the door.
“You must be ravenous,” said Sagen, full of energy, clapping his hands once. “Come with me and I’ll take you to the galley and get you fed ‘n’ watered.”
Dominic followed him, trying to keep an eye on his surroundings and track the walk so that he could find his room again later. “So when can we discuss the operation?” he asked.
Sagen did not look back as he walked; he just waved a dismissive hand. “In good time. First we eat, then you sleep, then we talk.”
Dominic had already lost his bearings and gave up the attempt to orient himself. Finally, Sagen stopped and opened a heavy watertight door that required a stiff shoulder to push it open. Inside was the galley, busy with people cleaning up large stainless-steel utensils.
“Charlie!” Sagen yelled across the galley.
A huge South Pacific Islander with a shaven head and thick, tattooed arms called back. “Hey, Victor!”
“Any leftovers for my friend here?”
“Always keep something aside for stowaways, boss.” Charlie let out a loud laugh.
Sagen turned back to Dominic. “What do you want?”
“Fine with anything,” replied Dominic.
“You wanna curry? Or I can get you egg and fries!” yelled Charlie in a booming voice above the clanging in the galley.
“Eggs sound great!”
“OK, come through here.” Sagen pushed through another door into the dining room.
Like the rest of the ship, the ceiling was low and the room cramped. Fixed tables were arranged in rows. The room was largely deserted with only one table occupied by a wiry man reading a book with the remains of dinner on the plate in front of him. When he saw Sagen and Dominic enter, he quietly folded down the corner of a page, closed the book, stood and left, taking his plate to the dish collection area on the way out.
Sagen and Dominic sat at a clean table. The noise of the kitchen was now muted with only the occasional loud clang when a utensil was dropped. The aroma of cooking fat, diesel fumes, old carpet, and ocean salt was unique but not entirely unpleasant.
“So, where are we going?” asked Dominic again, point-blank.
“Home of the spider.” Sagen smiled, blue eyes wide with crazy.
Dominic held his stare. “I’m sorry, where?”
“The home of the tarantula to be more precise.”
“Right. And where exactly would that be?”
“Well, Taranto, of course!”
Dominic was tired and hungry and not in the mood for cryptics. “Which is where?”
“The coast of southern Italy. In the Ionian Sea.”
“Sounds delightful. Italy in the summer.”
Sagen’s smile evaporated. “It’s not. It’s a wasteland and an abomination.”
Dominic was taken aback by Sagen’s sudden change in tone.
Sagen looked up and smiled at Charlie who was coming out of the kitchen. “Ah, your dinner! Charlie, I hope you’ve spoiled our guest.”
“Of course! Nothing but the best!” Charlie put the plate in front of Dominic.
“Thank you. Much appreciated.” Giving up any pretense of manners, Dominic began attacking the food. “So, how far to Taranto then?” he asked Sagen between mouthfuls.
“Roughly two days. We’re cruising at eighteen knots, but it’s nearly a thousand nautical miles to the Ionian Sea.”
“And I take it we’re not going there to work on our tans.”
“No.” Sagen smirked. “But there’s plenty of time to go into the details. We’ll discuss it tomorrow. Right now I must attend to some matters on the bridge. I’ll leave you to finish your dinner and make your way back to your cabin. Sleep well.” Sagen stood and walked away without waiting for Dominic to finish chewing.
Dominic shrugged and went back to his meal. He wanted to know more about the mission he was blindly going along with, but he was too tired to try to get more out of Sagen. He could appreciate why Sagen was so elusive and secretive. Being one of the most wanted men in the world had to come with some trust issues.
Dominic had to admit to himself, the clandestine travel, being chased, the secrecy, the fact he was in the middle of the Mediterranean heading into an unknown situation—it was all familiar and felt strangely comfortable now that he was back in the groove of his journalism days—or more accurately, his soldiering days.
Chapter Fourteen
A mild panic slapped Dominic awake and he was momentarily disoriented by his surroundings. Launching up onto his elbows, he looked around and recovered his presence.
Slumping down from his heightened state, he rubbed his face and slowly stretched his limbs. Two bright sunlight beams angled through the gap in the bottom of the curtains that covered the porthole windows. The droning engines maintained the same pitch and resonance. The smell of cooking fat, oil, and mechanical hardware sharply defined the air. He eased himself out of bed and, after taking a quick shower, changed back into his dark jeans and put on a fresh gray T-shirt from his bag. Heading out of the cabin he went looking for food and answers. In that order.
Heading through the maze of narrow corridors, Dominic knew to take note of recognizable signs he could use as waypoints for navigating his way around the labyrinthine ship. Eventually, he spotted the door to the dining room, which was jammed open. The welcoming fragrance of fried hash browns and eggs confirmed he was in the right place. He was alone. Breakfast was a serve-yourself buffet affair and had been sitting in warming trays for too long. Hunger made for a less fussy appetite, though, and he devoured what was on offer.
He washed down his meal with filter coffee and set out to find Sagen. He would not be made into a puppet this time. He headed down the corridor through a watertight steel door with EXIT: HELIPAD written on it in red paint. The door had a five-inch lip on the floor designed to keep out seawater and, perhaps, to catch out unwary landlubbers like him. Shouldering the door, he was met with a rush of salt-laden sea air on a warm, strong wind that lifted his hair. His eyes narrowed from the glare and he hunched his neck down in a vain effort to protect his face from the blast.
Making his way along the narrow deck of the ship, he kept an eye out for signs of activity. Descending a series of stairs, he made it along the side of the ship to the rear deck where he saw the inflatable that had brought him to the ship, part of a matching pair. Men in overalls were swarming around the boats like ants
to food scraps. There were heavy fire-retardant blankets placed over the rubber pontoons where sparks landed from angle grinders cutting into the stainless-steel towers that went up and across the inflatables’ sterns for navigation lights and radar mounting. Dominic struggled to think why they would be removing perfectly good parts from these boats.
A man in filthy blue overalls came up to him. He looked old, too old to be at sea, but his blue eyes were sharp and tinged with menace. “Can I help you?” he asked, projecting his voice effortlessly despite the noise and wind.
“I’m looking for Victor!” yelled Dominic.
“He’ll be on the bridge. I suggest you head up there.” The man did not move, waiting for Dominic to leave.
“OK. Making a few modifications?” asked Dominic pointing to the inflatables.
The man didn’t reply—just folded his arms across his broad chest and nodded with his chin in the direction of the bridge.
“Right then. I’ll be off to the bridge.” Dominic turned and walked back the way he’d come.
Six levels above the main deck, the door to the bridge looked the same as all the others except it was marked with BRIDGE on a small plaque. He considered knocking, but just opened the door and stepped in. Compared to the cramped, narrow corridors, the bridge was vast, stretching the entire breadth of the ship. The windows presented a stunning expanse of water and sky. In the foreground was a console lit up by an array of digital screens and switchgear that ran across most of the bridge. A couple of large comfortable-looking chairs were built in opposite the console, elevated and regal.
On the far right-hand side, Dominic saw Sagen, who was speaking to a man in a short-sleeved white shirt and black pants. Dominic didn’t think it was appropriate to interrupt what looked like an involved conversation, so he walked up to the front windows beyond the console with its readouts, radar, and God only knew what else.
He stared out at the blue ocean and even bluer sky. The bow of the ship looked a long way down from the bridge; it created a sensation of detachment, as though he were flying above the ocean.
