by Karla Forbes
Ed’s face cleared. He could see that Anson was talking sense. “And that’s where we’re heading?”
“Yep,” Anson said decisively. “Along with an armed response unit, the coastguards, several police divers and every available squad car in the county.” He rammed his foot on the accelerator and left a line of cars standing in his wake. “Do you want to be dropped off somewhere, or are you coming along for the ride?” he asked brightly.
Ed didn’t share his joy. He was thinking about that armed response unit and what the bullets from a Heckler & Koch MP5 could do to a Ford Focus. “I should never have given Nick the keys,” he grumbled miserably under his breath.
“What was that?” Anson asked sharply.
Ed hadn’t realised he was talking out loud but was saved from answering by the urgent trilling of his mobile. With an apologetic shrug he answered it.
“Mr Burgen?” a voice with a strong Filipino accent asked.
“Yes, who’s this?”
“It’s the hospital, Mr Burgen. I thought you’d like to know that your sister is out of theatre and back on the ward.”
Ed felt a rush of guilt. He had completely forgotten Annelies’s operation. “How is she?” he asked, nervous of what he was going to hear.
“The operation was a complete success and she’s doing well,” the nurse told him. “She’s sleeping now, but you can visit any time after tomorrow.”
Ed thanked her and ended the call. The fate of his car suddenly seemed less important. He turned to Anson with a grin. “I’m along for the ride.”
“Good,” Anson said. “Let’s go and get these bastards. I need to have a serious chat with that friend of yours before he’s turned into fish food.”
“What do you mean?” Ed asked, alarmed.
“The tide will be on the turn within half an hour,” Anson explained. “I don’t think they intend hanging around for the next one, do you? Once they’re out at sea, he’s no more use to them.”
Ed sank back in the seat and chewed a nail as he watched out for the signs to Faversham. The clock was ticking fast.
***
As Wilson came to a halt, parking the car in the bushes along the side of the road, Hubner began issuing orders.
“Malcolm, bring the diamonds and be quick.” Nick felt the barrel of the gun jabbing into his ribs. “You, get out. Try anything and you’re dead.”
Nick didn’t doubt it. He slithered out of the car, his hands raised in a conciliatory gesture.
“Turn around and start walking.” Hubner indicated a boat berthed a few yards further on. “We’re taking that one.”
In spite of his predicament, Nick found himself looking with interest. She was an old-fashioned wooden vessel, about forty feet in length with a roomy cabin. Nick could see why Hubner had chosen this particular one. Despite her age, she seemed strong and seaworthy, and her trim paintwork suggested that she was well maintained – a point that wouldn’t be lost on Hubner after the first debacle. As they approached, Nick looked in vain for any signs of security. There seemed to be none.
His heart sank. He thought of his own yacht, bristling with every anti-theft device available. Things were clearly different here in this quiet backwater, where life moved at a more leisurely pace. He walked towards the boat without thinking, his caution temporarily forgotten as his interest as a boating enthusiast kicked in. A hand, shoved flat into his chest, stopped him in his tracks.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Hubner asked sharply as he stepped in front of him. He didn’t wait for a reply but turned to Wilson, handing him the gun. “Take this,” he ordered. “If our guest even farts without permission, kill him.”
Wilson took the gun, handling it with confidence. He tested the feel of it, training it on Nick’s face and squinting down the barrel. Nick froze, watching with appalled fascination as Wilson’s fingers toyed with the trigger. Seconds later, apparently satisfied, he lowered the gun and used it to gesture to the ground.
“Sit there,” he ordered. “Put your hands behind your neck where I can see them.”
Nick did as he was told, his movements slow and measured but his mind racing. The odds weren’t in his favour. Even with Hubner’s attention taken by the boat, there was no way he could launch an attack against two men and a semi-automatic pistol from a sitting position. He looked beyond Wilson and Fox but there were no other signs of life. The riverbank was deserted. It was nearly five o’clock and the last feeble rays of the sun were rapidly fading with the approach of darkness. He closed his eyes as he tried to think what to do. His initiative deserted him: all he could come up with was to stay calm and wait.
***
Hubner cleared the rail of the boat with one bound and landed on the deck as lightly as a cat. Without pausing he ran his hands over the doorframe checking for any electrical cables that would signify that an alarm had been fitted. He found one running along the top of the door, painted the same colour as the boat and invisible to a casual observer. He pulled a penknife from his pocket, slid it under the cable and with one violent twist, sliced it in half. Next, he put his shoulder to the door and heaved. It creaked and then yielded, splintering under the impact like kindling wood. Apart from the distant barking of a dog, nothing disturbed the silence around them.
Hubner slipped inside and checked out the ignition. There was nothing there to cause him too much concern. He looked around him searching for tools, and found a bag stowed under one of the seats. Rifling through, he selected a screwdriver, and seconds later he had opened up the ignition panel exposing the wiring underneath. He yanked out two of the wires and twisted them tightly together, leaving the third wire free to turn the engine over when he was ready to leave. He worked quickly and proficiently, and the whole operation took less than three minutes. When he was satisfied, he ran back to the rail, leaned over and hissed at Fox through the gathering gloom.
“Quick,” he said, his voice low and urgent “the tide’s on the turn. Bring the diamonds.”
Fox jabbed his thumb in Nick’s direction. “What about this arsehole?” he growled.
“We still need him to get us out to sea,” Hubner said tersely. “We’ll kill him once we’re clear of the coast.”
Fox stood his ground, crossing his arms in a gesture of defiance. “No, kill him now. If you don’t, I will. I’m sick of you always giving the fucking orders. What do you think he’s going to do? Navigate around the sandbanks? He’ll run us aground at the first opportunity. I’m telling you, he’s trouble. If you take him on board, me and the diamonds stay here.”
Hubner looked thoughtfully at Nick and then back to Fox. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s time to ditch the surplus baggage.” He reached out to Fox, offering his hand. “Get yourself up here, I’ll sort it.”
***
The death sentence, so casually handed down, caught Nick unawares. He inhaled sharply with fear and began scrabbling to his feet, but Wilson was quicker. He whirled around, training the gun at Nick’s head.
“Stay right where you are,” he ordered. Nick obeyed for less than a second, he was as good as dead anyway. He sprang to his feet, but a stabbing pain caught him in the chest and he doubled over, fighting a wracking cough and struggling to drag air into his lungs.
He was barely aware of what happened next.
***
Fox turned to watch him, grinning broadly, and in that moment Hubner made his move. With the speed of an attacking puma he reached down to Fox and grabbed him tightly with his left hand around the throat. Fox’s eyes widened in surprise, but before he could react, Hubner clamped his right hand over his nose closing off his air supply. Fox’s arms came up, frantically clutching at his face as he struggled to breathe, but Hubner jabbed two fingers deep into his nostrils, latched onto cartilage and twisted hard. With a grunt of effort, Hubner yanked back his hand, shattering Fox’s nose and driving it upwards into his brain. With a sickening crunch the razor-edged shards of bone sheered into soft tissue. By the time
Hubner released his grip, Fox was already dead.
He slid to the ground, eyes wide open, staring with the trauma of sudden death. Hubner reached down, gathered up Fox’s collar in both hands and shoved him, unceremoniously, into the filthy water.
When he turned around he found Wilson staring at him, his mouth hanging open with shock.
“Get your arse into gear,” Hubner ordered. “We’ve got work to do.”
***
Nick was frozen in a half-crouch; as the coughing fit was subsiding, his mind was racing. He had expected to be dead, but instead it was Fox’s body that was floating face-down in the water. He knew the reprieve was temporary, and began the battle for his life. He turned savagely on Wilson, who was still standing with his jaw open and the gun hanging loosely at his side.
“Who’s he going to kill next?” Nick demanded. “You or me? I told you he wasn’t going to share those diamonds.”
Wilson half-turned, as though listening to Nick’s words, then slowly, robotically, raised the gun, aiming it straight at Hubner’s chest.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Hubner snarled.
“Is that right?” Wilson asked. “Was it going to be me next?”
Hubner curled his lip with disgust. “What are you talking about? You knew I was going to kill Malcolm. He let us down.”
Wilson licked his lips nervously, but kept the gun trained on Hubner. Nick rose softly to his feet.
“Don’t listen to him,” he urged. “Do you really think he’s going to kill Fox and let you live?”
Hubner didn’t waste a glance on Nick. His eyes were trained on Wilson. “Stop this immediately,” he ordered. “Give me the gun.”
Nick began edging away. “I wouldn’t do that,” he counselled. “It’s the only thing keeping you alive right now.”
Hubner continued to ignore Nick, focusing his efforts on Wilson. “You’re wasting time, Dave. We’ve got to get away from here before the tide turns.”
Wilson seemed to waver, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by Hubner.
“I had to kill him,” Hubner continued, his voice soothing. “You know that. He was a liability. He raped the Feltham woman.”
Wilson swallowed. “How do I know I won’t be next?” he repeated.
Nick took another step back. “If you give him the gun, you will be.”
Hubner leaned on the rail of the boat watching Wilson intently, an expression of derision on his face.
“All the time you’re keeping that gun on me, Sullivan is getting away from us,” he pointed out. “Are you going to let that happen?”
Wilson turned in alarm and aimed the gun clumsily in Nick’s direction. In that moment, Hubner leapt over the rail, landing lightly on the balls of his feet and made a grab for the weapon.
As Wilson turned to defend himself, Nick took to his heels. Fuelled by adrenaline, he began to run for his life.
***
At this time of day the pub car park should have been nearly empty. As Anson pulled in, it was already overflowing with plain-clothes and uniformed police officers. Standing to one side and talking among themselves was a desultory group of men dressed from head to foot in riot gear. They wore bullet-proof Kevlar helmets and vests and jackets bristling with CS sprays and metal batons. Those that didn’t have Walther P990s tucked in their holsters were toting Heckler & Koch MP5 single-shot carbine semi-automatic rifles. It was an awesome display of police power, and the locals were already collecting, watching from a safe distance in shocked silence as word quickly spread.
Anson parked up in a far corner and advanced on the group of riot police, holding out his ID to pre-empt the usual questions. “Who’s in charge?” he asked, shouting to make himself heard above the din.
“I am,” an older man said, scowling at Anson with obvious irritation. He had short cropped grey hair, intelligent green eyes and an air of authority. “Assistant Chief Constable Rowland. And you are?” he demanded.
“Mark Anson, MI5.”
Rowland’s scowl deepened. “Ah yes. I heard MI5 had been called in, but this is now a police matter, Mr Anson.”
“I’ll leave if you want me to,” Anson told him mildly. He was aware of how the regular police resented what they saw as interference from MI5. “Ultimately it’s your show, but I thought I might be able to help.”
Rowland scrutinised him in thoughtful silence for a couple of seconds. “Then you’d better tell us what you know,” he said at length, “because I gather it was your idea that we’d find the men here.”
If Anson was aggravated by Rowland’s tone, he didn’t show it.
“They must have worked out by now that we know who they are, so they can’t leave the country by normal means,” he explained patiently. “That leaves them with the option of lying low or escaping by private plane or boat. They were last seen heading towards Faversham. That’s only a short hop to the River Swale, where there are plenty of boats but very little security. Have you got any better ideas?”
Rowland considered the question and gave a thin smile. “I’ll go with that,” he conceded.
“What’s happened so far?” Anson asked, looking around the car park where new people seemed to be arriving with every passing minute.
“Nothing yet,” Rowland told him. “I’ve only just got here myself.”
“Then can I suggest your men start searching straight away? The tide will be on the turn soon; we haven’t got long.” Anson turned at Ed’s approach. “Deputy Chief Constable, this is Sergeant Burgen, Sussex Police. He’s been helping me. “
Rowland nodded with little interest in Ed’s direction and turned away, staring into the gloom.
“The berths start further down. Security is nil, so it’s as good a place as any to steal a boat. The more expensive ones tend to be nearer the pub, with the older ones further away. Beyond that,” he continued, jabbing his finger to indicate an area some distance away, “is Harty Ferry. It’s the nearest point to the Isle of Sheppey, but we can probably discount it. The boats there are berthed in the middle of the river; you need a rowing boat to reach them.” He turned back to Anson, his expression challenging. “If you stay, you accept my authority and follow normal police procedures. Even if these men don’t actually have the plutonium with them, we know they’re armed and dangerous. I’ve no intention of compromising the safety of my officers.”
“Of course,” Anson agreed with a polite smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything else. Shall we make a start?”
***
Hubner seemed to fall out of the sky. Before Wilson had a chance to defend himself, the gun had been kicked out of his hand and he was lying flat on his back in the mud. He began scrabbling to his feet, panic-stricken, but Hubner was quicker. Moving like lightning he snatched the gun, slipped it into a pocket and straddled Wilson, forcing him back down and wrapping two hands tightly around his throat.
“You stupid bastard,” he hissed. “He played you for an idiot and you fell for it.”
Wilson struggled to speak, but found that he couldn’t. Hubner tightened his grip. “No one ever points a gun at me. Do you understand? No one.”
Wilson frantically tried to prise away the hands that were cutting off his air supply, but Hubner was too strong. The pressure began to build behind Wilson’s eyes as the hands clutching his throat slowly and remorselessly began to crush his windpipe.
Hubner brought his mouth close to Wilson’s ear. “I wasn’t going to kill you,” he snarled. “Sullivan understood that better than you do, but you were too stupid to see it.”
Wilson’s vision began to fade; his struggles reduced to fluttering fingers. He knew that he was going to die. Without warning, Hubner pulled back his fist and smashed it into Wilson’s face. The force left him stunned. He rolled onto his side, gasping to breathe, and he was barely aware of Hubner springing to his feet. By the time the first kick landed on his head, his senses had already faded.
***
Nick stopped running and collapsed
to his knees, dragging air into his burning lungs. He threw a look of panic over his shoulder, expecting a bullet to thud into his back at any moment, but nothing happened. As his breathing slowly steadied, he listened but heard nothing: no shouting or sounds of running footsteps. He could hardly believe it, but it seemed he was quite alone. He rocked back on his haunches as he slowly regained his breath and gave himself time to analyse the situation. He had assumed that he would be buying himself no more than a few seconds at most. Hubner was faster, stronger and more ruthless than Wilson. He would have no trouble recovering the gun and then turning his attention to Nick.
So where was he? Nick began to wonder if his luck had finally turned and Hubner was concentrating his efforts into getting away. The more Nick thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Hubner might be a cold-blooded killer, but he did nothing without good reason. Apart from revenge, there would be no point in expending time and energy chasing after a hostage who had no intention of going quietly.
There was also the question of the gun. It might be helpful when threatening people, but would Hubner really want to advertise his presence in a sleepy Kent village by shooting bullets? Nick hoped not.
His heart began to beat more slowly now that imminent death seemed a less certain prospect, but as his fear subsided, the old anger returned. He hadn’t followed these men for days just to lose them at the last minute. Somehow he still had to stop them, and as far as he knew the cavalry weren’t coming over the hill. Ed might have given the police details of his car, but Nick couldn’t rely on anyone knowing where he was. He had no phone and no one he could turn to for help. He toyed with the idea of rushing back to the pub that was further along the creek, but immediately dismissed it. He would never get there and back in time. He wondered what he could do, single-handedly, against three men and a gun.
Two men, he corrected himself. Perhaps one man, if Wilson was also dead.
He hauled himself to his feet, and (against his better judgement) began to retrace his steps. Whatever happened, he hadn’t come this far to run away now.
