“Yes, Commodore?”
“Are you ready for sea yet?”
“Almost, Sir, she will be relaunched early tomorrow morning.”
“Good, you will get a coded message giving you your instructions at 0900 hrs tomorrow. We have been unable to arrange another safe escape route that is, er, convenient, so we are relying on you to get your passenger back here asap, understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good luck.”
The phone went dead and Vaughan was left considering the phrases “er, convenient” and the final “Good luck” which had been said with a tone of hopefulness rather than confidence. “I wonder whether a compact Glock 26 is going to be up to it for this job,” was his first thought as he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Later that afternoon Vaughan obtained the permit required to make a landing on the Selvagens, not that he was planning to make the visit but purely to maintain his cover as a maritime author. Two hours later he was dining again at the Casa Portuguesa having paid the boatyard bill and arranged the relaunch for eight o’clock the following morning. He had also settled his hotel bill and in both cases had used his personal bank card to pay them rather than the Firm’s. If someone outside of the Commodore’s loop wanted to know his location, his use of the Firm’s credit card would make their job easy.
Getting into the taxi at the hotel the following day Vaughan felt sad to be leaving the island; its friendly people, pleasant climate and majestic natural splendour had made a huge impression on him. “There is also the very desirable Amelia. No, Vaughan, she has suffered enough without you playing with her emotions, assuming of course that Suzanne Bevington is to be believed.” He had to admit to himself that he had been very tempted to contact Amelia again.
“La Mouette sur le Vent” was already on the hoist when he arrived and after one last check of the hull he climbed the ladder to get aboard and waited for the hoist operator to finish his early morning coffee break. As requested by Vaughan the yacht was immersed in the sea but still held on the hoist strops until he had de-aired the stern gland to the pro-shaft, an important task that ensured the non-leak status at the point where the prop shaft passed through the hull. Finishing the task he replaced the access panel to the shaft tunnel, scrambled backwards out of his quarter berth and went on deck to signal that he was ready to leave. Once the lifting strops were clear he motored away from the shelter of the stub quay and turned the yacht’s bows southwards, wanting to clear the land before the promised telephone orders were due. At exactly nine o’clock he heard his mobile ring, and connecting the auto helm he hurried below and sitting at the chart table snatched the phone from the rack. It was a voice mail message from DELCO delivered in a measured manner that enabled him to write it down. Anyone hearing the message would assume it was from a relative passing on some family news about a house move and a child’s new school. His short text response message was simply, “Thanks for letting me know”.
Returning to the cockpit Vaughan adjusted the auto helm to bring the yacht head to wind and hoisted the mainsail, and a second adjustment had the yacht turning to starboard allowing the wind, now on the beam, to unfurl the jib and staysail as he winched in the sheets. Then easing the mainsail a little to balance the yacht on a course of one five zero degrees, Vaughan waited for a few minutes to ensure there was no excessive auto helm activity to drain the yacht’s batteries. Checking that all was clear around him he went below to recover his hidden code book from the space behind the false bulkhead in the forward cabin and to pick up his notebook from the chart table.
Back in the cockpit, checking date and time, he selected the section in his code book and set to work; twenty minutes later he sat looking at the message.
“Make to position thirty degrees zero seven minutes North by fifteen degrees fifty-two minutes West. Await Western Saharan flagged fishing vessel licence No 11-331 ETA zero one hundred hours, twenty-three August. Take on board passenger and proceed to port Gibraltar HM Dockyard. Report arrival.
Passenger is Anna-Maria Ronaldo, use phrase ‘I hear your husband is dead’ as ID. Approaching destination text ‘Landed large tuna fish today,’ as soon as in mobile range of land.”
Returning below, Vaughan looked at the small scale chart of the area and saw that the rendezvous was to be southeast of the Salvage Islands, in Portuguese the Ilhas Selvagens, then pulling out a large scale chart of the area Vaughan shook his head. “Oh, thank you Commodore, you could have picked a less tricky area for this. Reefs, rocks and a warning that some positions marked were subject to inaccuracy. At least it will fit my cover.” After a careful study of the chart he marked a waypoint on it and set the fix on the yacht’s GPS.
As “La Mouette sur le Vent” cleared the wind shadow of the island she heeled a little more, and gathering speed, driven on by the northeasterly trade wind, was now tramping on at a little over seven knots. Now was the time for Vaughan to start his lone sailor activity/rest routine of twenty minutes on watch, twenty minutes rest or sleep. He noted the time as being 0950 hours, giving him enough time to plot his course and estimate the ETA before his rest period.
Allowing twenty-seven hours for the voyage would get him to the Selvagem Grande waypoint at around 1300 hours the next day, thirty-six hours ahead of time, but with the necessary advantage of slipping down the western shore of Selvagem Grande in broad daylight. It also gave him enough time to acquaint himself with the island’s wardens to maintain his maritime author cover. He now carefully checked the chart to ensure that there were no islets or rocks to hit between his current position and the Selvagen Grande waypoint and set the course on the GPS. “This all depends on the wind staying at a constant force 5 and from the northeast. We will soon be downwind of those high forbidding cliffs of the Deserta Islands, I wonder if they will affect progress, even twelve miles away their height may cause a wind shadow or change of wind direction.”
Another check on his AIS and a visual lookout showed that the area was clear of other vessels, and moving forward from the chart table, Vaughan stretched out on the starboard settee and closed his eyes. It had been two months since he had last worked his solo sailor routine and he found it difficult to fully relax in the way that he had previously, but if he was going to get his passenger to Gibraltar he would have to get back into that routine, and quickly.
***
As Vaughan had received the message from London, Senior Agent Leonard Staunton had stopped his hire car at the side of the road, and taking a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment trained them on the yacht. An hour earlier he had walked from his hotel to the marina and learnt that Vaughan had moved the boat two days earlier. The news had cheered him somewhat until the berthing attendant had informed him that Senhor Vaughan had only sailed to the Repmaritima Boatyard situated beneath the airport runway. Cursing, he strode back to the hotel, got into his car and drove out to the airport just in time to see Vaughan set off, but where to was the question. Staunton knew that travelling south away from Madeira was not going to take him back to the United Kingdom and he was now very curious as to where Vaughan was heading. Taking the road under the runway he then made an illegal left turn to get onto a roundabout and a road leading up to higher ground. Stopping the car again he watched the progress of the yacht for the next hour before making the call.
At the third ring a hushed voice answered, “Lenny darling, what is it? I’m at work.”
“Vaughan has left Madeira heading due south. Find out what’s going on.”
“I’ll try, Lenny. When are you coming back, darling? I’m missing you terribly.”
“Can’t talk now. Call me as soon as you’ve got anything.”
Staunton didn’t hear the “Bye, Lenny darling, love you,” as he had already ended the call.
After one last look through the binoculars, he got back into the car and drove to Kazakov’s house for further negotiations with Boris. This was the third meeting between the two men regarding some “assets” o
f the late Sarkis Kazakov that were stored in the cellar of a derelict house at Paul do Mar on the western side of the island. So far Boris had not divulged the location of Kazakov’s “assets” to Staunton, but had told him that he was in competition with a Russian.
Nearing the property Staunton parked the car at the western end of the Rua do Lazareto and walked the rest of the way, keeping his eyes open for plain-clothed police or Portuguese secret service people watching the building. His caution was understandable as Kazakov had been linked to the assassin, Takkal, who weeks earlier had attempted to kill the Tunisian politician, Walid al Djebbar. Takkal was also the man responsible for the death of Sarkis Kasakov, a strange situation that was only resolved by the written statement given by Kasakov’s mute daughter.
Magda, the housekeeper, let Staunton into the lower hallway where he waited somewhat impatiently for her to fetch Boris from the garden.
“You are early,” said Boris.
“Unlike you, I am a busy man,” Staunton replied, irritated that his timing should be challenged by a minder, now gardener.
Boris just stood looking back at Staunton cooly, obviously waiting for Staunton to explain why he had requested the visit.
“My associates are interested in making a better offer but they need me to verify that the stock you hold is what you claim it to be and that it is in good condition.”
“The other party is prepared to accept my word after seeing the samples and the same list that I showed to you.” The big Russian replied knowing the risk he would run revealing the location of the arms cache to this particular man, he had the smell of a government agent about him.
“The other party being Ulan Reshetnikov?” said Staunton, noting the slight movement of Boris’s right eyelid that confirmed his guess was the correct one. “There is an international warrant out for his arrest, it’s very unlikely that your ‘other party’ will be able to complete on the deal, and I have no doubt that steps have been taken to freeze all of his bank accounts.”
Deciding that the meeting was going nowhere, Boris stepped past Staunton and opened the street door.
“You’re sure that you don’t want to do business with us?”
Boris said nothing, he just stood holding the door open.
Staunton shrugged and stepped out into the street. “When the situation changes and I’m sure that it will, you have my number.”
Walking back up the hill and along to his car Staunton was seething with anger at Boris’s treatment of him and was now more determined than ever to eliminate the competition. Since the coup, both the Portuguese army and police had been searching for Reshetnikov who had been associated with those fronting the coup attempt, but so far they had not found where he was hiding and now it was becoming accepted by the authorities that the Russian had probably managed to leave the island. Staunton, however, now knew almost for certain that Reshetnikov was still in Madeira as Boris had shown the man samples from the weapons cache once owned by Kazakov. If he could find where the Russian was hiding and deal with him, that would take out the competition nicely and mean that the original offer made would stand and his cut of the profits much larger. The question was how to find Reshetnikov, could Boris be the key to that? Staunton sat in his car for a good half an hour trying to work out a way of keeping track of Boris, on the assumption that further meetings with Reshetnikov would be required before their deal could be completed.
As Staunton had guessed, Reshetnikov’s bank accounts in Portugal had been frozen and though he could complete the weapons’ deal from other sources outside of the country, it meant that he now relied for the payment of day to day living expenses on the earnings of his mistress Sonia’s escort business. After the coup Sonia had, for a time, been reluctant to openly run the business directly and had promoted Jacinta to the trusted position of introducer and collector. Sonia’s choice of Jacinta for the task was based on the knowledge that having been “slapped” once by Ivor for doing business on her own account, Jacinta would be in fear of any further “correction”. Now, after a few weeks during which time none of her girls had been questioned or even approached by the authorities on official business, Sonia had decided to use Jacinta for local clients and resume her role of introducer for new clients and visitors to the island; her latest new client being Leonard Staunton who, after his brief conversation with the pretty and compliant, Petty Officer Alice Morgan, realised his need for female company.
The meeting that evening between Sonia, Monica and Staunton was at a bar in town not far from where Monica had her apartment. The payment made and the two hours enjoyed, Staunton asked Monica whether Sonia was ever available, to be told that, “Ulan would never allow that.”
Staunton had not known that Sonia was Ulan Reshetnikov’s mistress, so the name Ulan came as a shock to him, but quickly he realised that it was unlikely that the name would be common on the island of Madeira. Staunton, now able to recognise Sonia, guessed that she would be a regular visitor to the bar where they had met; it would only be a matter of following her to see if the trail led back to Reshetnikov’s hideout.
Back at his hotel, Staunton went straight to his room and showered, then considered phoning Alice as he was finding himself to be on some strangely unusual guilt trip. He was just about to pick up the phone when it rang.
“Yes?”
“Leonard?”
“Yes.”
“Jan Vermeulen.”
“Have they picked up your stepdaughter yet?”
“No, I haven’t heard a damn thing about her. After the trouble with that bastard Elmoctar, getting information from Rosso was limited, but I think she may have got back across the border,” replied Vermeulen. “Can you arrange to have her name taken off that spy list? I guessed it was you who got it put on there.”
“Why? She knows nothing that is serious and if they pick her up it won’t take long for them to realise that they have a dud, and you will know where she is. I’m sure she will be pleased to see you.”
“There is a chance that she has my black book.”
Staunton felt a chill in his stomach. “How the fuck did she get hold of that? You bloody idiot, I told you carrying that notebook around was dangerous.”
“When Elmoctar’s men were chasing us, my briefcase fell open and some things dropped out onto the floor of the minibus, either it fell out of the vehicle when she did or she took it and jumped, I don’t know.”
“You went back and searched?”
“Of course I bloody did, but in Rosso white guys don’t spend a long time walking around the back streets.”
“Jesus, what a bloody mess.”
“The black book is not a mess, Leonard, what is a mess is why the Cabinda men got picked up and I got fingered.”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing, Jan,” said Staunton. “Someone in your set-up has got a loose tongue, unless your little stepdaughter is brighter than you think. She did well at university and Patterson was not into airheads.”
“You reckon eh? I don’t, she’s just like her mother, no idea of the real world.”
“If she has got the book, having her name taken off the US list is a priority. Leave that with me.”
“What about finding the girl? I’m no longer in Africa.”
“I’ll make enquiries. Where are you now?”
“Lanzarote, staying with your friend, Maurice.”
“Do you feel safe there?”
“Oh yes, safe enough.”
As soon as the call ended, Staunton dialled Alice’s number, and after ten minutes of uncharacteristic charm, followed by a few minutes of erotic suggestions, he started on the real purpose of the call. “I have just been speaking to the man that sent you those sparkling earrings of yours, sweetie, he’s got a bit of a problem and has asked for our help.”
“You know I will do what I can for you, Lenny darling.”
“I know, sweetie. Can you carefully find out if Campbell’s team are trying to pull someone out of the field, pr
obably West Africa?” Then as a thought struck him he added, “It may also be linked to what Vaughan is up to.”
“That’s going to be very difficult, Lenny, and I haven’t seen any of Vaughan’s traffic for weeks, I had the feeling that the Firm didn’t have any work for him at the moment.”
“Have a snoop around, sweetie, I’m sure that he is doing something, as he is now heading in the wrong direction if he was supposed to be following normal orders.”
Leaving Alice promising that she would try her best, and enjoying another few minutes of pillow talk, Staunton brought the conversation to an end.
His next call was to the States and his naïve political activist friend whose website had released the falsified CIA spy list. Staunton, using the name of a fictitious CIA informant, made profuse apologies for a terrible mix-up and after a further fifteen minutes of half-truth and innuendo conversation about politics and probable sex scandals about to emerge, received assurances that three of the names, including that of Mrs Anna-Maria Patterson had now been deleted from the site’s grand exposé.
When the call was finished Staunton relaxed a little hoping to spend the rest of his waking minutes thinking of Monica and wondering about the glamorous Sonia when his mobile rang again.
“Leonardo?”
“Yes.”
“I hear you have some heavy goods to ship.”
“Ah, Kallenberg, at last, yes, I expect to have the deal sorted in a couple of days then we can arrange the rendezvous. I think it will be best done on the western side of the island. I’ve got your number and we’ll fix details.”
“I’ll await your call.”
In Treacherous Waters Page 8
