Dirty Business (The First Acer Sansom Novel)

by Oliver Tidy

  Nevertheless, the importance of what each was about to engage in, to risk, was lost on neither. Tallis offered his hand and they exchanged a firm and genuinely-warm handshake. It was enough. The arrangement had been made that Sansom would inform Tallis by phone when Botha left the marina, as they had to assume he would. And after that they agreed they would maintain a silence between them until either they met back at their last hotel or circumstances dictated that communication was essential.

  Heading off in opposite directions, Tallis turned to look at Sansom’s retreating back, suddenly acutely aware that if things went badly for him, as they well could, it could be the last time he ever saw the young man.

  It was a thought that made the stomach of the hardened policeman lurch. But there was nothing to be done about it now except trust to their instincts and skills and a good dollop of good fortune. They were, he admitted to himself, in very deep, uncharted waters.

  Almost sorrowfully, he turned back to the direction he must take and with a physical effort attempted to put all the sentimentality out of his mind in order to be able to focus his thoughts on his own pending fateful meeting.

  Sansom didn’t look back. Clutching the binoculars, he mingled in with the crowds, feeling satisfyingly anonymous beneath the floppy hat. He had things to collect, preparations to make and time was not on his side.

  He strode quickly through the busy streets until he arrived at the underground car park. Identifying himself, he made his way to the Audi. From the luggage compartment he took a thin jacket. This was not to protect him against any evening chill but to conceal the weapon that he took from under the seat. He fixed the silencer he had taken from one of the guns in Eda’s flat – grateful once again that all Botha’s men appeared to be using the same weapons – and, satisfied, wrapped it in the jacket.

  Within twenty minutes he was back at the quayside. The Audi, complete with driver, was still there. Sansom made his way around the town’s old defences and down on to the stony beach that would in daylight hours be packed with sun-worshippers. He was relieved to see that there were still a few people swimming in the sea, their clothes and bags scattered among the rows of now-mostly-vacant sun-loungers. Behind him across the other side of the pedestrian walkway several bars were pumping out music to tempt in the early crowd. He suffered an involuntary shiver as he remembered his encounter with the woman in one of them.

  From his position, he was able to see the yacht he had identified as Botha’s. The small white craft was still tied up alongside. The yacht was well lit.

  He calculated how long it would take him to swim out to it, then to get himself on board unnoticed, to do whatever he had to do once there, get himself and Eda away, and then alert Tallis before the yacht’s crew got through to Botha.

  Comparing his loose timings with how long he would expect Botha and his men to be absent if all they were doing on land was keeping the appointment at the Flamingo became a muddle in his head. Too many permutations existed for anything like accuracy. He realised that he had to just concentrate on his part of the evening and trust that Tallis could delay Botha long enough for him to do what he had to do.

  Grateful that he’d kept the binoculars, he trained them now on the sea. He didn’t have to wait long before he saw a gap begin to open up between the yacht and its little transport as it sped towards the land. He couldn’t see how many people were in the smaller craft and from his position he would only be able to make out anyone as they made their way up the stone steps that he and Tallis had trod a little while ago, and where they would be silhouetted against the darkening sky.

  It was less than ideal. He could move forward and try to put himself in a better position for identification but that would risk him being seen – and in any case it occurred to him that he didn’t know what Botha looked like in the flesh. He became aware of the increased activity of his heart as the adrenalin began to flow.

  The boat with the outboards closed on the marina. Sansom could see now that it wasn’t so little, more of a medium-sized speedboat. That told him instantly that the yacht he was about to swim out to was that much bigger than he remembered.

  He took the phone from his pocket and prepared to call Tallis as the boat was lost to his sight behind the marina opening and the hundreds of craft moored up in it. He waited, counting off the seconds, eyes fixed on the stone steps that were quickly vanishing into the darkness.

  And then he saw them – or who he believed must be Botha and his entourage – making their way up the ancient stairway. He called Tallis. It was answered quickly.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘I am,’ replied Tallis. His voice was calm and measured and just what Sansom needed to hear.

  ‘A boat left the yacht about five minutes ago. Now a party of men are making their way up the stone stairs. I can’t make them out from where I am in any detail. There are four of them. One of them is huge. It must be them.’

  The possibility that he was so close to the man who in his heart Sansom knew was responsible for all his losses, close enough to walk up to him and slot him, momentarily overtook Sansom. He became aware of a voice in his ear.

  ‘Acer, Acer. Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. Just checking on them. I’m on the beach. I can’t see the car from here. They’re above me, but it must be them and they must be leaving the car park now.’

  ‘All right,’ said Tallis, and then he added, ‘Take care of yourself, son. I don’t want to lose you. Remember, I need you in court in England.’

  The soldier appreciated the intention of Tallis to lighten his mood a touch. ‘You too, old man. We’ll see you later.’ He hung up, checked his watch, set the chronograph in motion and began stripping down to his shorts.

  Tallis gently closed the phone. So, Botha was coming. The policeman would have struggled even to have given an approximate figure on the number of interviews he had been involved in over the years of his career. Some had been high profile investigations, yet none had mattered more to him personally than the one in prospect.

  After leaving Sansom, Tallis had returned to his original hotel, changed into something more formal, despite the heat, and taken a taxi to the restaurant. He sat in the Flamingo at a table for two facing the door. He was not in the least bit hungry, but for appearances’ sake had ordered something light, which he was now pushing around the plate. Botha was on his way for the meeting that Tallis had anticipated ever since learning the man’s name from the information gifted to him by Captain Harris. He took another sip of his water and waited the last few minutes.

  *

  Sansom was down to his shorts when the phone rang. Expecting to hear Tallis give him some last minute advice, he answered quickly.

  ‘Did you miss me?’ said Smith.

  ‘I can’t talk now,’ said Sansom. And then Eda’s and Tallis’s theories about his sponsor came back to him. ‘I’ve got a meeting with Botha tonight. I’m just on my way out now.’

  Smith’s reply was icy when, after the merest hesitation, it came. ‘You’re doing what?’

  ‘I made contact. He wants to talk. I told him why I’m here, who sent me. He says that he has information for me that might make me re-think my position. Any idea what he could be hinting at?’

  ‘Listen to me. You’re there to do a job. That job is quite simple. You’re being funded to dispatch him, not talk to him over a cup of tea. Do I need to remind you what he is responsible for? What’s the matter with you? Lost your nerve?’

  ‘I’d be a fool not to listen to him.’

  ‘You’ll be a fool if you do.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have something to hide, would you, Smith?’

  ‘Whatever gives you that idea?’ said Smith, a note of caution in his tone.

  ‘Something I saw in the news about a journalist: Hatcher, I think his name was.’

  ‘You silly boy.’

  ‘You set me up. Why?’

  ‘Insurance.’

  ‘How do you th
ink that makes me feel?’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck how you feel. Your feelings matter absolutely nothing to me,’ exploded Smith. ‘You’re a soldier. Get the job done. Come back and we can sort it all out.’

  ‘You’ll be seeing me again, don’t worry about that.’ Sansom closed the phone, knowing that once he had finished his business in Turkey he would have business in Britain.

  Darkness was now almost fully descended. The water was colder for it but the extra cover it afforded him was worth the discomfort. He had wondered whether to wait to see if the speedboat would return immediately to the yacht, but decided that he could do that just as well during a leisurely crawl by a round-about route out to the craft.

  He bundled his few clothes around the binoculars and stuffed them under one of the sun-loungers. The phone he placed in a sock and buried in a shallow shingle grave. Shirt and shoes he could replace, the phone he couldn’t. With no one appearing to be paying him any attention, he wrapped the silenced pistol in his thin T-shirt and then inside two plastic bags. He then used his belt to strap the package tightly to his shoulders. It might not stop it from getting wet, but it should prevent it from becoming waterlogged. That done, he slipped into the sea.

  Any other time it might have taken his breath away, but with his concentration fully on his mission he barely registered the change in temperature. Slowly and watchfully, he began his measured pace towards the Stella. When his position allowed it, he turned back to the shore, trod water and searched out the entrance to the marina. There was no sign of the smaller boat returning. So much the better. That would be one less to deal with.

  *

  The time dragged around to a little after nine. The restaurant was still less than half full. Tallis was experiencing speculative looks from the waiting staff. He’d been in there for three-quarters of an hour and had barely touched his food. A waiter approached his table and asked him if everything was all right with his meal. He was in the middle of explaining that everything was fine and that he was simply a slow eater when he caught sight of a tall fit-looking suited man enter and stand surveying the room. Apparently seeing nothing that interested him, he turned and left.

  A minute later he was back. Behind him came another two men. Both were casually dressed. One was huge, tall and broad, tough and strong-looking – and coal black. The other was white, older, fatter, smaller, but there was no doubting who was in charge.

  The suit took up a position just inside the doorway where he could see and be seen by the men he had escorted in. The other two made their way to a table away from the others and a reserved plate was removed from it by the maître d’ bobbing in attendance.

  The black man waved the maître d’ away and pulled out the chair for his boss to sit down. They both cast inquisitive looks around the room. After a minute, they began to talk in low murmurs.

  A waiter approached, menus clutched to his body. A few feet from the table, the black man stopped him with a raised index finger. He said something and the waiter bowed slightly then hurried away. He was back in a moment, much quicker than Tallis had been waited on, with a tray on which sat an expensive-looking bottle of water and two glasses.

  Through this, Tallis had bided his time, understanding restaurant protocol must be observed. Finally, satisfied that his targets were comfortable and that they would be without further interruption, he took a small sip of his drink, a deep breath, stood slowly, straightened his tie, and began crossing the room to the two men he hoped were Botha and his right-hand man.

  *

  It was almost as dark as it was going to get by the time Sansom was as far out as the yacht. His circuitous route had allowed him to study the yacht from all sides. He experienced relief with the confirmation on the stern that it was indeed the Stella. There had been no sign of the speedboat returning to the mother ship, although that didn’t mean that it wouldn’t.

  He trod water out of the light that the yacht was shedding on to the sea immediately surrounding it. The side of the yacht was high out of the water and he could see only one way to get aboard: a small lowered platform at the stern. Sloppy, he thought. It should have been raised. Perhaps they were expecting a quick return. Peering across the short stretch of water between him and it, he could see no activity, no one guarding the access point. But he couldn’t be sure.

  With the minimum of noise, he swam in until he was immediately beneath the grating of the metal landing platform. Balancing on submerged metalwork, he removed the T-shirt from the carrier bag and then the gun from the clothes. It was drier than he could have hoped for; its action was not a concern for him. He slipped the dark T-shirt on, discarded the plastic bag and manoeuvred himself to the little platform. While his hands felt out the surfaces and holds, his eyes and ears were trained on the deck.

  In the moments when he was at his most vulnerable, he climbed the few aluminium steps, got both feet on the deck and moved across the exposed area to the shadow of the cabin walls. If anyone should come across his trail of water then he was sure that the alarm would be raised.

  His back up against the metalwork, he strained his ears again above the blood pumping in them for the sound of an alert. Satisfied that he was so far, so good, he eased off the safety catch and began to edge his way along the narrow outside walkway.

  Above him the upper levels of the yacht projected out to form an overhang beneath which he was plunged into deep shadow. He guessed that above him would be any crew and the bridge of the vessel.

  As he inched along, curtained portholes filtered dull yellow light out into the night. He moved forwards until he found one that was not obscured. He risked a look in. Inside was a luxury saloon area. It was large, opulent and well lit.

  Sprawling across the furniture were a woman and four children, their attention fixed on a huge television screen. There was no sign of anyone else, but of course they would be around somewhere.

  He checked his watch and tried to work out how much time he would have left before Botha would return, but immediately realised the pointlessness of such an activity and that he was wasting the valuable minutes that he had.

  Using the view through the porthole, he located the doorway from the deck to the saloon in the wall forward and at ninety degrees to his position. He braced himself for his next move, mentally as much as physically.

  What he was about to do was not something that he was going to enjoy, but it was a dirty business all round and he would rationalize to anyone that his ends would justify ugly means.

  Stooping again below the level of the portholes, he crept forward along the wall towards the saloon entrance. He heard the man before he saw him, engaged in animated conversation. Sansom supposed that there must be two of them, but listening for a moment it became clear that whoever was around the corner was on the phone to someone ashore.

  Take-away food was being discussed in heavily-accented South African English, and Sansom understood that whoever was left with the speedboat in Bodrum was also responsible for bringing back dinner and he was taking his time.

  Listening for a minute longer, Sansom understood that the man on land was currently enjoying a drink in a bar. The man on guard exchanged certain oaths with his colleague and hung up.

  Crouching low, Sansom risked peering around the angle. He saw the suited guard settling himself into a deckchair and wrestling with a broadsheet newspaper – not an ideal defensive position to be caught in.

  He retreated, got to his feet and, with the gun extended in front of him, stepped out of the shadows. The man saw him and froze. Fear and indecision caught his face. Sansom was pleased. If the man had gone for a weapon, he would have had no option but to shoot him. And he had promised Tallis restraint.

  ‘I can see that you know who I am,’ said Sansom, pushing hushed tones through his dry throat, ‘which is good, because you know that I’ll kill you if you give me any reason to.’ The man’s eyes were wide with terror. Sansom pointed the pistol at his knee. He said, ‘You decide. Do I ne
ed to shoot out your kneecap or are you going to do what you’re told?’

  The man emitted a small frightened sound and moved his head vigorously first up and down and then from side to side.

  ‘In my head,’ continued Sansom, in his low murmur, ‘I’m going to count down from ten to zero. If your weapon isn’t on the floor, if you’re not on your knees with your hands behind your head next to it by the time I finish, you’ll limp the rest of your life. Ten’.

  The man dropped the newspaper and slowly reached inside his jacket pocket. He removed a pistol and dropped it on to the deck. With deliberate slow movements, he eased himself out of the chair and, with his back to Sansom, sank to his knees, simultaneously putting his hands behind his head.

  Sansom scanned the area before moving forward. He took up the gun and stuck it down the back of his shorts. He then picked up the newspaper and folded it over his own weapon. At barely more than a whisper he said, ‘Where’s the girl?’

  ‘Not here. Ashore somewhere.’

  A failure-inspired desperate rage welled up in the soldier. He jammed the silencer into the neck of the kneeling man and grabbed a handful of his hair. ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know. I swear. I never go ashore.’

  The body in front of him was little more than a youth, he realised, who should never have been there. ‘Get up,’ he hissed. ‘We’re going inside.’

  Sansom felt him shaking as he gave him a nudge and he understood that this adolescent had no experience and no stomach for his position. They moved to the door, opened it and crossed the raised threshold.

  ‘Put your hands down by your side,’ Sansom told him.

  Only the woman turned to see who had entered. The children’s attention, those who didn’t appear to be asleep, remained fixed on the screen. Their ages ranged through the primary school years, guessed Sansom, as he took in the scene. The woman’s eyes went suddenly wide and Sansom put his finger to his lips and gave her a look at the pistol beneath the newspaper. He beckoned her over with a flick of his head. She hesitated and he shifted his gaze to let her see him take in the children. He saw then a defiance flare in her eyes, but she began to ease herself out from under a sleeping baby girl.