The second guy pulled up his ski mask and shook his head. He was an Iraqi, but you wouldn’t know it from his use of vernacular. ‘Fucking amateurs. Always greedy.’
He placed the Ruger rifle in the boot and pressed the close button.
‘Kill him,’ said the woman, pointing behind me.
I looked round at Gobshite, still whimpering on his knees in the snow, shook my head, picked up the bag of cash. I took out one banded stack of twenties and put it in his shaking hand.
‘Merry Christmas.’
Chapter Seven
Tiburon
King, my friend and colleague of years, arrived on the bridge before the doctor. Katanga turned to offer a grunted greeting then went back to a Game Boy; sounded like he was playing Mario one-handed while he steadied the wheel with the other.
King was tall, powerfully built, and looked like George Lazenby after he’d finished playing Bond and had gone all George Best. Spoke like Lazenby too, when he was acting Bond anyway, which I’d always thought was weird given King had grown up in a mining family in north Wales.
He’d looked the same for at least fifteen years, I felt like I was a portrait in his attic, suffering his ageing for him. The easy-going air only made it as far down as his powerful shoulders, the rest of him was all business: hard, muscular, and today clad in tactical black. Boots, combat trousers, a vest with more loops and clips than a fisherman, finished off with a holster strapped to his right thigh and a knife on the left.
‘Smells of Acqua di Parma and blood in here,’ he said. ‘The inimitable John Tyler must be on board.’
‘What’s the fashion-conscious mercenary wearing this season, then?’ I stood to shake King’s hand and he pulled me in, clapping me on the back. I winced. ‘Always overdressed.’
‘And as usual, you’re underdressed!’ He moved back, gripping the chair, looked me up and down, putting his other hand on the table to steady himself. ‘Jeez, you look like you haven’t slept.’
‘I haven’t, been driving all night.’
‘No, I meant ever. You’ve got red on you.’
Katanga turned from the wheel and eyed me suspiciously, pulling a pouch of tobacco from his pocket.
‘Bullet got a bit close this time,’ I said, sticking a finger through the hole in my T-shirt. ‘It’s been too long, King. Wish it was in different circumstances.’
His face darkened. ‘When I asked you not to call me I meant it.’
‘You still came.’
King steadied himself against the table and sighed deeply. ‘I’m thinking it was a mistake. Although this gig’s gonna be duller than Coldplay.’
‘Give it chance,’ I said, though I hoped he was right. ‘You’re looking greener than usual, you all right?’
‘It’s less swayey below deck.’ He was trying to do that trick of looking at the horizon to ward off the sickness, but unfortunately in between the flashes of lightning there wasn’t much of one to see. He gave up on his legs and collapsed into the chair opposite. ‘Christ, you still haven’t got a decent piece.’ He reached and slid my gun across the table, ran a finger over the scuffed slide.
I took it back, snapping the magazine into place. ‘All the best things come from the Seventies. What’s with the Glock, you always swore by a Sig?’
‘Only had it a few months, it’s the new 47.’ He leaned to one side, pulled it out and turned it over, proudly showing me the scars where he’d ground off the markings. ‘You can’t even buy them. Department of Homeland Security only.’
I took it, weighed it in my hands, held my Heckler & Koch up in the other. ‘This was made in 1974, I’ve had it for twenty years, modified it myself. It’s been on all seven continents, to both poles, Himalayas to the Sahara. I’ve never had a stoppage and usually hit my target.’ I pushed it into my waist holster. ‘Get back to me when your Glock’s been tested that much.’
He snatched his gun back and pointed it at the blood-soaked hole in my shirt. ‘You’re not quick enough to be using a museum piece. Get with the times, retro isn’t always better.’
‘Films, TV, music, cars…’
‘And Thatcher, right?’ He grinned.
‘Might be preferable to the current shitshow, you know.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘That shitshow, I assume, is paying our wages?’
‘Touché.’ I knocked back the last of the rum and refilled my glass from the bottle Miller had left swinging in the bag under the table. I offered it to King but he shook his head. ‘So how are our two friends?’ I asked.
‘Martinez seems capable, doesn’t talk a lot though. Not what I expected.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, Yank for a start. She’s more your type.’
‘My type?’
‘How’s… What was her name? That German getaway driver…’
I cut him off with a glare.
‘Well, Martinez is probably the best-looking person on this tub anyway.’
Katanga looked up from his Game Boy. ‘I resent that, Mr King.’
King held his hands up in apology. ‘Second best.’ He moved a hand to his mouth, looked like he was going to throw up.
‘And Fields?’ I asked.
He shrugged, looked at the ceiling, closed his eyes, breathing deeply. ‘Seems decent, been around the block, usual places, knows his shit. Scottish, and you can pick him out as an ex-Marine at a mile, but I won’t hold either of those things against him. Where did you drag them up from?’
‘Yellow Pages.’
‘Well, they’re asking questions. You’re paying a shitload of money just for us to ride shotgun.’
‘Like I said to Miller, they’re also being paid not to ask questions.’
‘You feel that?’ asked Katanga.
King and I looked at each other and shrugged.
‘Seb!’ Katanga shouted into the radio. ‘Seb, how is that aft tank?’
The radio crackled but no reply. Lightning flashed outside the windows, the wave crests were growing even as we watched.
‘Seb,’ Katanga repeated. ‘Come in, Seb.’
‘Problem?’ I asked.
‘Too much trim by stern,’ he said. ‘Far too much.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked King.
‘In your terms, Mr King, it means we are sinking.’
He jumped up, looking around. I stood less quickly and more painfully.
Katanga laughed. ‘We don’t have to get in the lifeboats just yet.’ He spoke into the handset again. ‘Seb, what does the aft peak say?’
Still no response. Katanga flipped a switch on the radio and spoke into the handset again. ‘Captain Miller to the bridge.’ The speaker on the ceiling was silent. ‘The electrics in this ship…’ He shook his head and muttered something rapidly in French, I caught what I thought was ‘curse’. Lightning flashed again, the ship shuddered with the impact of a bigger wave. ‘Kat, what’s happening?’ I asked.
He hung the handset back up and turned. ‘I asked Seb to fill the aft tank to set the stern low in the water, ready for this storm, but now it’s too low.’
The radio crackled. ‘What d’ya want, Kat?’
‘Seb, what’s the aft peak say?’
‘Hang on, I’ve had my hands full with these engines.’ There was a moment’s silence and then, ‘It’s not filling. Valve must be faulty. I’ll check it out in a bit.’
‘She must be filling, we’re down at the stern.’
‘I’m telling you, ballast tank’s empty.’
‘Can you get back there and check?’
‘In a word, no. Starboard engine’s running cool, port side’s doing the legwork. I told the captain…’
‘Let me know how it goes.’ Katanga hung the handset back above his head. He leaned over, opening a cupboard next to his leg, pulling out a torch and a walkie-talkie and handing them to King. ‘I need you to go back there and check it out.’
King held the items up in his hands like they were alien devices. ‘Back where, check what
out?’
Katanga pulled out another walkie-talkie and switched it on. ‘I’ll guide you.’
‘Why can’t you go?’
Katanga pointed through the window at the lightning flashing off the black waves. ‘You want to take the wheel?’
‘Come on,’ I grabbed King and opened the internal door. ‘Where we going?’
‘Sorry, Mr Tyler.’ Katanga pointed at the door outside, onto the bridge wing. ‘You’ll need to take your coat.’
Chapter Eight
Tiburon
‘It’s there,’ I yelled above the wind, pointing at a hatch in the middle of the deck under the lifeboat davits. Gone was the sleet, replaced by driving rain, mixing with the spray whipped by the howling gale from the top of the waves crashing up the hull.
We were on the dark stern, behind the superstructure, clinging to the railings as the ship heaved and fell in the face of the oncoming storm. Katanga had told us what to look for and put the work lights on for us, but they’d flickered and shut off after a few seconds, leaving me to sweep the rain-washed deck with the torch.
I gestured to King and ran, sliding to my knees and grabbing the latch. He stumbled after me, tripping over a rope and falling as a wave pitched the deck. I grabbed him, putting his hand on the big latch and twisting. It slid surprisingly easily. King swung the heavy hatch open as I shone the torch down into the darkness. The bright beam lit rungs descending to the level below, so rusted I was getting tetanus just looking at them. With a nod to King, I clamped the torch between my teeth and swung inside. It was a short climb, just a few metres until I touched the lower deck. I looked down at the flaking metal, gave it a tentative press with my toe, then stepped off the ladder.
Above me King climbed in, swung the cover closed and knocked the latch back on. The water stopped swilling in from the deck, but the reverberating waves increased in volume.
I shone the torch around the small space. The wall in front of us was curved, we were looking at the inside plates of the stern, with their corroded rivets and creaking welds.
Katanga had explained that we’d drop into an access area belowdecks for the bilges and steering gear. Beneath our feet the huge propshafts headed outside, their constant churning echoing in the claustrophobic space. I knocked a hand against one wall, it clanged hollow.
‘We had to go outside to come back in again,’ said King. ‘Why?’ I turned, he was pointing his own torch at a door in the bulkhead behind us. ‘This must come out by the cabins.’
I grabbed the latch, it didn’t budge. I leaned in close, the door had been crudely welded shut.
‘Must be an old access.’
‘Miller and his bloody deathtraps. Why couldn’t we have taken a nice P&O, with a bar and a restaurant? And on that point, when are you gonna fill me in on what we’re actually doing here? You said you needed me, all right, I’m here, but you sure as shit didn’t get me onto this stinking tub for a babysitting job.’
‘How do you figure that?’
He held my shoulders and looked into my eyes. ‘Because you wouldn’t do that to me.’
The walkie-talkie crackled on King’s belt, Katanga’s voice echoed in the darkness. ‘Did you find the hatch yet?’
King let go of me and lifted the walkie-talkie. ‘We’re inside.’ He shone the torch up at the dripping ceiling. ‘It’s snug.’
‘It gets worse, Mr King. Do you see the hatch in the floor?’
I pointed the torch at a round hatch cover at the foot of the ladder.
‘Down again?’ asked King.
‘Just you, there’s no room to turn around at the bottom.’
I swung open the cover, the torch beam illuminated a narrow shaft straight down, not much wider than me, ending in a tank of water.
I looked up into King’s face, he was grimacing.
‘Fuck that, I can’t go,’ he said, shuffling back.
‘I’m injured.’
‘I’ve got my wings, I belong up there, in the open air.’
‘Rock paper scissors?’ I said, holding up my fist.
‘Remember Misrata? I didn’t make you go on the chopper, did I?’
I looked down at the rusty rungs welded into the side of the shaft, like a row of staples in a gangrenous wound dropping into darkness. ‘Fuck’s sake, we’re even now.’ I took off my jacket, threw it on the floor, and swung my feet down.
‘Take this one, it’s waterproof.’ King was holding out his powerful Lenser torch.
I clamped it between my teeth, handed him mine, and started to climb. The pipe was so tight the sleeves of my T-shirt rode up, my shoulders scraping down either side as Katanga relayed instructions to King above me. Halfway down my shoes hit water, I kept going, into the freezing cold, like climbing down inside a half-submerged Pringles tube. I winced when it hit my crotch, then my shoes hit the bottom.
I switched on the torch. ‘Okay, what am I looking for?’ I shouted as the icy water rose and fell with the ship.
‘He says open the hatch below you.’
‘How can I do that, I’m stuck in a tube?’
There was a pause as he conferred with Katanga on the radio, then his silhouette filled the dim circle of light above.
‘He says you can scooch off the bottom and crawl.’
‘Crawl?’ I kicked my legs about, the tunnel did seem to open up, problem being it was three feet under water.
‘He says when you’ve got the hatch open check the tank below for water.’
‘I don’t need to open the hatch for that, I’m up to my arse in it.’
Again a pause, and then, ‘No, he says you’re in the dry zone, the ballast tank is below you.’
‘He’s welcome to come and check.’
I stuck the torch back between my teeth then took a breath and pushed down, below the surface, walking my hands down the ladder. My legs disappeared back into a void until my belly brushed the deck. I opened my eyes, saltwater stung but in the light of the torch between my teeth I could see the outline of the hatch cover, bobbing up and down with the motion of the ship. I swung it fully open and pushed my head through, the torch beam didn’t reach the bottom or sides in the murk.
My lungs began to protest, I pushed up and hit the underside of something. I put my hands up, feeling the ceiling above me, pulling myself forward until I found the ladder. My lungs screamed, I forced myself not to panic, pulling up hand over hand into the shaft, breaking the surface to take a deep breath.
‘And?’ shouted King.
I panted for a moment longer then shouted up. ‘The whole thing’s flooded. And it’s getting deeper.’ With my shoes planted firmly on the floor either side of the hatch, the water now reached my chest.
‘Seb says the gauge is showing empty.’
‘Again, he’s welcome to come and bloody check.’
I screwed my eyes shut, took a breath, ducked under again, right down the ladder. I felt for the hatch beneath my feet, and climbed straight down into the ballast tank.
When I ran out of ladder I opened my eyes. The dirty water surged in the narrow space, slamming me against the baffles – internal walls designed to prevent the whole lot sloshing side to side in the tank and destabilising the ship. I looked up, the light above flashed as the hatch cover lifted and dropped with the motion of the water. The ship tilted, I grazed my arms bouncing between the baffles, something dug into my side. I shone the torch down and found a slender pipe attached to the inside of the tank, running up towards the ceiling. Next to it, the hatch cover had swung shut.
I pushed off the bottom and reached for it. Another wave hit, the water surged around the narrow steel canyon. I spun, sliding along one of the walls. I was disoriented, like being inside a sensory deprivation chamber. My lungs screamed at me to get out. I rolled over, shining the torch around, found the hatch a few metres away and swam for it. I grasped the handle and shoved, planting my feet on the rungs welded to the wall. The cover groaned open, I collided painfully with the side as I grabbed the ladde
r and hauled myself through.
This time I had to climb a couple of rungs to get to the surface, when I did my trainers were off the floor. Not sure if it was my imagination but the pipe seemed to be leaning slightly, the stern was slipping lower by the second.
‘What are you doing down there?’
I breathed deeply for a few seconds. ‘I couldn’t give two shits what that gauge says, the tank filled ages ago.’ I rubbed my stinging eyes. ‘It’s filling up the ship now, why aren’t the bilge pumps kicking in?’
The bilge pumps should have been on auto, switching on when water washing around the lower spaces rose above a certain level.
‘Mate, do I look like a sailor? Get back up here, let them fix it.’
‘King, if we don’t do something right now, we’ll be on the bottom soon.’
I took a breath and climbed down the ladder, straight into the tank again. I pushed my hand against the wall, the other shining the torch across the flaking panels until I found the pipe I’d fallen against. I followed it down to the bottom of the tank, fingers closing around something squashy. I pulled it free and kicked upwards, hitting my head on a girder as the ship groaned and tilted.
I coughed, swallowing seawater, the ship rolled further, I tumbled. I dropped the torch, the beam spun away into the back of the tank, rolling under one of the gaps beneath the baffles. In its flickering light a shape floated through the opening, like oil. Black tendrils took shape, a shadow of a man drifting through the twisting compartment. An arm reached for my foot.
I screwed my eyes shut, kicked backwards, grabbing for the steel ribs of the ceiling. I opened my eyes, nothing in the narrow space but the rusty baffles either side, the murky churning water, the torchlight flashing under the gaps in the metal.
I spun round, lungs burning, muscles cramping. A dim flicker of light was just visible through the banging hatch cover above. I kicked out towards it.
My ears were ringing as I pulled myself towards the light. Finally I reached the hatch, thrusting myself up through it, fingers curling around the rungs of the ladder. I climbed up as quickly as I could, my sight dimming, muscles burning from lack of oxygen. I broke the surface, took a deep breath, and threw up into the water.
Black Run Page 5
