Crash Course

by Derek Fee

  They were passing through the mayhem which is the centre of Antibes at noon. They passed Fort Carré and the old harbour where the yachts of multi-millionaires bobbed beside the fishing boats of the less-well-healed locals.

  “When I left the army, I developed post-traumatic stress syndrome,” Kane said interrupting her. “It doesn’t go away. The men in the white coats say that if I work hard, I might reduce the flashes to irregular intervals. Thus far, they’ve had their heads up their arses. The flashes are still pretty regular and it’s been over five years.”

  “Did you ever think that you concentrate too much on your problem? Maybe if you gave yourself a chance, and a little more credit, it would go away.”

  Kane pondered the question for a half minute. “I’ll be okay by tomorrow. I’d prefer it if you kept this to yourself. There are thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands, of men all over the world who have been brutalised and changed by their experiences of war. Personally, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw or for what I was forced to do. I was a professional soldier and professional soldiers kill people for a living. I was the kind of professional soldier who joined up to learn how to ski and jump out of planes. Nobody ever told me I’d have to watch my friends die before my eyes from terrible wounds, or that I’d have to kill a couple of young Afghans. Cut me some slack here and try to understand who you’re dealing with.”

  “No promises,” she said, “let’s see how things progress.”

  They ate lunch at Monsieur Jeannot’s little cabin bar-restaurant on Cap Fleuri on the outskirts of Monaco while watching six old men play a game of boules. With the remnants of their lunch on the table and the old men now retired to the shade of the bar, they sat silently, staring out into the placid waters of the Riviera.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The sun was not fully up as Kane and Morweena watched the crane deposit their boat into the grimy waters of Port Palm Beach on the outskirts of Cannes. The port was the smallest of the three located in the area and, unlike Sorrento, the second race of the European Offshore Championship would not be permitted to interfere with the daily lives of the rich and famous who inhabited the Riviera town. More than a dozen crews were busy carrying out engine checks before the start of the day’s practice run.

  “Holiday’s well and truly over.” David Penhalion came up behind Kane and Morweena and ushered the two members of his team towards the marina where their boat was being berthed. The fibreglass hull looked like new which was difficult to believe considering the buffeting it had taken during the race a few days earlier.

  “Have you checked out the course?” David asked.

  “Yes,” Kane said.

  Morweena looked away.

  “Is there something I should know?” David said.

  “What Mark means is that we examined the course from a series of beachside bars located strategically along the coast,” Morweena said. “But don’t worry. We’ll get down to the serious examination today.”

  Doug Jackson joined them to watch the crane lift his Brit1 off the back of a trailer and sling it into the air above the concrete wharf.

  “Good morning, people.” Jackson kissed Morweena and slapped Kane and David on the shoulders. “The way my luck is running I wouldn’t be surprised if the damn boat slipped out of the cradle and smashed on the concrete.”

  “It’s early days yet, Doug,” Morweena said, linking her arm with Jackson’s. “One race doesn’t make a summer.”

  “I know that but once you start having trouble with the boat there isn’t much time between races to put things right. The designer wanted to add a few gadgets to last year’s boat but he forgot that the main point in this game is to have everything running smoothly before the season starts. We’ve had the mechanics working overtime on getting the engines right but I’m afraid the Brit1 won’t be in the frame at the end of the season.” Jackson watched anxiously as the crane jerkily swung the beautiful fibreglass hull painted with Union Jacks over the wharf and into the water.

  Jackson heaved a sigh of relief. “At least we got the bugger safely into the water. Our bad luck might give you guys a chance to make it to Key West.”

  “We intend to be there on our own merit, Doug,” David said. “Not because of someone else’s problems.”

  “No offence intended, David.” Doug lifted Morweena’s hand and kissed it. “I’d better get over there and show my mechanics that I’m truly appreciative of all the hours they’ve been putting in. See you on the water tomorrow.”

  Jackson moved off towards the mooring where his chief mechanic was berthing the Brit1.

  “You can stop drooling now.” Kane smiled at Morweena.

  “Jealous?”

  “Any man would be.”

  Morweena took an iPad from her pocket, brought up a page, and showed it to her father “I’ve already worked out the course based on last year’s race. As soon as the boat’s ready, we’ll make a run around the course once or twice to let Mark get a feel of it.”

  David looked at the course which Morweena had laid out on the chart. The race ran the seven odd kilometres up the Corniches de la Riviera from a point south of the island of Saint-Honorat.

  “That looks all right to me although it doesn’t give you an awful lot of room to play with at the turns.” David handed the iPad back to his daughter. “Let’s go and see how things are progressing with the boat.”

  Crowds were already congregating in the little port anxious to examine the sleek racing hulls. Many of those strolling among the three finger wharfs which had been set aside for the competitors were the proud possessors of expensive motor launches themselves and it was to impress these potential customers that most professional crews were in the championship. Like their colleagues on the motor racing circuit, a major element of a presence on the powerboat circuit was the promotion of products. Therefore, anyone displaying the outward trappings of money was free to examine the bobbing chariots but not free to take them for a test drive. That could always be arranged back at the boatyard.

  Morweena, David, and Kane made their way through the crowds and along the wooden wharfs past other powerboats which were being serviced by their crews. As they passed Barrett’s boat, the driver appeared from under the open engine canopy and locked eyes with Kane. A slow smile spread over the Englishman’s tanned face.

  Kane kept pace with David and Morweena while returning Barrett’s stare. There was hate oozing from Barrett’s dark blue eyes but what bothered Kane was the smile playing on his opponent’s lips. While the eyes said that their owner was up to no good, the smile had an element of ‘I know something that you don’t’ in it. That look convinced him that there was trouble ahead.

  Doc jumped from the hull onto the wooden wharfs as soon as the trio of David, Kane, and Morweena approached.

  “What the hell have you been up to, mate?” Doc said.

  “Have I been neglecting you?” Kane got the message. Watson thought he was neglecting the operation. “Morweena and I have been scouting out the course and whatnot.”

  “So that’s how it is.” Doc feigned pique.

  Kane took Doc’s arm and led him away from David and Morweena. “Doc and I need a few words in private,” he said over his shoulder.

  They walked to the edge of the finger wharf and looked at the oily surface of the water.

  “Any more information on Barrett?” Kane asked.

  “Yesterday I would have said that Barrett was no better nor worse than the rest of the mob.”

  “But you’ve changed your mind?”

  “I’ve no hard and fast evidence. But that ugly arsehole of a throttleman of his, Milan, was around yesterday trying to put the frighteners on me. Called me a nosy wee prick. I had to show him that I didn’t take kindly to bullies. But he wanted to put a stop to me asking questions. That means they’ve got something to hide. Doesn’t it?”

  “They’re up to something all right.” He told Doc about his recent encounter with Barrett.

&n
bsp; “Watch your back. He’s a nasty bastard.”

  “Keep your wits about you. These people don’t take prisoners. The last thing I want is to see anybody getting hurt.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Kane and Watson went back to Morweena and David.

  “You two kiss and make up?” Morweena said as they joined her and her father.

  “Look who’s being jealous now.”

  “This place has turned into a bloody holiday camp over the past few days,” David said in his sternest team-manager voice. “Well if anyone thinks I’d permit that, they have another thing coming. Enough of the friendly banter. Doc, get to work on those bloody engines. Mark, Morweena, get familiar with the course and get yourselves ready for the hardest practice session of your lives. Now look lively.”

  “Aye, aye, skipper,” Kane said and saluted professionally. The look on David’s face told him the time for humour was over.

  Bill Thompson had watched as the Penhalion boat completed its afternoon qualifying race over the course along the Corniche de la Riviera. It was a magnificent sight to see thirty brightly painted powerboats stream back into the Baie de Cannes. Thompson thought of the ten thousand pounds sitting comfortably in the corner of his kitbag back at the hotel. It was a hell of a risk to leave a sum like that lying around in a Cannes fleapit but there was no other option. He would be moving on soon and he would need the readies. If old Penhalion ever got wind of what he was up to, it would be curtains for him. He’d already decided on how he would screw up the boat. Now all he needed was for the rest of them to piss off for fifteen or twenty minutes and let him get on with his plan. The ideal chance would come later in the evening when it was his turn to babysit the boat. And who would ever suspect old Bill Thompson of being up to no good?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Kane was sitting on the balcony of his room in the Majestic when the doorbell rang.

  “I got your message.” Tom stood in the hallway holding a sheet of notepaper in his hand. “What’s so urgent?”

  “It’s not urgent.” Kane opened the door wide enough for him to enter. “Things seem to be zoning in on Barrett.”

  “You’ve found some evidence?” Tom said expectantly.

  “Not exactly.” Kane explained about Doc’s encounter with Milan.

  Tom slumped into an easy chair. “Get me a Scotch and soda, lad.”

  “What?”

  “From the minibar, lad. A Scotch and soda, please.”

  Kane opened the minibar and removed a small bottle of Scotch and a bottle of fizzy mineral water. He poured Tom a drink and carried it to him.

  “Barrett’s a prime candidate,” Kane said. He removed a beer from the fridge and opened it. “We won’t get an affidavit to that effect so let’s not look for it. But there are a couple of problems. The main one being that de Vries has provided us with his financials. Unless our friends in The Hague are incompetent, which I doubt, Barrett’s in the red. He couldn’t pay for a piss up in a brewery never mind a kilo of cocaine.”

  “That’s a big problem,” Tom said sipping his drink. “Maybe you should turn your attention to some of the other drivers.”

  “I know you won’t like to hear it but I don’t think this operation will work out. It was always a longshot but it’s been a couple of months and we’ve made no progress. Maybe it’s time to call it a day.”

  “That’s your honest opinion?”

  “For what it’s worth.”

  “Have you discussed it with Davenport?”

  “I will after this race.”

  “What about the Penhalions?”

  “If Davenport is on board, Doc and I will be pulled out and they’ll have to find replacements. Maybe we’ll be doing them a favour.”

  “They may not see it that way. That might be the nail in the coffin for Penhalion Marine.”

  “You should have thought of that when you launched your crusade. Maybe they’d already be bust if you hadn’t come along. They’re just collateral damage.”

  “They’re good people. It won’t be pleasant when they find out they’ve been used.”

  “That’s your problem. They’ll never find Doc and me but you’re in the phonebook.”

  “You don’t paint a pleasant picture.”

  “I’m trying to be honest.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “The race is tomorrow. I’ll call Davenport on Monday and tell him I think we’re wasting our time. The decision will be his.”

  “You’re a decent man, Mark. You may try to hide it but you have a heart.” He climbed slowly out of the chair. “You have an important race tomorrow.”

  “It’s for the best.”

  “Is it?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  It was early Sunday afternoon when the crews assembled at Port Palm Beach for the opening ceremony of the second race in the European Offshore Powerboat Championship. The race organisers had arranged a pre-race parade of the drivers through the crowded street of Cannes. The open-air bus with the legend ‘Les Vedettes de l’Offshore’ stencilled on the side drove along the Promenade de la Croisette through a crowd, fifty per cent of whom had come to Cannes for a sun-worshipping session only to find themselves in the middle of an event. In typically French fashion they had accepted their role as audience and applauded the unknown stars with gusto.

  Kane and Morweena sat on the open upper section of the bus. Hakonen and Tardelli sat in front of them waving enthusiastically to the crowd while directly behind them Tadeka and his throttleman sat in stoic silence.

  “Nervous?” he asked.

  “You bet. It’s life or death for Penhalion Marine.”

  There are times in every undercover operation when the operative feels shit about deceiving a civilian. Kane was having one of those moments. Bell was wrong about him being hard and it didn’t feel good.

  As they passed Port Canto which adjoins the smaller Port Palm Beach, Kane saw that a flotilla of yachts and speedboats were already gathered at the exit of the port awaiting the start of the race. A tingle of excitement ran through him.

  The Port Palm Beach promenade was crammed with spectators as the bus bearing the competitors entered the port.

  David and Tom were standing beside the finger wharf where their boat was berthed.

  “How are you two feeling?” David greeted Kane and Morweena as they stepped off the bus.

  “Raring to get out there and do the business,” Kane said, taking his helmet and lifejacket from Reg.

  “We’ve already checked the comms,” Reg said. “And the engines are humming like a bird.”

  Morweena stood while Reg slipped the lifejacket over her arms, sucking in great gulps of air to control her heartbeat. This would be the big one. A third in Sorrento and a good showing in Cannes would set them up for the last two races in Barcelona and Bournemouth. Then it would be Key West and the World Championship and hopefully a last-minute reprieve for Penhalion Marine.

  Tom moved close to Kane. The finger wharf was crammed with powerboat crews.

  “I want you to take care of yourself out there today,” he said. “No more heroics like at Sorrento. I don’t want to take either Morweena or you out of here in a box.” There was a look of genuine concern on the old Yorkshireman’s face.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be careful.”

  “This is it, Mark,” David said, grasping his free hand. “Get us onto the rostrum.”

  “We’ll do our best, David. Where will you watch from?”

  A tension-filled smile appeared on David’s face. “Tom has put us into the big league today. He’s hired a helicopter so we can cover the entire course. We’ll be in contact with you from the chopper. Which reminds me, we better be off if we’re to be in position before the start.”

  Tom hugged both Kane and Morweena before following David towards the main section of the port where a car was waiting to take them to the helicopter pad.

  Kane couldn’t suppress the feel
ing of excitement as he strapped himself into his safety harness. Even after such a short acquaintance, he was beginning to have a human relationship with the fibreglass and Kevlar hull. As soon as Morweena had settled herself, Kane turned the ignition key and the engines thundered into motion.

  Kane put his hand out and touched Morweena. “All set?” he asked.

  “Ready when you are, skipper.” She smiled nervously.

  More than half the powerboats had already made their way past the exit from the harbour and out into the blue seas of the Baie de Cannes and on into the Mediterranean.

  The weather conditions were in marked contrast to Sorrento. The water in the port was still and a warm sun beat down from a clear azure sky.

  During the qualifying race, Kane had learned that there were significant differences between the course at Sorrento and Cannes. The previous race had taken place in a sheltered bay with only one leg being exposed to the open sea. The course at Cannes, by contrast, was totally offshore and therefore exposed to the full effects of the Mediterranean’s winds and waves. The noise in the tiny port was deafening as the throttlemen gunned their engines in preparation for the race. Morweena eased up the throttle and Kane steered away from the wharf and out into the murky waters of the port.

  Bill Thompson stood at the centre of the marina and watched the Kernow move smoothly away from the wharf and point its prow towards the entrance of the small harbour. The crew had no idea that they were in for a more interesting race than they anticipated. He’d done his job and Penhalion was sure to discover his betrayal. Maybe it was time to scarper. There would be a lot of angry Penhalion team members looking for blood. His sabotage job had been cruder than he had planned but it would at least be enough to put them out of the race. He didn’t like to think that he might have done enough to get someone killed. That wouldn’t be his business. He’d leave it to God to decide whether the boat went arse over tit while it was speeding over the water. He could decide whether any of the crew would get out alive. He’d better make himself scarce. What if something bad happened? The French coppers would lock him up and throw away the key. He wiped a film of sweat off his face and slipped through the ring of spectators surrounding the port before starting back towards his hotel. There were ten thousand reasons for him to get his arse out of Cannes immediately. He could always get back to Karakatis when the money ran out.