‘We might see their little cousins, the porpoise, or we might see nothing at all. Nature is as unpredictable as the Corryvrechan. But it’s a very flat surface today so keep your little fingers crossed. You can look out for them with these,’ the skipper said, slinging a pair of powerful-looking binoculars around Katusha’s neck. ‘Now you hang on to those or I’ll get into trouble from my missus. They were an anniversary present.’ And with that the skipper returned to his cabin to start up his twin Iveco 400-horsepower engines, which sent shudders through the fibreglass hull.
The journey from Crinan was like something straight out of a tourist brochure as Dignity cut through the plate-glass water, heading towards the ominous gap between the Isles of Scarba and Jura, with its world-famous whisky distillery, and where the red deer population is easily three times larger than the human population.
On clear days like today the roar of the Corryvrechan in full flow can be heard ten miles away. Not that Connor could hear much over the roar of the diesel engines. With Katusha beside her mother, excitedly scanning the water’s surface with the binoculars, Connor decided to have a chat with the skipper.
‘How long were you in the navy?’
‘That obvious?’ the skipper replied. ‘Too long. Twenty-eight years in total.’
‘This looks like a nice little number,’ Connor said, looking around the cabin, which was kept as meticulously clean and orderly as you would expect from a naval man.
‘It ain’t easy,’ the skipper said, rubbing the back of his head. ‘Sailing is only about twenty-five per cent of what I do. The rest is admin, admin, admin. More red tape than the bloody navy. But then you get a beautiful day like today and it makes it all worth it.’
‘I bet – you have a very nice office,’ Connor said, gazing out to sea.
‘And over there is my secretary,’ the skipper said, pointing at a dot in the sky. ‘That there is big Bella. A fully-grown sea eagle. There’s a spare pair of binoculars in the back if you want to take a look.’
‘I don’t think I need them, that thing is like a flying barn door.’
‘You’re not far off. She has an eight-foot wingspan. And she always gives me a little flypast. She’s good to the customers that way.’
‘What’s your name, skipper?’
‘Tom MacPherson.’
‘Connor Presley. But most people call me Elvis.’
‘Okay, Elvis it is.’ And the pair shook hands.
‘Incidentally, how do you buy tickets for your boat trips? Is it done online? It’s just, ours were presents,’ Connor said, telling a half-truth as he went fishing for who had bought theirs.
‘They need to be purchased from me on the day of the trip. I’ve no Internet access here. The mobile phone companies are a bloody disgrace. They promised to have 4G in ninety-eight per cent of the country, yet in Argyll and Bute our signal is stuck somewhere in 1994. Seriously, the first mobile phone I got was in 1994 and I still get the same lousy signal twenty bloody years later. As for 4G and Internet access – forget it.’
Connor checked the screen of his iPhone. It showed one bar of the most basic 2G coverage, meaning he’d be lucky just to make a simple call. He stored that information away for later as he knew it would make a rainy day news feature: highlighting the broken promises of the major mobile phone operators.
‘See those shapes on the beach over there?’ Tom asked, as they sailed close to the shore of Jura.
‘Seals?’
‘You’d think. But they are actually wild Andalusian goats. No one has a clue how they got there. Been living here for centuries. Best bet is they survived a shipwreck from the Spanish Armada. Makes sense. Could be crap, though. But it makes a good story for the tourists.’
‘Just hope we don’t join them today.’
‘Been close a couple of times. Went through the Corryvrechan once in a Force Eight. She was a right angry bitch that day.’
Connor’s journalistic curiosity had been well and truly pricked. ‘So the main danger isn’t always the whirlpool, then?’
‘Sometimes it is. You can get huge ones, other times there’s lot of little ones. If you look over the port side you will see a nice little eddy – that’s what we sailors call a whirlpool.’
Sure enough, Connor could see a whirlpool, around ten metres in diameter, swirling close to the boat. ‘Don’t you have to avoid them?’ he asked a little anxiously.
‘Most are just like potholes in the road. It does you no real harm. But an eddy over ten metres in diameter is probably best to steer clear of. Like a cyclone, there’s no telling when the bottom can drop out of it and suddenly you find yourself disappearing down one huge plughole. And we don’t want that.’
‘I guess not.’
‘But what you’ve really got to watch are the areas of flat calm, like that one,’ Tom said, this time pointing towards the starboard side, while adjusting his course to head directly towards it.
‘What the heck is that?’ Connor asked, mystified. ‘It looks weird. Like a duck pond in the middle of a raging sea.’
‘The gulf has two tides flowing past each other: as one goes in, the other goes out. That “duck pond”, as you call it, is where they cancel each other out. The currents are pulling down so hard not even the waves can pass over them without being flattened out.’
Tom took Dignity straight into the calm expanse of water, where the tone of his engines immediately changed. ‘Hear that? That’s the engines struggling like fuck.’
‘Sorry, I’m unaware of your fancy nautical terms,’ Connor quipped.
Tom smiled. ‘It’s true, though. Sometimes even 800 horsepower of engine doesn’t feel enough. Right now, the currents are trying to pull this boat down. We’re currently sitting about a metre deeper in the water. And please don’t fall in. Even with your life jacket on you will still be sucked straight to the bottom.’
Silence fell between them as Connor took in how surreal it felt to be chugging across an area of tranquillity, while a cauldron raged all around them. ‘On that sobering note, tea?’ Connor asked as he helped himself to a brew in the cabin, making one for the skipper too.
‘I hate those bastards,’ Tom said, taking a sip from his mug and nodding in the direction of a fast black speedboat about a hundred metres ahead that seemed to be using the waves as ramps, to launch itself high into the air. ‘A rigid inflatable boat. Or RIB, to you and me. Any playboy with a hundred grand can buy one, turn the key and all of a sudden find themselves dancing through one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the world, without a minute’s training. I’ve lost count of the number I’ve dragged out of here.’
‘What happens to them? Are their engines unreliable?’ Connor asked.
‘Nah, but their fuel is. They jump around the waves so much that any crap in their fuel tanks gets stirred up and clogs their engines. That’s why I triple-filter mine. It’s the sort of thing they’d know to do if they cared to read their manuals. Anyway, better get these drinks finished quick, it’s about to get a lot bumpier.’
Connor took out a hot chocolate for Katusha and black coffee for Anya.
‘Ah, strong. The way I like it,’ Anya said, taking a sip.
Something caught Connor’s eye. ‘Look, Katusha. Dolphins.’
The rest of the passengers looked to where Connor was pointing before the skipper’s voice boomed over the tannoy. ‘And if you look starboard – that’s the right hand side of the boat to you landlubbers – you will see a pod of porpoises.’
‘I was nearly right,’ Connor shrugged as Katusha fixed her binoculars on the fins that periodically broke the surface of the water in perfect unison.
‘Wow, Mama,’ she gasped, handing the binoculars to Anya.
‘Ah yes, darling. Lovely animals. Very tasty.’
‘Mama, you don’t eat porpoise?’
‘You do in Siberia
.’
‘And sea eagles?’ asked Connor.
‘Only for special occasions,’ Anya smiled back.
‘Mama,’ Katusha said, giving her a playful nudge.
‘You know, Elvis, I have studied everyone over and over again, when you have been wagging your chin with the captain. We are definitely the only two Russians on this wessel.’
‘Did you just say “wessel”?’ Connor teased. ‘Do you mean “vessel”?’
‘That’s what I said. Wessel. Wessel. What’s wrong with that?’ But she lost her audience as Connor and Katusha descended into fits of laughter. ‘Okay, boat, then. Happy?’ Anya said, pretending to be hurt.
‘Soon it will be time to get those life jackets on, folks, so hopefully I come back with as many passengers as I left with,’ the skipper’s voice said, crackling over the tannoy once more.
There was excited chatter amongst the passengers as everyone got into their life preservers, helping to tighten cords and fasten buckles. The boat was already starting to rise and drop with the increasing swell, which just added to the sense of anticipation.
Connor took a picture of Anya and Katusha on his iPhone before suggesting they try a selfie of all three of them. As he struggled to get everyone in frame, and not drop his phone overboard, a man sitting in the row next to them asked if he could help.
‘I don’t know about iPhone in Scotland, but in Russia it’s very expensive.’
All three of them turned to look at the stranger with the strong Russian accent beaming back at them. Connor had seen him step onto the boat with what appeared to be his wife. But they looked more Spanish than Soviet, with their dark skin, brown eyes and multi-coloured clothes.
‘Thank you,’ Connor said, handing his device to the man. He could feel the power of Anya’s stare studying the interloper.
‘It’s beautiful here, no?’ the man continued. ‘Have you been before?’
‘Nope,’ Connor said whilst posing for the photo. ‘It’s our first time. Well, certainly the first time on a boat.’
‘Are you staying?’ the Russian asked.
‘No, we’re on a day trip. And a bit of business. I’m meeting someone,’ Connor said, his eyes still fixed on the Russian.
‘Well, you have met someone. I am Oleg Ganichev and this is my wife, Roza.’
Connor introduced himself and they all shook hands. But there was no warmth from Anya, who was still eyeing the strangers. ‘You don’t look Russian,’ she said, in her typical forthright manner.
‘Ha, too many years in the Portuguese sunshine. It has made us soft,’ Oleg said, sharing a playful cuddle with Roza. ‘Would you mind if I talked with Connor for a moment?’ Oleg asked Anya, who nodded slowly in response, suspicion etched all over her face.
The pair made their way to the stern, where the twin propellers kicked up great plumes of water, leaving a giant frothy trail of white water in their wake.
‘I understand that you may have something for me. Something you want “out there”, so to speak,’ Oleg asked as quietly as he could, given where they were standing.
‘I may do,’ Connor replied, keeping his cards close to his chest. ‘But how do I know who you are?’
‘I’m afraid you’ll just need to take a leap of faith,’ Oleg beamed.
‘I am not a religious man. I prefer proof,’ Connor said, eyeballing Oleg.
• • •
Meanwhile, Roza was getting nowhere with Anya, who had taken to looking out at the scenery as the boat bumped and thumped along the rugged Jura coastline, with the waters becoming choppier by the minute. Embarrassed by the silence between the two women it was Katusha who struck up a conversation with Roza.
‘Where are you from in Russia?’
‘Moscow, darling.’
‘Have you lived there all your life?’
‘Most of my life. The last few years have been in Europe.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I teach. I’m a teacher.’
‘What do you teach?’
‘Russian, darling. I teach foreign pupils how to speak our language and understand our culture.’
‘I have lived in Scotland most of my life. Mama has been teaching me Russian. I say it’s my second language but she says it’s my first. Mama loves Russia. I think she misses it.’
‘Your mum is right to miss Russia. It is the best country in the world.’
‘Do you watch Nu, pogodi!?’ Katusha asked.
‘Nu, pogodi!?’
‘My mummy found it on YouTube. It’s my favourite show.’
‘Ah yes, Nu, pogodi!. Of course.’
‘You don’t know what it is, do you?’ Katusha said. ‘It’s a cartoon, silly. Like a Russian Tom and Jerry. How can you come from Moscow and not know Nu, pogodi!?’ Katusha asked.
Anya turned her head from the scenery to face Roza. ‘Because this woman is not Russian.’
87: Bayushki
Connor had just shown Oleg the hard drive that was in his man-bag.
‘This will make WikiLeaks look like a picnic,’ the Russian said eagerly.
His comment instantly got the journalist’s hackles up. ‘How would you know? I haven’t told you what’s on it yet.’
The boat thudded over the choppy waters before they hit another area of flat calm, with the pitch of the engines changing once more. Suddenly, there was a piercing scream. Connor spun round to see Roza struggling with Anya, trying to yank Katusha free from her mother’s grasp.
The captain turned to see the commotion going on at the stern, and temporarily lost the careful course he’d been plotting, with the currents violently yanking Dignity to the left, causing Anya to momentarily lose grip of her daughter. Roza grabbed the screaming eight-year-old and launched her overboard with all her might.
Time seemed to stand still as the passengers looked on in total disbelief as Katusha’s little body hit the calm water and immediately disappeared below the surface, her life jacket doing nothing to save her, just as the skipper had predicted. Connor pushed by Roza to try to grab Katusha, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. Anya was screaming her daughter’s name in terror.
The skipper struggled to regain control of Dignity, which had left the calm waters and was ploughing straight into the raging sea once more, with a huge wave breaking over the bow. Anya shrieked at the skipper to turn back, and everyone in the boat scanned the waters, looking for any sign of the girl. Everyone except the two ‘Russians’. Connor swung around to confront their attackers, only to see Oleg stuffing the hard drive into some sort of waterproof bag, which was attached to his wrist. Connor had seen that exact type of bag before when he had retrieved the hard drive from the layby at Scotch Corner. In the blink of an eye both Oleg and Roza tipped themselves backwards off of the boat. Connor couldn’t understand why anyone would throw themselves into near-certain death, until he saw the black RIB approaching rapidly… and then it all made sense. Everything had been set up, from the tickets to the speedboat, which would now rescue the ‘Russians’ escaping with Monahan’s hard drive.
‘There she is,’ one of the other passengers shouted, pointing at the limp body in the orange life jacket that had surfaced about fifty metres behind them. The skipper spun his wheel to the left, and opened the throttle fully, the engines complaining loudly at the extra effort. Connor jumped on top of one of the seats, fixing his eyes on Katusha, willing himself not to blink, in case he lost sight of her.
Suddenly he gasped. ‘Oh no.’
‘Oh no, what? WHAT?’ Anya shouted hysterically.
But Connor could not speak. He saw a giant eddy beginning to swirl and form between the boat and Katusha. Out of the corner of his eye Connor spotted the RIB, heading in the same direction. The boat was smaller and much faster than Dignity. The RIB skirted round the edge of the ever-increasing whirlpool and slowed down as it closed in
on Katusha. For one grateful moment Connor thought it was going to help with the rescue attempt, before it skipped past the bobbing body of the little girl. He couldn’t believe their callousness, but then it dawned on him that something had gone wrong with their mission. He could make out the shape of a very wet Oleg in the RIB – the waterproof bag with the hard drive still attached to his wrist – along with another man at the controls. But there was no sign of Roza.
Good. I hope she’s fucking drowned, Connor thought.
The waters around them were gathering pace and Connor knew that any moment now Katusha would be sucked into the vortex. Skipper Tom adjusted his course, veering them slightly away from their target. Anya began screaming again. ‘What are you doing? You’re wasting time.’
Connor ran to the cabin. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m trying to get the trajectory right. The way we were heading, my propellers would kill her before the eddy. You’ll have to try to grab her when I bring her starboard-side. We’ll only get one shot at this.’
Connor returned to Anya’s side and could now see that Katusha was caught up in the outer orbit of the whirlpool. Her body was gaining speed in ever-decreasing circles. Anya was now hanging half out of the boat, with Connor holding on to the belt of her jeans to try to prevent her joining her daughter overboard. The skipper killed his speed, throwing the engines into reverse to prevent them being sucked into the vortex. Connor reckoned that in two more orbits Katusha would be gone from them forever.
‘Elvis, get ready,’ Tom shouted over the tannoy.
Tom was battling to keep his boat in its holding pattern as waves crashed into them from all angles. All the time he was trying to judge the orbit of the girl’s limp body. The skipper threw his throttles forward, with Connor leaning over the rear of the starboard side as far as he could go without toppling in. This time it was the turn of Anya to hold onto Connor, grasping his legs tightly. Katusha was close enough now for him to see her mop of blonde hair matted over her face, her eyes shut and her head being tossed from side to side with the movement of the waves.
Connor knew it was now or never.
Wicked Leaks Page 22
