The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1)

by Chris Thrall

  The boys breathed a small sigh of relief.

  “What’s going on?” Mohamed whispered.

  “I don’t know. He must be waiting for a boat.”

  Sure enough a yacht approached the harbor wall the likes of which the boys had never seen, timbers shining like the setting sun and sails the color of emeralds – and then it hit them!

  - 51 -

  Hans carried a sleeping Jessica aboard Future, careful not to lose his footing as the yacht bobbed under his weight in the floodlit marina’s powder-blue water. He would love to have remained on the beach with Penny, sipping beer and talking about anything and everything, but both knew foreign shorelines are not safe places for tourists at night. He tucked the little girl into her bunk and returned to the yacht’s spacious lounge to flop down on the maroon leather seating at the dining table.

  “Here.” Penny handed him a steaming mug of hot chocolate laced with scotch. “Is she okay?”

  “Land of Nod.” He smiled. “You really have a way with her, Penny. It’s appreciated.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine, Hans.”

  “There’s not something you’re hiding from me, is there? Ten kids stashed away on a boat in England.”

  Penny stared into her nightcap for a moment. “Actually, there is . . .”

  Unable to tell if Penny was joking, a feeling of unease churned in Hans’ stomach.

  “I was pregnant once.” She picked at a fingernail. “You remember the guy I told you about? The one I crewed for in the Caribbean?”

  “Mr. Family Man.”

  Penny nodded and bit her lip. “I only found out after we parted company. It was awful. I was stuck in Miami waiting to meet my next client for a five-month trip to Polynesia. I didn’t know what to do – couldn’t exactly go to sea with morning sickness and knew I wouldn’t get any support from Mr. Cheater.”

  “Couldn’t your parents help?”

  “Mum and Dad would have supported me no matter what, but they’d already downsized their beloved yacht to put me through uni and then gracefully accepted me going back to sea. How was I supposed to tell them I’d messed it all up?”

  “You terminated the pregnancy?”

  Penny buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” Hans pulled Penny close and pressed his cheek against her hair.

  “It’s okay. I wanted to tell you before, but there was never a right time. I found a clinic in Florida, handed over a load of my savings, told myself I wouldn’t look back.”

  “Penny, you made a decision all by yourself in tough circumstances. You did what you had to do.”

  “I thought I was fine, Hans. You know, big tough girl. But . . .”

  “Let me get you a tissue.”

  Hans got up and rummaged in the galley drawers. He returned with a pack of Kleenex.

  “Thank you.” Penny dabbed at her eyes. “I went on a hen night in London with a load of old mates – you know, a hen night?”

  “Bachelorette party.”

  “Ah, that figures. Well, the head bridesmaid arranged for us to visit a fortune-teller – before we hit a club and got hammered.” Penny forced a smile. “I thought, why not? Never believed in that kind of thing, but what harm could it do? The woman stares into her crystal ball and says, ‘I see water,’ so my attention picks up. She says a few more things that make sense and then drops a bombshell. ‘I see a baby . . . a baby girl . . . and she’s telling me to tell you it’s all right and not to worry because she’ll always be with you.’”

  “You’re kidding me! I thought they weren’t supposed to tell you bad stuff?”

  “So did I. For the first time it really hit me – that there was a tiny human being destined to be born into the world that I should have been attached to for life.”

  Hans kissed the top of her head and poured another shot into their mugs.

  “Penny, she shouldn’t have said that. She was taking advantage and stabbing in the dark.”

  “I know, Hans, but it dug up something I thought I’d dealt with. Mean old witch!” Penny managed another smile.

  “Listen, we’ve all made tough choices in the past – you know, the best we could at the time. But I don’t ever wanna hear you question yourself again, because . . .” Hans paused, his eyes welling up. “You’re so goddamn good with my daughter.”

  “Oh, Hans, you’re being—”

  “No!” He cupped Penny’s wet cheeks. “You came to us when the only reason I still lived was for her. And she didn’t know which way was up or down, and I could only do so much to help. You’ve changed that, Penny. If you hadn’t been through what you did, we would never have met, and you sure as hell might not be such an angel.”

  Penny appreciated Hans’ honesty, relieved she no longer held a secret from him, but there was still an elephant in the room.

  Hans checked on Jessica, then filled the kettle for another drink. His back to Penny, but sensing her thoughts, “The Concern,” he said quietly.

  “Huh?”

  “You asked if what happened was to do with my work.” He poured boiling water over the cocoa powder. “Some of my work is for a syndicate called the Concern.”

  “Is it a charity or something?”

  “In a roundabout way.” Hans set the mugs down on Welcome to Plymouth! coasters but remained standing. “You know if I tell you this stuff I might have to kill you?”

  “We’ve all got to die sometime,” Penny joked, feeling relieved the mood had lightened.

  “No, seriously, nothing we do is untoward. We might bend the rules on occasions, but that’s what rules are for, right?”

  “Really, Mr. Larsson? I would never have guessed that about you.”

  “Ha!” Hans smiled somewhat bashfully and tugged his earlobe. “You know about the Masons, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s a similar setup, but without the rituals, superstition and nepotism. Do you remember about five years ago Amy Falmer’s disappearance in Colombia?”

  “Wasn’t she kidnapped while backpacking on a gap year? Got rescued by American special forces from some degenerate bandit group.”

  “FARC guerrillas. Her father was a big name on Wall Street and agreed to pay the ransom, but the FARC have a record of accepting payoffs and executing the hostage anyway – or keeping them in a cage in the jungle until they die of some godforsaken disease. They shot the intermediary dead and retreated deep into the interior, and then a week later Amy turns up at the American embassy in Bogota, claiming to have been rescued by US military – least that’s what was reported on CNN. No one questioned it publically because the Colombian government couldn’t confess to having no clue about it, and Washington wouldn’t risk an international incident by admitting the mission had been carried out by a civilian group. Besides, politically speaking it was a good result all round.”

  “And you’re saying it was . . . ?”

  “The Concern.”

  “Hans, how did you get involved in this?” Penny realized she had stopped yawning.

  “I’d solved a few high-profile cases in Maine – missing persons, a bank heist the police drew a blank on – and some stuff abroad. Media went all out with ‘ex–Navy SEAL, blah, blah, blah,’ and I received a phone call.”

  “From who?”

  “My proposer, who later became my control.”

  “Jeez, Hans, sounds like blue pill, red pill.”

  Hans smiled. “It would take ages to explain.”

  “Good!” Penny jumped up. “We’ve got all night, so start from the beginning.” She grabbed Hans’ arm and steered him to the seat, then pulled two beers from the fridge.

  “The voice on the line says, ‘Remember Tromans, Glazebrook and Munroe’ – three of my team who drowned in Sierra Leone – ‘then meet me tomorrow in Boston.’ How could I not meet him? So we’re sitting on a park bench like Cold War spies, and Muttley says—”

  “Muttley?”

  “Yeah. Dependi
ng on your role in the organization, you’re allocated an identifier. The controls are named after movie or TV sidekicks – Sundance, Robin, Boo-Boo, you know – the operatives, figures in Greek mythology.”

  “And you are?”

  “Orion.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “So anyway, this suited white-haired guy says he works for some kind of benevolent organization funded by stinking-rich businesspeople. Says they employ ex-service personnel, and my name had been put forward. When I asked about Sierra Leone, he said it was insider knowledge and gave me a few days to think about it.”

  “So if you accepted the role you would find out what happened to your team.”

  “Seemed that way, only I clocked a copy of Metro in his briefcase – the free subway newspaper. So I boxed around to the nearest station and, sure enough, he appeared and I tailed him home.”

  “You really are Jason Bourne.”

  “The next evening I’m sat in his apartment waiting to welcome him through the door and knowing he was Innes Edridge, an investment banker with Sachs. Naturally, I demanded some answers. He said that after Vietnam there were a lot of upset folks who had put their lives and reputations on the line for America, while others exploited the war effort – CIA operatives importing heroin, companies profiting from both sides, politicians playing the war game to suit their own aims. Turns out some of these unhappy people used their business connections and military skills to expose a few of the bad guys. Others were invited to join the cause, and things grew from there.”

  “What kind of others?”

  “Good people with a track record of getting things done. Could be a doctor in Malawi or an airline owner willing to fly a team around the world at short notice. Passports, visas, a safe house in Europe – there’s always someone in the Concern with either the means or the connection. You just never know who they are until you need to.”

  “Sounds real Illuminati.”

  “No, it’s not about power, control or a new world order, just a global network defending the rights of those who aren’t in a position to do it themselves. People like me get to put our skill sets to use out in the field and feel like we do some good in the world. The fat cats get to donate some of their ridiculous profits while playing John Wayne cum Mother Teresa from the comfort of their office chairs.”

  “I would have thought the fat cats were part of the problem.”

  “Every now and again there’s a clash of interest or someone needs bringing into line, but it gets sorted.”

  “And Sierra Leone?”

  “It was common knowledge the conflict was fueled by blood diamonds. Muttley said it went all the way to the Washington, someone the Concern had had their sights on for some time. That person saw to it we were delayed getting off the choppers, attempting to make us abort the mission so the West Side Boys could escape into the forest and continue to make them and their cronies rich – or richer. Wasn’t it Chomsky who said, to find the motivation behind conflict you follow the money trail?”

  “And where did it lead?”

  “It led to a guy . . . I can’t say more.”

  “And?” Penny took a sip of beer.

  “How do my wife and son fit into this?”

  “Hans . . . I . . .”

  “If you work for the Concern, you get to deal with some pretty sick people in god-awful places around the world. Life can be cheap, and there are no limit to the lengths some of these folks will go to protect their slice of the pie. Every once in a while it goes horribly wrong.” Hans’ face darkened.

  “It’s getting late.” Penny downed her drink. “Let’s continue this tomorrow.”

  - 52 -

  Container SIDU307007-9 had been drifting in the North Atlantic for months, along with its charge of high-tech televisions. Floating flush with the sea’s surface, it was every sailor’s worst nightmare, one resulting in many a crew evacuating to a life raft.

  A lengthy hearing exonerated the captain of the Tokyo Pride on charges of sailing with improperly secured cargo. In truth, many large vessels put to sea with serious safety issues. To penalize every company would effectively render global trade untenable, so chalking up such incidents to within a generous margin of error had become the norm. Besides, how often did a force ten gale whip up the North Atlantic in April?

  The majority of the trip went without a hitch, the container ship docking in Singapore and Yemen before negotiating the Suez Canal to stop again in Gibraltar. A few of the mostly Filipino crew took advantage of the docking to have their photographs taken with the Rock’s infamous apes and buy cheap liquor and cigarettes, but the majority crashed in their bunks, catching up on sleep and saving their hard-earned cash to send home to loved ones.

  It was in the North Atlantic en route from Le Havre to Boston that the ship ran into difficulties. An unpredicted low swung in from the Arctic, colliding with weather moving up from the Azores. With her shallow keel, the Tokyo Pride took on a frightening roll, plunging to starboard like a demented beast. Plates, cutlery and food flew sideways across the galley, seasickness running rife as waves towered above the bridge.

  The stresses resulting from a badly loaded manifest proved too much for the weaker containers, three of them crumpling like tin cans and causing the stack to lurch sideways, shearing off fittings designed to withstand forty-ton strains.

  Had the storm abated, the Pride could have limped into port with all her goods, but it was not to be. Despite the captain’s best efforts, a final pitch sent containers spilling into the ocean and SIDU307007-9 on its lonely voyage.

  - 53 -

  The next day, as Penny made final preparations for her change of plan, Hans and Jessica replaced Future’s worn fittings and took her for a sea trial.

  A strong northeasterly carried them ten miles offshore in little over an hour, the genoa billowing up front like a huge white kite. The sun lowering to the horizon, Hans brought Future about, the impending darkness not the only reason he looked forward to reaching port.

  Jessica sat on the cabin roof whittling a piece of driftwood into a point with her pocketknife, the gift from Old Bill.

  “What’s the number one rule when using a knife, First Mate?”

  “You must never hold the blade toward you, Papa.”

  “Good! Now get ready for bed.” Hans took the knife and put it in his pocket, lowering the junior officer into the cockpit and smiling as she scampered inside.

  On Cape Verde, Penny called her parents from a telephone in the yacht club and checked her email and online bank statement. She stocked up on toiletries from the marina’s convenience store, then headed for a nearby bazaar, delighted to find a pair of leather sandals with soles fashioned from used car tires for Hans – with his pragmatic nature, he would love them – and a wine-red sarong printed with gold seahorses for Jessica.

  With time to kill, she took a seat in Salgadeiras, a café bar overlooking the marina, ordered a coffee and took up her book. Unable to concentrate, she scanned the horizon every few seconds, a pleasant tingling sensation rushing around her body.

  Jessica played with Bear in the cabin, opening the emergency ditch kit and pretending the teddy was lost at sea.

  “In you go, Bear.” She popped him in a locker. “And you have to take these so you can be rescued and make some water.”

  She placed the EPIRB beacon, VHF radio and water desalinator next to him, along with a packet of fishing hooks and a bundle of energy bars, letting out a healthy yawn as she did.

  Hans ducked into the cabin – “Bedtime for you, young girl” – dashing back out as Future made impressive headway.

  Jessica sighed and dragged the heavy bag back to the companionway. Clutching Bear, she climbed into her bunk, the emergency equipment in the locker no longer a concern in her tired mind. She tugged off her sandals and pulled a blanket over the two of them.

  “And Bear, you always gotta clip on your safety line.”

  She fastened the aluminum G-cl
ip to the bunk’s rail and drifted off to sleep.

  Hans prided himself on Future’s progress, her replacement gear holding fast as she skimmed across the wave tops at eight knots.

  Container SIDU307007-9 floated at 16° 15’ north, 25° 40’ west, directly in the path of the yacht.

  At 1831 hours, Hans felt relaxed, content with the direction his boat and life were heading, all the time looking forward to their reunion with Penny.

  At 1832 hours, with a sickening crunch Hans’ boat and life ripped apart. Slammed face-first into the control panel, he knew instinctively Future was about to sink.

  - 54 -

  “You’re late, cousin!” Al Mohzerer snapped, as the leader of the four pirates staggered from the beautiful boat and climbed the dockside ladder.

  “What is an hour?” the man replied, spitting on the concrete.

  In cutoff denim shorts and a dirty New York Yankees vest, he was clearly drunk and unused to receiving lectures.

  “Did you find the money?”

  “Just the timepiece.” The pirate flashed the thirty-thousand-dollar watch, which looked completely out of place on his skinny brown wrist. “We searched the boat thoroughly and cannot find the cash.”

  “Give!” Al Mohzerer took the Cartier. “We load, and we will look again in the morning.”

  On the Grower’s command, the boys sprung from the vehicle and, with a cruel mix of relief and bitter disappointment, began peeling back the tarpaulin. A second man passed a rope and bucket up the ladder, and they commenced the soul-destroying task of transferring the golden blocks to the beautiful wooden yacht.

  “Now we drink,” announced the leader. “For we have business and family to discuss.”

  He barked an order at the youngest bandit, who would stay on board to guard the product.

  Now that the hashish was secure, Al Mohzerer lightened up, becoming almost jovial as the prospect of looming wealth intoxicated him. There would be no problem from the port authority, whose officials would all get a cut, and, returning early the next day with crowbars, the gang would rip apart the cabin’s exquisite cherrywood paneling and find the cash. Although with half a ton of prime merchandise sold for top whack in the Canaries, a few thousand euros going undiscovered was not a major issue.