‘And?’
Liberec’s drink-reddened face was haggard as he turned in the street and pinioned Lynch’s shoulders. ‘You not understand, Gerald? These are nuclear warhead they have take. This is on your boat, these Oka warhead. Going to your Beirut.’
My Beirut. Lynch struggled to grasp the facts, trying to work out what Michel Freij would want with nuclear warheads. ‘So how big is an Oka warhead?’
Liberec swayed, speaking with an incredulous, open-mouthed expression. ‘How big? Warhead only is maybe less than three metres.’
‘No, I meant how big in terms of power.’
Holding on to Lynch’s shoulder, Liberec was crying. ‘Oka is tactical warhead. One hundred kiloton. Each. You understand, Gerald? Two hundred thousand ton of dynamite total. Dirty dynamite. Each one can destroy city. Poison whole country. Your country.’
They’re not headed for Ireland flashed through Lynch’s mind before he realised Liberec meant Lebanon.
ELEVEN
Elli woke up in pain. Her head was fuzzy as if packed with cotton wool and her dry taste buds felt rough. She moaned, the room’s motion powerfully emetic. She flailed around, trying to gain some sense of where she was. She pulled back the duvet and stumbled towards the crack of light in the round-cornered door. It was a boat. She was on a boat. Elli knew boats. She blinked in the unaccustomed brightness and lunged for the toilet, where she voided her stomach in acid heaves.
She cupped her hands under the cold tap to drink and washed her face. Walking unsteadily back into the cabin, she tried the door and then hammered on it. Eventually tiring, she lowered herself onto the bed and listened to the slow swell of the waves, dreading each descent into the sickening troughs. She whispered his name, ‘Charles’ as a comfort. He was supposed to protect her; she had trusted him. Yet he hadn’t been there when she needed him, when they came for her. It wasn’t his fault, she told herself. It wasn’t his fault.
Dozing, Elli was jerked awake by the snap of the door’s lock. A frowning, thickset man in jeans and a white t-shirt filled the doorway, his muscular arms crossed.
‘Get up.’
‘Where am I? What’s going on?’
‘No questions. Get up.’ His accent was foreign to Elli. Perhaps Italian. She slid across the bed, letting her feet drop to the floor. The man grabbed her arm, urging her. ‘Come on. You’re going for a walk. Exercise.’
Was this the plank or freedom? Elli tried to hold back but he was relentless and strong. She stumbled in his grip as they marched up the corridor. They passed a short man, a hard, incurious face that seemed to look past her. Her captor shouldered a bulkhead door open. Elli blinked in the warm sunlight, the salty air lashing her face. She breathed deeply, trying to shake his grip from her upper arm.
‘Come, exercise,’ he growled, herding her along the walkway. The brass railing to her right separated her from the expanse of blue-green waves glistening into the far horizon. They promenaded along the warm decking, Elli pausing by the elegant prow as it carved its way through the blue-green waves. She could barely see the thin, misty grey line of land to her left. She grasped the railing to steady herself, her legs weak and tired. Elli took in the spaces and shapes around her, a luxury yacht. A big one, familiar to her. It was one of her father’s, a Luxe Marine yacht. The man waited by her, leaving her to regain her strength. Elli pointed to the strip of land.
‘Where is that?’
‘Nowhere. Come. You need to eat now.’
She licked the salt from her lips, feeling as if she had woken from a coma. They went back inside, down the passageway and Elli realised she was going back to her cabin. She turned, pleading, but he pushed her in and slammed the door shut.
Breakfast was laid out on a tray by the bed and the smell of coffee filled the room. She lifted the plastic cover, bacon and scrambled eggs. She took in the sachets of tomato ketchup, butter and jam. There was toast.
Elli ate.
Joel Gonsalves surveyed the glittering sea, the Spanish sun warming the cruiser’s decks. His Rolex Mariner told him they were on course to make the port of La Coruna in twenty minutes. He flicked a cigarette from the soft pack and lit it, his dark eyes flashing gold for a second as he dipped his head to the lighter. Watching the girl walk around the deck, Gonsalves stiffened, his eyes tracing the curve of her legs as Boutros herded her back inside. He adjusted himself with a grunt. He would have to find himself some entertainment soon or go mad. A sculpted, slim-waisted man, Gonsalves’ Latin looks and high-roller lifestyle came together with an insatiable urge for conquest. Some men climbed mountains, some hunted game. Gonsalves’ sport of choice was the pursuit of beautiful women.
He licked his lips. They wouldn’t be in La Coruna long enough for him to chase tail – he was going to have to wait until Valetta, maybe even longer. Checking the mobile confirmed they were close enough to land to pick up the network. He made the call.
‘Meier.’
‘We’re coming into Coruna. No problems so far.’ Gonsalves crossed himself. ‘I’ve unhooked the Inmarsat like you said.’
‘Good. We have to assume it’s compromised, so continue using the mobile. Buy another line in La Coruna as well so we have a backup. Cash, obviously. I will send you an alternative number for me, in the format we discussed. When do you expect to reach Valetta?’
‘Four days at our current rate of going. Forecast’s good.’
‘Excellent. The girl?’
‘She’s awake now. Boutros took her for a walk up on deck.’
‘It will be better if she stays sedated. Our plans have changed, Gonsalves. She needs to go to sleep again.’
Gonsalves glanced around him, although the sea protected him from eavesdroppers and onlookers, its green-blue expanse stretched to the horizon. This sedation business made him nervous. He was no doctor and had been scared Boutros got the dosage wrong the first time around. The girl had gone down deeper and longer than he thought possible. He fidgeted nervously with the cigarette packet.
‘How long for?’
‘Forever, Gonsalves. Before you get to Tangier and the Straits. Do you understand me?’
Gonsalves’ fingers reached blindly behind him to find the edge of the swivel chair. He sat. ‘That’s a big ask, boss.’
‘It’s worth an extra hundred thousand if it’s done neatly.’
Gonsalves halted, his cigarette halfway to his lips. His hesitant voice seemed to come to him from far away, from the fog they had left behind in Hamburg.
‘Okay. Deal. It’s done.’
Gonsalves took a deep drag and flicked the butt out to sea. His looks, free way with money and Midwestern accent spoke of a successful American adventurer. Only the small scar above his right eye talked of the child living rough in Lisbon. The boy who never missed an opportunity to make money, not even a couple of coins for carrying backbreaking loads off the ships and onto the quayside. Not even to turn over an old American tourist who had shown off a wallet too fat to miss in a bar near the docks. It wasn’t his fault the old fool had a weak heart, after all.
Gonsalves cut the line and gazed unhappily at the blue line thickening on the horizon. After a few minutes’ listening to the thrum of the engines and feeling the regular roll and splash of the big boat’s motion, light dawned on Joel Gonsalves’ face and he grinned, clapping his hands together delightedly. Elli Hoffmann was attractive, female and on his boat. As far as the world was concerned, she was missing and even Meier would think she was dead. Fate had delivered a pretty plaything into Gonsalves’ capable hands.
He felt himself stiffen again. After Coruna, he promised himself.
Night was falling. Gonsalves concentrated on steering out of La Coruna past the Hercules Tower. They had been as fast as possible refuelling the boat at the little Spanish port and Gonsalves had ensured the harbour master was rewarded for his help in speeding their progress. One curse of the Arabian Princess’ refit was the cargo space below the pool reduced the fuel tanks, cutting her range. He grinned.
But Christ, she was fast.
Gonsalves gazed incuriously at the Hercules Tower as they passed. Floodlights picked out the magnificent sandy stone monument against the aubergine dusk, shadows filling the cracks and crevices between the buildings packed along the shoreline. The spice of the hot land mingled with the brine of the sea. Lights from another boat danced on the water behind, a constant presence slowly gaining on the big yacht. Gonsalves kept his speed steady as he felt the pricking of sweat. The lights grew larger, resolving into a grey, functional vessel. He slowed the engines as the coast guard boat came into clear view and punched the intercom panel.
‘We’ve got company. Business as usual, repeat business as usual.’ He punched another button. ‘Boutros, give the girl a jab and leave her cabin door unlocked for now. Use the Fentanyl, half the dose this time, kapisch?’
Gonsalves lit a cigarette and waited for the fast boat to draw level, watching his crew throw the pilot ladder over. Two men in plain clothes boarded, followed by a couple of gun-toting uniforms. He stubbed out his cigarette and danced down the spiral staircase to meet them on the main deck.
‘Welcome on board, gentlemen. We filed our papers at Coruna. Is there a problem?’
The larger and older of the two spoke, puffing from the climb. ‘Benemérita. I’m Garcia, this is Galván. Just routine. You were very fast out of Coruna, no?’
‘She’s a fast boat,’ said Gonsalves. He led them into the bar deck and watched with pleasure as both men took in the eight leather high chairs at the curved, black glass bar, the big leather sofa, the armchairs and walnut-topped tables, the glittering mirrors and the huge video screen.
Gonsalves called out, ‘Pedro, you lazy son of a bitch, where are you?’ Getting no answer, he took up station behind the bar, signalling to the two men to sit.
‘Beer?’ Both men nodded, still darting glances around them. Gonsalves spoke in Spanish, his American accent masking the Portuguese guttersnipe. He cracked the tops off three frosted bottles, sliding two over the bar. ‘What do you want to know? Owner’s a billionaire, German guy. Industrialist. I’m taking us to Monte Carlo where he’ll fly in with his mistress. She’s Italian. They’ll pick up a bunch of friends and party across to Nice and then party right on back again. If I’m lucky, next year it’ll be St. Lucia.’
Garcia finished unbuttoning his coat and swigged his beer. ‘It’s a nice boat, all right. A Luxe Marine 500, right?’
‘That’s it,’ said Gonsalves. ‘She’s upgraded. We’ve the twin MTU engines, almost five thousand horsepower in total. This baby can easily cruise at twenty knots. The boss wanted the very best money can buy and this is it. You know what? When he got it, it wasn’t good enough and he had to have it made even better.’
Gonsalves lit a cigarette and offered the pack, but the two men declined. ‘So what are you guys looking for?’
Garcia reached into his jacket and pulled out a notebook, flicking through the lined pages. Gonsalves’ instant thought was a flash of contempt: plod.
‘Nothing. This is purely routine, like I said. Where did you come from?’
Gonsalves tapped his cigarette, held one arm crooked in the other, the cigarette held aloft. ‘They should have told you back in Coruna, saved your time – they went through the paperwork with me there. We embarked Hamburg.’
Galván was sharper and leaner than his colleague, with a spiv’s moustache and darting, hamster-like eyes. He licked his lips. ‘Hamburg? When did you leave there?’
‘Six days ago. We’ve been in no hurry. We’ve been checking in and out like good boys. Like I said, your people at Coruna went through the paperwork with me.’
Galván licked his lips again. ‘Funny time to leave Hamburg for Monte Carlo, April, isn’t it? Not really the start of the season.’
Gonsalves chuckled easily. ‘Like I said, she’s had a refit. Job ran over. Can’t say the boss was happy about it. Glad it wasn’t my ass on the line. He wanted it ready for the summer season. At least he’s got his new toy for spring. But he was real pissed at the boatyard guys. I’m being very careful not to remind him about the overrun fiasco, you know?’
Gonsalves laughed and Galván joined him, raising his bottle to clink against Gonsalves’, a commoner’s conspiracy against The Man. Garcia took laborious notes, his balding head still beaded with sweat from the exertion of climbing the pilot ladder, his tongue poking out from between his moist lips.
Galván slipped off his bar stool and wandered aft to stand by the eight-seat round table. ‘This the dining table?’
Gonsalves snorted. ‘Dining? That’s just a casual table. The dining saloon’s upstairs. Look, why don’t I show you boys around her? We’re in no hurry anyways.’
‘Sure,’ drawled Garcia. ‘That’d be interesting.’
They waited on the deck as the coast guard vessel drew alongside again, Gonsalves smoking and holding his beer. ‘So you see, she’s pretty well kitted out.’
‘And what’s this, here?’ said Galván, gesturing at the covered-over pool with his angular chin.
Gonsalves chuckled. ‘That’s the swimming pool. We’ve fitted the winter cover, the boss won’t be using it, so it doubles as a dance floor. Want to take a peek in there too?’
Garcia’s mouth was open when Galván spoke. ‘No, thank you, Captain. We’ve enjoyed having a look around, but we’re not conducting an formal inspection. You have been very kind.’
‘A pleasure.’
They shook hands and the two men descended the pilot ladder, Garcia first. Gonsalves’ smile was hurting his cheeks as Garcia paused at the top of the ladder and stared across at him for what felt like a lifetime. Garcia nodded, then his pig’s head disappeared. Waving them off, Gonsalves ached for another drink, the tension leaving him in a rush of exultation. He returned to the bar and poured himself a large single malt. The sick feeling in his stomach dissipated as the spirit burned through him. He poured another, appreciating the sherry cask nose of the fine Macallan that he’d blindly pulled from the selection of bottles lining the bar.
Gonsalves felt good. Very good. He wandered back to the aft deck and watched the lights of the coast guard vessel twinkle their merry way back to La Coruna, past the ancient lighthouse floodlit from the ground. He looked forward to spending some quality time alone with Elli Hoffmann in her cabin once she woke up.
It wasn’t until past ten the next morning Benemérita captain Alonso Garcia opened the urgent email to all stations. He had stopped off at the little bakery with the blue shuttered windows on the way in and was still wiping sugar crumbs from his chin as he bustled into the office. The email made him physically stagger. With an awful feeling in his stomach, he checked his mobile, which he had set to silent the afternoon before as he had settled for a nap before the evening shift.
Six missed calls. Four in the early evening. Two later at night, from Madrid. He re-read the email. Cristo. They’d sack him. He was too old to retrain. He had a wife. Children.
He hadn’t logged the uneventful and routine boarding of the big yacht. He checked that Galván hadn’t come in early and done so himself. He hadn’t.
Alonso Garcia made a decision. He scrolled through the movement log and located the entry from yesterday afternoon and the boat’s evening departure. His finger hesitated over the ‘del’ key. He was sweating. A second later, he picked up his mobile to call Galván and let him know they had never seen a yacht called the Arabian Princess.
TWELVE
Gerald Lynch waited in the reception area in the upper reaches of the European Commission’s Berlaymont building in Brussels, lulled by the quiet hum of office activity. His eyes started to close. A pretty blonde wearing a black skirt and green blouse arrived.
‘Mr Lynch?’ She smiled down at him. Lynch rubbed his hands over his face. ‘He’ll see you now. This way.’
Lynch followed her down the corridor and into the big room, the long oval table scattered with the detritus of a recent meeting, a clutter of coffee cups, pens and notepads
with doodles and jottings. The panoramic window looked out onto the Boulevard de Charlemagne.
Yves Dubois rose to greet him.
‘Gerald. Good to see you and thank you for the excellent work you have done.’ He turned to the secretary. ‘Anna, could you please ask housekeeping to get this table cleared? And could we get some coffee for Mr Lynch? He looks like he could use it.’
Lynch sloughed off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. Dubois peered at him.
‘Are you okay, Gerald?’
‘Fine, sure I am.’ Lynch grimaced. ‘I was having a few drinks with Liberec last night when we got the news.’
‘A few is it? Well, there’s little enough time for that sort of thing now. I cannot stress how important this affair has now become. Brian Channing has briefed your prime minister. I have briefed mine. We have agreed this will remain essentially an Anglo-French operation carried out in the strictest secrecy but under the coordination of EJIC at the highest level only. We cannot afford to widen the briefing to other European heads of state. The Czechs and Russians are both embarrassed and have agreed to cooperate fully with us and also to keep this news confidential until we have better evaluated the location of these devices. If the news that two nuclear warheads have been stolen gets out, we will face widespread panic at the very least. The Czechs have moved quickly, thank God, and told their media that a cold war arms cache has been uncovered and is being catalogued prior to its safe destruction by the United Nations under existing treaties.’
Lynch pushed his hands back over his hair. ‘So what’s next?’
‘The British Navy has deployed several patrol boats from Gibraltar to search for the Arabian Princess. We have also requested US satellite imaging, using the excuse that this is a narcotics-related investigation. We are hoping to intercept the boat in the Straits of Gibraltar. A blockade, if you like, although we haven’t got enough resources available to make it as effective as I would like. We need to find the boat before it gets into the Mediterranean and is lost to us.’ Dubois brightened. ‘Ah, here’s your coffee.’
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