Bionic Agent

by Rose, Malcolm

  He hesitated at the corner of the marina and looked down on the landing stage. It contained the same range of boats: from cheap to costly, from shoddy to smart. Three of the moorings were empty.

  It struck Jordan that looking after a few family boats would be quite a comedown for the sacked captain of Ocean Courage. After being in charge of a giant ship, every day working in this small marina would remind him of his fall from favour. Every day, he would feel humiliated. But was that enough of a motive to kill so many people? If Norman Lightfoot had sabotaged the Richard Montgomery, maybe he’d expected the effects to be limited to the passing Ocean Courage. That’s where his real grievance lay. Maybe he hadn’t meant to cause such a massive catastrophe.

  No one seemed to be around. The door to the shack was closed. Wondering what he’d do if Lightfoot was hiding inside, Jordan breathed in the clean sea air and went towards the familiar shed.

  Readying his robotic arm for action, he banged on the door with his left hand and opened it without waiting for an answer. But no one rushed at him.

  A young man jumped up from the chair by the computer as if taken by surprise. “Hello?” he said.

  The walls were still covered with the same pictures, but the smell of whisky had gone. Jordan was both relieved and disappointed. Trying to act naturally, he grinned. “Computer games instead of logging boats, eh?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I could ask you that. Norman knows me. He looked after my mum’s boat. Cara Quickfall. Is he around?”

  The new manager checked the boatyard’s spreadsheet and found a reference to the Quickfall family. He seemed to relax, believing that Jordan was genuine. “I took over a week back. Mr. Lightfoot left. I don’t know why.”

  “That’s a shame,” Jordan replied. It meant that the discharged captain really had vanished. “I wanted him to help me sort out what to do about our boat. It went missing ages ago.”

  “Yours too?” he blurted out.

  “What do you mean? Has another one been nicked?”

  “No, I don’t suppose so. It was Mr. Lightfoot’s and it’s gone.” He brought up the details on the monitor. “I guess he took off in it.”

  Jordan edged towards the computer screen. “Can I see?”

  The young man stood in front of the monitor. “Why?”

  With a grin on his face, Jordan replied, “Because I’m part of a secret organization investigating Norman Lightfoot.”

  The man laughed. “Yeah. Right. Nice line.”

  Jordan said, “If I know which boat was his, it’ll help me find him.”

  The manager stood aside. “I’ll let you look if you don’t tell anyone.”

  “Done.” Jordan bent closer to the screen. “Windsong. A lot posher than ours. And it was last logged on Tuesday 17th April.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Before I started.”

  Jordan nodded. “Interesting.”

  Jordan stood on the triangle of sandy beach outside Chalkwell Station and watched some kids messing about at the edge of the water. “It might look like he’s gone to Norway,” Jordan explained to Angel, “but I think he’s really living in a boat called Windsong. All one word. We need to check for sightings. It’s a Sealine S28 Bolero sports cruiser, made in 1998. I don’t know what half of that means, but I memorized it from the spreadsheet.”

  “I’m not convinced Winter’s on a wild goose chase,” Angel said into his ear. “Perhaps Lightfoot expected you to go back to Chalkwell so he hid his boat, knowing you’d come to the wrong conclusion. I think it’s more likely you’ve sniffed out the decoy and Winter’s onto the real thing.”

  Jordan’s mood took a tumble. He hadn’t thought of that.

  “But I’ll put someone onto it anyway. You sunbathe – or whatever you want to do with your day off by the seaside – and I’ll call you back if we get any hits.”

  Jordan was sitting on the seawall and drinking Coke when his phone rang again.

  It was Angel. “Get yourself a taxi to Burnham-on-Crouch. It’s just round the corner from where you are. About forty kilometres by road.”

  “Why?” Jordan asked.

  “Because Windsong’s moored there, according to the local authorities. Along with hundreds of yachts. But you’ll find it if you look hard enough. And Jordan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Take care. Just in case Lightfoot is there.”

  The Crouch was dotted with countless buoys and boats. Their masts cluttered the skyline like exclamation marks. Yachting clubs sent lines of pontoons into the river and, further out, colourful sails ballooned in the wind.

  Burnham-on-Crouch seemed to exist for sailing. It had the laid-back atmosphere of a model village, as if it wasn’t part of the real world. The Quay was buzzing even though it was Friday and not a weekend. It wasn’t even in the tourist season. Perhaps there was going to be a yachting event of some sort.

  Jordan had his vision on maximum as he walked slowly beside the river, trying to spot one particular boat among the many. He grumbled into his phone, “Can’t they pin it down a bit more? ‘Not in one of the marinas’ means anywhere in the river. And that’s overflowing with yachts.”

  “What you’re after should stand out,” Angel replied. “It’s a powerboat. It doesn’t have a mast. It’s a white sporty number with a rail around the front. If you want to see what it looks like, I’ve put a photo on the system.”

  “I’ll check it out, but everything I’m seeing here is a yacht or a rowing boat.”

  He dodged around a group of people drinking beer outside a hotel and almost tripped over a dog lead. He continued along the front, straining to see as far as possible across the wide waterway. Along the front, there were no amusement arcades or other trappings of the tourist trade. The River Crouch was Burnham’s attraction.

  He was just coming up to a series of landing stages for larger boats when he saw it. At least, he saw something that matched Angel’s description. He was too far away to see the motorboat’s name. He stopped and concentrated. In his mind, he compared the profile with the picture on Unit Red’s computer. And it matched.

  Looking round to make sure no one was watching him, he ran out along a jetty and scrambled down two wooden steps into a dinghy. He untied it and began to row out into the river towards the white sports cruiser. He was clumsy. He had not done much rowing and his right arm was so much stronger than his left that it threatened to drive him round in circles. He reduced power to his artificial arm to try and make it match his real one. After a few minutes he began to get the hang of it. He wove his way between yachts tied to buoys.

  As he drew closer to the powerboat, he could see that he’d got the right vessel. The name, Windsong, was painted in handwriting style near the prow. There was no one on deck.

  Jordan found it difficult to manoeuvre the dinghy up to the motorboat’s stern where there was a step for boarding. One of the oars kept getting in the way. In the end, he pulled as hard as he could on both oars, propelling himself in the right direction, and then removed the oars from their rowlocks while the dinghy glided up to Windsong. He reached out and grabbed the rear of the powerboat and stood up, ready to step across, but the dinghy went backwards and he toppled.

  He splashed down into the cold river. His sodden clothes and heavy arm dragged him down further than he expected. Underwater, he could see a grid of orange mooring ropes and something attached to the bottom of Windsong. He wasn’t an expert on boats but he knew that a box about the size of a small suitcase did not belong there.

  He broke the surface, took a gulp of air and dived down again. Swimming up to the metal object, he couldn’t figure out what it was, but it certainly wasn’t part of the design. It had been attached with suction pads.

  Then it dawned on him. He could be looking at the same type of explosive device that had been attached to the Richard Montgomery. Windsong had been booby-trapped. He guessed that the bomb had been rigged to blow if he went on board or if Lightfoot, watching from a distance with
a remote control, saw him clamber on deck.

  The boat could be both a test and a trap. Norman Lightfoot could well have set it up to check if Jordan was hunting him and, if he was, to put an end to that hunt.

  Jordan knew he had to get away.

  Chilled, he rose to the surface and swam a few strokes to the dinghy. Almost capsizing the boat, he yanked himself awkwardly up and into it at the third attempt. He brushed wet hair from his face, refitted the oars and rowed away as quickly as he could, driving the dinghy back to the shore.

  He tied the boat hurriedly to the jetty and pulled himself up onto the wooden platform. Dripping water from his saturated clothes, he shivered and surveyed the riverside walkway. He couldn’t see Norman Lightfoot, but there were too many people around to be certain he wasn’t there. Jordan expected him to be nearby, keeping an eye on his trap.

  A toddler pointed at Jordan and giggled. “That boy’s all wet!”

  Jordan realized for the first time that a few people were staring at him. He shrugged and hurried back down The Quay, looking frantically around. Sidestepping the prams and pushchairs, dogs, slow-moving old folk and small groups of people who had stopped for a chat, Jordan continued along the promenade. As he went, he warmed up and forgot how uncomfortable he felt.

  He left The Quay and headed towards the Royal Corinthian Yacht Club that jutted out over the water. Four yachts were perched on the decking. And Norman Lightfoot was sitting out on the veranda.

  Jordan came to a sudden halt and gasped. His main suspect was just sitting there, not paying much attention to anything except the glass and bottle on the table in front of him. No wonder he hadn’t spotted Jordan rowing out to Windsong in the distance. He was probably drunk.

  Straight away, Jordan decided to confront Lightfoot. He didn’t know the building, but it looked like he’d have to go round to the main door and through the club to reach the balcony. But as he set off, he thought the old sea captain might have glanced in his direction. If he was right, he had to hope that Lightfoot hadn’t recognized him among the swarm of yachting enthusiasts.

  Jordan burst into the club through the roadside entrance and dashed to the waterside balcony, leaving startled sailors in his wake. He skidded to a halt on the veranda. But Norman Lightfoot was no longer there. Only an empty bottle, a pair of binoculars and an ashtray containing the butt of a cigar remained on his table. Jordan sighed heavily and walked to the railing at the edge of the balcony. He hung over it but could not see anyone retreating from the club.

  Frustrated, he drummed his fingers on the top rail. He hadn’t dried off completely but he’d stopped dripping so at least he was attracting less attention. The few people relaxing on the veranda ignored him.

  Jordan could make out the distant Windsong. Then he became aware of something else. His heightened sense of smell picked up a familiar scent. It was a mixture of alcohol and cigars. It wasn’t coming from the table. It was very close. Jordan spun round.

  Lightfoot had sneaked up behind him and in his hand was his broken tumbler. He thrust the jagged glass at Jordan, aiming at his neck.

  18 BROKEN

  Instinctively, Jordan dodged out of the way and let fly with his right arm. It slammed into Lightfoot’s chest, glanced off and cracked against his chin. The broken glass flew across the floor and the blow lifted Norman off his feet, even though he was big and solid. He jolted backwards and crumpled onto the floor.

  A group of bar staff, bouncers and club members burst out onto the balcony and came at Jordan. Before he could react, they had him by the arms. He didn’t strike out again. Shocked by his own power, he didn’t want to hurt anyone else. A yachtsman helped Norman Lightfoot up and supported him as he walked away.

  “No!” Jordan cried. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m the good guy. He attacked me.”

  “Sure,” one of the men replied. “Fifty-year-old attacks teenager. That’s a turn-up for the books.”

  “How come he’s hurt if he’s the thug?” someone said.

  “We’ve called the police.”

  Jordan shouted, “You didn’t see. You don’t understand!”

  “Save it for the police.”

  “Till they come, you’re under citizens’ arrest.”

  “Why don’t we get some rope and tie him up?”

  A girl – about seven or eight years old – walked towards them timidly and said in a quiet voice, “He’s telling the truth. The bad man tried to hurt him.”

  A woman – the girl’s mother, Jordan assumed – kneeled down beside her. “Are you sure, Sophie? What did you see?”

  Sophie pointed to the steps that led down to the pontoon and the area underneath the balcony. “The man was hiding down there. He came up all quiet. On tiptoe, you know.” She demonstrated a few silent steps. “He was holding a broken glass. He tried to stab...” She looked at Jordan and then fell silent.

  Suddenly embarrassed, the men let go of Jordan.

  Jordan nodded at Sophie and then said to the men, “I’m on the same side as the police. And I’m pretty sure the man you’ve just let off blew up the Thames Estuary. I think he’s put a bomb in the river here as well.”

  “What? Here? A bomb?”

  The chief barman rushed to the door and shouted inside, “Don’t let him go!”

  But it was too late. Norman Lightfoot had got his breath back and staggered out of the club.

  The background noise was almost deafening as club members asked questions, wondering what was going on. Jordan was at the centre of the fuss, yet a distant cry made him suddenly alert. “Hey! That’s mine. Come back!” At once, he shouldered his way through the crowd and looked over the rail.

  Lightfoot was sailing away in a tiny yacht, while its owner stood at the end of the jetty waving his arms furiously and shouting.

  Jordan squatted down briefly by the girl and said, “Thanks, Sophie. I’ve got to go and catch him.”

  “Okay,” she replied.

  He stood up and dashed to the steps that were out of sight around the corner of the balcony. He went down them two at a time, almost out of control. He sprinted towards the yachtsman at the end of the pontoon. Both of them watched Norman Lightfoot meandering clumsily under a brilliant orange sail. “I don’t know anything about yachts,” Jordan said to him, “but you do. So, let’s grab someone else’s and go after him.”

  The man stared at Jordan for a few seconds and then seemed to click into action. “Yes. Of course. Harry will understand. We’ll take his.” He hurried along the jetty to another yacht and Jordan followed him.

  Unfurling the mainsail and jib, the yachtsman muttered angrily, “That idiot doesn’t know about sailing either. He’s all over the place. Not in control at all. If he damages my boat, I’ll murder him.”

  Jordan smiled. “I’ll help.”

  The wind caught the sail and the yacht lurched away from the jetty. “Do you know him?” the sailor asked. “Keep down, by the way.”

  Jordan ducked as the boom flew across and threatened to remove his head. “Yes. He’s used to something a bit bigger than yachts. When you catch him up, let me handle him. He’s dangerous.”

  “Fine. You take care of him. I’ll take care of the boats.” Keeping his eye on the river, the man paused and then said, “I’m Charles. Who are you?”

  “Jordan.”

  “Good to meet you,” he said, his tone heavily ironic.

  The red and white sail swelled and strained above them. The hull sliced through the water and the whole yacht tilted. Jordan felt as if he was taking a corner on a speeding motorbike. They accelerated westwards.

  “The key is to angle the sail,” Charles said as he adjusted the jibsheet. Then he gazed ahead. “That chap hasn’t got a clue. I just hope we get to him before he collides with something.”

  Still keeping his head down, Jordan pointed to a large motorboat coming across the river. “Talking of collisions...”

  “It’s the Wallasea ferry. I’ve got it covered.”

  �
�I didn’t mean you,” Jordan replied.

  Norman Lightfoot’s yacht appeared to Jordan to be swerving into the path of the ferry.

  Charles muttered, “The fool!”

  Making for its landing stage in Burnham, the ferry sounded its foghorn as a warning.

  Jordan could just see Lightfoot. He seemed confused by ropes, tiller and sails. It was likely that panic and alcohol were adding to his confusion. His yacht veered crazily, the boom swung across and struck the incompetent sailor across the head. He collapsed at once. The boat turned away from the approaching ferry and instead headed for the northern shore. Without anyone to steer, though, it was bound to ram one of the moored boats before it reached land.

  In the distance, a police siren wailed.

  Concentrating on the stolen yacht with the bright orange sail, Jordan realized where it was going. Straight towards Windsong. He turned towards Charles and said, “Don’t go any closer!”

  “What? Why not? I’ve got to intercept it.”

  “No!” Jordan yelled at him. “There’s a bomb.”

  “A what?”

  “Over there. Where it’s going. If it hits...”

  “What do you mean? What about my boat?”

  “Look,” Jordan said. “Phew! It’s okay. It’s going to miss.”

  But Charles’s hijacked yacht glanced off one moored vessel, changed direction and headed directly towards Windsong.

  Jordan closed his eyes, winced, and braced himself. He saw a huge column of water and bright flashes. He heard a massive explosion followed by a series of thunderous bangs. He saw a window shatter in front of him. He saw glass piercing his body as he was blown backwards. And he saw his right arm wrenched from his shoulder. But he felt...nothing.

  He opened his eyes. The yacht had slammed into Windsong but there had been no explosion. No injuries. No damage. Nothing. His imagination – and his fear – had transported him back in time to a year earlier.

  Charles was still manoeuvring the borrowed boat closer to his own.

  A groggy Norman Lightfoot had scrambled onto Windsong and he was tottering around. Blood was leaking from his head wound and alcohol probably clouded his mind. He hadn’t even noticed Jordan. He yanked on the door to the living quarters, but he couldn’t open it. Stumbling around the deck, he could barely keep upright. He searched one pocket after another until he came across the key. In trying to push it into the lock, he dropped it and cursed.