After Dr O’Neill had left, the discussion continued.
“Either scenario could have given rise to the unluckily botched cover-up,” said Bull.
“Why unluckily?” asked George.
“Well, because it was so thoroughly and professionally done. Who could possibly have known that the bodies would wash up on the Ulster side of Lough Foyle? Who would ever have dreamed that the Atlantic might wash the burned-out car back ashore?”
There was a little silence. Then they looked at each other as the penny began to drop. Bull got there first.
“Local men would,” he said. “Of course! Local people would realise there was a possibility that such things might happen.”
Pat nodded. “There’s no Donegal man would throw a body they were trying to conceal into Lough Foyle like that. And the car…”
“And the dead boy, O’Hanlon, wasn’t he a player in any case?” said George.
“On the edge, maybe. But he was young.”
“The girl?” probed George.
“Irish-American tourist,” answered Pat. “She could have been sworn to silence and no harm done. Well, less harm than this.”
“Someone playing away, then,” said Bull quietly. “But who? And why at Dundark?”
“Well now,” said Pat quietly, the slow weight of Garda intelligence on his shoulders, “there is just a possibility that there was an IRA arms dump there or thereabouts.”
Into the silence that greeted this grudging suggestion came a sharp rap on the door. A signalman entered and saluted. “Call for Officer Conroy,” he said.
“I’ll come at once,” said Pat, glad to get away from the suddenly narrow eyes around the table.
“Anyone in Special Forces with a special grudge against the Provos, George?” asked Bull.
“Thousands. SAS, Paras, plus anyone else in the army, navy, RAF, intelligence — ”
“That’s not what I meant. Anyone currently operative, out of control?”
“Ah. Now there you have me. Can’t think of anyone mad enough. Or desperate enough. Not that I know of. But I’ll warn them to go slow on anything unusual for the next couple of weeks. Consult us before they move, that sort of thing. Softly softly, so to speak.”
Pat Conroy came back in. “I’ve had a phone call,” he said soberly, “and a fax. And I think I have three pieces of news.”
“Fire away,” said Bull equably.
“First, they’ve recovered the car. Four hands and four feet in the boot. Burned and battered, but good enough.”
“So we can at least make the identification official,” said George.
“Secondly, we have confirmation that there was an IRA arms dump beside the castle there.”
“Good, good. More grist to the mill,” said George. “We won’t need an official disarmament process if you keep this up, Pat. Talks or no talks.”
“Ah, but,” faltered the big Garda officer, “it was empty. Clean as a whistle but for the packaging and suchlike.”
“Gone,” said George. “Gone and never called me mother. But who took it?”
“We’re beginning to get a picture of the people who took it.” Pat put a fax on the table. “Whoever it was had access to even more Special Forces equipment. Have any of you seen anything like that?”
The fax showed a black and white photograph of a piece of climbing equipment. Something to which a rope might have been attached for rappelling down a cliff.
“Well, sure,” said George, and then he stopped. For he realised what Pat Conroy was asking him.
It was surprisingly clear, given that the photograph had been photocopied then faxed. It was still possible to read the writing on the steel of the karabiner. Or it would have been if any of them had understood the Cyrillic alphabet.
“I’ve seen something like that before,” Bull said. “Friend of mine brought it back from Africa a few years ago. Chap called Richard Mariner. He’d just finished delivering an iceberg to the African state of Mau. United Nations project. Quite a success. But my point is that he brought this thing back as a kind of a keepsake to remind himself of one of the people who helped him pull it off. Chap who owned it was killed, you see.”
He looked up. The three faces across the table were blank with incomprehension. “That’s Spetsnaz equipment,” he explained. “Russian Special Forces issue.”
“Excuse me, Sir Justin,” said Pat. “Are you suggesting we have a Russian invasion of Donegal here?”
“Of course not. But there’s only one other realistic source of such equipment that I can think of — and it isn’t terrorist. And it doesn’t make very much more sense than supposing the Russian Special Forces were involved.”
The old man paused, ordering his thoughts as the others watched and waited, each probably well able to follow the train of logic to its conclusion faster than Sir Justin, but waiting for him to speak, out of simple respect.
“The long and the short of it is this,” Sir Justin concluded at last. “If we’re not dealing with current Special Forces then we must be dealing with ex-Special Forces. Mercenaries. Someone, somewhere has hired a team of Special Forces Mercenaries to take — buy, steal, whatever — a complete IRA arms dump.”
“But why?” asked Pat.
And this time it was George who answered. “So they can start a war,” he said. “But against who? And where?”
CHAPTER V
Richard looked out across Massachusetts Bay as the flight from La Guardia swung into its final approach to Boston. He was fizzing with energy and ill-contained excitement. In spite of the nature of the mission bringing him and Bob Stark to the place, Richard felt as though he was on holiday; on an adventure. Not even the guilt of dumping the twins on Robin, and the three of them on his long-suffering parents out at Summersend, their rambling old house overlooking the North Sea in Lincolnshire, could diminish the excitement he was feeling now.
Having settled his domestic arrangements before the supercat had got back into Dover, he and Bob were on the Virgin 747 out of Heathrow just before midnight. They had taken a twin berth on the top deck and managed to get a good night’s sleep. New York had been sweltering, even at 6 a.m. local time, but all they had seen of it was a distant shimmer as they were swept across from John F. Kennedy to La Guardia on the shuttle. Then they barely had time to grab a bite and make some plans before the Boston shuttle was called. Now the tone chimed and the hostess announced that they would shortly be landing at Boston. According to Richard’s lean stomach it was coming up to teatime. According to his watch it was just gone noon.
*
Harry Newbold waited nervously in the arrivals area. She was still in shock from the news that had greeted her on her return to the New England in the early hours of yesterday morning — and the obscure assumption by everyone, herself included, that she bore some kind of responsibility for the tragedy. Certainly the fact that she had been unobtainable during the first few hours of the police investigation into the accident had given weight to the accusatory glances levelled at her by the hung-over survivors. What she had been doing while she had been thus unobtainable added to the weight of responsibility.
None of this showed, however. In fact she made an unconsciously striking figure in her uniform whites, standing a head taller than most of the other women there, her slim body held rigidly erect, her shoulders thrown well back, her honey hair cut in a boyish bob and shoved under her uniform cap.
Tall as she was, she had to look up to meet the eyes of the couple she was here to greet. Masculine beauty had never interested her as anything other than a distant intellectual ideal. But she had never seen anyone as good-looking as Bob Stark in all her life. Not in the flesh anyway, and rarely on the screen. The way his wheat-gold hair tumbled across his broad, lightly lined forehead, the manner in which the planes of his high, sculpted cheekbones fell to the lower slopes of his wide jaw past perfectly defined lips simply knocked the wind out of her. She moved forward towards this god-like creature knowing instinctive
ly that this was her new captain. And then, from behind his shoulder, stepped his opposite and equal.
Richard looked older because the silver at his temples was conspicuous in contrast with the blue-black of his hair. His face was longer, more deeply lined; it was more lived-in, wiser. But the long nose, broken slightly out of line, led down to an equally defined mouth and an equally resolute jaw. It was the eyes, however, that dominated his face, ice-blue, so bright that they seemed back-lit by a burning intelligence.
Harry, already erect, drew herself up to new heights. “Captain Stark? Captain Mariner?” Inexplicably, simply having them here seemed to lighten the computer officer’s load.
In the taxi down to New England’s berth, Harry filled the two men in with regard to events during the last thirty-six hours. Technically, Chief Bligh was the senior officer aboard now, O’Reilley was certainly senior to her as well, and even the second officer, Arthur Walker, might defensibly have assumed command of the bridge. But the fact was that Harry seemed to have sorted everything. She had contacted owners, families, authorities — making O’Reilley’s life hell. She had dealt with the police, the mortuary, the distraught truck driver, the truck owners. And lawyers. The paperwork, too, had fallen to her — logs, accident reports, letters of condolence. A large number of local businessmen had had to be warned that their glad-handing cruise was going to be cancelled and ruffled feathers had to be smoothed. The Port Authority had to be informed that New England would not be departing on schedule, and so did the designer and creator of New England, Professor Alan Miles. He decided not to travel to Boston after all but to stop off at Fall River and negotiate a couple of days’ grace between now and New England’s final overhaul — though frankly Harry could have done with some help and support from the owners’ representative here and now.
“You’ve done a first-rate job, by the sound of things,” rumbled Richard. “But we’re here to help. Or I am, in any case. Bob’s here to assume command, as you’ve been informed. The documentation will be faxed over later. I’m here to represent the owners, though Heritage Mariner only has a small holding, and I’ll only be aboard until you get down to Philadelphia, maybe even Fall River if they’re going to hold her there for any length of time.”
“I’ll take over command at once,” confirmed Bob. “I haven’t been aboard New England since I completed my jet-ship command course. I don’t think I know any of the current crew, but I’m sure we’ll rub along together fine.”
Something about his tone made Harry realise that Bob Stark was a captain who would be rubbed along with whether the crew liked it or not.
“We need a new first officer, but I can stand the watches if need be, certainly round to Fall River. So, all we’ve missed is the glad hand jaunt and a couple of days of the schedule. We should be able to catch up if we look sharp and there are no unforeseen hold-ups either here or at Fall River.”
“There shouldn’t be any problem at Fall River, sir,” said Harry.
“New England is ship-shape. There’s nothing on my computers except green lights.”
“Good enough, Harry. But I’ll want to check for myself.”
“Of course, Captain.”
Part of Richard’s excitement was the thought of seeing New England and looking around her for himself. Heritage Mariner were very junior members of Jet-Ship Inc.’s board but they were important enough to count. They were associated with the cutting edge of technology through their pair of nuclear waste disposal ships Atropos and Clotho. More recently, their active involvement with the super-cats Hero and Leander had made them an obvious target for anyone needing experimental funds.
The range of international players who constituted the rest of the Jet-Ship board were scattered all over the globe at the moment. Those who could would assemble in Philadelphia in a week’s time for the official first run. Some planned to be in Southampton for the arrival if they could. In the meantime they all had their own businesses to run and most of them were much less well supported than Richard was at Heritage Mariner, and consequently much less free to move. This was exactly the kind of situation Richard and his Crewfinders team were used to walking into at a moment’s notice. And the fact was, the deaths of Stevenson and Cohen, while tragic, did not really register on the corporate seismic scale of disasters.
Richard had seen round New England when she was part completed at Fall River, but he had not seen her since her launch and, except for photographs, he had not seen her fitted or crewed. He craned forward to look through the window, aching for his first sight of her. And, suddenly, as the taxi swung onto the Mystic wharves, there she was.
She was bigger than he remembered. Big enough, even for a man who had commanded supertankers all his working life. She was just shy of two hundred and fifty metres from slim stem to square stern; the same size as the Canberra, nearly up with the Queens, though nowhere near as high, with only four decks of upper works. Still, she was no pygmy, even compared to Prometheus 77, flagship of the Heritage Mariner tanker fleet. The tonnage of her cargo was less than half the massive tanker’s capacity, but in almost every other area of comparison the jet-ship surpassed everything else that Richard had ever commanded. She could generate 150,000 horsepower, twice as much as Prometheus’s massive old screws. And she could sail nearly ten times faster.
She was white, except for a vivid blue stripe along her hull, narrowing to a point at the bow. She looked like an alp and moved like an avalanche. Her deckhouse stood midships, its front sloping back at a racy angle. There was room to stand half a dozen container lorries on the foredeck and four or so behind the navigation bridge. The whole bridgehouse, four decks high, was the better part of one hundred metres in length.
She was sitting high, carrying just enough bunkerage to complete a couple of cruises and get her round to Fall River, two hundred and fifty miles distant. Three hours sailing time, if they wanted to hurry, thought Richard as he got out of the car. And as he straightened at the foot of the companionway, he was still shaking his head in wonder.
The deck where Arthur Walker, the second officer, was waiting with Chief Bligh was ten metres above the dock, nearly twenty above the water. And the bridgehouse towered another twenty and more to the top of the communications stack. When the introductions were completed Bob went straight to the bridge and Richard followed. While Bob disappeared into the captain’s day room to go through all the relevant documentation, Richard lingered on the bridge. He was not used to being a mere observer in any situation, but he was prepared to enjoy the novelty here. A truculent looking young man called Stubbs appeared to be holding the watch and although he eyed the interloper suspiciously he did not actually interfere with Richard as he looked around. On the other hand he did not vouchsafe much information either. Once Richard had familiarised himself with the general layout of the bridge and satisfied himself as to the functions of all the high-tech screens in their broad arc beneath the clearview, he found himself drawn inexorably into Harry’s lair.
The computer equipment here was far beyond anything available even in the superbly-equipped Atropos. Fascinated — and not in the least threatened — he teased an enormous amount of information out of Harry who proved as eager to answer as he was to ask. By the time Bob Stark had gone through all the records he needed to consult on paper, Richard had more or less done the same on the screen. But, somewhat to Harry’s chagrin, the two old friends were not quite satisfied by second-hand information, whether delivered in print or in pixels.
“I’m going over her, stem to stern,” announced Bob. “You want to come?”
“Can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” Richard said eagerly.
“We need a guide…” Bob’s voice trailed off.
Stubbs looked round. “My watch finishes in half an hour — not that I’m really needed on the bridge in any case.”
“Thanks for the offer, Mr Stubbs. But I don’t think I’ll need to disturb you. Where’s Mr Walker?”
Stubbs shrugged, and Bob c
rossed to the ship’s tannoy. He was just about to summon the second officer when Harry poked her head out of the computer room. “I know the ship better than most, Captain. I’ll get you wherever you want to go.”
“Good man,” said Bob without thinking.
*
They began at the crow’s-nest — or as near as this princess of high-tech could come to such an outdated idea. The communications equipment was housed in a surprisingly solid looking construct. “Everything has to be extra solid,” said Harry, well-practised in guest tours. “Although when she’s at speed New England sits very squarely on the surface and there isn’t much pitching or tossing even in twenty-metre seas, we have to work from a fundamental assumption that even in still air she will generate winds of hurricane force. In a headwind, things can get very blowy indeed up here — anywhere on deck, as a matter of fact. It’s something you must always be aware of. Inside the cross section at the top there’s the ship’s identity beacon which broadcasts nonstop so she can be tracked. The beacon’s one of the most important pieces of equipment aboard because the hull, being made of a composite rather than metal, is more or less invisible to radar. Without the beacon it would be impossible to track us with any accuracy.” Having delivered herself of this little speech, Harry turned and looked down.
From up here the layout of the long, slim hull was perfectly presented: the narrow dagger of the bows, widening to the unexpected flare of the stern; the rounded, almost moulded smoothness of the deckhouse with its sleek leading faces. “Again,” said Harry equably, “it has to stand up to enormous headwinds. So it has to be designed more aerodynamically than any hull ever built. Bridge wings like you have on your tankers, Captain Mariner, are out of the question. At our normal cruising speed they would simply get ripped off. The forward mast with the Doppler radar down there on the forecastle head has to be stressed like a jet’s wing or it would come in through the clearview. “Well,” she temporised as they went down into the bridgehouse again, “it wouldn’t actually come through the clearview. It would glance off, more than likely, because of the angle of the front of the bridgehouse and the strength of the glass. The whole structure has been designed to withstand the impact of water travelling at speeds of up to one hundred and fifty miles per hour.”
Hell Gate (Richard Mariner Series Book 9) Page 4
