by Paul Torday
But that night I couldn’t yet see how it might have been. I couldn’t stop thinking about the moment when I had spoken her name, her true name, and she had turned and smiled at me. Uttering that final loving word had been her last conscious act before I shot her. I wished I had some sleeping pills or a bottle of whisky in the flat to drown my wakeful brain.
In the end I fell into a doze just before dawn and awoke late. I showered, changed and made some toast and a cup of coffee. Then I waited for Nick and Bas.
They arrived about ten o’clock in the same black Audi I’d seen them in the day before. Behind them was a large Toyota Land Cruiser with four men in it. They looked like serious people. As I walked towards the Audi with Bas, he jerked his thumb in the direction of the Toyota.
‘The local police and the UK Border Agency are waiting for us but we’re fielding our own team as well.’
I climbed into the car. Inside, Nick Davies was sitting in the front passenger seat eating a bacon and egg bun. Between mouthfuls he said, ‘This is breakfast. I hope you’ve eaten too. This will be the last meal we have time for today.’
We drove north up the A1. By the time we reached our destination it was late in the afternoon, and the sun was sinking low in the sky. Middlesbrough is bisected by a dual carriageway that runs through the heart of the city and down to the coast, bending slightly south to follow the line of the Tees estuary. We drove in convoy, past the white spider’s web of the Riverside Stadium, and the huge blue shape of the Transporter Bridge that carries cars and people in a gondola suspended above the river, then on to Port Clarence on the northern bank of the Tees.
After a while the town gave way to retail parks, and then acres of enormous sheds. I remembered from some dimly recollected geography lesson that this had once been the heart of the steel industry in northern England, with thousands of tons of ore, coal and potash being moved through the port. Now we passed a dereliction of railway sidings and old signal boxes, then the alien shapes of distillation columns and the cracking towers of a petrochemical plant.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked Nick.
‘First stop is the UK Border Agency office at Teesport. We need to liaise with them, and the local constabulary, and check the sailing time of the ship we’re interested in. Then we’ll decide what to do. Some local advice would be helpful – this place looks enormous.’
We turned left at a roundabout and came to a security barrier that marked the main entrance to the port. After a few minutes an escort car turned up and we followed it to a small city of Portakabins.
‘I’m not going to explain who you are, or why you’re here, unless I have to,’ said Nick. ‘So keep quiet, if you can.’ We got out of the car and followed the officer who had been sent to meet us into the nearest Portakabin. I noticed that the four men in the Toyota didn’t bother to join us.
Inside the Portakabin was a small welcome committee consisting of a couple of senior policemen, an official from the UK Border Agency, and an older man from the Port Authority. They had obviously been briefed on why we were there because we got straight down to business.
‘We could have done without this,’ said one of the policemen. ‘There’s a match on tonight at Riverside. Kick-off is seven thirty. We’re playing Newcastle. We were already stretched with crowd control before you lads turned up.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Nick. He did not sound sorry. ‘The man we’re looking for is a major terrorist and was probably responsible for the explosion in London yesterday.’
‘Well, we’ll just have to do the best we can,’ said the second policeman. He sounded as if he thought terrorists were a minor problem compared with football supporters at a north-east derby.
‘What do you think your man will do?’ asked the official from the Border Agency.
‘You tell me,’ replied Nick. ‘What we do know is that there’s a ship sailing to Djibouti from Berth Two at midnight, and we think he might try to get on it. He thinks we aren’t paying attention to this route out of the country. He’s expecting us to be throwing all our resources into watching the airports and the ferries and the Channel Tunnel. Which we are doing. But we have a feeling about this guy. He does things differently. He might just risk boarding the vessel here. Has anyone checked with the ship yet?’
‘We’ve been on board and talked to the captain,’ said the Border Agency official. ‘There’re no unauthorised personnel on the vessel. The crew won’t start boarding until later this evening, and we’ve got tight security around this harbour already.’
Nick nodded.
‘Have you got everything you need?’
‘If my colleagues in the police can supply a few extra men, then we can make it more or less impossible for anyone to get near that ship without authorisation.’
‘We want to catch this guy alive,’ Nick said. ‘We don’t want to scare him away so we don’t want any shooting. We want to allow him to get as close as possible without seeing any cause for alarm. Then we can take him.’
‘Firearms?’ asked one of the policemen. ‘We’ll need an Armed Response team, then.’
‘He may have a weapon. It’s possible,’ said Nick. ‘I have four specialists outside who are licensed firearms officers.’
‘I’d rather have my own team,’ said the first police officer.
‘Talk to your Chief Constable, then,’ suggested Nick. ‘The minister has agreed to my plan, so you’d need him to change his mind.’
‘I don’t see how he can get into Berth Two without being seen,’ repeated the official from the Border Agency.
‘Well, I know what I’d do if I were him,’ said the man from the Port Authority, speaking for the first time. His voice was soft and mild but he held everyone’s attention.
‘Do you, Mr Williams?’ There was a measure of sarcasm in the official’s tone, as if he very much doubted that anyone else in the room could tell him anything he didn’t already know.
Mr Williams was by some way the oldest man there. He had a square face and faded blue eyes and was not very closely shaven. He had the look of an ex-mariner or a fisherman. But he sounded as if he knew what he was talking about.
‘Tell me,’ said Nick.
‘Most of our illegals are going the other way,’ said Mr Williams. ‘They’re trying to get into the country, not out of it. They hide inside containers or in the backs of lorries and they come in on the freight ferries, mostly. So we’re not really organised to stop people getting out of the country. But my friend from the Border Agency is right. You can’t just walk into this part of the port without someone stopping and asking you for ID.’
‘So what would you do, if you were the man we’re looking for?’ asked Nick. ‘How would you get to the ship?’
‘On the water,’ said Mr Williams simply. ‘There are plenty of wharves and jetties and even a marina or two on this estuary. There’s the offshore base upstream where they construct stuff for the oil and gas industry. There are always a few small boats on the river at most times of the day and even at night. If it were me, I’d get on to the river farther up, somewhere where there isn’t much security. Then I’d sail downriver as quietly as I could, and bring my boat alongside the vessel I wanted to board. After that, I don’t know. Would he have help on board?’
‘Almost certainly,’ said Nick. ‘I guess he’d be passing himself off as a crew member. There must be someone in the crew who’s in on it and will vouch for him.’
‘They could drop a rope ladder over the seaward side of the vessel. He’d never be seen from the shore.’
‘Thank you,’ said Nick. ‘That makes a lot of sense. So the answer is for some of us to wait for him in another boat on the lee of the vessel. Can we get one?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Williams. ‘We can use one of the Port Authority launches.’
So the plan was made. The police and the Border Agency would wait in the dock area where the vessel was berthed. Nick, his four helpers, Bas and me would join Mr Williams in the
Port Authority launch. We would hide somewhere in the shadows, waiting for the sound of a boat coming downstream.
It was now getting dark, nearly six in the evening. Only six hours to go until the vessel sailed. A cold wind was coming in off the North Sea, biting through our clothing as we stood outside the Portakabin while Nick and the two policemen finalised arrangements. The man from the Port Authority drove off to organise the launch.
A few moments later the two policemen left in their car.
The UK Border Agency official came out and said, ‘I’ll drive you down to Berth Two so you can have a look at the vessel. She’s the SS Mamounia, what they call a tramp. She carries general cargo, containers, just about anything she can get. A bit of a rust bucket.’
We drove down to the dock and parked on a wide strip of concrete, embedded with old railway lines. Overhead, arc lights were coming on as the night deepened. Down here, by the water’s edge, it was even colder than it had been outside the Portakabins. I saw the bulk of the vessel looming above the quay. A few lights glimmered on board. There was not much sign of any human activity.
‘That’s her,’ said the official. ‘Our lads will be in the back of those sheds over there, together with whatever help the police can lend us. We should have everyone in position in the next hour.’
Half an hour later, Mr Williams returned with the launch. We met him on the dock, and climbed down a ladder to board the vessel. Nick, Bas and I were followed by Nick’s four specialists. There was just room for three people in the small wheelhouse, so the other five had to sit outside.
‘We’ll take turns at sheltering from the wind,’ said Mr Williams. ‘It can get quite nippy when you’re out on the water at night.’
The launch burbled out into the middle of the stream, then swung around and dropped into position behind the Mamounia. Above us, a few more lights now burned on the deck and from the superstructure, reflected in the oily water. The ship’s engines had been started up and a low grumbling came from somewhere deep within her. There were other noises, too: voices from on deck, a metallic clang. The crew had started to board the vessel. We knew that each of them would be subjected to careful checks by Border Agency staff before they were allowed on the ship. The police were remaining out of sight.
‘I hope to Christ we’ve got this right,’ said Nick, shivering in the cold. ‘It would be just our luck if Aseeb got away from Luton Airport.’
‘Could that have happened?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes. We’re good, but not that good. There are so many airports and ferries to watch. But Aseeb will be cautious about using the airports again, after the incident at Heathrow last year. That’s why we’re betting on him doing something different this time.’ Nick paused, and looked out across the dark water and the reflections dancing on the waves. ‘It’s probably a total wild-goose chase. And yet – that phone call we traced yesterday came from here. And we think Aseeb has used this route before.’
From the wheelhouse, Mr Williams called softly. ‘Keep the talking to essentials, Mr Davies, if you can. Sound travels a long way across water.’
Nick looked contrite. I pulled my jacket tighter around me in an effort to keep warm and looked at my watch. It was now after nine o’clock. Out at the Riverside Stadium, the football match would soon be coming to an end and then people would be spilling out on to the streets, causing even more distraction for the police.
More time passed. The motion of the launch was soporific and I could feel myself dozing off. Suddenly I sensed, rather than saw, a movement in the wheelhouse.
‘There’s a small craft coming down the river, in the middle of the stream,’ Mr Williams whispered to us. ‘It might not be anything to do with us. Everybody keep still.’
I couldn’t resist the temptation to peer forward. I couldn’t see anything; then maybe the dimmest of shapes against the constellation of shore lights from Port Clarence on the north bank; the faintest phosphorescence of a wake.
‘He’s turned inshore,’ said Mr Williams. ‘This could be our man.’ At once the slumped figures of Nick and his firearms specialists straightened up. I could hear the snick of gun slides. The craft was now clearly visible: a small boat with an outboard motor. It was impossible to see who was in it at this distance and in this gloom.
‘I’m going to let him come in close,’ whispered Mr Williams. ‘Then try to cut him off. Keep absolutely still until we start moving.’
At that moment a police car came down the ramp that led on to the dock. Its blue light flashed once and there was the briefest whoop from its siren. The police on watch were doing a shift change but the timing was unfortunate.
At once the small craft accelerated into a tight turn, the snarl of its engine now clearly audible. It headed back upriver.
‘Hold tight,’ said Mr Williams. He opened the throttle and the launch surged after the fleeing motorboat.
‘Where could he be going?’ shouted Nick.
‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Mr Williams. ‘It could be anywhere. We’ll have to try to keep him in sight. He’s travelling faster than us.’
The launch was now slapping up and down across the wake of the smaller boat. Then it settled into a parallel course, cutting through the water like a knife. A searchlight came on above the wheelhouse. After a minute it had picked up the smaller craft.
‘He might be heading for the offshore base,’ shouted Mr Williams above the noise of the engine.
Bas was talking into his radio. Looking back at the berth we had left, I could see three police cars, then a fourth, leaving the dock, their lights flashing and their sirens on. It would take them a while to catch up with us: they would have to go into Middlesbrough and fight their way through all the football traffic. Ahead, the craft we were pursuing started to turn towards the shore.
‘He’s heading for the offshore base, sure enough,’ said Mr Williams.
‘Any local security?’ asked Nick.
‘Not much,’ replied Mr Williams. ‘Not what you would want to put up against this fellow.’
The motorboat arrived at the dockside, and now we could see a dark figure scrambling out of the boat and on to the dock. He didn’t bother tying it up, and the motorboat began to drift away into the stream. Moments later, we were landing ourselves. Nick and Bas were first up, then the four firearms specialists. I was last. Mr Williams remained on board. As we left he reversed the launch back out into the river and started sweeping the searchlight along the dock.
‘That’s him,’ Nick said, pointing at a dark figure running out of the light and around the corner of a huge shed. ‘Stay with me, Richard. I want you to confirm Aseeb’s identity when we catch him. And that’s all I want you to do. Have you got that?’
This last warning was delivered rather breathlessly because by that time we were running towards the building, Bas just behind us. The other four men went around the far side of the building, to head off Aseeb. We came to an enormous sliding door, big enough to admit a small ship, with a smaller door in one corner of it. This was open, so we went inside.
The internal space must have measured several acres. I could barely imagine what these sheds had once contained: perhaps ships had been built in here, monsters of iron and steel.
‘Lights,’ shouted Nick to Bas. ‘Find the lights.’ Bas was already flicking switches he had found beside the door. Floodlights came on far above us, the light glinting off metal: the enigmatic shape of a giant structure that was being constructed inside the building before being towed out to sea and lowered on to the ocean bed. In the shadows at the far end of the building, I could see four points of light: Nick’s boys had got in and had switched on torches. There was no sign of Aseeb. Nick and Bas moved forward cautiously.
I looked around me. Aseeb could be hiding anywhere in this wilderness of metal and brick. There were piles of welding rods, metal plates and pipes, and stacks of flanges; at intervals were metal screens used to shield workers from the welding sparks, and machines of unguessable purp
ose. To my left I could see a doorway that appeared to lead into the outer wall of the building itself. Silently I went over to it and looked inside. A narrow stairway led upwards, but to what, I could not see. It looked as if this building had once had several floors, before they were torn out to make room for whatever oil platform was being built there at the time.
I climbed the stairs until I reached a narrow landing that appeared to run around the side of the building. Glassless windows peered down into the poorly lit space below, and looking through one of these I could see Nick and Bas moving carefully among the clutter on the floor. The four pinpoints of torchlight at the other end were moving closer, and if Aseeb was down there he would be caught between them, very soon.
But I didn’t believe he was down there. A smell came to my nostrils – the faintest odour of sweat, and the scent of almond hair oil. After a moment I knew I wasn’t imagining it. My desire to find Aseeb was very strong. I had not thought about what I would do when I found him. I wanted to ask him a question. But what that question was to be, I did not know. Whatever it was, I wanted an answer that would somehow comfort me, compensate for my overwhelming sense of loss. I knew I was unlikely to get an answer from Aseeb, but I had to try.
There was a movement at the end of the landing, twenty yards ahead of me. The light was very dim but I could see the figure of a man standing in the corridor. Why didn’t he run? Then I realised that, beyond Aseeb, the corridor had been sliced away. Beyond where he stood there was nothing: only a drop of sixty feet or more down to the concrete floor below.
‘You are a very persistent gentleman, Mr Gaunt,’ he whispered.
I walked slowly towards him, as quietly as I could. I didn’t want to alert Nick or Bas before I had had my chance to talk with Aseeb.
‘Damned persistent,’ repeated Aseeb, in a low voice. ‘Unfortunately I have no gun, otherwise I would most certainly shoot you.’
I was only five yards away. My silence unsettled him.
