by Lin Anderson
69
Now that he was free of restraint, it was hard to stay either upright, or in one place. The boat was tossing about, dipping from side to side like some daft fairground ride. The shouts, bangs and general clamour suggested things weren’t going too well aloft either, which probably accounted for the fact that no one had ventured near him after the earlier visit by cologne man.
It had taken a while to free himself completely from his bonds and attachment to the metal pipe, the pitching boat having hampered his attempts, but he’d eventually done it, only to be thrown across the room for his efforts.
McNab didn’t like to admit that his insides were also doing somersaults. He’d never been in a position to check whether he might suffer from seasickness, having avoided anything bigger than a Clyde ferry. Now, it seemed the truth was about to come out, both physically and metaphorically.
Up to this point he’d been blaming his desire to retch on lingering concussion, dehydration and the angry burns on his hands and back. Now he decided to go with the flow and bring up what little there was in his stomach.
Having done that, McNab steadied himself as well as he could and made his swaying way to the door. Although his visitor had slammed it shut, McNab hadn’t detected a key turning. And why bother locking him in, when they’d thought he was securely tied up? Now that the crew were fully engaged in keeping the boat afloat, they wouldn’t have time to worry about a prisoner. After all, how the hell could he escape, unless he dived into the North Sea?
Something McNab had no intention of doing.
Clasping the handle, he pushed the door away from the metal doorstep. It was heavy, obviously designed to close tightly, sealing the compartment from any water which might find its way below decks. Checking there was no one in the corridor, McNab stepped out into the thin film that was already sloshing across the floor in miniature waves.
In that moment, as the boat pitched crazily again, McNab registered that maybe ships did still go down in storms. And this was one helluva storm. The noise was much louder out here: the creak and groan as the hull coped with the next deluge, the muted howl of the wind and a constant chime of metal hitting metal with a loud clang.
Holding on to the railing to stay upright, McNab made for the stairs without any real plan except to get away from his underwater prison. Emerging onto the next level, McNab found himself in another corridor, but this time it was lined with doors which he assumed led to cabins or other living quarters. Still no one appeared, although he could hear shouting from the level above, none of which he could make out.
If he went any higher, he was bound to meet crew, or maybe even Brodie himself, and McNab wasn’t ready for that … yet. He needed a weapon and a plan. He also needed to stop stumbling about like a mad man. If he could find somewhere better than the bilge to hang out until the storm ended …
McNab made his decision.
He rested his ear against the first door, but the general noise made it impossible to confirm if there was anyone inside so he tried the handle.
The door opened on a small cabin, with a single bed. An opening led into a toilet. On the opposite wall, a further door led, he assumed, to a neighbouring cabin. McNab took advantage of the toilet first, then held his scalded hands under cold running water. Examining his beaten face in the mirror, he registered the rope mark on his forehead, which reminded him of an image of Rambo, minus the headband. His hair, auburn in its own right, had been darkened a deeper red by the blood from his head wound. McNab touched the matted mess gingerly, wondering if the skull beneath remained intact.
After his minimal ablutions, he considered what to do next. Rumpled bedding on the bunk plus some clothing on the shelf above suggested the cabin had an occupant. If that was the case then he couldn’t wait the storm out here, collect his wits and make plans.
What fucking plans? an inner voice questioned. Until this boat made land, he wasn’t going anywhere. Unless they decide to throw me overboard.
Just then an abrupt movement of the boat saw him land against the internal door with a thump. In that moment McNab heard a smothered cry from the adjacent room. A cry that sounded like a woman.
McNab pressed his ear to the door. Whoever had been momentarily shaken by the pitching boat had now gone quiet, but McNab was convinced the voice he’d heard had been female. He checked the intervening door and found the lock on the handle had been turned, on his side at least.
He made a decision and released it, then knocked quietly.
‘Hello, anyone in there?’
A pregnant silence followed and McNab had a strong sense that someone had indeed heard him and was considering whether they should respond.
Then it came. ‘Who are you?’ The voice was young and female and frightened.
‘Michael McNab.’ He repeated his earlier mantra. ‘I’m a detective sergeant with Police Scotland.’
There was a sound very like a sob of relief.
McNab now asked her the same question in return.
Her answer, when it came, didn’t totally surprise him. It seemed that Olsen had been right all along, and the incident on Cairngorm, which Rhona had been involved in, and which he’d chosen to ignore, had been as important as his own lead on Brodie.
‘Can I come through?’ McNab said.
‘No, you mustn’t,’ she blurted out. ‘They have cameras in here and they watch everything I do.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘I’m sitting down by the door pretending to talk to myself. They know I do that, although they may be listening, as well as watching.’
McNab could hear her enervated breathing, her excitement and relief at being found.
‘Do they know you’re on board?’ she asked.
‘The man I was chasing caught me first,’ McNab told her. ‘I was tied up down below, but got free when the storm hit.’
As though reminding them of its continued presence, the swell suddenly tipped the boat abruptly to the right, thrusting McNab away to thump against the outer wall. Crawling back, he took up residence like her on the floor, his back to the intersecting door.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Yes. What about you?’
‘The man who abducted me hit me over the head with my own crampon.’ She sounded really pissed off about that.
McNab knew by the hesitation that followed, there was something she wasn’t telling him.
‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘What have they done to you?’
‘I’m naked,’ she said, as though that was all he needed to know.
70
The boat in trouble below had apparently lost the windows on its bridge, blown in by the power of the wind. Having radioed for help from the coastguard to guide it ashore, it was at present at the mercy of the sizeable waves that appeared to be coming at it from all directions.
Their own helicopter pilot was currently in conversation with the captain of the fishing vessel in Norwegian, which was ironically called the Herr Olsen, the translation of their conversation being fed to Rhona via Harald.
‘The captain wants us to stay with them until the coastguard vessel arrives,’ he told her. ‘In case his crew needs to be winched off.’
‘Is that likely?’ Rhona asked.
‘In these seas, yes, but they won’t want to do that. They won’t abandon their boat unless it’s going down. The ship’s their livelihood.’
‘How long before help comes?’
‘There are forty-three rescue craft ranged along the Norwegian coastline, and the coordinating rescue centre’s at Stavanger, so the captain thinks it won’t be long.’
Harald was putting on a brave face, but it was obvious he was worried both for the crew exposed below, and of course for their own mission, so long in the planning. Rhona couldn’t see Olsen’s face, but didn’t have to, to know how concerned he would be too.
Catching the Solstice unawares, they perhaps had a chance of success. If there was time for someone to warn the ship of their a
rrival, they were probably lost. Whatever was happening on that vessel could be dispensed with, and cleaned up. Rhona had no doubt they were talking about professionals here. Folk like herself and Harald, who knew what they were about. Who were aware how to destroy forensic evidence, as well as find it.
If they know we’re coming, there’ll be nothing to find. Cocaine they might hide or drop into the sea to collect later. Human beings, the other cargo …
Harald seemed to be reading her mind.
‘Alive, they’re worth a great deal,’ he told her. ‘If they become a threat to the continuing operation …’
It was growing dark. The sheeting rain and heavy cloud cover weren’t helping but they weren’t the real problem. She and Olsen had arrived at Sola airport this morning in the dark. By the time they left Stavanger just after 10.30 a.m., the sun was up. But at this latitude, daytime was short, about six and a half hours short according to Harald.
Already the fishing vessel below could only be spotted among the seething grey waves by its lights and any spotlight the pilot chose to focus on it. They had been hovering above the stricken vessel for fifteen minutes, every moment of which had seemed at least twice as long.
Like the Bristow helicopter used by CMR, the NH-90 was well-equipped for night-time rescues, but to her at this moment, the dwindling light just reminded her of the swift passage of time and how long they still had before they reached the Solstice.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a shout from Olsen and a blast from the Herr Olsen as they spied their rescuers on the horizon. Not one, but two vessels bearing down on her at as high a speed as the sea would allow.
Their own pilot waited until the two vessels drew a little closer, then Rhona heard a flurry of Norwegian as he spoke to the rescue ships.
‘We’ll be on our way now,’ Harald told her, with a relieved smile.
The fishing boat blew its horn in thanks as their chopper rose above the scene, and turning north, headed towards its goal.
Darkness had all but descended, its arrival heralded by a sunset that had broken through the cloud cover to stain the sky blood red. The sea still seethed below them, but they’d encountered no more shipping, distressed or otherwise, since the fishing boat. Only the bright lights of the intricate metal structures of oil rigs, which made Rhona think of strange fairy-tale castles, their surrounding moats being the open ocean.
Harald was following their progress on the palmtop, and he showed her it now. ‘The Herr Olsen’s almost at port, you’ll be glad to know.’ He indicated the small blue dot charting its progress.
Pleased, Rhona asked how long before they reached the Solstice.
‘Unfortunately, it’s on the move,’ Harald told her. ‘Probably has been, since we first spotted the fishing boat.’
‘Where?’ Rhona said.
‘South-west.’
‘What does that mean for us?’ she asked.
‘A longer journey, and perhaps a need to refuel.’
‘Where can we do that?’
‘Another replenishment boat, a coastguard vessel or an oil rig.’
‘But that’ll take time,’ Rhona said.
‘Exactly.’
‘Do you think they know we’re coming and that’s why they’re moving?’
Harald shrugged. ‘It depends who they have on the inside. And they’ve had someone, otherwise we would have pinpointed their activities earlier.’
It was a depressing thought. One that met Rhona’s other niggling concern, which was undoubtedly McNab.
71
Isla’s declaration that she was naked, and what that meant for her staying in that room, had decided McNab.
‘Come through, now,’ he told her.
‘But they’ll know I’ve gone,’ she said anxiously.
‘We’ll find somewhere to hide. They’re too busy keeping afloat at the moment to think about either of us.’ McNab hoped that was true.
She made an exasperated, yet determined sound that suddenly reminded him of Ellie.
‘Keep as low as you can,’ McNab told her as he held the door open enough to let her crawl through.
She was trembling and he could smell the fear emanating from her bare skin as she pulled herself over the intervening step. He’d already found a pair of jeans and a sweater from the shelf above the bunk. Both were way too big for her, but with the help of his belt, the trousers would stay up. The one thing he couldn’t supply was shoes.
Isla dismissed his concern. ‘I’m fine barefoot,’ she told him.
He’d averted his gaze as she’d dressed. Isla now touched his arm to signal that she was decent.
‘Do you know anything about the layout of the boat?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘He injected me with something when we got on the plane. After that it was just wild dreams until I surfaced next door.’
McNab had experienced something similar himself. ‘He didn’t mention where he was taking you?’
‘No. Although he took great delight in informing me that I’d wish I was dead when I got there.’
‘Did you see a man who looked like …’ McNab gave a brief description of Neil Brodie.
Isla almost recoiled at his words, then regarded him defiantly. ‘A man like that came to the cabin, plus a man who smelt strongly of male cologne.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, thinking how inadequate that word was.
When Isla dismissed his concern again, McNab asked his next question. ‘There was a girl, Amena Tamar. Young, Syrian, thirteen years of age. Those men took her from her hospital bed—’
He stopped, as Isla shook her head. ‘I’ve only seen the men,’ she said.
‘They didn’t talk about any other females aboard?’
‘No. I’m sorry,’ she added, seeing his disappointment. ‘But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.’
McNab had already shut and refastened the intervening door. Now, as the sound of multiple running footsteps echoed in the corridor, he quickly turned the lock in the main door and ordered Isla into the toilet. She briefly looked as though she might refuse, so McNab reinforced his command with, ‘And stay there, whatever happens.’
His initial search of the cabin hadn’t turned up a weapon. McNab had hoped for a knife at least. Had the bunk been occupied by one of Brodie’s gang, a gun might even have been a possibility, but if it was the quarters of a crew member, that was unlikely.
In its place, McNab had smashed the small mirror above the sink and fashioned himself a chib. As a Glasgow boy, he’d carried one in his youth, for protection. He wasn’t averse to using the makeshift knife if required, although it might be for persuasion this time.
McNab had no illusions as he contemplated the outcome of their present situation. He’d worked undercover long enough to know that once they have you, your clock is ticking. It seemed Davey, for all his ability to make money, was an innocent in that respect.
Or was he?
Tethered in the bilge, McNab had had plenty of time to consider how all of this had come about. How Davey had been propositioned. How he’d sold out. How that had led to the hit-and-run. How much Mary had known. How much had been kept secret from her.
Secrets and lies. Like a spider’s web that needed constant spinning.
And that had ended up with him being kidnapped and brought here … but why? To be punished like Isla for annoying them, for thwarting their plans, for simply staying alive?
And Davey. What had been his reward for offering up his childhood mate? Maybe Mary’s continued existence?
McNab took a moment to consider that should he die, Mary might live. There was a time when such a trade-off would have convinced him. But that was when I was young and stupid. A noble death rarely solved anything. If he died out here in the North Sea, Davey would still be in the thrall of the Brodie cartel. Drugs and kids without countries would still be exchanged and abused for his weakness.
McNab remembered as a child his mother telling him that the only way to
deal with bullies was to smack them in the face. Ignoring them didn’t work. Trying to appease them had even less traction.
McNab thought of the girl now hiding, despite her protestations, in that toilet. Isla was a fighter. She’d defied a mountain, an attempt on her life, and the ice cave. He could at least match up to that.
Whatever he did now, McNab told himself … could change everything.
The footsteps had passed them by, the corridor quiet again. Realizing he’d been holding his breath, McNab released it. They couldn’t stay here, that was a certainty, but in this boat there had to be somewhere they could hide, and perhaps delay the inevitable. Not for the first time did McNab curse the fact that he no longer had his mobile.
If only I could’ve got a message to Ollie …
That thought sprang the memory of Ollie avidly showing him the mapping locations of all the shipping traffic currently in the North Sea. All vessels use the Automatic Identification System, he’d said. Then if they get into trouble, they can be rescued.
Two thoughts hit McNab at once. And he liked both of them.
McNab called to Isla and gave her the all-clear. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
72
‘We’re landing to take on fuel,’ Harald told her.
Rhona looked down. An oil rig stood below her. Like an island in the icy waves, its twin platforms were brightly lit, as was the walkway between them. The larger of the two structures sat on four fat legs, against which the seas raged. Like a dragon, it spouted fire from a tall crane that towered above.
She spotted the yellow circle and large H on the smaller, rectangular structure, denoting their landing place. Alongside it, a small supply boat was braving the waves. As they began their descent, the wind fought the blades, whipping the chopper from side to side as though attempting to throw out its occupants.
‘Be grateful we’re not trying to land on a barge or a supply vessel, or even a floating rig,’ Harald told her. ‘At least our landing place is fixed.’
Rhona watched, her heart pounding, as the pilot attempted to manoeuvre them into position above the yellow circle, and after what seemed like an eternity, eventually their feet met the solid surface and they were down.
