Betrayed: (A Financial and Conspiracies Thriller – Book 1 in the Legacy Thriller Series)

by William Wield

  ‘No I don’t,’ replied the Laird, ‘but then I’m an amateur. Sandy the skipper of the Louisa is a professional and also knows Neil McKinnon the captain of the Calistra. I have absolutely no hesitation in saying that McKinnon is on our side and will know instinctively what to do with Sandy when we can somehow get the two boats into close proximity in the morning.’

  ‘Whatever can be done, my men will do their utmost,’ said Boreyev, ‘they will be happy to help your skipper Sandy in any way he asks. All my men know and love Tatiana and they know what a special friend Angus is to me, they’ll do whatever is needed to get them back safely.’

  ‘Good, let us go and see what other information we can get from our prisoners,’ said the Laird, ‘maybe the one who likes to brag, the Russian, maybe he can be goaded into telling us more about the men on board Calistra. Tell you what to do. Tell him that when the Corryvreckan becomes impassable to small craft, coastguard and police launches go out and patrol the area so there’s no repeat of the loss of life like last year. Tell him the Calistra’s been pulled in by the police – see what effect that has on him. Then I’ll take over, all right?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ replied Boreyev.

  Chapter 22

  Saturday evening

  The Corryvreckan

  On board Calistra, things were getting very uncomfortable. McKinnon had already reminded Flaxman that this was because it was now getting towards five o’clock and he had insisted this morning that they needed to pass back through the Corryvreckan by four. Flaxman could now see for himself the reason for this insistence. In addition to the time and tide factors that affect the whirlpools, additional forces had been at work during the day. There had been a number of spring squalls, one of them particularly strong and these had swept on through here at maybe fifty miles an hour, pushing the incoming tide ever faster into Scarba’s underwater cliffs and stirring up the cauldron of waters and waves all the more.

  Driven by his overriding need to get his two prisoners back to the mainland tonight, Flaxman had stood next to McKinnon since leaving Craithe, his unblinking gaze fixed ahead, willing Calistra on. Ahead of them, however, Flaxman could see, even from this distance of over a mile, that the waves in the Gulf were wild and white-topped. He fumed at himself and at the way things were turning out. How could he have missed factoring this weather and these seas into his otherwise careful plans? For Christ’s sake, he had been told often enough about the bloody Corryvreckan, the whirlpools, the maelstrom - he could at least have given some credence to the accounts of its dangers, dammit. Everything else had worked so perfectly. But now, instead of celebrating having got the young couple back to the mainland and from there just a helicopter’s hop back to Northern Ireland, there now looked to be a strong possibility of their being unable to get back through this bloody gulf tonight. This would throw up a whole load of additional problems. Would news of the kidnapping reach the authorities? If they postponed the trip back to mainland till the morning, would police helicopters be scouring the area by then? How would the Major contrive a rendezvous if the authorities were on the lookout for them? Worst of all, was getting the prisoners back to Northern Ireland now in jeopardy?

  He was jolted out of these thoughts by the VHF ship-to-shore handset ringing. McKinnon quickly leant towards him and picked it off its stand on the bulkhead and leaned to his right and put it onto the speaker system.

  ‘Calistra? Come in Calistra’, said the voice the other end.

  ‘Aye, Calistra here,’ replied McKinnon into the handheld.

  ‘Oban Coastguard here, we’ve had telephone call from Craithe to say you’d been seen heading into the Corryvreckan – did you not hear the local forecast?’

  ‘No, afraid not, missed the forecast,’ he said, lying but aware that Flaxman’s eyes were on him.

  ‘The Corryvreckan up ahead of you will be impassable to a boat of your size,’ continued the Coastguard, ‘there was also an official announcement from us earlier to say that only the Oban RNLI lifeboat or the Louisa if she was also needed by the RNLI were to pass through the straits till further notice, did you no hear that? Yon afternoon squalls have turned her nasty an’ you’ll need to go back west immediately; do you hear?’

  ‘Aye, I hear you’ shouted McKinnon back into the handset, ‘sorry about missing the forecast, I’ll be turning back just now’. He glanced to his left, his face taut. Then he added in his native Gaelic tongue, ‘a couple of gunmen have the Laird o’Craithe’s son and daughter in law seized on board, will you tell the Laird?’

  McKinnon saw that Flaxman was looking directly back at him, eyes narrowed at the talk in the Gaelic.

  ‘What was that last bit you were saying,’ shouted the huge man over the noise of the sea, leaning right across to McKinnon.

  ‘Coastguard’s my cousin,’ lied MacKinnon through the loudspeakers, ‘just a bit of family banter in the Gaelic – I was just saying to him that I’d sooner be where he is than out here – an’ he agreed with me. He warned me again that it’s no safe up ahead’.

  Flaxman’s grimaced and let out a shout of anger.

  ‘Well, to hell with the Coastguard,’ he shouted across to McKinnon, ‘we agreed that we’d get back to the mainland today – so that’s what we’re bloody-well going to do, right’.

  ‘Would you no consider a quiet night, sheltering along the coast o’ Jura, and making a run for the mainland first thing in the morning?’ shouted McKinnon leaning over towards Flaxman, ‘better that than going to a watery grave tonight, do you not think?’

  Flaxman was appalled by this thought. Yet, at the same time the prospect of a police helicopter scouring the area tomorrow as they tried a second time to get back to the mainland was even more powerful. But, at that very moment these conflicting points were scrambling his brain, Calistra reared up onto a wave larger than herself and then quickly fell away again its far side into the next deep trough between the white-topped mountains of water. As she struck into the next oncoming wave there was a loud crack of a noise as though something had given way below decks. McKinnon knew this would just be something loose in the chain locker but, with the boat’s lurch, Flaxman fell to one side smashing a hip into a large brass hook sticking out of the bulkhead on the side of the cabin. He gave a sharp curse of pain and pulling himself back up against the angle of the tipping deck by heaving on the handrail, he rubbed the hip feverishly with his other hand, muttering oaths and obscenities under his breath. McKinnon noticed that in that instant Flaxman had seemed to lose his air of invincibility as, for just a second, his huge bulk seemed to sag as though some invisible force had leaked from it.

  Flaxman peered out to the left, then to the right and finally back, the way they had come. He shook his head, but still said nothing. But two more fairground-like lifts and plunges later, he looked back across to McKinnon and nodded his head. ‘Okay back,’ he mouthed and made a gesture with his hand and cocked thumb to confirm it.

  McKinnon did not need to hear the words. Instantly, his slight, wiry frame, almost a midget compared to the huge kidnapper, relaxed and he spread his legs wider as he spun the wheel fast to starboard. The Calistra responded, turning about almost within her own length, rearing over a couple of waves like a horse being allowed to return to the stables, and began her way back the way she had come and away from the dangers of the Corryvreckan. Once fully turned, straight ahead were the mountains of Craithe once more.

  ‘What now?’ shouted Flaxman, and remembering the maps he had looked at the previous day added, ‘any chance of getting back round the top of that island?’ he was looking to his right at the cliffs of Scarba.

  ‘Nowhere near enough fuel for that,’ shouted McKinnon, now well accustomed to his growing toll of lies. Then he added a spot of truth, almost as a consolation, ‘there’s shelter and a hill-walker’s bothy a bit down the Jura coast at Glengarrisdale Bay. Anyone’s free to stay there’.

  ‘What the hell’s a bothy?’ asked Flaxman,

  ‘Was
a wee crofter’s house till after the last war, now it’s just used by hill-walkers - might be handy if we canny all of us sleep on Calistra tonight.’ said McKinnon.

  ‘How will we know if it’s available?’ asked Flaxman,

  ‘We’ll see when we get there. We’ll tie up at the jetty an’ have a look but my guess is it’s too early in the season for anyone else to be it on the hills yet. Bearing in mind the amount of fuel we’ve got, the only other place we could go would be Craithe.’

  Flaxman shook his head - no chance of that.

  ‘Will this Glenthingamy place you’re suggesting be out of sight of anyone on Craithe?’

  ‘Aye, aye, don’t worry about that, no one will know where we are or find us in this weather,’ he lied again, ‘and tomorrow we’ll get back to the Galley of Lorne, or anywhere else you want to go.’ He had already worked out that, with this delay, there would be no going back to the Galley of Lorne itself - it would likely as not have the police expectantly waiting for them there.

  Down in the for’ard cabin, riding the waves was like an out of control fairground ride. Angus had recovered consciousness, Tatiana had already been through to the Galley and after rummaging around in some drawers, found some pain killers and got him to take them for his throbbing head. Feeling stronger by the minute, he took the trembling Tatiana in his arms and braced his strong legs against the bunk opposite to hold them both steadier. With the noise right up front of Calistra crashing every few seconds through successive waves, there was no way to speak and be heard - he could only hold Tatiana tight, trying to comfort her that way. He cursed himself for being so stubborn as to dismiss both his father’s and Boreyev’s cautions that, especially after the demonstration on Friday and the conference, that there was a chance that those looking for a much rumoured Athena-type cyber weapon would have found it and were now trying to steal it. In looking at his and Tatiana’s present situation, he knew of course that if threats were made against her, he would buckle, give in to almost any demand – he would give no show of film-like, fantasy heroics.

  Endeavouring to find a brighter way of looking at this dangerous mess he had got them into, he was heartened by just one thing – at least they had turned back from trying to go through the Corryvreckan tonight. He also felt confident that the minor troubles with the Louisa’s engines would be fixed by now and even he, nowhere near as experienced a seaman as Sandy Grieg, could imagine the Louisa being able to come up with some plan to rescue the two of them. Right now, what eluded him was what plan might achieve that. He gave Tatiana a squeeze as he hugged her against the boats still violent lurching – that plan would emerge, perhaps tomorrow.

  Chapter 23

  Saturday evening

  The Galley of Lorne Inn

  As dusk began to creep in from the east, the Major stood on a small sharp rise in the ground just beyond Poltalloch. He had borrowed a powerful pair of binoculars from Hamish Munro - though he did not plan to return to the Galley of Lorne or meet him again. He had paid the bill in cash and was now just above the rendezvous point he had chosen for when the boats returned to the mainland, their missions accomplished. From this chosen vantage-point, he would be able to spot them easily as they came through the Gulf of Corryvreckan, and as soon as they were within range of the mainland’s mobile phone masts, they were under instructions to try and speak to him on his mobile number. From here he would be able to direct them to the small bay, a hundred yards below where he now stood. The spot also had the advantage of having two escape routes in case anything went wrong and the police came searching for them.

  He fidgeted nervously as he continued to scour the seas through the binoculars especially as he had been trying since early afternoon to reach either of the two groups on his mobile telephone. He cursed the poor communications of this area and wished they had made the time to buy radios for this purpose. It was only then that he remembered that all the shops were closed for the long weekend so that would not have been possible anyway.

  Failing to get any response from anyone up here, he had been forced to ring Norbally House twice to tell them that the Helicopter was not needed yet. By now it was now coming up to six o’clock, long past the time when both parties should have been through the gulf and heading towards him.

  The first pair due back should have been Zaytsev and Tulloch as their job of getting into the Lab and coming away with the Athena software was judged to be the quicker of the two jobs. They were to have come back in a boat, the Eileen Donan II, which had been hired specifically for their return journey. With no calls or sightings to date, the Major was sweating slightly, and his worry caused his face to twitch involuntarily just below his right eye. He was also unaware that he had just lifted his binoculars to look again at the Corryvreckan for the fourth time in less than one minute.

  He looked at his watch once more, six-fifteen. He turned towards the car. Time to abandon the rendezvous spot for the night and go and check in at the Crinan Hotel – using yet another false name. He climbed into the Land rover and set off along the country lane and back onto the main Oban, Crinan road. On reaching Crinan he parked at the back of the Hotel car park, out of sight from the road and went in and asked for a room. Although the season had started today, he was lucky in getting a room with a view out towards Jura, Scarba and Craithe and hurried up there with an overnight bag. He postponed making some calls he dreaded by getting out his binoculars yet again and having another look at the Gulf, and he swept the area methodically to make sure that neither of the two boats were there. Finally, he putting down the binoculars, he crossed the room to the mini-bar got out a couple of miniatures of whisky from it poured both of them into a tooth-mug from the bathroom. Taking a couple of large gulps, he sat on the bed, composed himself and made his first call – the one to Rollo.

  ‘Ah, it’s you Jock,’ said Rollo as soon as the Major was through, ‘I was wondering what the hell was going on – I expected news of the boats coming back and wondered when we got texts from you telling us you didn’t want the helicopter yet. What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on the Gulf for the past two hours, and eventually gave up,’ replied the Major. ‘I’ve also moved out of the Galley of Lorne Inn and paid up. I’ve now staying at the Crinan Hotel. It was only when I got here that that I found out from them some more information on this bloody Corryvreckan. Apparently the hotel itself had been expecting a couple of guests coming back through it from Craithe and on checking with the coastguard, found that it’s been closed to small boats till the morning. They also told me that this happens occasionally, so I’m not worrying about our two boatloads.’

  ‘But what if the theft of the software or the kidnapping are reported to the police?’ said Rollo, ‘won’t they come looking for you?’

  ‘My guess is that won’t happen over the Easter weekend,’ replied the Major, ‘anyway we don’t know yet if anything’s gone wrong – for all we know both might have gone off fine and are still undetected.’ He knew this was highly unlikely, even as he said it, but just now he was more intent on calming everyone until the facts became known.

  ‘Yes, suppose you’re right,’ conceded Rollo, ‘let’s just hope you’re right, we’ve all got a hell of a lot riding on the success of both of our missions, haven’t we. Have you spoken to the Russian chap yet, ‘cos he’s been onto me a couple of times – said he couldn’t get hold of you at the Galley of Lorne.’

  ‘That’s odd, he’s got my mobile number,’ replied the Major, ‘still, it’s not worth letting him get all worked up over what’s probably just a hiccup. I’ll give him a call and reassure him that everything’s still all right and that there’s just been a delay of half a day. And you too, stop worrying, we’ve both been in tighter spots than this. Firstly, there’s no way anyone can connect our two jobs to me or to you. The moment either boat comes through the Gulf we’ll be in mobile phone connection, I direct them to my rendezvous and in the time it takes for them to get me from the middle of the g
ulf, your man will get up here in his helicopter – so, I’ll say it again, stop panicking.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Rollo, ‘just get onto the Russian will you, tell him a shortened version of what you just gave me – at any rate, keep him off our backs till we’ve got the Macrae wife or both of them back here to Norbally, will you?’

  ‘I’ll do that, and I’ll also speak to my friend Max Wheeler,’

  His call to Wheeler was not as easy as Rollo’s. As Wheeler had given Nat Matthews his word that he could put complete reliance in him to get everything sorted by Monday night. It was an embarrassment that his plan to achieve this had faltered at the first obstacle – even more embarrassing that the failure would appear to be due to the weather.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Wheeler at the end of some taut verbal exchanges, ‘let’s hope that the delay is just down to this whirlpool system and that it’s calm enough again tomorrow morning. I think that you can also count yourself lucky that, for whatever reason, the police don’t appear to have got involved yet – maybe that’s also down to the dreadful communications up there.’

  ‘Come to think of it’, continued Wheeler, ‘with all the uncertainties you’ve got to deal with up there, I’ll take over from you and ring the Russian chap. Nat Matthews won’t be bothered about details, all he’s interested in is the final outcome by Monday night. In the meantime, just get the Scottish end of things finished and the software and the Macraes back to Norbally House, will you?’

  The Major, dispirited by today’s set-backs, meekly agreed and they rang off.

  * * * * *

  One of the hazards of an operation such as the attacks on Craithe is that the higher one goes in the chain of command, the more demanding the people seem to get. And so it was in this venture.