by Will Jordan
Opening his eyes, he looked around to find Anya sitting in the driver’s seat, silhouetted against a backdrop of scattered cloud and open sea. She had changed clothes at some point while he’d been asleep, discarding the military-patterned assault gear in favour of jeans, a dark blue jumper and a casual jacket. With her hair neatly combed and her gaze as alert as ever, she gave little outward sign that she’d been driving all night long.
‘You were talking in your sleep,’ she remarked, a hint of curiosity showing in her icy blue eyes. ‘Bad dreams?’
‘My whole life is a bad dream at the moment,’ he evaded, as he surveyed their surroundings.
They were parked at the edge of a wide harbour area, around which were moored vessels of all kinds; from small yachts and pleasure craft up to large commercial fishing trawlers, all bobbing on the undulating waves stirred up by a fair breeze. The sun was just rising above the horizon, its blinding rays reflecting off the whitecaps and making his eyes water.
The place was clearly still in use, yet the harbour itself appeared quite neglected. Grass and bushes grew uncontrolled along the boundary of the property, weeds trailed over rusted winches and cranes once used for lowering boats into the water, while many of the giant stone blocks that formed the harbour wall had begun to give way under the relentless assault of time and tide.
‘Where are we?’ Alex asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He was hungry and thirsty, his tongue felt like a carpet stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he was increasingly aware of the need to urinate.
‘An estuary on the east coast of Scotland,’ she replied, either unwilling or unable to elaborate. ‘Come on, follow me.’
Without waiting for him, she pushed open her door and stepped outside, tucking the gun down the back of her jeans. With little option, Alex followed a moment later.
Whatever vestiges of sleep still clung to him were quickly whipped away by the cool fresh breeze that blew across the exposed harbour area, carrying with it the distinctive tang of salt and seaweed. Clad only in a thin t-shirt and a hoodie that was still damp from the soaking last night, Alex suppressed a shiver as the chill breeze seemed to penetrate to his core. He might have been enjoying the sultry warmth of spring in London a few days ago, but this was like a different world.
Wrapping his arms around his chest, he followed Anya as she strode along the harbour wall, her keen eyes scanning the rows of docked craft.
He had to admit there was a certain logic to her plan. If the airports, railway stations and ferry terminals were indeed on the lookout for him, it made sense to use a private boat to make their escape. Then again, the last time he’d been out on the open sea was a ferry trip to the Isle of Wight as a teenager, and he’d spent half the journey throwing his guts up.
Up ahead, Anya came to a halt, apparently having found what she was looking for. Straight away Alex’s heart sank when he saw the object of her interest.
He’d been hoping for a high-powered luxury yacht to ferry him to safety. Instead he found himself looking down on an old, rusted and neglected fishing trawler, perhaps thirty-five feet in length, its deck cluttered with everything from old car tyres to spare planking and empty pots and pans. The paint on its high prow was peeling to such an extent that it was difficult to tell what colour the vessel had originally been.
The wheelhouse, resembling a squat garden shed, was positioned at the stern, with a large hatch in the centre of the deck leading down to what Alex presumed was the cargo hold.
‘Wow, what a beast,’ he remarked sarcastically. ‘Yours?’
She glanced at him. ‘Not exactly.’
With that, she leapt down from the quayside and landed nimbly on the deck, heading straight for the wheelhouse. The door was secured with nothing more sophisticated than a small padlock, which she made short work of with a few good strikes from the butt of the handgun.
‘Jump down, Alex,’ she called, beckoning him to join her. ‘I need your help.’
Alex looked around. There were a few houses overlooking the harbour – mostly newer villas that had probably been sold at inflated prices on account on the sea views they commanded – but at such an early hour there were no obvious signs of activity. However, that didn’t mean nobody was watching.
‘The longer you stand there, the more suspicious you look,’ Anya prompted, sensing his hesitation.
‘Fuck it,’ Alex sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable.
Waiting until the boat’s rocking motion carried it as close to the harbour wall as possible, he took a deep breath and leapt down, landing harder than he’d intended on the unyielding deck. Ignoring the twinge of pain in his knees, he forced himself up and limped over to the wheelhouse.
The inside was little better than the deck area, the old-fashioned engine console cluttered with yellowed newspapers, tobacco tins, empty bottles, paintbrushes and a hundred other bits of assorted junk that Alex had no interest in examining further. The air smelled of damp and dust and wood varnish.
Beyond the grimy windows, the deck sloped upwards to what looked like a ridiculously high bow. There were no indicator lights on any of the machines, no power of any kind, for that matter. More than likely the vessel was semi-derelict, and would sit idle at its mooring until the hull planking finally gave way and it sank.
‘The engine start switch is here,’ Anya explained, pointing to simple red knob on the console. ‘When I call out to you, turn it clockwise and hold it down for at least five seconds. Understand?’
‘There must be a dozen boats here that are less likely to sink than this heap of shit,’ he felt compelled to point out. ‘If we really have to steal something, why not one of them?’
‘Because this boat has not been used in a long time,’ she explained, speaking with the long-suffering patience of a school teacher dealing with a dim student. ‘It will be days or weeks before the owner reports it stolen. Now, be ready.’
Saying nothing further, she opened the hatch in the floor leading to what he assumed was the engine room, and clambered down. It was too dark for him to see what she was up to down there, but he heard several metallic clangs echoing from the depths.
‘The hull is still sound, and there’s some power left in the batteries,’ she called out. ‘Turn the switch!’
‘Aye aye, captain,’ he mumbled, turning the red knob.
Sure enough, an ancient starter motor turned over down below, sluggish and laboured at first but gradually gaining traction. The main engine coughed once, then twice, seemed to falter for a few moments, and then finally came to life with a rattling, gear-grating roar. It was rough and unrefined, and had no doubt seen far better days, but at least it sounded willing to go one more round.
Anya was back up in the wheelhouse within moments, her hands smeared with grease and dirt. Moving him aside, she took over at the wheel and quickly scanned the few gauges on the console, pushing a loose strand of blonde hair back from her face as she did so.
‘There should be enough fuel to make it.’ Satisfied that things were running as they should, she nodded to Alex. ‘Go outside and cast off the mooring lines. Quickly.’
And so it was back outside into the fitful breeze and chill morning air as he hurried across the deck, struggling to untie the heavy lines that kept the trawler moored in place. It was no easy task. The ropes were swollen with moisture and encrusted with salt, and his hands were more accustomed to dancing across a keyboard than heavy manual work like this. Still, after a lot of grunting and swearing, the first line slipped free. The second came more easily, partly because it wasn’t secured as tightly and partly because he was starting to get the hang of the awkward procedure.
As soon as the vessel was free, his companion wasted no time throttling up the engine. The old boat shuddered with increased power and grey smoke vented from the small funnel atop the wheelhouse, but sure enough they began to make headway through the choppy waters.
As the harbour walls slipped past and the prow swung out towards the mai
n channel, a thoroughly chilled Alex hurried back into the wheelhouse and closed the door behind him, grateful to be out of the wind.
Anya was at the wheel, her eyes forward as she steered them through the harbour entrance into the open channel beyond. As she’d said, this was an open estuary of some kind, with the opposite shore visible about a mile distant; mostly trees and farmland interspersed with small coastal villages.
Ahead of them, a pair of massive road and railway bridges spanned the widening channel leading out to sea, and straight away Alex recognized the distinctive red cantilever structure of the Forth Rail Bridge. Now well over a century old, it was still the only rail link across the estuary, carrying commuters to and from the capital city, Edinburgh.
At least he knew where he was. The question now was where he was headed.
‘So what’s the plan, captain?’ he asked, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach elicited by the trawler’s pitching and rocking in the choppy waters.
‘We head east, across the North Sea to Norway. A fishing trawler like this should not attract attention. After we make land, we find a car and get you to your friend as fast as possible.’ She glanced at him, noticing for the first time that he was shivering. ‘There should be a sleeping berth forward. Go and see if there are any spare clothes. And check for tinned food.’
Having not eaten since the previous evening, Alex would normally have been famished by now. However, food was the last thing on his mind at that moment, as another wave buffeted them. It was little more than a minor swell, yet for him the deck seemed to be pitching and rolling dangerously beneath his feet.
‘You don’t look well,’ she said, observing his pale complexion. ‘Are you all right?’
Not wishing to give her another reason to berate him, he waved her concern off. ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.’
*
An hour later, Alex clung to the guard rail just aft of the wheelhouse, doubled over as his stomach constricted in another painful, violent heave. After ten minutes of near-constant vomiting, he could have sworn his stomach would be empty by now, but apparently not, as a thin stream of mucus and undigested food landed in the churning waters below.
Apparently sea sickness was something that didn’t abate with age.
Another gust of wind whipped across the deck, chilling him and carrying salty spray that stung his eyes. He’d managed to find a ratty-looking woollen jumper and a waterproof jacket that was too big for him in the cramped accommodation area in the bow, and Anya had insisted he wear the lot. Aside from keeping him warm, it would also make him at least look the part of a deck hand on casual inspection.
Not that he imagined there were many eyes on him at that moment. Since leaving the wide mouth of the Forth Estuary they had steered a course due east, the rolling fields and small coastal towns gradually fading into the hazy distance. Ahead lay nothing but sombre grey sea.
Spitting acrid-tasting phlegm into the churning waters below, he wiped his mouth and stumbled back into the wheelhouse. Being indoors made his seasickness worse, but at least it was relatively warm in there.
Anya was where he’d left her, having tied the wheel in place to maintain their heading, while she attacked the can of tinned peaches she’d been able to pilfer from the trawler’s meagre galley down below.
She glanced up as he entered, her expression almost achieving sympathy. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘How do you think?’ he retorted, leaning against the wall with a weary sigh. ‘I suppose this kind of thing never troubles you.’
Saying nothing, she handed him a steaming mug of tea. Served in a dented and stained tin cup, and with no milk or sugar, it was about as unappealing a beverage as he could have wished for at that moment. He shook his head, waving it away.
‘You need fluids,’ she persisted. ‘The sickness will dehydrate you.’
‘I suppose a bottle of Carlsberg and a smoke is too much to ask for?’ he asked, though he was unable to summon up the wry smile he’d hoped for.
‘Cigarettes are bad for you.’
‘Yeah? You know what else is bad for me? Waterboarding, and tasers, and fists. I’ve had plenty of them over the past couple of days. Where’s your health warning about that?’
When Anya didn’t respond, he reluctantly accepted the mug of tea and took a sip, more to appease her than out of a genuine desire to drink.
‘I need to know a few things from you, Alex,’ she said, setting the tin of fruit aside. ‘Answer my questions honestly and everything will be fine.’
Alex glanced up from his mug of steaming brown liquid that more or less passed for tea. ‘And if I don’t?’
‘I’ll know,’ she promised him. There was no need to say anything beyond that – her actions last night had demonstrated her ability to kill without remorse.
‘Fair enough,’ he conceded. ‘Ask away.’
‘How did you come to know Loki?’
‘Through university,’ he explained, taking another tentative sip. It settled on his stomach and stayed there, which he took to be a good sign. ‘We were staying in the same halls of residence, got chatting over a few beers…’ He shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’
The look in her eyes suggested otherwise. Somehow he couldn’t picture her as a free-spirited teenage student.
‘What happened after that?’ she prompted. ‘You worked together, yes?’
He nodded slowly. ‘We formed our own group called Valhalla. Myself, Arran and another guy called Gregar Landvik. We were the founders. Over time we attracted other people like us, and we started working together on bigger projects.’
‘For what? Money?’
He shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like that. We were a white-hat group, at least to begin with.’
At this, her blonde brows drew together in a frown. ‘White hat?’
For perhaps the first time, Alex felt as if he had her at a disadvantage. It felt strangely reassuring to know there were some areas in this world where his knowledge was superior.
‘Good guys,’ he explained. ‘People who hack for the right reasons.’
This prompted a look of what might have been called amusement. ‘There is a right reason to do such things?’
That was an interesting statement coming from someone who had killed at least two men in the past twenty-four hours, he thought. ‘Look, people do this for all kinds of reasons – some good, some bad. Whatever your reason, there’s a hat colour to describe it. White hats break into systems to show people their weaknesses. They help them protect themselves from real criminals. Blue hats are employed by companies to test the strength of their security. We actually dabbled in that for a while ourselves. Black hats are the ones out to cause serious damage, either for profit or just for shits and giggles. They’re the ones who make the headlines, the ones who crash stock markets or leak government secrets.’
Anya nodded thoughtfully, mulling over everything she’d heard. However, she hadn’t missed his earlier remark. ‘You said you were a… “white-hat” group to begin with. What changed?’
Alex’s face darkened. ‘We had a disagreement – Arran, Gregar and I. Each of us wanted to take the group in a different direction. I wanted us to go legitimate, hire ourselves out to test system security for big companies. Gregar was always chasing the easy money. He wanted us to be like mercenaries, stealing secrets for cash.’
‘And Arran?’ she prompted.
Alex took another sip of tea. ‘Well, there’s another kind of hat. You don’t see them very often, but there are hackers who think they’re serving a higher purpose. Activists – exposing secrets, freeing the truth and all that. We call them grey hats. Arran wanted to go on some kind of crusade against the Big Bad. Dodgy companies, corrupt politicians, shadow governments. He believed we could make a real difference, expose all those dirty secrets to the world. And for a while he even made me believe it too.’ He sighed, thinking about the disastrous hacking attempt that had proven to be a bridge too far for
him. ‘For a while.’
‘What happened?’ She seemed genuinely interested now, perhaps having found something in his tale that she could relate to.
‘No,’ he said at length. ‘No. That’s something I’d rather not go into.’
He looked at her, expecting her to press him on the matter. He wouldn’t have blamed her. He supposed she could have forced him to tell her everything, could have threatened him or cajoled him into it. And yet, to his surprise, she seemed to accept his refusal, as if they were two normal people having a casual conversation.
‘Tell me something,’ he said, deciding to indulge his own curiosity. There was something about the chain of events leading up to their present situation that he still didn’t understand. ‘How the hell did you find Arran? Or did he find you?’
Anya looked at him for a long moment, saying nothing as the boat pitched and rocked around them.
‘Come on, I’ve practically bared my soul to you,’ Alex reminded her. ‘Would it kill you to give me just a little back?’
Reaching up, the woman sighed and ran a hand through her short blonde hair, leaving a few locks sticking up. ‘He was recommended to me by a senior officer in the Norwegian intelligence service,’ she said at last. ‘A man I’ve known for twenty years and trust completely. He assured me that Arran had been vetted by him personally.’
Alex frowned. This was starting to sound oddly familiar. ‘What was his name?’
‘Halvorsen,’ she said, her tone guarded.
And just like that, the penny dropped. ‘You mean Kristian? Kristian Halvorsen?’
Anya stared at him, her eyes reflecting her surprise. ‘You know him.’
‘Of course I know him.’
‘How?’
‘It was back when we tried our hands at being blue hats. Kristian was the CEO of some company based in Norway… paper merchants or some shit like that. He hired us to test the security of his corporate network.’
Even now he could recall the ease with which he had broken through the seemingly complex security system, and the shock on Halvorsen’s face as he remarked that he would have to get his technical people to look into it.
