When Stars Grow Dark

by Scott Hunter

  It was Samantha Grant’s handbag.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Moran sat on the edge of the bed. The hotel-supplied bedside clock read eleven forty-five.

  Almost the witching hour…

  How to assemble his thoughts into some kind of ordered plan? He went over the facts time and time again, spun the key on its dirty length of string, caught it, repeated the action.

  The stolen key, Brendan, let’s be upfront about this…

  He caught the key again, crushed it into his palm.

  OK, so he hadn’t known what to expect from this trip, but something had prompted him. A gut feeling? Serendipity? Who could say? But right from the start he’d sensed there was something dirty about Cleiren’s mission. Something that connected it to Joe Gallagher, Moran’s onetime friend, now a heavyweight Irish politician.

  And someone else.

  Samantha Grant.

  The first time they had met he’d hoped for more than friendship, but as it had turned out she’d played him like a Stradivarius.

  She’d set him up – her and some rogue department within MI5.

  But Samantha Grant had got more than she bargained for. The tables had turned, all in the space of twenty minutes.

  Another agency had stepped in. Fast, efficient. Ruthless.

  And she was gone.

  Just like that.

  Moran had no doubt as to who was responsible for her abrupt disappearance. He’d traced a suspicious car to the Russian Embassy.

  A dead end. A no-go zone.

  But now…

  Moran sprang to his feet, stuffed the illicit key into his pocket, grabbed his coat and his bag, and left the room. There was no one around, either in the corridors or in the hotel lobby. Outside, a thin drizzle distorted the muted street lighting, creating a series of indistinct halogen sunsets against a backdrop of inky sky.

  He took a deep breath and began to walk in the direction of the Old Harbour.

  The yard at Guust Vervoer was empty. No sign of life – but Moran was relieved to discover that, although the concrete apron was lit by two arc lights, there were nevertheless pockets of relative darkness around the skirts of the warehouses where it might be possible to evade detection, give him enough cover to get to van Leer’s office door. If he could get past the first hurdle, of course, which was the six metre steel gate with reinforced personnel entry point – and then there was security guard presence to consider, if indeed van Leer considered it necessary to employ nighttime security. Moran had a strong feeling that this was not something the perceptive Dutchman would overlook.

  But the first obstacle, at present, seemed insurmountable. To add to Moran’s difficulties, a distant clamour of raised voices told him that some very drunk people were headed his way. Probably a bunch of kids trying to navigate home after a night out at the Old Harbour bars and clubs. Moran slunk behind a parked saloon just across the service road from his target and waited.

  They came into view presently. Four of them, two intertwined, the other two zigzagging around the couple like unsteady satellites. The tallest, a lad in a pair of skinny jeans and baseball cap, was making all the noise. Moran didn’t understand a word, but the others also seemed to be having some difficulty interpreting the gist of his pronouncements. The guy was absolutely slaughtered. Every few metres he would stagger into the couple, drawing shouts of protest with each collision, while the other guy, who was either more sober or just had a better grip on his motor faculties, wandered around nearby.

  As they drew closer Moran had a brainwave. A long shot, but he had nothing to lose and no clear alternative. He found a loose piece of concrete that had broken away from the low wall running the length of the various industrial sites dotted along the service road. Judging his moment, he waited until the group of youngsters had just passed the Guust gates, cap-boy bringing up the rear, and heaved the concrete missile up and over the gates towards the security box. He heard it strike wood, and retreated to his hiding place to await a response.

  Sure enough, Moran heard a sharp click as the security guard emerged to check on the unexpected disturbance. Footsteps approached the gates, and the electric clack of the personnel door opening told Moran that the guard had taken the bait. He heard a guttural shout as the guard made the connection between the missile and the youngsters’ unsteady progress up the road.

  Moran waited to see what would happen next. As he prepared to make a hobbling dash for the open personnel gate, he worried about cameras. But, he reasoned, the cameras would be live CCTV, and if he was out of sight by the time the security guard returned to his post, the guy would be none the wiser – unless he played the recordings back, of course, in which case there was nothing Moran could do. But he probably wouldn’t unless he found evidence of an intruder.

  The security guard had taken several steps away from the compound gate towards the kids. He repeated his angry request. The kids were standing, bemused, wondering what the guy was on about. Cap-boy yelled something which sounded less than complimentary. The guard responded by closing the distance between them in a series of short, angry steps.

  Moran broke cover, walked quickly across the road. If the guard turned around now it was over. But the guy was still engaged in a slanging match with cap-boy, who by now was really going for broke. As Moran slipped into the compound he reflected that, if this particular incident was any kind of indicator, Dutch was a language tailor-made for abusive exchanges.

  Hugging the shadowed perimeter of the yard, Moran made an indirect beeline for van Leer’s office. As he inserted the key, he considered the possibility of internal alarms.

  Too late to worry about that, Brendan…

  He turned the key as the sound of the returning guard’s footsteps echoed across the concrete. Moran slipped inside, shut the door behind him. He peered through the filthy glass. The personnel gate was closed and the guard was outside his box, muttering imprecations and taking short, irritated puffs on a cigarette.

  Moran’s first check was the handbag. He found it in the same place. Empty.

  But she had been here, at some time, for sure.

  Next, van Leer’s desk. Moran rummaged carefully. A mobile phone. Purple. He tried to switch it on. Dead. He took out his mobile charger, plugged the phone in, slipped it in his pocket. He wasn’t certain, but van Leer didn’t look like a man who’d leave his own mobile lying around, nor choose purple as a colour.

  There was nothing else in the drawers to indicate malpractice. He went to the rear door, the door through which the tattooed giant had interrupted his meeting with van Leer, and tried the handle. It was unlocked.

  The warehouse was a vast open space. The smell of diesel still hung in the air. Two artics were parked off to the right, giant vehicles dwarfed by the scale of the building in which they were housed. Far off, to the extreme rear of the building, another series of doors indicated the presence of additional offices or storerooms. Moran returned to the office, checked the security box outside. All was quiet.

  He entered the warehouse cautiously, acutely aware of the possibility of appearing on one of the security room CCTV monitors. He craned his neck, scanned the high reaches of the warehouse roof. No cameras in evidence. Perhaps Guust Vervoer had reasoned that external cameras would suffice. After all, no one would get past gate, and security box and locked door without being picked up, would they?

  Moran crept carefully along the length of the warehouse, trying not to imagine lurid headlines along the lines of: Thames Valley Chief Inspector appears in court – breaking and entering Dutch haulage company premises …

  He stopped, held his breath. There was movement somewhere – not in the main body of the warehouse, but at the far end, muffled, as though something had been moved, or dropped. He stole a quick glance behind him. Van Leer’s office door was still shut, as he had left it. It looked a long way off, like squinting through the wrong end of a telescope. He felt a rush of vulnerability, exposed in the warehouse’s yawning emptines
s.

  Press on, Brendan…

  The sound started up again. A scraping, straining sound, as though some material was being forced against another. Moran flattened himself against the warehouse wall, half-expecting a door to burst open somewhere, disgorge a posse of overall-clad heavies armed with crowbars – or worse.

  Thirty seconds went by. Now the only sound was the whirring of some hidden aircon unit. Moran unglued himself from the wall, continued his journey. Now he could see two projections, similar to van Leer’s office. More offices, or storerooms, perhaps. The room on the left was glazed, not so the other. As he drew closer, Moran saw immediately that the unglazed door wasn’t locked in a conventional manner; it was barricaded from the outside. A horizontal bar ran directly across the threshold, secured on one side by a tough, metal cradle. Anyone inside wasn’t going to get out simply by picking a lock, or forcing the door. This was belt and braces secure.

  Moran approached with caution, checking the glazed room for any sign of life. It was indeed a similar office to van Leer’s, if slightly more orderly. A pedestal desk took up most of the room, along with the usual paraphernalia of office management. He moved a few steps to the left, and halted in front of the barred portal. He put his ear to the woodwork. Was it his imagination, or did he detect a faint rustling, a furtive movement?

  The crossbar wasn’t padlocked. It would simply be a matter of lifting it, and opening the door.

  He hesitated. So far, he had only the empty handbag to go on, but this told him nothing he hadn’t already suspected. If he got out now, he’d be none the wiser.

  He lifted the bar. It slid noiselessly into its vertical bracket. Moran put his ear to the wood a second time.

  Silence.

  Somewhere in the near distance, a dog barked.

  He hadn’t considered dogs.

  The possibility of being apprehended by some huge, slavering German Shepherd made his mind up.

  He turned the handle and pulled the door gently open.

  The room was dimly lit by a single bulb which spilled light from an corner cubicle – a toilet, by the look of it. In the opposite corner was a dirty mattress, and a pitcher of water stood atop a wooden packing case. The air in the confined space was fusty and stale and, as far as Moran could tell, the room was quite empty. He took a tentative step forward.

  A tiny movement, just the hint of a preparatory expulsion of air close by, made him duck his head. Something passed above him with a swish, made clattering contact with the doorframe. He stifled a yell, raised his arm to protect himself. Something hit him hard in the midriff. He fell forward, onto his knees, winded. He struggled to lift his arm again, protect his head against the blow he knew was coming, but seconds passed and … nothing. He rolled onto his side, fighting for breath, vaguely aware of the door closing, someone standing over him.

  The voice was an urgent whisper, but easily recognisable nonetheless. ‘I won’t say you were the last person I was expecting,’ Samantha Grant said, panting from her exertion, ‘but, by God, Brendan, you come pretty damn close.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘An RTC? An accident led you here?’

  Moran replied in a hoarse whisper. His stomach ached from the punch she’d given him. ‘Yes. But now is not the time for discussion.’

  ‘Agreed. The trucks usually roll in around two-thirty.’

  ‘We won’t be here.’ He took out the purple phone. ‘Yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Moran passed it to her, along with the charger. ‘Probably enough charge to use it for a few minutes if need be.’

  ‘You’ve thought of everything.’

  ‘That’ll make a change, right enough. Look, I’m fairly sure they’re running firearms.’ He watched her gather what few belongings she’d been allowed to retain – a jacket, hairbrush, basic toiletries. ‘Explosives too, probably. Through the UK to Ireland.’

  ‘If you say so. I haven’t seen much of anything for the last few weeks.’

  ‘They’ve kept you in here twenty-four seven?’

  Samantha spread her hands. ‘I had a toilet. I could wash. I’m still alive.’

  He looked her up and down. She was wearing a stained blouse, ragged jeans. Her hair was awry and unwashed, her skin sallow and pale. There were deep, dark bags beneath her eyes.

  ‘You look bloody awful.’

  ‘Well, thanks a bunch, Brendan. You sure know how to make a girl feel good.’

  ‘Did they tell you anything? Interrogate you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Our friends from Moscow. The guys who took you. The two drakes.’

  ‘Drakes?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘Brendan, I was brought here, dumped. No one told me anything. I got food, grunts. That’s it. I figured I was in Holland by listening to the warehouse guys through the door.’

  Moran was baffled. ‘So, they’re waiting for something – or someone. Otherwise…’

  ‘Otherwise by now I’d be at the bottom of the North Sea wearing nothing but concrete boots? Yes, you’re probably right. I haven’t been idle, though.’ She went to the half-concealed window, drew aside the ragged curtain. The pane was barred, but Moran could see that one of the five metal uprights had been sawn through at its base, slotted carefully back into position.

  ‘One down, four to go. Gave me something to do. Steel nail file, if you were wondering. Not the kind you get in Boots.’

  Samantha was putting on a brave face, but it was obvious to Moran that she was far from OK. This wasn’t the cool, confident agent he’d last seen in his own sitting room. Perhaps her isolation had been a softening-up exercise, a prelude to interrogation.

  ‘We’re leaving,’ he said gently. ‘But, before we go, I need proof. I want to be sure.’

  ‘Lead on. You’re mission control right now.’

  Moran closed and barred Sam’s cell, and they headed right, towards the rear of the building, where he’d previously noticed a stacked row of wooden crates next to a triad of forklift trucks, huddled close together as though in the middle of some private, mechanical conversation. They had made it almost as far as the crates when the rumbling of a diesel engine and the clank of the perimeter gate announced an end to their solitude.

  ‘Here they come. Regular as clockwork.’ Samantha still had hold of the broom handle she had swung at Moran as he entered her cell, and she was hefting it in her right hand like an athlete awaiting the javelin event in a decathlon. ‘Can I suggest making ourselves scarce?’

  They scurried to the rear of the warehouse and crouched behind the crates, the noise of the engine growing in volume by the second. Presently the massive warehouse doors peeled slowly apart and a truck rolled noisily in from the compound, coming to a halt fifty metres from their hidden position with a hiss of air brakes and a final burst of noise.

  ‘We can’t stay here, that’s for sure.’ Moran raised his head, quickly ducked down.

  ‘I’m not objecting. You’re the one who wants to poke around.’

  The truck doors were open now; it wouldn’t be too long before the forklifts were assigned to the task of loading or unloading.

  Moran rapped his knuckles on one of the crates. ‘I need something to prise the lid off.’ He cast his eyes about and found what he was looking for; a selection of tools had been left on the floor close by, probably for use in packing and securing the crate contents. Keeping his head down, he shuffled to the end of the line and selected a slim crowbar. He waved it in the direction of the truck. ‘Keep your eyes peeled. This won’t take long.’

  A minute later he had the crate open. The dim overhead lighting revealed the contents: a neat row of what appeared to be automotive parts. Whatever they were, they weren’t illegal. Gear machinery, driveshafts? Engine parts? Moran had no idea. He lifted one item out, then another, and another until he had a whole set of parts laid out on the floor beside him. A glance in Samantha’s direction was rewarded with an affirmative nod. Carry on. So far, so good
.

  He poked around in the straw, feeling for the next layer. Material. Jackets. No, Kevlar jackets, or flak jackets as they used to be known. Getting warmer. He piled the jackets on the floor next to the crate. His fingers touched metal. He began to free the object from its packing, but before the whole thing was uncovered, he knew. He brushed the residue of straw aside, felt in his pocket for his mobile, took three photographs before removing the item. Kalashnikov machine guns. PK series, with and without mounts.

  Samantha hadn’t moved. There was time. He selected two samples from the disassembled weapons, a receiver and a barrel, placed them in his bag, hurriedly replaced the engine parts he’d removed, secured the crate lid as best he could. No point trying to reseal it, too much noise. He’d just have to hope that no one noticed, or that the loading crew assumed that some distracted employee had forgotten to secure it correctly. In any case, Moran wasn’t planning on waiting to find out. He’d used all his reserves of luck for one day.

  He became aware of the sound of approaching footsteps in the same instant that he registered Samantha’s absence. One second she was crouching at the far end of the row of crates, the next, she was gone.

  The footsteps were headed for the opposite end of the row of crates, the end that Samantha had recently vacated. Moran looked desperately for cover. His only recourse was to ease himself around the corner of the crate stack when whoever it was came into view. But that would expose him to the rest of the warehouse. No choice, Brendan…