Any boat, in fact,’ Richter said, ‘and it could be heading towards the wreck from almost any direction. That means from somewhere on Sheppey itself, or out of the Medway, or even directly across the Thames Estuary from Southend. That’s why we need to start searching at the wreck’s location and work outwards from there.’
‘And we’ll need to check every boat we see?’
‘Not quite. We can ignore sailing yachts, but every powerboat we see that’s heading in the right direction, yes. Those we’ll have to take a look at. In fact, unless they’ve already managed to moor a vessel near the wreck, we’re probably looking for two boats – one stuffed full of Semtex or C4, and the other to take the pilot of the first one to safety after he’s positioned his floating bomb.’
Richter looked out of the window on the sliding side door of the Sea King. They had just passed the Dartford Crossing: the huge span of the Queen Elizabeth Bridge carrying southbound traffic on the M25 was an absolutely unmistakable landmark.
‘So what’s your plan once we get there?’ the pilot asked. ‘You’ll want lowering down by winch onto every boat you need to check?’
‘That depends on how many of them there are. Time’s of the essence here, so we’ll have to identify the target vessel as quickly as possible. If there are a lot of boats, we’ll just have to check them visually from the air. Whether you winch me down or whether I do something else will depend on who or what’s on board.’
‘By “something else”, I presume you mean shoot the occupants with one of your nice little selection of weapons?’
‘If it comes to that, yes,’ Richter snapped. ‘Don’t forget what these people are up to. If the only way to stop them is to blow them away, that’s exactly what I’ll do. But if the boat with the explosives is empty, meaning rigged up with an automatic pilot and navigation system, then I will want winching aboard.’
‘Right. My aircrewman, Dave here, will give you a briefing.’
‘That’s probably not necessary. I used to fly Kings and Harriers for the Queen, so I’ve been dangled from a winch before.’
‘My aircraft, my rules, Mr Richter. I don’t care about your previous experience. Just listen to the briefing.’
‘Fine.’
The aircrewman gestured to the rear of the aircraft. ‘There’s an immersion suit back there, as you requested. Put that on first, then I’ll run you through the safety rules and signals.’
Richter removed his leather jacket and shoulder holster, then unfolded the heavy rubberized suit and climbed into it. The garment was secured by a long, waterproof zip that ran diagonally from one hip to the opposite shoulder, but he left that open for the moment. He knew from previous experience that once the zip was secured, the suit would get very hot, very quickly.
Next, the aircrewman briefed him on the hand signals he would use and the procedures they’d follow, which were very much as Richter remembered from his time in the Royal Navy.
‘Personal radio?’ Richter asked.
‘Right here.’ The aircrewman handed over a small black box that Richter clipped to the immersion suit. ‘You’ve used one before?’
‘Yes. The press to transmit switch is here’ – pointing at a button on one side of the unit – ‘and I’ll have to put the earpiece in before I leave the chopper.’
‘We’re less than five minutes from Sheppey,’ the pilot said, ‘and I’ve just had a message relayed to me through base ops. There are no Royal Navy vessels anywhere in the area, and no other helicopters able to get to the scene within the timescale you specified. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes, unfortunately.’
‘OK. Are you ready back there?’
‘Affirmative.’
Richter zipped up the immersion suit, settled the earpiece as comfortably as he could in his left ear, and pulled the headphones on over the top of it. Then he secured a harness around his torso and clipped it to a safety line inside the cabin, while the aircrewman slid back the door and peered out.
Richter stood up and joined him. Directly in front of him, probably four or five miles away, was the open expanse of the River Medway, and he was surprised at how many small boats were out on the water, which obviously wouldn’t make detecting the target vessel any easier. Ahead, he could see the Isle of Sheppey, with its principal town, Sheerness, lying directly in front of the helicopter.
Are there many vessels north of Sheerness?’ Richter asked. ‘Out in the main estuary itself?’
A handful, yes, but most of them look like bigger stuff. Any chance this German terrorist has taken over a coaster or something?’
‘I doubt it, because that would involve a lot more manpower, and they’d have problems getting a vessel that size close enough to the wreck to ensure it would blow. Not to mention the difficulty he’d have in persuading some of his gang that staying on the ship and detonating a 3,000-ton bomb underneath it was a good thing. Morschel and his men may be a lot of things, but suicide bombers they’re not – at least as far as we know.’
‘Could they have recruited some ragheads to press the button for them?’
‘Our intelligence hasn’t confirmed a link between his group and any radical Islamic sect,’ Richter said. ‘On the other hand, we don’t actually know a hell of a lot about these guys. Our assessment is that they’re more likely to have acquired a smaller craft to use as the trigger. That way, they can get close to the wreck, probably right on top of it, and, with enough explosive packed into it, they can pretty much guarantee the sunken ship’s cargo will explode.’
‘A surface explosion could do that?’
Richter nodded – a pointless gesture, as neither pilot could see him. ‘Almost certainly. They’ll probably be using Semtex or C4, and that’s a serious explosive, twice as powerful as TNT. Three pounds of Semtex can destroy a two-storey building, and my guess is that Morschel will have packed his trigger vessel with at least ten times that amount. OK, a lot of the blast will be directed upwards and outwards, but water’s incompressible, and the shock-wave will send a hammer-blow straight down to the wreck below.
‘The most dangerous munitions left on board the Richard Montgomery are the cluster bombs stored on the deck above the main holds. They’re very fragile, and a good hard blow could fire them, so they’re likely to detonate as soon as the blast wave hits them. But even if they don’t explode, the metal plates of the decking are rusted and crumbling, and the surface blast will probably finish the job. As the deck gives way, the cluster bombs will drop onto the heavyweight munitions stacked in the remains of the holds, and then they’ll most certainly blow. And that, I can pretty much guarantee, will cook off the rest of the explosives.’
Medway, Kent
The two Germans looked up as the bright yellow Sea King helicopter passed to the north of them, on an easterly heading.
‘What’s that doing?’ Hagen asked.
‘Probably nothing. It’s a military rescue chopper heading out into the estuary, maybe on a training exercise.’
‘You don’t think somebody’s guessed what we’re up to?’
‘I doubt it. But even if someone has worked it out, it’s too late to do anything about it now. There are dozens of craft on the estuary, and checking them all will take a while. Even if they manage to identify the boat, they’ve got to get past Badri’s MP5 and the anti-handling devices we’ve rigged. Either one should stop them disarming the bomb in time.’
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
In the Sea King above the estuary, Richter was faced with exactly that difficulty. There appeared to be literally dozens of small craft ploughing the choppy grey waters of the Medway, and the only good news was that none was particularly close to the wreck of the Richard Montgomery, the tops of the masts of which were still just visible even at the present high tide.
‘So now what?’ the pilot asked.
‘Now we start checking each boat,’ Richter said grimly.
‘And how will we know when we find th
e right one?’
‘We’ll know,’ Richter replied, ‘because they’ll probably start shooting at us.’
Rochester, Kent
Mason slipped the mobile phone back into his pocket and turned to Clark. ‘Right, get us north of the River Medway We might have a hit there.’
Clark nodded, dropped a gear and accelerated away, switching on the siren and the flashing blue lights. They’d been cruising around on the outskirts of Rochester, waiting to hear of any possible sightings of Morschel or news about boats.
‘What’s the address?’ Clark asked.
‘The Blue Skies Marina,’ Mason replied, inputting the postcode he’d just been given into the satnav.
‘Bloody silly name that, considering it’s in England,’ Clark muttered, pulling out to overtake a line of cars that had eased over to the side of the road on hearing the siren. ‘So what’s the lead?’
‘The marina’s owner thinks it might be this guy Morschel who bought a boat from him a few days ago. But we’ve already had quite a few false starts this afternoon, so this could easily be another case of mistaken identity.’
Fifteen minutes later, Clark pulled their unmarked police car to a halt outside the marina, and both men hurried towards the office. But before they even reached it, the door swung open and a middle-aged man peered out at them anxiously.
Mason pulled out his warrant card, but the man hardly glanced at it. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting you. My name’s Tom Collinwood, and I’ve already dug out the paperwork.’
‘What did they tell you on the phone, sir?’ Mason asked, as Clark began scanning the documents the boatyard manager had produced.
‘The officer asked me to check all sales and leases for the past month, apart from those involving boats smaller than twelve feet, and I don’t handle any of those. He was only interested in boats that were still out there.’
‘And I gather you sold a boat to a German customer?’
‘Yes, a few days ago.’
‘And what made you think this might be the sale we’re trying to check on?’
Collinwood sat down behind his desk, motioning the two detectives to a couple of guest chairs. ‘Several things, really. The officer from Canterbury said you were looking for a boat arranged for a German gentleman driving a Mercedes, and especially in a cash transaction. Well, I sold a boat to a German with a Mercedes, and he paid cash for it.’
Clark glanced up sharply but didn’t interrupt.
‘His name was Heinrich, and he first contacted me by email several weeks ago.’
‘What did he say he was looking for?’ Mason asked.
‘His requirements seemed simple enough, just a boat that would take four to six people, and that was seaworthy enough to handle the waters out in the Thames Estuary. He claimed that he intended to visit various coastal areas of Kent and Essex, and maybe do a bit of sea fishing as well.’
‘And you had one suitable?’
‘Yes, in fact, we had several. Eventually Mr Heinrich decided on a seventeen-footer fitted with a fairly big Evinrude outboard.’
Clark opened the folder he’d kept tucked under his left arm. Besides several sheets of paper, it contained a photograph that showed a single figure sitting in a German-plated Mercedes waiting stationary at some kind of booth. This he placed on the desk in front of Collinwood.
‘This was taken at Calais, shortly before this man boarded a ferry to Dover. Does he look familiar?’
Collinwood peered closely at the picture, then looked up after a few seconds.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘it could be him, but he didn’t arrive in this car. The Mercedes that arrived here had Austrian plates.’
Clark asked the obvious question. ‘Did you make a note of the registration number?’
Collinwood shook his head. ‘No, once Heinrich introduced himself, I completely lost interest in whatever car he’d arrived in. All I remember for sure is that the plates were Austrian. They’re quite distinctive.’
Anything else you can remember about him?’
‘No, not really. And I never got a decent look at his passenger.’
‘His passenger?’ Mason queried.
‘There was another man in the car with him, a big guy, very bulky. Anyway, the second man stayed in the car almost the whole time and drove off in the car after Heinrich took the boat away.’
‘Do you know where this Heinrich was heading when he left here?’ Clark asked.
Collinwood shook his head. ‘No, he just said he’d got a berth in a marina somewhere down-river.’
‘Anything else relevant?’
‘Well, one thing did seem odd. After we’d concluded the deal, he and the second man carried four large heavy-looking bags from the boot of his car and put them on board the boat. That’s not usual, unless he was planning a trip somewhere immediately. Even then, most people can pack enough stuff for a long weekend into a couple of carrier bags. I didn’t think that was anything sinister, just unusual.’
‘OK,’ Mason said, ‘that’s very helpful, Mr Collinwood. One last thing. The boat – can you describe it for us?’
‘I can do better than that,’ the manager replied, ‘I’ve got some photographs here.’
He opened a file on his desk and handed over about half a dozen eight-by-ten colour pictures of a fairly undistinguished blue and white craft.
Mason studied these for a few seconds, then pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and punched in the open-line number for FOE at Hammersmith.
‘This is Detective Inspector Mason of the Kent Constabulary,’ he announced as his call was answered. ‘I need to speak to Paul Richter, please. It’s urgent.’
‘He’s not in the building.’
‘I guessed that. Can you patch me through to wherever he is? Or give me another number or something?’
‘Wait.’
There was silence for a few seconds, then Mason heard a few clicks and beeps and then, with no ringing tone or anything else, Richter’s voice was loud in his ear, albeit against a loud throbbing noise in the background.
‘This is DI Mason. Where are you?’
‘In an Air Force chopper over Sheppey right now, and we’re fairly busy. Is this important?’
‘It might be. We’ve been running checks on the Medway boatyards and we might have a hit. A German named Heinrich bought a boat for cash from a local marina. I’m looking at pictures of it right now.’
‘I’m listening,’ Richter said. ‘Give me the description.’
‘It’s blue and white, seventeen feet long with a small cabin and it’s powered by a hefty outboard motor. Does that help?’
‘It might,’ Richter said. ‘We’re starting our search just north of Sheppey right now, so thanks for that.’
‘Right,’ Mason said, ‘and it’s probably a bit late now, but this man Morschel has probably fitted Austrian plates on the Mercedes.’
‘OK. I’ll amend the watch order for him – that’s if we ever manage to find this fucking boat.’
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
Richter glanced at his watch. If the hydrodynamicist had got it right, the optimum time for the explosion to be triggered was either at, or very shortly before, high tide, when the natural flow of water up the Thames Estuary towards London would assist the progress of the tsunami it created. And high tide was in just under thirty minutes.
The description of the boat forwarded by Mason was proving less useful than Richter had hoped, because blue and white now appeared to be the commonest colours boat manufacturers used. Almost every vessel they’d spotted so far had that kind of colour scheme, though in varying shades of blue, which might be one good reason Morschel had picked it. And what they’d all failed to spot so far were two boats obviously proceeding in close company, or even a pair heading in roughly the same direction. That suggested either his theory was completely wrong, and that Morschel had found some other way of triggering the detonation, or they might be looking
at a suicide mission with a single volunteer prepared to stay on the boat all the way to oblivion.
‘Right, there’s nothing vaguely close to the wreck right now,’ the pilot announced, ‘but we can see about a dozen small boats heading out of the mouth of the Medway.’
All of them blue and white, I suppose?’ Richter asked irritably.
‘Not all of them, no. There are a few other colours, but blue and white does seem to be this season’s favourite combination.’
‘I guess we could apply a bit of filtering here. We can probably eliminate all those obviously carrying family parties, unless they’re being held at gunpoint – which is an unlikely scenario in my opinion. So keep your eyes open for those boats with only a single person in the cockpit. And if you see a boat with nobody in the cockpit, that’s the one.’
‘Copied. OK, we’re in the drop now. I’ll fly alongside each boat as close as I can without the risk of swamping them, which means holding about fifty yards off. I’ll manoeuvre the aircraft to the left of each vessel, so you’ll have the best possible view of it, and I’ll hold it there for about five seconds, unless you instruct me otherwise. Would that be satisfactory?’
‘Excellent, thanks.’
As the Sea King descended towards the grey and hostile-looking waters of the entrance to the Medway Richter checked the SPAS-12 and the MP5 one last time.
Medway, Kent
Badri hadn’t been lying about his previous boating experience but he had, to borrow the phrase made famous by a senior British politician, been economical with the truth. He had indeed handled small craft on numerous occasions, but almost always in rivers or lakes. His few experiences of open-water sailing had been notably unpleasant because he found himself suffering from chronic sea-sickness and, within minutes of Morschel leaving the boat, he’d already begun to feel nauseous.
As the boat, still navigated and controlled by the GPS and automatic pilot, reached the much rougher waters at the mouth of the Medway, Badri’s head was pounding, and he felt ready to vomit. He huddled miserably on the curved bench that ran around the stern of the boat, fixing his eyes on the far horizon and trying to control the turmoil in his stomach. The boat kept bouncing quite violently as it butted through the waves at the mouth of the Medway the pitching and twisting motion exacerbated by the lack of a helmsman able to anticipate the incoming waves.
Timebomb (Paul Richter) Page 30
