As Doc reached the first promenade deck, a massive explosion ripped open a hole in the hull of Fadeyka Semyonov’s pride and joy.
Lit by the flickering, orange glow of the giant, devouring fireball, Doc tore off his prosthetic leg - it was no good to him in water - threw over the life raft and dived into the Persian Gulf.
Sirens wailed. Lifeboats were lowered. Crew and passengers leapt overboard.
Doc paddled furiously away from 250 million dollars worth of sinking yacht and the intense pull it created as it was sucked down to the sea bottom.
Once clear he scanned the scene for passengers whom, he knew, would have been shepherded, by Fadeyka Semyonov’s security men to motor launches. But the security men hadn’t reckoned on Durand. The explosion had come from without, not within.
A rocket fired from an Israeli Shipon shoulder-launched weapon system — Durand treasured the thought of using Israeli weapons — designed to destroy tanks from a range of 600 metres had been fired from less than 50 by a team of handpicked mercenaries. Their renegade former Navy SEAL leader, favoured a deep-sea dhow, camouflaged by its ubiquity, as the mother ship.
And now these assassins, at home in the darkened waters, wearing discarded Navy SEAL kit, were hunting for trophies.
One hundred thousand dollars a head for every live trustee.
Doc watched in horror as they worked for their reward. Two shabby, dented, open boats patrolled the immediate vicinity. They ignored the crew just slid up to the rich in their gleaming boats. He watched thoughtfully as Fadeyka Semyonov’s distracted security guards were searching for more trustees.
Only five could be found so they checked and checked again.
And then the killing began.
Fadeyka Semyonov’s security men, easily identifiable, loaded down with sodden bullet belts and waterlogged guns and helplessly out of their element in water, were picked off one by one.
Soon the five helpless, terrified trustees were identified and dragged aboard the open boats, which raced back to their mother ship.
Doc watched as a motley bunch of sixty crewmembers hauled themselves into gleaming motor launches and hitherto unused lifeboats and disappeared into the murky dark. Once gone, the calm sea’s surface, which just an hour before had supported one of the grandest yachts in the world, held just one deep-sea dhow, and Doc’s engineless Seago life raft.
Doc was missing from the renegade leader’s meticulous manifest.
A calm, quiet, waiting game ensued, overseen by the moon and stars, gently cooled by the nighttime breeze.
A periscope, then the turret and finally Fadeyka Semyonov’s personal submarine, rose to the surface. Durand emerged from the turret door and surveyed the scene just metres from Doc’s bobbing inflatable raft. Close enough for Doc to hear him talking into a short- range walkie-talkie.
“Take this one along with the surviving trustees.”
“What’s his name?”
“Just give him a number. Like the others. He’s promoted to trustee.”
The renegade leader couldn’t resist asking. “Another hundred k?”
“Agreed.” With that, Durand retreated into the mini sub. Moments later the glassy water closed over it.
At first Doc thought the deep chug of an approaching engine signified the dhow closing in, but his neighbour stayed its distance and the throbbing noise grew louder and louder.
The massive bows of a huge container ship emerged out of the dark, vast in its surrounding sea.
Doc glanced around. Jean-Pierre Durand had gone. He was leaving the dirty work to those he paid.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“He’s only got one leg!”
“Drag in the rest of him.”
With that Doc was manhandled from his life raft up onto the deck of the deep-sea dhow. He glanced at the bedraggled trustees. Transformed from confident, arrogant, multi-billionaires into the human equivalent of drowned rats. Their clothes were torn and their faces ashen with dismay.
But when Doc peered into the eyes of the crew his skin crawled.
“Careful!” The leader’s barked order was obeyed. But a thug grabbed Doc’s long hair and twisted it harshly.
Doc, too young, too angry and too full of adrenalin to stop himself shot his freed arm up to grip the heavy’s and splintered it at the elbow. A split second of dumb disbelief was followed by a howl of agony. Doc didn’t stop there, he grabbed his victim’s hair and with an Olympian’s strength hammer-threw the traumatised man into the forecastle.
Satisfying while it lasted, but not for long.
The thug’s mates smashed into Doc without restraint. A weak man would have been dead inside a round. Doc, his arms bruised, three ribs cracked and his face pulverised, fought back just long enough to be saved by a gun shot from their leader as the iron bulk of the container ship came alongside.
It was that ship’s crew that led the five trustees up a swaying stairway onto the bridge.
Doc was hauled up on a canvas stretcher and lugged to the surgery. The terrified trustees were steered off the bridge towards a ship’s ladder that led to the stern. Two containers, one on the port side, the other starboard, both directly behind the bridge, had been converted into austere eight-person living spaces.
Each metal wall slept four - two on top bunks, two beneath with a kitchen on one side and a washroom on the other. A hole had been cut out of the scalding metal roof and covered with a transparent plastic to let in some light. Bars, the blackened welding marks left bare, blocked any chance of escape.
Fadeyka Semyonov, disciplined by his KGB training, stamped his authority on his broken comrades in the starboard container. He grabbed the coolest bunk and emptied a grubby looking backpack loaded with a bewildering array of paraphernalia he had snatched as his very own luxury yacht exploded.
His astonished colleagues watched as airtight boxes of exotic food, four bottles of high-octane vodka, jars full of pickles and sealed tins of fine biscuits appeared on the central table. From his pocket Fadeyka Semyonov hauled out a Leatherman knife and prised off the lid of a can of Beluga caviar. Within moments, rudimentary cutlery, plates and mugs were brought from the kitchen. Fadeyka Semyonov, a talented team builder, lifted his glass.
“Gentlemen. Just a few hours ago we were on my yacht. Now she is on the bottom. If we had sunk with her there would be nothing left of us. But five of us are here and we are alive. And that means we can reap revenge. That is what we will raise our glasses to. Revenge.”
Five glasses were raised.
Five mouths uttered revenge.
*
Revenge was only being dreamt of in the ship’s surgery. Doc was lying on his back, in sheets that smelt refreshingly clean, in a world of forgettable dreams and half-sleep.
The door opened. Doc’s brain half knew he should have tensed but numbness, and exhaustion restrained his battered body. Discretion is the better part of valour, pretend to be asleep, he thought.
“What a mess.”
Doc’s puffed eyes flickered but couldn’t open as he heard the most soothing voice in the world.
“Benadir?”
“How do you feel?”
“Been better.” Even smiling hurt.
“I should give you hell for taking chances like that. We need our agents alive.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“Did you at least learn something?”
“Yes, I promise.” Doc winced with pain. “Did you bring a spare leg?”
“No, it would have looked too obvious.”
“I presume the ship is ours?” Doc looked perplexed
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re here.”
Benadir shook her head. It was easy to forget Doc was just a rookie, albeit a very privileged one.
“We just have the key. Durand has leased the ship but at the last minute the skipper became unexpectedly ill and we replaced him with one of ours.”
“I see, is the old skipper better now?”
&
nbsp; “He’s certainly better off financially.”
“And the new skipper?”
“He’ll go wherever, and do, within reason, whatever Durand commands. We assume Durand has some of his own people on board, but all the crew I’ve talked to come with the ship.”
“How are the trustees?”
“They’re being fed a bit better than Durand suggested but I’m told their sleeping quarters leave a lot to be desired. I’ll go and see them when you’re asleep.”
“As what?”
“As a radio officer. Should prompt some interesting responses.”
*
Benadir, wearing all black — hijab, long sleeve T-shirt, black jeans — except for bright red sneakers, was escorted to the port container by Gideon, a Z5 agent cum security guard, whose black, sweating muscles bulged out of his navy T-shirt and blue jeans. The container door opened onto a heated debate about “getting the fuck out”.
Gideon crouched in the frame long enough for his size to be registered.
“What are you staring at?” Fadeyka Semyonov, perched on the top middle bunk, glared at them and jumped to the floor. “Letting us go?”
“Want me to stay?” said Gideon.
Benadir paused, to take in the faces before answering. “No. I’ll be fine.”
Gideon turned to leave when Fadeyka Semyonov barked. “This Russian vodka is too rough. I need some wine, Clairette du Languedoc perhaps? And cheese, Camembert aux Calvados, Bray Picard, and Petit Breton? We have the money.”
François Édouard eyed the pile of dollars beside the open vodka bottles and the empty tin of beluga caviar.
Gideon glanced at Benadir, who gave the merest nod before bending forward to take a hundred dollar bill. He paused for the slightest second to judge the reaction. None. “I’ll bring the change.”
As the door clanged shut all eyes fix onto Benadir. “I’m the radio officer and-”
“We demand to know why we’re here.” Fadeyka Semyonov snapped.
“And where the hell we’re going.” Pereira was used to being the boss too.
“As I understand it, you’re going to Siberia, where hell freezes over.” Benadir’s retort brought a stunned silence. “Anyone want to send a message? No need to ask if it’ll be censored. It will be.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Joy emerged from Sasha’s tent as Max climbed down from his container office. Joy, her head covered by the hood of her new reindeer coat, curved down her lips, raised her eyebrows and gave a light-hearted shake of her head. She had left Sasha drained after their night together.
Max’s telepathic mind fused with Joy’s. “We must return to the mines.”
“I know.”
“Be ready to leave in ten.”
It took the better part of an hour to get underway. Sasha insisted they ate breakfast first.
As they sped away from the safety of the reindeer village Joy, perched on the back of the snowmobile with her arms around Max’s waist, watched her goggles steam and then ice up. Going back to the camp felt like returning to death row.
Like it or not Joy knew that she and Durand were doomed to meet again. The snowmobile abruptly stopped. She climbed stiffly off the back, tugged off her iced up goggles and looked around her.
Her eyes widened as she looked upon an awe-inspiring, west-to-east horizon and a frozen wall of waves.
“Where the hell are we? You said we were going to the mines.”
“At the north entrance.” Max’s eyes shone bright beneath his woolly hat and reindeer hood. “Let’s find a gap in the waves to get a line of sight.”
The snowmobile aided by forceful shoves from Max and Joy crashed over the ice-waves to the smoother, seaward side of the East Siberian Sea.
Max glanced at his Breitling Emergency watch, struggled off his backpack, unpacked his binoculars and scanned the empty horizon. “They should be here soon.”
“Who?” Not Jean-Pierre, please not Jean-Pierre. “And how are they getting here?”
“They’re using a cheeky little Russian sub. Actually, not so little. ” Max grinned as he pointed out to sea. Handing the bins to Joy he kept his eyes on his distant target.
A mile out to sea, ice was breaking. Slowly, like a whale breaching in slow motion, a submarine poked its conning tower up through the bright white surface.
“Let’s go.” Max left the bins for Joy to sling around her neck, threw on his backpack and leapt onto the snowmobile. “They won’t want to stay on top for long.”
“Why not?”
“Satellites...” The end of Max’s reply was swept up in the whining scream of the two-stroke motor as it vibrated over myriad mini waves and whisked them towards the sub’s conning tower
When they reached it six crewmen tumbled over the side and, with Max’s help, lifted the snowmobile on board and down into the bowels of the giant sub.
Joy followed.
Standing beside the periscope, arms wide to welcome Max with a giant bear-hug, stood Captain Kuznetsov.
“Thanks Boris.”
“For Z5, Max, not for you!” With a giant grin on his face, he kissed his old friend. And then with the correctness of a perfect gentleman, he turned to Joy. “Welcome aboard, Miss Joy. We won’t enjoy your company for long I fear but there’s still time for a small celebration.”
Just minutes after it had surfaced the giant Borey-class nuclear submarine submerged leaving a small break in the ice that would be practically invisible to a satellite camera.
As she followed the two former sea cadets of the St. Petersburg Naval Academy down the muffled, metal corridors, the crew beamed at her. A woman was on board.
Everything but their smiles was grey – the walls, pipes, bunks even the food on the tables. Captain Kuznetzov and his two guests retired to the contrast of captain’s cabin where wood panels were brightened by paintings and photos of his smiling family.
“We can’t stay long, Boris.”
“We wouldn’t want you to, Max!”
But there was time for cognac - which slowly made its warming, welcoming way around their taste buds - and time for goluptsi. The rice and minced meat, all cocooned in naval cabbage, filled their empty stomachs. A long walk down more corridors of grey quickly followed the meal, deep down into the bowels of the humming Russian nuclear sub. The corridor opened into a vast metal armoury housing four, giant tubes with torpedoes slung beside them. All were connected to grey, desk-sized computer terminals.
Max and Boris marched straight to one of the torpedoes that Joy quickly realized was different from the rest. It was a torpedo-sized mini submarine.
Joy stared in horror at the twenty foot long, three foot wide, rounded metal coffin.
“Be a bit of a squeeze.” Boris looked at Joy while one of the crew opened the ‘lid’ to reveal two canvas recliners, one in front of the other.
No. No. No. But Joy knew she would be as expected to climb inside.
“And the kit’s all there?” Max patted the back of the sub, another six feet for storage, fuel, oxygen tank and the engine.
“Sofia wrote: ‘it’s all loaded and set to go, just strap them in.’”
“Them, meaning us?” Joy’s said grimly.
When the lid snapped closed one dim lamp clicked on above Joy. And four small touch-screens came to life above Max.
These created the only light.
Joy had never felt so claustrophobic.
“Ready to go?” Before Joy had a chance to answer, a deafening noise shook through her head and the mini-sub was fired out of the torpedo tube.
For Joy this was the worst experience of her life, worse even than the World of Waiting. And then she realised that this was just where they were heading. Back to that hell, the entry point where humans were turned to slaves, where vast numbers died, leaving just the strongest to survive.
She resisted the need to scream. She probably wouldn’t even hear herself over the noise of the sub.
She only opened her eyes as Max cut o
ff the engines. The mini-sub had reached its destination.
“Are we all right?” Joy whispered, her subconscious as always taking over.
“We’re there,” Max whispered back.
The four screens above Max scanned images of their surroundings but there was nothing to see. Nothing moved. No alarms sounded.
Very quietly, Max eased open the sub’s lid.
Joy felt relief as crisp air rushed in and the noise of running water filled the silence.
“Where are we?”
“In an underground river system south of the sulphur lake.”
“South of the sulphur lake.” Relief swept over Joy. They’d passed right through the World of Waiting and were well past the mines.
“How did we get here?”
“The bats mapped it. We planned it.”
“We?”
“Z5. I was linked up to London. That’s what I was doing in the container.” Sofia built the sub and Boris steered us. He’s a Z5 Associate.” Max eased himself out of the sub and lifted the lid to the storage compartment. He took out some rope and secured the submarine. He then helped Joy out.
She stretched and gazed around the underground waterway. “What are we going to do now?”
“See if we can discover what’s going on, preferably before Durand arrives with his billionaire funders.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Once Father’s funeral was over, I started to clear out the Geneva house. I was determined to take my time, sift through everything; throw out what I didn’t want and store the rest.
Sofia flew over from Milan with a different idea.
Everything — chairs, beds, tables, clothes, cutlery — was labelled, wrapped, boxed and, twenty-four hours later, driven by foreman Charles and his Wallace Movers team across France, through the Channel Tunnel to Brett Hall.
Sofia flew us in her D-Jet to RAF Boscombe Down.
*
Andy Barlow picked us up in the Bentley and whisked us to Brett Hall. Where was I going to stay? Brett Hall must be a building site at best since Durand had fired those two Sidewinder rockets through the library window.
Eternity's Sunrise (A New Doc Palfrey Thriller) Page 16
