by Robin James
Arsenio had been very careful about the exact location of the drop, having posed briefly at the start of the working day, and before leaving his message at the Bar Central, as a municipal inspector following progress of the works. Nothing further was scheduled to take place there for several days – it was perfect for his purpose.
Parker-Reed had already left the money there, having put the bag at his feet and carefully heeled it backwards to behind a red tarpaulin hiding the work area. As Arsenio moved across the stone floor, still pretending to take pictures, following instructions the Home Secretary hurried towards him, on his way out. He passed the kidnapper without a second glance, his face an exhausted mask of worry.
And there was the man in the Real Madrid T-shirt, to one side of the stone saint, face upturned to its haloed head, but eyes darting everywhere.
Adiós, my friend, thought El Asesino.
Guns are basically very simple mechanisms consisting of a mechanically operated firing device, a chamber for a bullet, a clip for more ammunition, and a hollow steel tube through which the bullet is expelled. Arsenio’s 35mm SLR camera, with its 70–210mm zoom lens, was just such a contrivance. Skilfully converted for him by a superb gunsmith in a Cairo backstreet three years previously for use as an instrument of assassination, it had nevertheless only ever been used for practice purposes. The film compartment housed its clip of six .20-calibre bullets – small but perfectly lethal, capable of penetrating body armour. The lever which moved the film on, slotted bullets one at a time in front of the firing pin. The pin was operated by the little chrome button normally used for shooting pictures, not people. The zoom lens housed the barrel and worked as a silencer. It actually had a darkened glass lens in it, with a small, round hole, almost invisible, behind which was the business end of the barrel.
Arsenio’s camera was as neat a piece of hardware as had ever been invented; it even housed a telescopic sight, through which he had watched the ‘gardener’. It had cost him an arm and a leg, but he knew that one day it would prove to be invaluable – and this was going to be that day. He aimed it at the statue, then panned it slightly sideways until the tiny cross-hairs of the telescopic sight were centred on the plain-clothes man’s forehead.
El Asesino waited until there was a surge of people around the man, then he slowly depressed the button. There was a faint plop and a slight recoil.
The policeman was actually looking directly at him as Arsenio lived up to his nickname. He was starting to have vague doubts about the flashily dressed tourist; anyone was suspect, even such a tasteless creature, he was thinking. It was the last thought he would ever have. The .20 bullet drilled a neat little hole in his forehead, emerging from the back of his head deflected so that it finished its trajectory by hitting the statue.
Arsenio was moving before the man crumpled to the floor. A woman screamed. All nearby eyes were on the fallen man, who was on his back, his waistcoat open to reveal the shoulder-holstered pistol, blood surging from the holes in his head and spreading over the stone floor. Nobody noticed the garish tourist remove a brown flight bag from behind the tarpaulin and hurry off with it towards the rear of the church.
As soon as Arsenio reached a quiet area, just before the door which he knew could be tricked open to let him out, he hurriedly transferred the bulky parcel of money from the bag to his yellow backpack. When he was through the door, he dropped the bag behind a pile of bricks and made his way unhurriedly among the heaps of building materials, past the foot of the crane, and into the dusty street.
El Asesino had his first million quid. He was only slightly unhappy that he had needed to kill to get it, for he had a deep, almost instinctive, detestation of policemen.
After lunch at a sunshaded table in Las Ramblas, he was busying himself putting the final touches to the guitar he had brought out of Parkhurst Prison with him when Kirsty phoned London to see if the Home Secretary had returned and was ready to receive his next instructions.
22
It had occurred to Major Fernandez to take the Agincourt south in his search for the Miss Molly. He could, of course, have used the Wessex as well, but he decided against this; a helicopter buzzing yachts might well have put the kidnappers on their guard. This time, if he located them, he intended to proceed with the greatest of stealth.
He ordered his Offshore Patrol Boat to operate far enough from the beaches so as not to be immediately recognizable for what she was, but close enough in to be able to pick out the names of pleasure craft near the shore with her high-powered telescope.
Heading south, he realized after two hours, had probably been a mistake. He had rounded the Cabo Espichel and taken the Agincourt past many little bays with their backdrop of pine-forested mountains. South of there was a nature reserve and several kilometres of unprotected beaches. Any boat moored there for long on its own – as it would be – would draw far more attention than if it had company. These people would not make such a mistake. Fernandez ordered the boat to turn around.
It was lunch-time when they passed the point they had started out from, going west. Soon after that they were rounding the Cabo Raso and sailing north. Once again, pine forests were cloaking the inland hills, to the east, on the Serra Sintra.
Fernandez’s patience was rewarded late in the afternoon, at almost the same time as Stephen Parker-Reed, back in his London office, was listening carefully to Kirsty’s telephoned instructions on how he was to dispose of the second million-pound parcel which was already on its way to him by special messenger from Lloyds Bank. The Agincourt had just passed the popular beach of Praia de Samarra, after which there was a smallish cove.
And there she was, moored a couple of hundred metres or so out. The Miss Molly.
Under Fernandez’s orders, the captain of the patrol boat took his craft straight by. When they had left the cove behind them he started heading in towards the shore.
Among the many useful extras carried by the Agincourt were two miniature one-man motor cycles with tiny wheels. The major had them loaded on to the dinghy tender. Corporal Bright and Sergeant Shale were assigned the duty of checking out the Miss Molly. In T-shirts and shorts, they took the dinghy in, beached it, and carried a mini-bike each up to where there was a small track running parallel to the sea, where they mounted the bikes and set off on the short trip to Praia de Samarra. There, they hired a pedalo.
As, shirts removed, side by side they pedalled the boat slowly out towards the Miss Molly in a sea which had an agreeable swell to it, with a warm breeze brushing them and sunshine streaming over them, either one of the men, in different circumstances, might have remarked on their ‘cushy number’. But they were both still deeply affected by the violent deaths of their fellow commandos and they made their way in virtual silence.
They were not alone on the water. There were two speedboats, one pulling a water-skier, several other pedalos, there was a jet-ski roaring around, an angler’s skiff and another moored yacht. Their cover as a pair of holidaymakers was every bit as good as that of Arsenio’s hijacked yacht.
Felix Springer and Tommy Jenkins were the only people on the Miss Molly’s deck. The Englishman had behaved admirably, giving no trouble whatsoever and cooperating as if he were a part of the gang instead of their prisoner – which he fervently wished he were. As the pedalo neared them, Sheila came up from below, wearing a white bikini. Once Tommy had convinced them the day before that his dolly-bird would behave herself, she had been released. In any case, Arsenio had reasoned that almost any innocent pleasure craft had at least one female aboard, and their cover would be so much the better if Sheila appeared a lot on the deck and went about the normal things, like swimming and sunbathing, that holidaymakers did. This decision had had one unforeseen consequence; her tight little, near-nude body had been exciting Springer all day. And he had more or less decided that, during the coming night, he was going to relieve his needs – not with Sheila, however, but with the delectable Carolyn Parker-Reed.
People on pedal
os have a habit of inquisitively approaching moored yachts. Several had already passed very close to the Miss Molly, the kidnappers ignoring them. They took no notice of Corporal Bright and Sergeant Shale, either.
‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Bright as they drew within spitting distance of the yacht at the same moment as Shannon came up on deck. ‘It’s the bloody Irishman.’
Both commandos had committed to memory the photos of the men known to be working with Arsenio. There was no doubt that the one who had just appeared was Shannon, even though he had dyed his hair and changed its style.
‘And that’s the German,’ said Sergeant Shale, hardly able to believe that their task was proving this easy. ‘Bugger me.’
They circled the yacht once only, hoping to get a glimpse of the Home Secretary’s daughter through a porthole, but drew a blank. But it was not of great consequence; she was surely on board somewhere. And here, lounging around in the sunshine, were the bastards who had murdered their fellow commandos. Well, let them lotus-eat while they could – their nemesis was very close.
They turned the pedalo in a wide arc and headed back towards the beach. There were white flecks far out in the Atlantic, suggesting that the sea was about to get rough.
They waited impatiently until almost midnight. The sky had clouded over and the breeze had filled out into a light wind, but the sea had not turned as stormy as it threatened earlier; it was just a bit choppy.
Fernandez had worked out his strategy most carefully. Strictly speaking, the submersibles were two-men craft, but a third could be squeezed in and the three would not be too uncomfortable over a short distance. Bright was to navigate the Shark, Shale the Squid. The two commandos who squeezed in with each of them just before the craft were lowered from their frames over the stern were wearing black wetsuits, black rubber plimsolls and gloves, their faces were blacked with grease, and they were armed with Browning 9mm side-arms in waterproof holsters and with stun grenades – and protective goggles and earplugs against the possible effect of those grenades upon themselves. Fernandez had decided against anything more potent, such as Sterling sub-machine-guns; Carolyn Parker-Reed was on board, as were another innocent couple, and machine-guns sprayed ammunition all over the place. He remembered with regret the death of the woman trussed in the houseboat when he had arrested the House of Lords bombers. He had complete faith in the four operatives who were going in. They were highly trained in all forms of combat, even jungle warfare. Against four unsuspecting kidnappers – with luck, asleep – the pistols and stun grenades should be more than effective.
The submersibles settled down into the water, Bright and Shale started the engines and a diver climbed on to each to disconnect the tow lines. A minute later, with Fernandez clutching his lumbar region and wincing with pain while watching the submarines and praying for both the success of the operation and for himself, the Shark and the Squid disappeared beneath the Atlantic.
‘Make not one sound,’ warned Springer, on board the Miss Molly. He had unlocked and opened the door of the cabin in which Carolyn was imprisoned so quietly that she had not awakened. Now her eyes flickered open into the blinding glare of a torch. Accompanying the terrifying words was the glint of steel as a knife blade was thrust within inches of her nose. She whimpered, but she did not shout.
‘This time, my pretty,’ breathed the German. ‘This time I have you. But you will enjoy it, you will see.’ He laid the large torch down on a shelf so that its light washed over Carolyn’s bunk. Keeping hold of the knife, he unzipped his jeans and stepped out of them, watching her with lustfully glinting eyes. She had pulled her sheet up to her chin, and it was trembling on her. Beneath it she was nude. Suddenly, she was dreadfully aware of that nakedness.
‘Arsenio will kill you. He . . . he’ll shoot you,’ she managed.
‘Hah. Arsenio, he is far away, mein Schatz.’ Springer climbed out of his underpants. At least he was not ready, she saw. Maybe he would not manage it. Fat chance, she thought, grimly. She was scared, she was appalled – but she was not, as she had been on that other occasion, scared witless. To a certain extent she had become accustomed to these awful people – and she had been half expecting something like this. Well, no way she was going to take the oft-given advice to lie back and enjoy it. She was not going to give in to this brute without one hell of a struggle. She steeled herself for a fight.
Carolyn totally surprised the German by passively peeling the sheet off her body and dropping it on the floor. He had been sure he was going to have to rip it off her – indeed would have enjoyed doing so. ‘You win,’ she sighed, rolling on to her back. ‘Come on then – you haven’t even got it up yet. I’ll help you.’
He put the knife by the side of the torch and knelt on the bed between her feet. Taking a deep breath, she brought the ball of her foot up with all her force into his genitals. He howled once, doubling over and clutching at himself. As his eyes raised to her, his face contorted with pain, there was the light of madness mixed with lust in them. ‘For that, there is nothing I do not do to you,’ he gasped.
‘We’re almost beneath her,’ said Corporal Bright to Sergeant Shale over the sub-to-sub Marconi Modular System. The Miss Molly was a blip slap in the middle of his radar screen. ‘My men are going on duty now.’
‘Roger. Mine too,’ said Shale.
One by one the commandos, not wearing breathing gear or flippers, for the yacht was only a couple of metres above the submersibles, went through the cramped, bullet-shaped airlocks below the conning towers and pushed themselves off the decks to glide to the underside of the Miss Molly, two on each side, just their heads bobbing above the choppy surface of the sea.
One man in each pair had with him a thin line with a heavily foam-padded, rubber-covered grappling-iron on the end. The ship’s rail was low enough to the water for the grappling-irons to need only a light toss to hook on to it. They landed with barely audible thuds. Quiet as shadows, their shoulder holsters unclipped, the commandos shinned up the ropes and crept on to the deck.
Hantash and Springer were the only two of the kidnappers awake. Hantash was in the small stateroom, watching a movie on satellite television. He thought he heard an unusual creak somewhere above him, but he took little notice. Springer was too preoccupied to pay attention to anything but what he was bent on doing to Carolyn Parker-Reed. The pain in his testicles subsiding, he had leapt on her, flattening her on the bunk. She had turned into a furious tigress, scratching and biting and kicking. But she was fighting a losing battle, for he was far too strong for her. What was more, her naked body, and the sexual struggle, had done the trick for him – he was ready to take her.
The door which gave access from the bridge to below decks had a slight creak to it. Highly trained terrorist Hantash heard that creak as one of the SBS commandos eased it open, and he was on his feet with his Czechoslovak 9mm CZ75 at the ready in two seconds. He woke up Salim Kasar, who had fallen asleep watching the film. The Syrian, instantly on full alert, reached for his Smith & Wesson.
A commando was standing, out of sight, on either side of the door as it swung slowly open without another creak. One of them had pulled the pins out of two stun grenades. Only his arm appeared above Hantash as the Palestinian started up the stairs. Recognizing the lobbed missiles for what they were, Hantash took the stairs at a rush, firing his gun. As, going through the door, he was hit by three 9mm bullets almost simultaneously and started to fall, the final shot from his CZ75 smashed the thigh-bone of one of the commandos.
The cardboard stun grenades went off one after the other with great flashes of bright light and deafening noise. Kasar dropped unconscious to the stateroom carpet. Shannon, who had been asleep in an adjoining cabin with the door open, and was woken by the din, had leapt from his bunk, grabbed his gun and then heeled over as the blast of noise and light hit him.
The effect of the grenades lasted for only six to seven seconds – but plenty of time for Shannon and Kasar to be put in handcuffs. However, the bl
ast was only efficient in an open area. Carolyn’s cabin was at the end of a short companionway – and the door was closed. When, seconds later, a commando burst through it, brandishing his Browning, Springer was standing with naked Carolyn held tightly against the front of his body, his beefy arm hooked around her neck.
‘Drop the shooter,’ he grated. ‘Or I break the girl’s neck.’
Carolyn did something that she could never in her wildest dreams have imagined doing – or even imagine she could possibly have the courage for. But just moments before she had been crushed beneath the German, furiously fighting him as he was almost reaching his goal of raping her. That fury continued to seethe and rage within her – and her right hand, she saw, was within reach of Springer’s knife. She seized it and plunged it behind her with all her force, deep into his side, slicing through a kidney.
He screamed, let her go and sank to his knees, clutching his potentially fatal wound, moaning in agony, blood streaming through his fingers.
Carolyn had never heard a man scream before. There was something unearthly about it. She stared in horrified fascination for long moments at the bloodstained knife in her hand, then at the man who was keeling over at her feet. Her eyeballs rolled upwards so that only the whites of her eyes were showing, the knife dropped from her hand and she fainted away into the arms of the rescuing SBS commando.
23
The horns of Fernandez’s dilemma were spread wide and needle-sharp. One of the kidnappers – Joseph Hantash – was dead. Another, the German, was dying from a stab wound. Two more were in custody. Fernandez had rescued the Home Secretary’s daughter – but the man he wanted more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, El Asesino, remained free. It had been the Venezuelan who had thrown the grenades which had done for the Gremlin and all aboard her, bar himself – and a nasty bit of one of those grenades was threatening to put an end to the major even now.
