by D C Macey
‘What are nighthawks?’ said Grace, raising her mug and sipping.
‘Looters. They raid archaeological sites, mostly at night when nobody else is around, and metal detect for treasures. Sometimes local opportunists, sometimes organised gangs,’ said Julie.
‘It’s not just the treasures they steal; they wreck the environment their finds are made in and destroy all the archaeological evidence and context. They do untold damage,’ said Davy.
‘Alan Ralston phoned this morning to say he’s been up at the site in the woods, and there are a number of unexpected boot tracks in the snow leading from the road up to the wood and back. He’s not sure how many; he thinks some might have been covered by recent snowfalls. And it seems somebody has been digging around at the chamber,’ said Helen.
‘I see. Can’t the police help?’ said Grace.
‘I did speak to the police, but there’s not much they can do, unless the looters are caught in the act. They are so short staffed that it’s not a high priority right now. I’ve spoken to a local security firm. What with all the snow and some illness, they have staff shortages too, so they can’t start any new sites right now. But they can provide cover on the site from Friday morning.’
‘That’s where we come in,’ said Davy. ‘We’re going to mount a watch in the woods until Friday to scare off the nighthawks.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ said Grace.
‘They’re fly-by-nights. As soon as they realise the site has a human presence, they’ll be off. Nothing to worry about,’ he said.
‘Okay.’ Grace did not sound convinced.
‘You think there’s nothing to worry about, Davy,’ said Helen. ‘Please, just remember what I said on the phone earlier; if these people turn up again, call it in, retire and wait for the police to arrive. No heroics!’
‘Don’t worry; I learnt my lesson last summer. I’m not taking any chances,’ said Davy.
‘That’s right, and I won’t let him,’ said Julie.
Helen noted the involuntary shiver that rippled across Julie’s shoulders when she spoke. It immediately brought back memories of how Davy had been beaten to within an inch of his life by one of Cassiter’s gang. Julie had been distraught, and for a little while, they had all feared the worst. ‘Good. See he doesn’t do anything stupid.’
Grace looked out of the window at the snow falling thickly across the garden. ‘Rather you than me. I think it’s going to be a cold one tonight.’
‘Alan said he’s put down some plastic sheeting and manoeuvred some bales of hay up into the wood to make a little windbreak for you. He’s going to meet you at the field gate this afternoon; we just have to phone before you set off.’
‘Luxury. Sure you won’t join us, Grace?’ said Davy.
‘No, I’ll be fine here, thanks.’ She nodded her head towards the window. ‘Good luck to you in that weather.’
12
Thursday, January 16th
Sam hunched his rucksack high onto his shoulders, reached out to the handrail and walked quietly up the gangway onto the fishing boat’s poop deck where he paused. The sturdy thrum of the vessel’s diesel engine indicated preparations for departure were underway; otherwise, the boat seemed deserted.
‘Hello, on board,’ shouted Sam. ‘Anyone home?’
He heard footsteps hurrying along the narrow covered walkway that reached from the open working foredeck towards where he stood at the stern of the vessel. The crewman who had blocked his and Iskinder’s access just a week or so before appeared.
‘You’re late,’ said the crewman.
Sam smiled at him. ‘I don’t think so. I’m the charterer; it’s my time. Is the skipper available?’
‘No. Come inside, I’ll show you your cabin. You must stay in it for now. Keep out of sight, until we are away from the port. Then the captain will see you.’
‘I want to speak with him before we sail.’
The crewman paused for a moment. An irritated look flashed across his face. ‘Okay, come now. I’ll tell him.’ He turned and stepped through a doorway. Its outer steel watertight door was hinged outwards and hooked open; the heavy wooden inner door hinged inwards and was also wedged open. Sam guessed the arrangement was to allow for a cooling airflow through the heart of the accommodation, which probably meant the air-conditioning was kept off in port. He hoped it wasn’t broken.
Following the crewman into the passageway, Sam counted off the internal doors. The crewman pointed through the first, also wedged open. ‘That’s the galley and mess. We all eat in there.’ They passed two further doors, one was metal, and the increased vibration coming from beyond it told Sam it was the engine room’s access door.
Then two further doors, one to either side, and finally, at the end was a steep, short stair, going down to the crew quarters and up to what Sam assumed was the wheelhouse.
The crewman stopped and opened one of the doors, waving Sam in. ‘Wait here, this is your cabin.’
‘The skipper?’
The crewman jerked his thumb towards the door on the other side of the gangway. ‘That’s his cabin. He’s busy now. Wait here.’
The cabin door was pulled shut on Sam before he could ask another question. The click of a lock had Sam reaching for the door handle. Muttering a curse to himself, he turned to the porthole, only to discover it was welded shut. He was trapped.
It took only moments to survey the cabin. Behind him was the locked door, ahead was the outer bulkhead with its welded porthole. The forward bulkhead was filled by a pair of grubby bunks, fitted tightly between two wardrobes. The aft side of the cabin contained a built-in table with fixed benches to either side; the upholstery might once have offered comfort, but today, it was as tired and uninviting as the bunks. Into the gap between the furthest away bench and the outer bulkhead was squeezed a desk, the chair in front of it secured to the deck by a short length of chain.
Sam eased off his rucksack, letting it drop down on the deck. Then he inspected the desk and swiped gingerly at the fixed chair before settling down to wait. He could do nothing else.
Once or twice, he heard muffled voices and footsteps in the passageway. While straining to hear what was being said, he didn’t bother trying to attract attention; it seemed clear that Captain Blue would have the door unlocked when he was ready and not before.
• • •
It had still been dark when the boat cast off and left harbour, setting off amid a little flotilla of other fishing boats. These were mostly smaller craft, and Sam had guessed they were committed to daytrip fishing while Captain Blue’s vessel was designed for longer voyages. From the vessel’s movement relative to the shore lights, Sam established they were heading east - not south, as he had anticipated.
Moving out from the lee of the island, the vessel began to catch the motion of the sea and developed a steady rhythmic roll from side to side as it pushed on through the water. One by one, the flotilla dispersed as each boat headed off towards its skipper’s favoured spot. Finally, as the sun came up, the last of the smaller boats peeled away, leaving Sam with a view of an empty grey-blue sea and the thrum of the diesel engine below.
It was after nine when Sam was finally released from the cabin. The crewman unlocked the cabin door and beckoned him out.
‘The skipper wants you now. Follow me.’ He turned and took the three paces to the little stair at the end of the passageway and began to climb.
Sam followed, slowly climbing the stair while checking out the surroundings. The wheelhouse was about five metres wide, reaching across the whole width of the vessel but was only three metres deep. The forward-facing bulkhead was fitted with windows that spanned the whole width to provide an uninterrupted view. The run of glass continued along the port and starboard sides. Sam glanced behind to confirm the windows continued along the aft end of the wheelhouse; they did, broken only by a door that fed out onto a little upper aft deck.
A huge, black, leather swivel chair was fitted on the centre line of the
boat. It was positioned within a waist-high U-shaped console that sprouted from the bulkhead beneath the forward-facing windows. Seated here, the skipper had an uninterrupted view of the seascape, and could reach all the key controls and access all the information needed without ever getting out of the seat.
Directly in front of the chair was a small wheel. Set on the console’s flat top, immediately forward of the wheel was a gyroscopic compass display and, beside that, an autopilot unit. Mounted in the port side arc of the console were the engine controls, a VHF radio, and closest to the chair was a radar display. The starboard side of the arc included a regular echo sounder, a fish finder display, a computer screen and keyboard, and a second radar that bookended the whole console.
The crewman moved to the port side, beyond the console, and made himself busy scanning the horizon. There was a larger wheel there, currently unused. As Sam reached the top of the stair, the captain swung his chair round to face him and gave a dry smile.
‘There you are. Welcome aboard. Enjoying the trip?’ said Captain Blue.
Sam stepped across the wheelhouse deck, and steadied himself with a hand on a radar housing. ‘Captain, I don’t appreciate being locked up. Don’t forget, I’m the customer here. What were you playing at?’
The skipper gave Sam an innocent smile and shrugged his shoulders. ‘What could I do? It was best you were not seen. I could not risk one of the other skippers seeing you wandering around as we all left port. Where would our secret be then?’
‘You just needed to explain.’
‘My friend, I was busy. The harbour master often likes to stop by for a little drink in my cabin before we sail. He could not see you. You understand this, yes?’
Sam gave a grudging nod. Captain Blue’s reasoning was sound enough, but Sam felt it didn’t ring quite true.
‘You’ll have a coffee with me now? Come, we have things to arrange.’ He issued instructions to the crewman who headed for the galley while Blue waved Sam forward then switched his attention away, briefly looking in turn at each of the radar screens.
Sam leaned his hip against the forward bulkhead while looking down onto the foredeck. To the port side was stowed the fishing gear. To the starboard side were two powerful-looking RIBs, one modest in size the other larger; they were absolutely not fishing boat standard issue.
Sam was impressed at the range of navigation equipment. There was far more, and all of it much more modern, than might be expected for a boat of this age and apparent condition.
‘You like my ship?’ said Blue. ‘Great kit, yes?’ He swept his arm around the wheelhouse.
‘Yes, very good and more impressive than I’d anticipated,’ said Sam, eyeing one of the radars with its automatic traffic plotting display.
‘You think this is good, you should see the engines. I’ve had a lot of work done on them. We’re doing eight knots here. Slow and steady, nobody asks questions.’ He broke off to give a hearty laugh and reached his hand out to rest it on the engine controls. ‘When we need it, there is all the power you could want to outrun patrol boats anytime.’
Sam feigned being impressed. ‘But what about NATO warships? You won’t outrun them.’
Blue managed to both scowl and smile at the same time. ‘NATO? Why are they even here? But look, why would I want to outrun them? I’m just a fisherman.’ He waved a hand out towards the open deck ahead of the bridge where the fishing equipment was stowed. Sam judged it had never been used.
‘What about the RIBs?’
‘Humanitarian equipment, my friend. God willing, we will never need to rescue migrants. But we must be ready, yes? My soul could not live on if I were unable to help poor people in distress.’
Sam smiled and returned his attention to the immediate surroundings where the gyrocompass displayed a heading of ninety degrees - they were still heading east.
‘So, captain, seems to me, if you keep this course, you are heading for Crete, and we’ll never get to Libya. What’s going on?’
Blue stood and leant across the console to slap Sam on the shoulder. ‘Ha, my friend. It seems you know more about boats than I thought. You can read a compass heading. Good, good. I like a man who knows things. It can make life easier for me.
‘We go east all day, maybe a bit of evening too. Then tonight, we turn and head southwest for Libya. We will be ready to drop you safely ashore before dawn.’
‘You said you had friends there and could make arrangements. What can you tell me about the situation at Leptis Magna?’
‘It is all arranged for you. My friends have influence along that part of the coast. There will be no patrols at Leptis Magna tomorrow …’ Breaking off, he beckoned to his crewman who had appeared at the top of the stair with two huge mugs of coffee gripped in one hand. Taking one mug, he waved his man towards Sam. ‘And tomorrow is Friday; people will go to the mosque - a quiet day for your visit. As long as you don’t do anything stupid, you will be left undisturbed.’
‘These must be good friends of yours to be so helpful.’
‘Rich friends, richer still now. They demanded a lot of money for your visit. A lot of money.’ Captain Blue shrugged and lifted his mug towards Sam in salute. ‘But it seems your African church friends have enough to pay and more. So everyone wins.’
‘Everyone wins,’ echoed Sam, wondering what slice Captain Blue had added to the bill for his own benefit. He took a welcome drink of the surprisingly good coffee.
‘You will have all day Friday to do whatever it is you want, and we will pick you up one hour after dark from the same spot where we drop you. Be careful though, my friends have the power locally not to discover you for a little while. If you attract attention from the extremists or miss the boat, they cannot help you, and I cannot wait. You will be on your own.’
‘Okay. Thanks for the coffee. I think I’ll get something to eat now then spend some time focusing on what’s ahead. Perhaps we can cover the detail later?’
‘Of course, go, eat. The food is yours.’
• • •
Davy and Julie had settled inside the little three-sided shelter of straw bales. A sheet of plastic beneath kept them clear of the wet ground. Another was secured tight across the top to keep out the worst of the weather. A free front flap was fixed down with the stout stick Julie had used as a walking staff to help cross the snowfield to the wood. They snuggled together in a sleeping bag, keeping warm while alert to any sounds or disturbance at the site.
In the morning, classmates would arrive to relieve them, but the night had begun to seem very long.
‘I doubt anyone would be mad enough to come out in this weather,’ Julie said into Davy’s ear, as she cuddled in just a little closer.
‘I know. This is probably a waste of time tonight. The weather’s just awful, but we made a promise.’
Julie gave a little laugh. ‘Yes, we promised. And every cloud has a silver lining.’ She snuggled closer still.
‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’ Davy wrapped his arms around her, and they were quickly oblivious to the bad weather and sounds of the night. A little while later, they dozed off.
• • •
‘Psst. Psst,’ Julie hissed quietly into Davy’s ear, gently shaking his arm. ‘Wake up, Davy. Wake up.’
Davy pulled himself from sleep. ‘What’s up?’
‘Listen, can you hear anything?’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know, listen.’
Davy forced his arm up, gripped the sleeping bag zipper and pulled it down just enough to release his arm. His loosed hand swept the hood back so he could hear more clearly.
‘What is it, Davy?’
‘You’re right there is something out there. I don’t know what.’ He pulled the zipper down further and slipped out of the sleeping bag. Once clear, he pulled on his boots, fastened his clothes and turned up his collar. ‘It’s cold, that much I do know.’
Clamping a woollen hat on his head, he slipped quietly out into the night. The wind h
ad dropped away while they had dozed, and now everything was still. Whatever they had heard was not wind driven. In the dark woods, only black and silence prevailed.
Julie’s head emerged through the flap. ‘It’s quiet, perhaps I imagined it.’
They both listened for a moment. ‘Perhaps you did,’ said Davy. He was just starting the weary slide back under cover when he froze and sensed Julie tensing beside him. The sound they had just heard was not natural. He placed his hand on Julie’s shoulder. ‘Get back under cover. I’m going to take a look. Get your phone ready, in case we need the police.’
Before Julie could object, he vanished into the night. She shivered a little and felt in her pocket for the phone, all the while listening out for sounds and praying Davy would be alright.
It seemed only moments later that she jumped at a figure suddenly looming into view over their hide. Then she relaxed a little; it was Davy.
‘Call the police. There’s definitely somebody in the trench. I can see a light bobbing, and they’re digging about. You call it in; I’m going to challenge them.’
‘Davy, just wait …’ Julie’s voice faded as she realised she was speaking to herself. Davy had gone again.
After a moment of exasperation, she scrabbled to put in the phone call. Her whispered conversation with the emergency call handler was difficult, but eventually, she ended it, satisfied that help had been summoned. Crawling out of the hide, she set off into the darkness, gingerly probing the unseen ground ahead with her makeshift walking staff. Where was Davy? She paused a moment to listen.
Julie knew the trench should only be a few paces off but had become disoriented in the dark. Now she didn’t know where the trench was, was not even sure she could make it back to their bale hide. A sudden shiver ran down her spine; she was lost in the night.
Cautiously, without advancing or retreating any distance, she shuffled her feet to describe a circle, scanning into the darkness as she turned. Davy was gone; there were no telltale torchlights, nothing. Only blackness and the deeper black that she knew were tree trunks.
