Death Train

Eleven

An airport official telephoned the helicopter pilot at 4.15 the following morning to tell him the fog had lifted sufficiently over the Adriatic for him to attempt the flight to Dubrovnik. Within ten minutes he, Graham and Sabrina had checked out of the hotel and within twenty-five minutes air traffic control had given the helicopter clearance for takeoff. As soon as they were airborne Graham and Sabrina removed wetsuits from the holdall which had been left, on their instructions, in a locker at the airport. In the confined space it was no easy task to strip down to the T-shirt and shorts they were wearing underneath their thick winter clothes and pull on the suits.

By the time they reached Dubrovnik two-and-a-half hours later the fog had already dissipated and the first shafts of dawn light stippled the darkened horizon like the initial brushstrokes of a magnificent watercolour.

The pilot pointed downwards as they flew over the section of harbour owned by Werner Freight. It was a much smaller area than the Trieste complex, comprising only two wharves and a line of warehouses painted in the company’s distinctive colours of black, red and yellow.

The pilot, having already radioed ahead to the harbour authorities, had established that the Napoli had yet to dock in Dubrovnik, its arrival time now uncertain due to the delay caused by the fog. There was currently no ship berthed at either of the two wharves.

When the pilot banked the helicopter away from the harbour to rendezvous at a predetermined spot marked on a chart which had also been included in the holdall, Graham and Sabrina slipped on their flippers and facemasks, then put their Berettas and black plimsolls into the waterproof pouches and secured them to clips at their waists. The coordinates on the chart turned out to be an area some five hundred metres off-shore. It was the perfect place for the drop. When the pilot had lowered the helicopter to within ten feet of the water he nodded his head vigorously, the signal for them to deplane. No sooner had they jumped through the open hatchway and hit the water than the helicopter ascended and wheeled away over Ploce Beach towards the airport.

They were both experienced swimmers and consequently neither had any difficulty in covering the distance to the wharf, the last hundred metres being swum underwater using snorkels to avoid detection in the beam of the powerful floodlights which were still on despite the growing light of day. Once at the wharf they rested for a couple of minutes then Graham led the way to a rusty steel ladder at the juncture of Wharves Seven and Eight. He climbed it until his eyes were level with the newly tarred surface of the wharf. The area was deserted except for a company Land Rover parked outside the warehouse facing directly on to Wharf Eight.

The warehouse door suddenly opened and a man emerged, an Italian Spectre sub-machine-gun slung over his shoulder. Graham ducked down, waiting for the sound of approaching footsteps. There was none. He raised his head slowly then cursed under his breath. The man was standing on the other side of the Land Rover, his head bent forward to light his cigarette. He tossed the spent match aside then leaned back against the passenger door and folded his arms across his chest. There was no route into the warehouse without disturbing the man and even Graham didn’t fancy his chances against the Spectre, arguably the most lethal short-range machine-pistol on the market. He whispered to Sabrina and in reply she removed her flippers while balancing with one hand gripped around the strut of the ladder.

She handed them to him then slipped on her plimsolls and tucked the Beretta into the webbing around her waist.

‘Distract his attention when I give the signal.’

‘Oh, yeah? Have you any idea just how potent the Spectre is?’

‘Sure. It’s got a fifty-round magazine and has an effective range of a hundred-and-fifty metres.’ She put her hand lightly on his arm. ‘He won’t get off a shot. Trust me.’

She climbed up on to the wharf before he could reply and moved cautiously, doubled-over, to the near side of the Land Rover. Crouched down on her haunches, she quickly assessed the situation before giving Graham a nod. He ducked out of sight and a moment later tossed her flippers up on to the wharf. The guard swung round sharply and unslung the Spectre, waiting for the owner of the flippers to come into view. After a few seconds he frowned and took several hesitant steps towards the edge of the wharf. He stopped, now clear of the Land Rover, his back to Sabrina. She rose ghost-like from her hiding place and chopped her hand down viciously on the side of his neck. He crumpled to the ground.

‘Mike!’ she hissed.

Graham scrambled up on to the wharf where he helped her push the unconscious guard under the Land Rover.

‘Hendrique’s here,’ he announced, after peering through the driver’s window.

She shouldered the Spectre. ‘How do you know?’

He pointed to the brown attaché case on the back seat. ‘It contains the game I played with him on the train.’

‘So if Hendrique’s here–’

‘It’s fair to assume Werner’s with him.’

She opened the door fractionally but all she could see was several crates, each with the now familiar Werner logo stamped on the side, stacked neatly against the wall. She gripped the Beretta tightly in her hand and pushed the door open further. The shadowy warehouse was divided into three rows of stacked packing crates with two spacious passages left between them for easy vehicle and machine manoeuvrability. They slipped inside and Graham closed the door silently behind him.

‘We each take a passage,’ he whispered.

She shook her head. ‘I say we stick together. There are at least four of them plus who knows how many guards. All armed.’

He conceded with a shrug.

They reached the end of the passage and he was about to turn into the second section of the L-shaped building when she grabbed his arm and put a finger to her lips. They both listened but could hear nothing.

‘I heard voices,’ she whispered.

‘They’ve got to be around somewhere. Come on.’

He pressed his back against the crates, the Beretta held barrel upwards by his face, then peered carefully into the adjoining passage. It was deserted. The section was laid out like the one they were in, with three rows of crates spanning the two hundred metres to the far wall. He indicated the middle row and they darted into one of the narrow apertures between the crates where he was able to look out into the other passage.

Werner was seated at a table with his back to them in a glass panelled office at the end of the passage. He was playing cards with Kyle and Milchan. Hendrique was leaning against the wall, watching them. The Franchi SPAS shotgun lay on the filing cabinet beside him.

‘Remember what the boss said about shooting to kill,’ Graham said.

‘I know what he said. I was there, remember?’

He lapsed into silence. She placed the Spectre on the ground behind her, then crouched down to study the best angle for her intended shot. She rested her right wrist on her left forearm to steady her arm and lined up the back of Werner’s head in the rear and frontsight.

‘What’s that noise?’ she whispered.

‘What noise?’

‘It’s like a rustling sound.’

‘Rats probably,’ he said indifferently. ‘Yeah, there’s a hole in the bottom of the crate by your foot. They’ll be in there.’

An image of the crate teeming with bloated, scurrying rats filled her mind and she stumbled backwards out into the second passage, the Beretta clattering to the ground.

Hendrique already had the shotgun in his hand when he turned to investigate the noise.

Graham launched himself at her at the same instant Hendrique fired through the office window. He felled her with a low, brutal football tackle a split-second before the shotgun cartridge ripped a jagged hole in the crate directly behind them. Hendrique kept them covered while Kyle and Milchan collected the fallen weapons, which included the Beretta from Graham’s webbing belt.

As they were yanked to their feet both Sabrina and Graham noticed the contents of the damaged crates. AK47s.

Werner ignored them when they were brought into the office. He was glaring at Hendrique.

‘So much for your hand-picked guards. Or perhaps these two were beamed down into the warehouse by a spaceship.’

For once Hendrique had no reply to Werner’s sarcasm.

‘I had a feeling we’d meet again,’ Werner said to Sabrina. ‘Actually you’ve timed your arrival to perfection. I was about to leave. My seaplane’s in the hangar, refuelled and ready for takeoff.’

‘What about the Napoli?’ she asked.

‘It’s got to make up for lost time so it won’t be docking in Dubrovnik after all. As for me, I’m going home. Hendrique’s now officially in charge.’

‘So the detonator goes to Hendrique?’

‘Come now, Mr Graham, I’d hardly have expected such an illogical question to come from someone as experienced as you.’ Werner gave Hendrique a contemptuous look. ‘He’s a mercenary, an arms and drug smuggler, he’s ruled by money. The Socialist cause has never meant anything to him. If he had the detonator he’d probably hold it to ransom.’

‘That’s enough,’ Hendrique snapped angrily.

‘Well, wouldn’t you?’ Werner challenged, then turned back to Graham. ‘The detonator stays with me. It’s quite simple really. If you hadn’t come along when you did I’d have flown out and nobody would have been any the wiser. My defection won’t be announced until the Napoli’s cargo has reached its destination safely, so your superiors will naturally presume I’m still within detonating distance and give the freighter a wide berth. A point borne out by your presence here now. If you hadn’t taken my threat seriously you’d have already boarded the Napoli.’ He picked up a travelling bag from beside the table. ‘I wanted you alive on the train so you could pass on my instructions to your superiors. Now, I’m afraid, I want you dead. I’ll leave that in Hendrique’s capable hands.’

‘Radio through to the other guards, I’ll meet them round the front,’ Hendrique said to Kyle.

Hendrique strode briskly through the warehouse and out on to the wharf. The other two guards were already there, both kneeling down beside the third one. He hauled the dazed guard to his feet and shoved him up against the Land Rover. ‘You’ve humiliated me in front of Werner.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the guard mumbled, massaging his neck.

He withdrew his Desert Eagle and shot the guard at point-blank range, then swung round to face the other two guards. ‘I won’t tolerate failure. I want you both to stay here and for God’s sake keep your eyes open.’

He removed the attaché case from the Land Rover and disappeared back into the warehouse.

‘What was that shooting?’ Werner demanded when Hendrique entered the office.

‘A disciplinary matter,’ Hendrique replied, then removed the board from the attaché case.

Kyle cleared the cards and the coffee mugs from the table while Hendrique removed one of the overhead strip lights and attached the crocodile clips to the power source.

‘What are you going to do, play them off against each other?’ Kyle asked excitedly.

‘That’s not a bad idea now you come to mention it, but what I had in mind was letting Graham pit his skills against Milchan.’ Hendrique looked at Milchan.

‘It’s up to you.’

Milchan tapped his chest then drew his finger across his throat.

‘In case you didn’t understand that, Graham, you and Milchan will be playing to the death.’

‘And if I refuse?’ Graham said defiantly.

‘Then I’ll be forced to shoot your beautiful assistant,’ Kyle said.

‘Partner,’ Sabrina corrected automatically.

‘Tie her to the chair,’ Hendrique said to Milchan. ‘She can have a ringside seat.’

‘I’m sorry it had to end like this, Sabrina,’ Werner said softly, then turned to leave, his footsteps echoing into the distance.

‘I reckon he fancied you, darling. Not that I blame him,’ Kyle said with a twisted smile and reached out to touch her face.

She bit his hand.

‘Bitch,’ he snarled, raising the Spectre to strike her.

Graham shoved past Hendrique and punched Kyle to the ground.

Hendrique pressed the shotgun into Graham’s neck. ‘Tie his feet.’

Milchan grabbed Graham’s arm and led him to the nearest chair.

‘You’ll pay for that,’ Kyle snapped, aiming the Spectre at Graham.

Hendrique pushed the Spectre barrel towards the ground. ‘You’re beginning to get on my nerves, Eddie. Go and do something constructive, like starting up the helicopter.’

‘But I want to watch,’ Kyle whined, pointing to the board on the table.

‘We’re not staying, we’ve got work to do. Now get the helicopter started.’

Kyle reluctantly handed the Spectre to Hendrique and left the office.

Hendrique crossed to the board and placed both hands on the pads, raising one and then the other. The shock on both occasions passed harmlessly through the bracelets. He took a key from the pouch inside the attaché case and turned it through one revolution in a lock on the side of the board. A red light came on beside the lock.

‘I’ve dispensed with the first two games. Put on the bracelets.’

Both men snapped the bracelets around their wrists, locked them, then put the keys in the centre of the board.

‘I’ve activated the death shock. Even your wetsuit won’t save you, Graham.’

‘You’re assuming I’ll pull off first,’ Graham said.

‘I know you’ll pull off first. Milchan only ever plays when the death shock’s in operation. He’s still alive.’ Hendrique touched the shotgun against Sabrina’s neck. ‘If you don’t push down simultaneously with Milchan I’ll kill her.’

Graham glanced at her. She smiled weakly.

‘Your call, Graham,’ Hendrique said, tightening his grip on the shotgun.

Milchan rested his hand lightly on the pad, his eyes never leaving Graham’s face. Graham exhaled deeply then placed his palm on the other pad.

‘Now,’ Graham commanded.

They both pressed their hands down on to the pads.

‘Sorry I can’t stay to watch you die, Graham, but we’re already well behind schedule.’ With that Hendrique walked out into the warehouse.

Sabrina tried to loosen her tethered hands as soon as he was out of sight but Milchan had knotted the cloth over her wrists, out of reach of her fingers. She then used her momentum to shift the chair round until she was sitting with her back to the shattered windowpane.

‘Mike–?’

‘Don’t worry about me, I’m okay,’ he replied without taking his eyes off Milchan’s face.

She glanced over her shoulder. The chair was a foot away from the window. She would have to tilt the chair back against the transom but knew in doing so she could easily impale her hands or wrists on the jagged glass protruding from it. It was a risk she had to take. She rocked the chair by propelling her body backwards and forwards, building up enough of a rhythm to topple it back against the transom. Her first thought was one of relief at not having cut herself, but the moment she moved her hand she nicked her thumb and felt blood trickle down across her palm. By carefully tapping with her forefinger she discovered she had cut her thumb on a splinter of glass about five inches long. She pressed the cloth against the splinter’s serrated edge and moved her wrists up and down, using the glass as a saw. Within seconds it had shredded and she was able to reach down and untie her feet.

‘What must I do, Mike? Disconnect the clips?’

The indicator read six.

‘Unlock my bracelet,’ he replied tersely.

‘Why not disconnect it at the mains?’

‘Unlock my bracelet, Sabrina!’

She picked up the two keys, then another thought came to mind. ‘What if it’s booby-trapped?’

‘It’s not, trust me,’ he replied, his face showing the first signs of pain.

She unlocked the bracelet. With his free hand he reached across and snapped the bracelet around Milchan’s wrist inches below the other one.

The indicator read eight.

Beads of sweat were running down Milchan’s scarred face as he stared in terror at Graham’s hand on the pressure pad.

‘Maybe I should prove Hendrique right and pull off first. It’s not as though I’ve got anything to lose. What do you think, Milchan?’ Graham managed a smile despite the increasing level of current passing through his body.

‘Mike, don’t!’ Sabrina shouted. ‘You can’t murder him in cold blood.’

The indicator read nine.

‘He would have murdered you in cold blood if he’d won and you were still tied to the chair. You know what they say about what’s good for the goose–’

She took a hesitant step towards the mains cable leading to the light socket.

‘Don’t touch it! This one’s personal.’

‘Killing him won’t bring Carrie and Mikey back,’ she blurted out before she could stop herself.

The indicator read ten.

He stared at her and the pain seemed to disappear from his eyes even though his arm was shuddering from the amount of current surging through it. Then, without warning, he yanked hard on the cable, disconnecting the clips from the overhead socket.

Milchan slumped back in his chair, his chest heaving as he sucked in deep mouthfuls of air.

Graham and Sabrina had their backs to the glass panel and consequently neither of them saw the guard until he confronted them in the doorway.

‘Mr Hendrique told me to come back here and see if you needed a hand,’ the guard said to Milchan who was busy unlocking the bracelets from his wrist. ‘Looks like I got here just in time.’

Milchan nodded in agreement then crossed to where the guard was standing.

‘Mr Hendrique said I was to kill them if they were still alive,’ the guard said, then trained his machine-pistol on them.

Milchan clamped his spade-like hands on either side of the guard’s face and twisted his head violently, snapping the bones in his neck as though they were brittle twigs. He dumped the dead man in the corner of the office then tapped his own chest and pointed to each of them in turn, his mouth moving silently as he tried to express himself.

‘He says now we’re even,’ Sabrina said, reading his lips.

Graham caught him on the side of the chin with a haymaker. Milchan was unconscious before he hit the floor.

‘Now we’re even.’

She gave Graham a quizzical look then retrieved the Berettas from the top of the filing cabinet and tossed one to him. ‘We might still be able to stop Stefan.’

He grabbed her arm. ‘We’re going to have a little chat once this is over. About rats.’

She nodded then picked up the Spectre.

They split up once they were in the warehouse, meeting up again at the entrance where they had to step over the guard killed by Hendrique to get on to the wharf.

Day was dawning.

They heard the sound of an aircraft engine roaring into life within the confines of a dome-shaped corrugated-iron structure jutting out into the sea at the end of Wharf Eight and sprinted the two hundred metres to its wooden door where they pressed themselves against the wall on either side of it, Berettas drawn. She turned the handle slowly then jerked the door open. He dived low through the doorway, rolling twice across the concrete floor before getting in a shot at the startled guard. The bullet hit him in the neck, knocking him backwards into the water. The distraction gave Werner the few valuable seconds he needed to open the throttle and head the seaplane out on to the open water. There were half a dozen speedboats moored in the hangar. Graham was half a second behind her as Sabrina ran to a seventeen-foot 170 GTS and climbed inside.

‘You know how to pilot one of these things?’

‘Are you kidding?’ She replied with a grin. ‘My father’s got a forty-footer moored off Miami. I spend most of my time zooming around in it whenever I’m down there.’

She waited for him to cast off then started up the 90-hp Yamaha motor and sped out of the hangar after the fleeing seaplane.

The more she thought about it the more guilty she felt about having squandered her chance back at the warehouse. Werner had been the perfect target. All she would have needed was another couple of seconds–

When the speedboat drew abreast of the seaplane they caught a glimpse of Werner’s face through the cockpit door window, his lips moving rapidly as he shouted into the radio. She arced the speedboat across in front of the seaplane, forcing Werner to reduce speed and change direction. He was playing into her hands. The narrow extension of the harbour wall lay directly in front of the seaplane, its unmanned lighthouse flashing ineffectually as the first rays of sun glistened across the cold, uninviting water. Her plan was to shepherd the seaplane towards the harbour wall, knowing he was already too close to clear it, by hemming him in on the other three sides in ever decreasing circles. Graham held the Spectre, waiting for Werner’s first mistake.

Werner realized what she was trying to do and desperately searched for a way out. He was so close to going home. There was only one option open to him. He had to take it. He waited until the speedboat was on the starboard side, nearest the shore, then swivelled the seaplane in a forty-five degree turn and headed out towards the open sea. Sabrina slewed the speedboat around so violently that Graham almost lost his footing, having to grab on to the perspex windscreen to prevent himself from falling overboard. The speedboat skimmed across the water as she forced the seaplane away from the open sea and back towards the wall like a sheepdog manoeuvring a maverick bellwether into its pen. Werner had the speed he wanted but he was being forced even closer to the tip of the harbour wall. In desperation he ripped the chain from his neck and pressed it threateningly against the cockpit door window. He eased the stick back and felt the landing pads lift off the water. Graham fired at the rising plane. The bullets chewed an uneven line across the fuselage and Werner jerked back from the controls, the detonator spinning from his hand. The plane, already fifteen feet in the air, went out of control. It was on a collision course with the lighthouse. Werner, bleeding profusely from a bullet wound in his right shoulder, managed to tilt the nose away from the lighthouse wall but although the fuselage missed it by inches the right wing and landing pad were sheared off as though they were made of cardboard. The seaplane pirouetted grotesquely before landing heavily in the sea. It immediately listed to the right as water rushed through an aperture caused by the buckling of the cockpit door. Werner, his body racked with pain, tried to move but found to his horror that his foot was wedged between the door and a metal strut under the seat. The seaplane shuddered as the flooded tail section dipped beneath the water.

Then he saw the detonator dangling at the end of the chain, trapped between the shattered windscreen and the dashboard. He ripped the chain free and flicked back the detonator cap.

He smiled triumphantly as he looked up at the approaching speedboat.

‘Stefan, no!’ Sabrina screamed.

The seaplane bucked and the fuselage disappeared underwater the moment Graham fired a burst from the Spectre. The bullets ripped harmlessly into the now near-vertical nose.

Werner pressed the button.

Graham and Sabrina instinctively ducked, their eyes screwed up in anticipation of the inevitable explosion.

There was only silence.

Werner pressed the detonator a second and third time. The only noise was the water flooding into the cockpit. He closed his hand slowly around the detonator.

The cockpit, and finally the nose, slid beneath the waves.

Sabrina rested her forearms on the windscreen and watched the water bubbling angrily in the wake of the submerged seaplane. ‘And to think he was one of the world’s leading businessmen. Christ, Mike, he was prepared to take half of Europe with him.’

Graham tossed the Spectre on to the seat behind him, then ran his fingers through his damp, tousled hair. ‘You think he was mad?’

‘Wasn’t he?’

‘He was a fanatic, he believed what he was doing would ultimately further his cause.’

‘Including the destruction of half of Europe?’

‘If necessary,’ he said bluntly. ‘Fanatics are driven by passion, not madness. Were the Japanese kamikaze pilots mad?’

‘It’s a form of madness.’

‘It’s a form of extremism,’ he countered.

They heard the sound of rotors in the distance behind them and Sabrina slipped the speedboat into gear then turned it around to face the oncoming helicopter. It was a thirty-feet Augusta Bell JetRanger, the Werner logo displayed prominently on either side of its fuselage.

Kyle was at the controls, Hendrique beside him.

When the helicopter was fifty yards away it dipped into a steep dive and Hendrique fired a burst from his Spectre through the open cockpit door. The bullets went wide of the speedboat.

Graham resisted the temptation to fire at the undercarriage as the helicopter flew over the speedboat; he had only one magazine and every bullet would have to count. Sabrina swung the wheel violently and made for the sanctuary of the harbour. Kyle banked the helicopter in a wide arc and homed in on the speedboat, dipping it low overhead. Graham dropped the Spectre as he and Sabrina flung themselves to the floor, and it was lost overboard. They were down to two handguns against whatever arsenal Hendrique had stored aboard the helicopter.

Hendrique dropped the first grenade as the helicopter swept low across the speedboat’s bow. Sabrina had to take immediate evasive action by slewing the speedboat to the side and moments later the grenade exploded, showering them in a fine spray of water. A second grenade, dropped from a higher altitude, exploded within a couple of feet of the speedboat and Sabrina had to use all her expertise to keep control of the wheel when the hull was pitched out of the water by the resulting wave. She zigzagged the speedboat through the water, making it impossible for Hendrique to drop a third grenade with any degree of accuracy. They reached the temporary shelter of the hangar. It was a stalemate. If they ventured out the helicopter would be waiting for them. If the helicopter descended into view its occupants would be perfect targets.

The helicopter swept past the hangar and Hendrique flung a grenade through the entrance.

The speedboat was idling too far back for the explosion to do any harm but they both knew it would be only a matter of time before Hendrique started to use his Spectre. Bullets fired indiscriminately into the confines of the largely unprotected hangar could go anywhere.

When the helicopter returned Hendrique did use his Spectre, sending them both diving for cover again. Graham was the first up and he inspected the minor structural damage. Three bullets embedded in the speedboat’s nose. Three bullets which could just as easily have hit them. Sabrina? Her name shot through his mind and there was a certain reluctance in his limbs to move as he turned to look behind him. She lay sprawled across the linoleum floor at the back of the boat.

Kyle was preparing for another run when the speedboat emerged from the hangar, its hull barely moving through the water, with Graham standing despondently behind the wheel.

Hendrique ordered Kyle to take the helicopter lower.

‘She’s dead. You killed her, you bastard!’ Graham shouted, then cast a despairing glance over his shoulder.

She opened her eyes fractionally and winked at him.

‘I’m through with all this,’ he shouted up to the helicopter.

‘Throw your gun over the side,’ Hendrique called down to him.

Graham’s hand hovered over the Beretta in his webbing belt.

‘Do it!’ Sabrina hissed.

He threw it into the water.

The Augusta Bell was powered by a single 400-hp Allison turboshaft engine situated in the roof of the fuselage close to the rotors. She would get only one chance to hit it so it was imperative for the fuselage to be at a precise angle before she could attempt the shot. She had to immobilize an engine she couldn’t even see.

The fuselage was almost broadside on and her fingers tightened around the Beretta at her side. Any moment now and the whole target would be in sight. A distracted thought flashed through her mind. If she failed, Graham would be the first to die. In a strange way the thought gave her a renewed confidence in herself. The whole fuselage on Kyle’s side was now directly above her. She extended her arms upwards and fired twice.

Graham, having been told by Sabrina in the hangar to treat the speedboat like a car, accelerated away from beneath the helicopter. She vaulted over the seat and took the helm then reduced speed and pivoted the speedboat around so they could watch the helicopter.

The rotors were already slowing and Kyle was frantically struggling to restart the engine. The helicopter dropped lifelessly from the sky and pieces of the fuselage were flung into the air as it broke into two on striking the water.

‘Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that?’ Graham asked in disbelief.

She shrugged modestly then headed the speedboat out towards the open sea. Neither of them noticed a second speedboat creep gingerly from the hangar, its occupant waiting until they were a speck on the horizon before setting out after them, careful though to keep his distance.

The coastguard relayed the Napoli’s position to Sabrina over the small radio transmitter on the speedboat and twenty minutes later they sighted the 17,000 tonne freighter in the distance.

Its rusted hull was in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint and the only indication of its affiliation to the Werner empire was the company flag flying beside the Liberian flag of convenience high above the stern. As they drew closer they saw the vague outline of the company logo on the funnel underneath a fresh coat of white paint.

One of the crewmen standing by the railing pointed to the yellow ‘W’ on the speedboat’s bow and a rope ladder was immediately dropped over to the side of the ship. Graham managed to secure the speedboat to the foot of the rope ladder and as he negotiated his way up the side of the hull he was thankful the sea was still relatively calm. Hands reached out through the railings and helped him over the side and on to the deck. He then gestured for Sabrina to follow. She was halfway up the ladder when an observant crewman noticed the gentle curves beneath her wetsuit and word quickly spread across the deck that a woman was about to come aboard. When she did finally clamber on to the ship she was met with an onslaught of wolf whistles and lascivious suggestions.

‘Where’s the captain?’ Graham demanded of the nearest crewman.

The crewman’s answer was to point to the bridge.

The captain, a stout Irishman called Flaherty, eyed them suspiciously when they appeared on the bridge. The Beretta tucked into Sabrina’s webbing belt didn’t go unnoticed by him.

‘Who are you and what do you want?’

‘There’s been a change of plan, you’re to dock in Dubrovnik after all,’ Graham said.

‘Just like that?’ Flaherty said sarcastically. ‘For your information I only take my orders from one person. Mr Werner himself.’

‘Stefan Werner’s dead,’ Sabrina said, then took a step towards Flaherty, her hands extended in a pleading gesture. ‘It’s imperative that you change course and dock in Dubrovnik.’

Flaherty turned away and looked out across the sea, his finger feeling for the emergency button on the underside of the chart table. It set off a warning signal in the officers’ quarters of trouble on the bridge.

‘My orders are to bypass Dubrovnik altogether to make up for lost time and unless I hear differently from Mr Werner I don’t intend changing my course.’

‘Werner’s dead,’ Sabrina repeated in exasperation.

‘So you’ve said, but I’ve got no reason to believe you.’

‘I’ve had enough of this crap,’ Graham interjected and pulled the Beretta from Sabrina’s belt before she could stop him. He held it inches from Flaherty’s unshaven face. ‘Give the order to change course for Dubrovnik.’

Flaherty swallowed nervously, silently cursing the apparent lethargy of his officers in responding to the emergency. ‘I don’t know who you are or what organization you represent but I can’t believe you’d actually hijack a grain ship bound for Africa. If you’ve got a grudge against Mr Werner why take it out on the thousands of starving people whose lives depend on this shipment reaching the relief camps in time?’

‘I said, give the order!’ Graham snarled.

The helmsman glanced at Flaherty. ‘What must I do, sir?’

‘Nothing,’ Flaherty replied defiantly.

The door leading on to the bridge burst open and two men entered, each toting a dated Thompson sub-machine-gun. Graham swivelled Flaherty around to face the sub-machine guns, the Beretta tucked into the folds of the captain’s sweaty neck.

‘Mike, wait!’ Sabrina said, then addressed Flaherty. ‘We’ll make a deal with you.’

‘I don’t think you’re in any position to make a deal.’

‘Perhaps not, but then neither are you. Here’s the deal. We release you unharmed if you give the order to drop anchor then contact the authorities personally and ask them to come on board.’

Flaherty chuckled. ‘You want me to contact the authorities?’

‘It would be to your advantage, unless you’ve got something to hide,’ she replied in a challenging tone.

‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ Flaherty answered, then gave the order to stop engines.

It would take the Napoli another three miles to come to a halt.

‘Now to contact the authorities,’ Flaherty said, still amazed at the terms.

Suddenly there was the sound of feet pounding up the metal stairs leading to the bridge, then the door was wrenched open. The two armed officers swivelled round to face the intruder.

Milchan stood in the doorway, his flickering eyes taking in the scene before him.

‘He’s okay, he works for Mr Werner,’ Flaherty said, then gave Sabrina a sidelong glance. ‘You’re becoming heavily outnumbered in here.’

Milchan closed the door behind him then stood behind the two officers and banged their heads together. They both crumpled to the ground. He picked up the sub-machine-guns and extended them towards Sabrina as though in offering. She took them from him, half expecting it to be some kind of trap. No sooner had she taken them than he turned and balled his fist menacingly at Graham. He tapped his clenched fist, then his chin, and gave Graham a thumbs-up sign.

‘What’s he trying to say?’

‘That you’ve got a good punch,’ she replied.

Milchan nodded in agreement.

‘What happens now?’ Flaherty asked, his voice apprehensive.

‘You and I take a walk to the radio room to contact the proper authorities,’ Graham said behind him.

‘Mike?’ Sabrina said, holding out her hand. ‘Our fight isn’t with the captain.’

Graham scowled at her, then reluctantly handed back her Beretta.

Flaherty pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his sweating face. ‘Who are you?’

‘We’re not at liberty to tell you,’ Sabrina replied.

Graham gestured to the door. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

‘As the ship’s captain I have the right to know what’s going on.’

‘You really don’t know what’s in that crate, do you?’ Sabrina said.

‘Crate? What–’ he trailed off, and suddenly he looked frightened. ‘You mean the one the Sikorsky brought aboard last night?’

‘What did Stefan say it contained?’

‘Machine parts,’ Flaherty replied, then looked from Sabrina to Graham. ‘Mother of God, what does it contain? And don’t say you’re not at liberty to tell me.’

‘We don’t make the rules, Captain,’ she said apologetically. ‘But the sooner we contact the authorities the sooner we can have the crate removed.’

Flaherty crossed himself. ‘Of course. I’ll take you to the radio room.’ He paused at the door to glance back at Sabrina. ‘I take it you were telling the truth when you said Mr Werner was dead?’

‘His plane crashed half an hour ago. It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow.’

‘He was a good man,’ Flaherty said, then led Graham down the metal stairs.

Four crewmen appeared and carried the two unconscious officers from the bridge.

‘How did you get here?’ Sabrina asked Milchan.

He made undulating movements with his hand.

‘Boat?’

He nodded.

‘Why are you helping us?’

He bent both sets of fingers inwards and interlocked them.

She understood the sign language gesture. Friend. ‘But I thought Hendrique was your friend?’

He shrugged his massive shoulders then rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

‘You stayed with Hendrique for the money?’ she said with a smile.

He pointed at her, then balled his fist, which she took to represent Graham, and placed his hand on the table. He then reached up his other hand and made a jerking movement, representing the flex being ripped from the light socket. He made the ‘friends’ gesture again with his hands.

She decided against telling him about the helicopter. He was probably closer to Hendrique than anyone else.

Graham and Flaherty returned.

‘How long before the boss gets here?’ she asked.

‘Five, ten minutes,’ Graham replied.

‘Five, ten minutes? I thought he was still in Prato.’

‘So did I, but it seems he arrived in Dubrovnik an hour ago.’

‘I didn’t know that crate was contraband,’ Flaherty said, getting between them. ‘Honest to God I didn’t. You’ve got to believe me.’

‘Weren’t you ever suspicious of the way Werner handled the situation? Didn’t it seem strange to you that he had this obsessive interest in one particular crate?’

‘Well, as I said to your superior–’

‘Partner!’ Sabrina interceded indignantly. ‘How many times must I say it? We’re partners.’

‘Partner. Sorry. Well, Mr Werner told me the crate contained machine parts for a laboratory in Libya and what with all this anti-Gadaffi sentiment doing the rounds he wanted to play down the fact that his company was actually doing business with them. He thought it might have given his opponents some ammunition to use against him. He assured me it was all above board. Who was I to argue? As I said earlier, I always considered Mr Werner to be a good and just man.’

A crewman appeared at the door. ‘Helicopter coming in from the south, sir.’

‘Has an area of the deck been cleared for it to land?’ Flaherty asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’ll want to go and meet it,’ Flaherty said to Graham.

‘Yeah,’ Graham replied without much enthusiasm.

‘You’ll be fine as long as you cooperate,’ Sabrina said, noticing Flaherty’s dejected look.

‘You can count on my cooperation,’ Flaherty replied.

Milchan, sitting on a wooden box in the corner of the bridge, looked up and smiled sadly at her.

‘We’ll put in a good word for you, I promise,’ she said, returning his smile.

Milchan gave her an indifferent shrug as though he had already resigned himself to the inevitability of a lengthy prison sentence.

Philpott was the first out of the Lynx helicopter after it had landed aft of the bridge. Graham indicated to the pilot not to shut down the engine then he, Philpott and Sabrina moved to the railing at the stern of the ship. Philpott listened silently as they filled him in on the latest developments.

‘So you don’t believe the captain’s involved?’

‘No, sir,’ Sabrina replied.

‘Mike?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so, sir.’ Graham glanced up at the bridge. ‘How many men have you brought with you?’

‘Five.’

‘That’s enough,’ Graham muttered.

‘Enough for what?’ Philpott replied suspiciously.

‘To handle things here. Sabrina and I want to go back to the warehouse and take a closer look at those AK47s.’

‘You don’t think this Milchan will be any trouble? These five are all on the technical staff, they’re hardly trained to deal with some marauding wrestler.’

‘You won’t have any trouble from him, sir,’ Sabrina said reassuringly.

‘I’ll see you both when the ship docks then,’ Philpott said.

They made their way towards the helicopter.

‘Mike? Sabrina?’ Philpott called out after them.

They turned, their heads ducked low.

‘Well done,’ Philpott said.

They gave him a wave then hauled themselves into the helicopter cabin and Graham closed the door after them.

The helicopter touched down on Wharf Eight and waited just long enough for them to jump out before taking off again and banking away sharply to the left as it headed back towards the Napoli.

They entered the warehouse.

‘I’ll take this section, you take the one nearest the office,’ Graham said.

‘How do we open the crates?’

‘I saw a crowbar by the door as we came in. You’re sure to find something round there.’

She decided to go straight to the office; it seemed the most logical place for storing tools.

She froze on reaching the doorway then slowly removed the Beretta from her webbing belt.

The board had been cleared from the table. In its place was a mug of coffee, still steaming.

Graham was somewhere in the warehouse, unarmed and unsuspecting.

She saw him as she turned away from the table. He was standing in the juncture between the two sections of the L-shaped warehouse. Hendrique was behind him, the shotgun barrel pressed under his chin. As she approached she noticed the deep laceration on the right-hand side of Hendrique’s face, running from the bridge of his nose down across his cheek.

‘That’s far enough,’ Hendrique said when she had come to within fifteen feet of them.

She stopped.

‘I must compliment you on your excellent shooting, Miss Carver. Kyle didn’t stand a chance but, as you can see, I’ll have a reminder of it in the years to come.’

‘It’s over, Hendrique,’ she said. ‘Werner’s dead and the plutonium’s been recovered. Even Milchan’s turned against you.’

‘Milchan?’ Hendrique said contemptuously. ‘You’re welcome to him although I don’t know what use he’ll be to you. He never knew what was in those kegs – how else do you think I got him to babysit them from Lausanne to Trieste? With the amount of radiation he’s been exposed to over the past few days I can’t see him lasting out the month.’

‘You put him in that freight car knowing it would kill him?’

‘Someone had to do it,’ Hendrique replied indifferently. ‘As for the plutonium, I didn’t want anything to do with it anyway but the KGB had other ideas and used a little blackmail to persuade me to see it their way.’

‘What about those AK47’s?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been using Werner Freight for three, four years now as a means of transporting arms around the world. Werner knew nothing about it. It was purely coincidental that he and I should end up working together. I’d been hoping to shift at least part of this shipment.’ He shrugged. ‘Too bad. At least I’ll get away safely.’

‘You’re not going anywhere. Not this time,’ she said, levelling the Beretta at Hendrique’s head.

‘The shotgun is loaded, only I don’t know whether the cartridges survived in the water. Not that I think you’d shoot anyway. Graham’s life isn’t in any danger. I’ll release him unarmed as soon as I’ve put enough distance between myself and the authorities.’

‘Shoot him!’ Graham shouted as Hendrique took his first tentative step backwards.

She wavered, just as she had done on the train. The photograph of Carrie and Mikey came to mind. Carrie with her alluring brown eyes and Mikey with his cheeky, mischievous face. Innocent victims of justice. Then she remembered Graham’s words after he had allowed Hendrique to win the electronic board game on the train. ‘–the one with the stronger willpower always wins. Intimidation invariably leads to defeat–’

She fired.

The bullet struck Hendrique above the right eye. Graham’s arm swept across his chest, knocking the barrel out from under his chin. Hendrique toppled backwards against a row of crates, then slid to the ground, the surprise still mirrored in his sightless eyes.

Graham prised the shotgun from Hendrique’s hand, pointed it at the wall, and squeezed the trigger. Plaster and mortar erupted into the air as the cartridge tore a jagged crevice in the wall.

Sabrina’s face went pale.

He tossed the shotgun casually on to Hendrique’s body. ‘You win some, you lose some.’

For a moment she thought he was going to put his arm around her shoulders.

Instead he gave her a pat on the back.

‘You’re okay, partner.’

She watched him walk out on to the wharf then smiled to herself. Hardly a eulogy, but it was a start.