Poseidon's Ransom

Chapter Forty Four

The MV Salena slowly eased up to the dock in the Port of Algiers. It took several minutes for the lines to be secured and the covered gangway attached. Jack and Bogdan, feeling decidedly better than the night before, had managed to get a shower and clean up. They now stood with the hundreds of other eager passengers, waiting to disembark. From their boat-deck vantage point, Jack could see the British Embassy vehicle, a shiny new Land Rover, waiting next to the Terminal. As each passenger disembarked, four stewards scanned their boarding cards, electronically removing them from the ships manifest. The procedure took a lot longer than Jack would have liked, but twenty minutes later they were in the Arrivals Hall.

A young man, dressed in an immaculate pale grey linen suit, approached. ‘Mr Castle, Mr Markov?’

As he offered his hand, Jack said, ‘Yes, I’m Castle.’

‘Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Tony Havers, British Embassy. Welcome to Algiers.’ The accent was North of England.

‘Thank you, Tony,’ said Jack. ‘Where you from?’

The Embassy man smiled. ‘Cumbria, a little place near Kendal.’

Jack returned the smile. ‘I was brought up in Windermere.’

‘Yes, I know, and Mr Sterling sends his regards, sir.’

Jack nodded slightly. ‘Ah, you’re with his team.’

‘That’s correct, sir. If you’ll follow me, please. We don’t need to go through this,’ he gestured towards the crowd waiting for Immigration.

As they bypassed the Immigration desks, Havers shook hands with a smartly dressed Immigration Officer, and said in perfect Arabic, ‘Shukran, sidi.’

The officer nodded. ‘Afwan, habibi.’

As they drove from the Terminal, the Embassy man turned to Jack, and said, ‘The Ambassador is attending a Government function this evening, sir. He sends his best regards and apologies for not meeting you.’

‘Please convey our thanks, when you see him next.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘So, when do we fly out, Tony?’

‘You’re booked on Air France, this evening. Wheels up at twenty-three hundred.’

The ride through the busy streets was surprisingly swift. The driver, expertly weaving in and out of the cars, trucks and donkey carts, had them pulling up to the Embassy gates twenty minutes after leaving the Terminal.

‘We have some time before we depart for the airport, gentlemen. Dinner will be ready at twenty-hundred hours,’ said Havers.

‘I think we may skip that if you don’t mind, Tony.’

Havers smiled. ‘Ah, okay, sir. As you wish. The crossing is sometimes a challenge and tends to leave one without an appetite.

‘Da,’ said Bogdan, ‘no appetite for me until Moscow.’

Washington’s taxi arrived at the gates of his villa just after 9pm. The driver was surprised, when his passenger asked to be taken to the highway, north of the city. Thirty minutes later, at the first services-area on the A8 autoroute, Rick Washington watched as the cab drove off.

He knew there’d be strong security at the airport and rail station. Going by coach was not an option either. A rental car or taxi would still leave a footprint, someone would remember him. too. That only left bumming a ride on a long distance truck.

There were dozens of wagons parked and, although he knew there’d be many drivers settling down for the night, there would also be others who would be moving on. For almost half an hour he walked around the huge parking area, knocking on cab doors and talking to drivers of all nationalities. He was considering changing his plans, when at last he found a Polish driver who was heading north.

‘Sure, mister. I can take you to Lyon. For a hundred euro.’

Washington smiled. ‘You gotta a deal.’