The Hunt

79

Some 3,500 miles away, the Petrovs exited the Nordhavn 52 that had been their home for the last few weeks. Fitted with a 1,670-gallon fuel tank and a 1,514-litre fresh-water tank, the yacht lying at berth in London’s St Katharine Docks Marina was built for ocean-lapping journeys. Displacing 40.82 metric tonnes, she had proved remarkably stable during the long voyage.

A former fisherman, Mr Petrov had been recruited by the same Russian criminal cartel as his friend, Mr Sokolov. When both had been made the same offer by the mysterious Mr Kraft, it had seemed too good to be true.

Well, if it looked that way, it generally was.

In recent days, Mr Petrov had started to worry about just what their vessel was carrying.

He’d not raised it with his wife. He didn’t want to worry her. It was more than enough stress sailing between continents and trusting to luck that their mystery cargo wouldn’t be discovered.

Most people they had met along the way seemed to think it perfectly natural for a Russian couple in their mid thirties to own a two-million-dollar yacht. In their minds, every Russian was an oligarch and should boast at least one such vessel. Well, the reality was far different. And Mr Petrov for one was very glad to be getting off this ship and away from whatever might be coming.

Mr Kraft’s surprise call had woken him in the depths of the night, but Mr Petrov didn’t care: it couldn’t come soon enough.

He’d flicked the switch on the console and shut up the yacht, then he and his wife had hurried along the quayside to meet their 3.30 a.m. Uber.

Mr Petrov wanted out of London.

He had a bad feeling about what was about to happen and he couldn’t seem to shake it.

When taking the contract, he’d agreed with his good friend, Mr Sokolov that it was most likely drugs they’d be carrying. It wasn’t the first time they had run such cargoes. If rich Westerners wished to ruin their lives by jacking up on heroin, more fool them. But as he’d approached Britain’s coastline, he’d been gripped by this unshakeable worry.

Upon taking Mr Kraft’s call, he’d tried to book flights leaving from London’s City Airport, just a short drive away. But at such notice there had been no availability. Instead, they would need to travel right across London to Heathrow Airport. From there, he’d booked British Airways direct to Moscow, leaving that evening.

As he stood on the quayside, Mr Petrov checked his watch. The taxi was late. No doubt still trying to find its way onto the marina. He searched for any sign of the car: most likely a black Mercedes or Audi.

A few blocks west, the floodlit towers of London’s City banking district rose like a monument to the power of the financial markets. A stone’s throw away lay the historic Tower of London, where Britain’s royal rulers had once locked the treasonous, to await their execution at nearby Tower Hill.

Mr Petrov wanted out of this city, before he and his wife ended up imprisoned in the Tower themselves.