Fire Hawk (18 page)

Four men pushed their way through the throng waiting by the carousels, each carrying holdalls containing all they would need for their short time on the island. The men, who had the demeanour of skilled manual workers, were travelling as a group but took care not to make it look that way as they passed through the customs barrier into the arrivals hall.

Once outside in the open they stopped to get their
bearings, then one by one crossed the service road to the car park as they'd been instructed to do. The man waiting to meet them was heavy-set and had a scar on his left cheek. He stood beside the Toyota minibus he'd rented in Limassol, waiting for the men to find him.

‘This is a bad situation,' he cursed as they piled into the vehicle. ‘An hour ago they told me the flight had been postponed until tomorrow. I shit myself, I tell you.'

He swung himself into the driving seat and propelled the vehicle towards the exit and on to the road for Limassol.

‘You have tonight, understand? Just tonight. Everything has to be finished by morning. Clear?'

‘You have the equipment ready?' one of the men asked.

‘Of course we do.'

‘Then we'll do what we can,
tovarich.
Just keep off our backs, okay?'

‘I'll keep off your backs all right. But I advise you not to fail me.'

‘Fuck off,
tovarich.
We won't fail.'

THE WARM HUE
of the hardwood cabin fittings and the firm bulk of the foam-filled seat squabs in
Backgammon
's cramped interior fitted Sam like a womb. He was
meant
to be on a sailing boat. This was his element. From the moment he'd slid back the hatch and breathed in the resinous smell from below, he'd known this escape to Normandy was a good idea.

He sat now with his knees wedged under the cabin table enjoying the food they'd rustled up from stores Tom Wallace had left in the locker beneath the bunk. Tinned curry, peas and boil-in-the-bag rice. Sitting opposite him was a man some twenty years older than himself.

‘Cheers, Nat,' he said raising his glass of Côtes du Rhône. ‘Good to have you aboard.'

‘Bloody good of
you
to give an old sailor an airing,' the man replied bibulously.

Nat Gibbon was
not
an old sailor, but had spent years trying to look like one. He wore a moth-eaten Guernsey sweater and a sun-faded yachting cap. The ruddy face and watery eyes were natural, but the blue bags and boating shoes were what he put on when going to Sam's local riverside pub in Barnes. And it was there that he'd found him yesterday evening.

Gibbon was a regular occupant of the stool at one end of the bar. Sam had often chatted with him about sailing, Nat claiming to have spent a year crewing on board a charter yacht in the Caribbean. Sam had some doubts about the story, but no firm evidence it wasn't true. When they set sail tomorrow, the man's experience or lack of it would become instantly obvious.

His decision to invite Nat along had been very much an afterthought. He'd gone for a quick pint last night before bed. Still feeling dead tired after his ordeal, he'd become increasingly conscious of the pain in his back and legs whenever he moved and realised that a second pair of hands on board to do some of the heavy work might be wise.

Gibbon had leapt at the chance.

The man was a writer of sorts. Screenplays for television had been his forte. But the programmes he mentioned when asked about his career seemed to have been aired more than a decade ago. He talked darkly of having been in the big money once, but from what Sam could tell, all he did now was spend it on drink.

The drive down to the Hamble that morning had been mostly conducted in silence. Neither man had been talkative, each a little shy of the other without the hubbub of the pub to cocoon them. Indeed, one reason Sam thought Gibbon a suitable companion for the next few days was that he
never
talked much. He also showed little interest in other people's lives. For much of his time in the bar Nat would sit on his own, staring rheumy-eyed through the windows that overlooked the river, smiling occasionally at the regulars.

They'd left the car in the marina car park to have it waiting for them when they sailed the boat back to the Hamble, then they'd slung their gear into a minicab for the twenty-minute ride to the cross-channel terminal at Portsmouth.

Once in Cherbourg and on board the
Backgammon
,
they'd opened up the hatches to freshen the boat and Sam had shown Nat the forepeak cabin where he could sleep. To his relief, Gibbon did seem at home in a yacht. They'd checked fuel and water levels, then Sam had run the engine to charge the batteries and chill the fridge. The water leak Tom Wallace had told him about hadn't been hard to trace. A hose beginning to split, which he'd done a temporary fix on with tape and a tightening of the jubilee clip which secured it. It irked him that Tom was so useless with things mechanical.

Now it was nine in the evening.

Sam finished eating and pushed his plate away. The wine bottle was almost empty, Gibbon having gulped down the larger part of its contents. Sam had the feeling he was expecting to tackle another, but he himself would soon be ready to get his head down.

‘What's the plan tomorrow, skipper?' Nat asked, a trifle uneasily.

Sam suspected the sailing his companion had done in the past had had more to do with sun and alcohol than handling a boat in strong winds and heavy seas.

‘There's a nice force five forecast and I'm taking you down the Alderney Race.'

‘Oh God, what's that?' Gibbon reached for the bottle again, forgetting it was empty.

‘If we clear this stuff away, I'll show you.'

‘Oh. Right.'

They moved the plates to the sink, then Sam turned to the navigator's table, picking up the chart for the Channel Islands and a Macmillan
Almanac.
As he spread them on the table he noticed Gibbon's hands shaking.

‘Now . . .' Sam indicated where they were on the chart. ‘The waters around here are hellishly tidal. Not only a big rise and fall but the tides create strong currents which have a mind all of their own. Particularly now we're at Springs.' He opened the almanac at the page showing
Channel Island tidal streams. ‘Yes. At about the time we'll be going down through the gap between Cap de la Hague and Alderney, the water rips south-west at over seven knots.'

‘Bloody hell,' Gibbon gulped. ‘Hope you know what you're doing with this tub. I mean I'll pull on the sheets and all that, but I'm a bit rusty on the finer points.'

‘Don't worry. I've handled her alone in a force eight before now. Just do as I say and we'll be fine.'

‘No problem. Just give me orders.'

‘Tomorrow the wind should be from the north, so wind and tide will be behind us. We'll be zipping along at around fourteen knots. If you get wind
against
tide doing the race is impossible.'

‘And why exactly are we taking this particular route?' Gibbon queried, his tone suggesting it was a daft idea.

‘Because with the conditions as they are tomorrow it's the only course that makes sense. We'll need to be away from here by six, up at half-five for a bite of breakfast. Should easily make Sark by lunch-time. There's a nice little bay halfway down the eastern side that's sheltered from the northerlies. With luck the water might even be warm enough to swim in.'

‘No chance. I prefer looking at the sea from above.'

Sam turned to the sink and began washing up the plates. Nat condescended to dry.

‘Got any more of that plonk?' he asked when they were finished. ‘It was slipping down rather nicely.'

‘Try in the locker in the middle of the table.'

‘Splendid.'

Sam decided to join him in a glass before turning in.

‘Can't remember what it is you do for a living, skipper,' Gibbon asked after a silence had dragged on for a while.

‘Exhibitions. Setting them up at overseas trade fairs.'

‘Oh. Interesting?'

‘At times.'

‘You just back from somewhere?'

‘Jordan. But didn't get to see much. Just the inside of buildings mostly.'

It was what he always said when friends asked. Tended to deter further questions.

‘I went to Jordan once,' Gibbon ruminated. ‘Remember
The Adventurers
? A thirteen-weeker back in the eighties. I did three of the scripts. Bloody hot and the place was full of Arabs.' He chuckled at his little witticism.

‘Still is,' Sam answered.

He drained his glass and said he was going to bed.

‘What are you like at early mornings?'

‘No idea, skipper,' Gibbon chuckled, holding a brimfull glass. ‘Never tried one.'

Sam had forgotten to snub the halyards. During the night the wind got up, setting off a relentless pinging of taut rope against alloy mast.

In the quarter-berth cabin Sam turned restlessly, deeply asleep. Suddenly his body began to twitch and tremble, a vivid nightmare flashing though his brain. In his dream he was in darkness, clawing up a slope to escape the shit-filled whirlpool in the centre of his cell. He sensed someone there, someone watching but not helping. His nails broke on the concrete and his shins burned as some unseen force dragged him back towards the pit. He was naked, the poisonous filth in which he lay leaching into his body through his open wounds.

There was something banging. A rhythmic tapping against metal, like the radiator pipe he'd been chained to. Then he was on his feet, running, his breath sawing in his ears. Running and getting nowhere. And still close by, watching and not helping, was that same someone . . . He knew who it was now. Knew it from her smell.

Suddenly something jammed against his gullet, hard and rough like a rope, stopping him in his tracks, stopping his breath. His arms flailed. He knew it was the end. Knew, too, he wasn't ready for it. Why wouldn't she help him, this creature whose scent was so comforting? He twisted his head to see her, this woman he knew so well. He pleaded with his eyes. Pleaded for his life.

Sorry,
she mouthed.
I'm so very sorry
.

Then the beatings began again. His back, his head. He knew her and yet there she stood doing nothing. Just watching him die. He filled his lungs and screamed her name.

‘Chrisssiiiee!'

Suddenly he was awake. He sat up and banged his head. A coffin! They'd put him in a damned coffin but he wasn't dead.

‘Shi-it!'

His shins felt as if they'd been scraped with a rasp. Then it came to him. This wasn't a coffin at all. He was on
Backgammon.
He reached out and pushed. The cabin door swung open.

Suddenly a light clicked on in the main cabin, startling him. He'd forgotten he had company. He shielded his eyes and looked across the saloon. Gibbon stood by the door to the forward cabin, bare-chested but struggling into his baggy blue trousers.

‘Whatsup?'

Sam didn't answer. In his head he still saw Chrissie, her grey smudges of eyes full of a regret which he somehow knew she didn't feel.

‘Bloody hell!' Gibbon pointed. ‘What've you done to your legs?'

Sam looked down. The dressings on his shins were hanging off and scarlet with blood.

‘Shit!'

He stood there confused, unable to move. He blinked at Nat.

‘Don't know what happened there,' he mumbled. ‘I'm okay. Really. Look, sorry about this. You go back to bed.'

‘Dreaming, was it? You put the fear of God into me with that scream.'

‘Sorry.'

Sam hobbled to the bunk next to the saloon table and sat down, still staring at his shins. He looked at the clock above the chart table. Nearly half-past four in the morning. The chill of the nightmare was still with him.

‘I'd do something about those legs if I were you,' Gibbon suggested helpfully. He'd found his shirt and was buttoning it up.

‘I will. You go back to bed.'

‘Fat chance. Wide awake now. What you need is some water. Clean yourself up a bit.'

Realising Gibbon had no intention of helping him, Sam stood up again and opened the locker beneath the sink. He found a fresh pack of J cloths and a plastic bowl which he half-filled from the tap. He dabbed at his shins and eased off the saturated dressings. Must have banged them against something in his sleep.

‘Best let the air get at them,' Gibbon suggested, showing no interest in how the injuries had been acquired. He squeezed past to get to the galley. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?'

‘Yes.'

Sam finished dabbing at his legs, then stared blankly through the hatch at the lightening sky visible through the gap they'd left open for ventilation.

Hell, he thought. Nightmares he could do without. And why that one? Chrissie
hadn't
left him to rot. She'd saved his life.

And was probably carrying a part of it inside her.

DEAN BURGESS STOOD
in front of one of the split-screen computer terminals watching a technician hop between the outputs of the hundreds of remote cameras that were live-linked back to the BMVC operations room.

‘How the heck do you keep track of all this stuff?' he asked, baffled by the plethora of images.

‘The computer helps,' the technician explained. ‘The system alerts us whenever there's a change in the image.
Then
we take a look at it. The pictures are all time-lapse recorded.'

‘Oh yeah. Sure,' shrugged Burgess. Should have thought of that himself. Always a reluctant member of the silicon generation. He turned away from the screens.

The startling discovery of a man's body yesterday morning had brought UNSCOM's excavation of the desert site to an abrupt halt. The red-bereted Special Republican Guard had taken control of the site and ejected the inspection team from it, accusing them of interfering with a grave.