He raised the weapon.
“No!” Julia shouted again.
Chapter 37
Julia gabbled something fast and urgent in Russian.
Haase took aim at Ivan Krigov as he sat on his kitsch floating pool chair.
Krigov’s eyes opened wide in horror, but he had no time to react.
There was a “phht” sound, little louder than a child’s popgun. A red spot appeared immediately on Krigov’s floral shirt, just below the right shoulder, near the armpit. For a moment, it looked like another flower budding and blooming on the shirt. The yacht owner bellowed in pain and rage, and started paddling furiously with his feet in an attempt to get to the edge of the pool.
He never made it. Before he reached the shallow end, Haase fired again. Toby couldn’t see where he had aimed. The red bloom on Krigov’s shirt had blossomed into a livid, dark crimson patch, which grew by the second.
Then Toby understood.
The inflatable chair began to buckle on one side. Krigov attempted to hold on, using his good hand. His feet thrashed the water. But the second bullet had holed the chair. Air hissed out at a rapid rate. It made a whistling noise like a party balloon set loose.
The chair deflated quickly, and Krigov began to sink into the water. Soon he was floundering and splashing around in the centre of the pool. Blood started to tinge the water in great swirls. The victim called out again—a string of curses, by the sound of it. Now he was almost submerged. The air was leaking out fast from the chair, but it still retained enough buoyancy to act as a life preserver. Krigov clung to it as a shipwreck survivor would cling to a plank.
Walther Spiegl’s face split into a smile. Then he began to chuckle. Then he threw his head back and cackled with loud, resounding laughter.
Krigov floundered in the pool like a harpooned whale.
Spiegl wiped his eyes with his hand. “Feeling a little deflated, Ivan?” he managed to splutter through his laughter.
Krigov called out in English, “Don’t just sit there, Toby. Stop him!”
Spiegl still had hold of Julia’s arm in a vice-like grip. Toby pondered his options.
He had no further time to consider any action. Spiegl’s laughter subsided to a chuckle. Then he called out to Haase, “Enough. The burlesque show was well worth the wait. But now it is over. End it. Bring down the final curtain.”
Haase fired a third time. A neat red spot appeared in the centre of Krigov’s forehead. No more sound came from him. He twitched a couple of times and was still. The chair was a soggy mass of deflated plastic, with the lifeless body entangled in it like a huge netted fish. It all started to settle lower in the water.
After a moment, the ripples on the pool subsided and it was completely quiet again, and now the pool was tinged a delicate shade of pink to match the setting sun.
“Always get your affairs in order before you die,” Walther Spiegl said. He patted the folder containing the signed and witnessed document. Toby had seen that it was titled
The Last Will and Testament of Ivan
Nikolaevich Krigov
.
Toby said, “I suppose Krigov Junior is dead too? That was your phone call?”
“Yes,” Spiegl said. “I resent the board and lodging with which we have been obliged to provide him these last years. But he was our big lever. While he was alive, I could be sure Ivan would let us do anything we wanted with the
Amelia.”
“Then you killed him in cold blood.”
“I carried out an extra-judicial killing authorised personally by the president of my great country. Don’t talk about cold blood. That is the way of the Americans and the British. Anyway,
Ivan
Nikolaevich had little time to live. He suffered from terminal prostate cancer. His latest remission period ended some weeks ago and he was in ever-increasing pain. I put him out of his misery.”
That explained the medication Natasha took. Not cough mixture, but liquid morphine,
Toby thought.
Not to mention the frequent bathroom breaks.
Poor sod.
Toby said, “Julia, how much of this did you know?”
She said, “His illness was a bargaining counter. We promised him treatment in the US if he went through with the sting operation. There was one surgeon who Ivan believed could save him, in New York, with a radical experimental treatment. We all thought his remission would last until next year. His last scan showed otherwise. Believe me, Toby, he was very brave to agree to carry out the mission with me.” She turned to Spiegl and said something in Russian. Not flattering, to judge by her tone of voice.
Toby said to Spiegl, “You mentioned thirty billion dollars. But Krigov said he didn’t have that. Why did you demand such a large sum?”
By way of answer, Spiegl handed his Iridium phone to Toby. “Ten billion will come from Krigov’s assets. To within a billion. I’m not going to quibble over a few hundred million here or there. Then I require ten billion from the UK government, its allies and former colonies. Finally, ten billion from the USA and her allies. Before midnight tonight. Or the remaining devices will all be detonated. And I assure you, they are not so humanely positioned. The loss of life will be impressive. And the environmental damage will make the Deepwater Horizon oil spill look like a spilt milkshake in comparison. As for the political fallout—incalculable.”
“You want me to call MI6 and demand a ransom payment of ten billion dollars before midnight our time?” Toby said.
“That’s my boy. Make the call. They’ll know it’s genuine if you do it. And you have the number committed to memory, I’m sure.”
Toby turned his head and said to Julia, “Shall I?”
Julia said, “Not much choice. Make the call.” So Toby pecked out the familiar number on the bulky satellite phone. “Remember the international lines are down,” he said to Spiegl. “Thanks to you.”
“British Embassy numbers are routed every which way,” Spiegl said. “You’ve always been good on high-tech communications. The number will connect via the satellite, believe me. Give it a moment.”
Sure enough, after a series of clicks and bleeps, Toby heard the long, warbling single dial tone of the region.
“Yes?” The voice was metallic, but it sounded as if Smithers himself had answered.
“Abigail,” Toby said.
“Noodles,” responded Smithers urgently. “Thank God. What’s going on, Toby? Where the devil are you?”
“Put it on the speaker,” commanded Spiegl. Toby pressed the button and put the phone down on the table. He leant forward and spoke towards it. “Me and Julia are captive aboard the
Amelia
in Nelson Harbour, Antilla, sir.”
“
Julia and
I,”
spat Spiegl. “Did you not go to school, young man?”
Toby ignored him. “The man calling himself Walther Spiegl is in charge. That was the snarky voice you just heard. There is one crewman working in league with him. He is armed. They just murdered Krigov in cold blood. I don’t know where the rest of the crew are. Ashore at a party, according to these jokers. Sir, the bottom line is that this Spiegl geezer wants ten billion dollars before midnight, else he will set off four more nukes, more powerful, in locations unspecified, but in this region.”
There was scarcely a beat before Smithers’ voice issued from the speaker. “Please say again. Was that ten million or ten billion dollars?”
Spiegl laughed sharply. He spoke towards the phone. “A million is pocket money, man. B for bravo, Baker, or booby. Billion. Ten billion. T-E-N. I have the account numbers for the wire transfers when you are ready. My associates will see the money arrive and call me to confirm receipt.”
“It’s late at night in the UK,” Smithers said. “And ten billion dollars is more than the British Government can wire out in a single payment. There’s simply no mechanism.”
“Nonsense, and you know it. You found more than that to bail out your failed banks on a Sunday night a few years back,” Spiegl said. “Over a hundred billion, I believe, for shares in the Royal Bank of Scotland and Lloyds alone. So my demand for ten billion, while large, is certainly not outlandish for a sovereign government. A few pennies may need to go on income tax. A small price to avoid such devastation. Oh, and perhaps you would kindly pass the message on to your friends in the CIA that the price for the Americans is the same. It should be more, really, but we are mindful that the USA still has a large deficit. So we will accept ten billion.”
“Thoughtful,” murmured Julia.
“I will pass this on to Washington. But it will all take time,” came Smithers’ voice from the speaker.
“Nonsense again. One telephone call each from the American Treasury Secretary and the British Chancellor of the Exchequer, and the funds can be anywhere in the world in minutes. Don’t play for time. It will just
waste
time.”
“I’ll confer with the Americans and get back to you on this phone number,” Smithers said. The man sounded as cool as anything, as if he was considering buying a used car and needed to consult his wife.
“Do that. But hurry. You have only until midnight local time here. A little under six hours. I also need you to guarantee me safe passage from this yacht to the submarine which is waiting offshore to pick me up. This submarine is equipped with the VLF radio equipment which will send signals at a very low frequency to the nuclear devices and disarm them shortly before midnight, provided you have complied with all details of our demands. And remember, we have your youthful trainee agent, Toby Robinson, hostage here. And the CIA agent with the codename Julia Simons. And to make matters absolutely plain, all four devices are in place, primed and with the timers running. So storming the
Amelia,
or bombing it, or parachuting in the SAS, or attempting to find the submarine and sink it, or any other such dramatic nonsense, will merely produce the result you fear, and probably cause much collateral damage here in this peaceful bay. On the last night of the Old Year, when everyone should be happy and celebrating.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“All duly noted.” There was a click. Smithers had ended the call.
“Now what?” Toby asked. He feared the worst, and turned to check Haase. The man stood alert with his gun in hand. Now that Toby had passed on the blackmail demand to the British, Toby could see no reason why he and Julia were needed any more.
“We wait,” Spiegl said. “For a response. Anyone for golf?” He indicated the putting green.
“Sure, I’ll give you a game,” Toby said.
What madness was this
?
“Julia?” asked Spiegl. “Are you handy with a putter?”
“You are something else,” Julia said. “You attempt to extort thirty billion dollars and then you offer us a round on the putting green, while your former colleague lies dead in his own swimming pool.”
“Surreal, isn’t it? War often is. But yes, you have described the situation most succinctly.”
“Please let us go,” Toby said. “You don’t need us any more.”
“Negative. If I was your handler, I know what I would do next.”
“What’s that?”
“I would make the payment conditional on your release. So I must hold you both, as they will undoubtedly require further proof of life, and probably negotiate for your release first. Pray they do.” He got up from his seat and moved towards the Astroturf putting green.
Toby pushed his chair back and rose, and so did Julia. Out of the corner of his eye, Toby could see Haase still poised, gun in hand. “Suppose the governments play hardball and refuse to pay?”
“They won’t, Toby. Individuals can be brave and resist pressure, even under torture. Ivan there was brave, in his misguided way. You were brave. And Julia. All Western governments, however, have corruption, rottenness and cowardice at their very hearts. So your friends in high places will confer, argue, play for time. But they
will
pay. It’s not their money, after all.
Which colour ball for you? I will have green.”
“Red,” Toby said.
“So CIA Julia takes yellow,” Spiegl said. “The lady to tee off first. And both of you, don’t try and jump me. Haase will not permit it, and I don’t want you bleeding and disabled while these important financial negotiations are taking place. Agreed? On your honour?”
“Sure,” Toby said. Julia nodded her head too. Of course, Toby was sizing up the opportunities to turn the tables on Spiegl and Haase. But even if they could, what good would it do? The nukes were ticking away somewhere, and only Spiegl knew where they were and how to defuse them. Unless it was all a bluff. But the bomb in Dickson Bay had been real enough.
If they could somehow get free of this situation, the other four bombs would remain. Where the devil was that piece of paper with the coordinates printed on it? Irina had given it to him that first night on the bridge. The paper had been in Toby’s pocket at one time. What had he done with it? He remembered making a copy on the all-in-one printer/scanner on the bridge in the middle of the night. Had he left the original on the scanner bed? If so, was it still there? Possibly, just possibly. And what of the copy? He had put that in his pocket, he was certain. But he hadn’t seen it since.