Anna cut in: ‘You two go in first, and I will follow. Is that all right with you, Lily?’ She passed me the door card.
We climbed out of the Opel and headed down the stairs of the multi-storey, arm in arm again. The stairwell didn’t stink of last week’s piss like it would have done back home. ‘Walk normally, Lily. Smile at me if I smile at you. It’s just like we’re staying here and we’re heading back to the room for the night. Is that OK?’
She knew as well as I did that the desk staff would think she was a whore I’d picked up for the night. I was banking on the night shift not expecting to recognize any faces, and not wanting to embarrass me by checking. This was Amsterdam, after all.
We walked into the empty foyer. In case there were eyes, I fiddled conspicuously with Anna’s door card and turned immediately right, as if I knew where I was going. I strode towards the lifts and pressed the up button. I studied the card again for good measure.
It was after midnight and a few people still propped up the bar. Flat-screen TVs above the optics showed pictures of fire fighters at the silo. The roof had collapsed. Two fireboats pumped water over the smouldering ruin. It was drenched in spotlights from police boats alongside. People in high-vis clothing swarmed all over the area.
I held Lily close as we waited. She’d seen the screens. A tear finally did roll down her cheek.
‘It’s OK, Lily. You’re safe. Everyone is safe.’
The lift pinged open and we shot up to the fifth floor.
With its twin beds, walnut veneers, TV and mini-bar, the room could have been in any chain hotel anywhere in the world. I threw her chocolate and a carton of orange juice. She ripped the wrapper off the Milka bar and got stuck in. ‘Thank you, Nick.’
‘Go and have a bath. Anna will give you some clothes for tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere. Leave the door open if you want.’
She padded into the bathroom. I dug out the folder and threw it onto the bed.
‘Lily?’
I heard the sound of running water. She came to the door.
‘Anna will look after you, I promise. She won’t let anything happen to you - you understand that, don’t you?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She closed the door behind her.
I sat on the end of the bed and shoved cashews down my neck. According to the price list they cost the best part of a euro per nut. I washed them down with the world’s most expensive can of Pepsi and channel-hopped with the remote. The silo fire was on all the local stations, as well as CNN and BBC News 24. Kate Singleton was showing the world her gravitas.
There was a knock on the door. I checked through the peephole and opened up.
‘No problem with the desk, Nicholas?’ She nodded past me, towards the sound of running water.
‘Everything’s fine.’
I led her into the room. She sat next to me, pointing at the screen. ‘Why?’
‘Fuck knows, but it’s just the tip of the iceberg.’
28
I told Anna everything about the Flynns and the neo-Nazis, the Moldovan competition and Tresillian changing the plan and wanting all the girls dead. Then I told her about going back to the safe-house to find Bradley waiting for me, Angeles getting killed, and the police bursting in.
‘The police? How did they—’
‘Bradley maybe - fuck knows what else he got up to in that house. Or the neos - who must have followed us from the market? Who gave a fuck? What pissed me off more was what happened to Angeles. She wanted to protect me.’ I pictured that shy smile again, and the endless steaming, super-sweet brews. ‘She got fucked up by doing it and that’s down to Tresillian - and, of course, Jules.’
She wouldn’t believe it. ‘But he is a friend.’
‘You reckon? I want to think so, but I don’t know what the fuck is going on.’
Then I told her what had been clawing away at me ever since Bradley pulled the shotgun. ‘Everything and everyone connected with Lily is being taken out. This can’t just be about a favour to a friend. It’s something bigger, and Tresillian is tying up all the loose ends …’
She looked at me. She knew where this was leading. She was too smart not to.
I nodded. ‘If he doesn’t know already, he’ll find out soon enough that you were in on it too.’
She didn’t answer. She just let everything sink in.
Lily emerged from the bathroom, freshly scrubbed and fragrant, wet hair scraped back from her face. She curled up on the bed, in her own private world, eyes glued to the flickering TV screen.
I couldn’t wait around. We had things to do.
‘The Panda is going to flag up Nick Smith. The flight to Russia is history. Lily is the key, and I’m starting to think I might know why. As long as we’ve got her, they won’t get us. You must take her somewhere safe. I need both of you out of harm’s way.’
She sparked up. ‘I know people in—’
I put a hand over her mouth. ‘Stop. I don’t want to know.’
It was safer for both of them. If I fucked up and Tresillian didn’t see things my way, he’d want to know where Lily was. Whatever he did to me, I couldn’t tell him what I didn’t know.
Anna understood. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m going back to the UK. That’s where all this shit started.’
The TV rolled the same mobile clip of the explosion, over and over again. At least it was somebody’s lucky day.
‘All three of us could leave, right now.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve got to go back. If Lily is safe, Tresillian won’t touch us. He needs her. I have to sort a few things out.’ I gave her a slightly crooked smile. ‘Then we can spend whatever time I’ve got left watching the geese fly over the Moskva River.’
We stood only a few centimetres apart.
She took my hands in hers, unable to speak. She looked like she was going to break down at any moment. She held my hands to her face and kissed them. She gazed into my eyes.
I’m not sure what she saw there, but she wasn’t smiling back.
29
I headed up a pathway that ran along the left side of the triangle. The sea lapped against the rock wall. A cargo ship cast off its mooring ropes and pulled away from the docks. The glow of arc lamps and vehicle lights at the ferry port filtered across the water and cast weak shadows on the concrete below me.
At last I found what I was looking for. The Coast Guard here had two RIBs, monsters, well over thirty feet, both with twin 115 h.p. Yamaha outboards. At least, I assumed they were the Coast Guard. They had the word
Kustwacht
plastered every-where, which sounded about right. Whatever it meant, it looked official, which in turn meant it belonged to an organization that would have demanded full tanks before binning it for the day.
The
Kustwacht’s
land base was a boring-looking cube of a Portakabin with loads of little signs and notice boards outside. I ignored it for now. There was no blaze of lights to suggest anyone was home.
I jumped on the first RIB and pulled up the wooden flooring planks by the engines to expose the fuel-tank cap. It was locked, just like on a car. The two 115s had motorcycle-type locks securing them to the boat.
I checked the centre console, which was basically a steering wheel with a Perspex shield in front to protect you from the wind and water. There were no keys tucked away inside, and no compass or sat nav either - just an empty cradle.
I climbed out and walked towards the Portakabin. The windows were covered with something that looked like chicken wire. It was screwed in from the outside, so was probably intended to protect the glass from passing yachties rather than stopping people like me gaining access. No one in their right mind would rob a police station or a coast guard’s - unless they were deep in the shit to start with.
A couple of minutes of ripping and tugging was all it took. I left it hanging from the frame and slid the window to one side.
I pulled myself up until my stomach was on the sill and wriggled inside. The smell of cigarettes and rubber hit me first - the place smelt like a garage. There was just enough ambient light to make sure I didn’t crash into anything.
I moved to the rack of orange dry-bags hanging neatly by the door. These Gore-Tex overall things had integral rubber boots and hoods, and gloves that you zipped on and off from the cuffs. I riffled through them until I found a suit my size and zipped it up as far as my stomach.
I looked around for the RIB keys. They wouldn’t be lying in a designer bowl. There would be a log book with them, noting who’d been on board, how much fuel was used, how long they were out, all that sort of stuff. You sign in and sign out each time you use them.
Two thick plastic folders with serial numbers stencilled on the front lay at the top right-hand corner of the desk. I flicked one open. Of course the RIBs had been filled up. Both were done at 19.00 tonight. Bean counting is the same anywhere; it doesn’t matter what language it’s in. The admin god decrees it. They’d each been out for two hours during the day. One had been topped up with sixty-eight litres, the other fifty-two. The tanks had to hold more than a hundred. They’d want to get five operational hours out of them.
The keys were in the folders too. Both had rubber covers, like jam-pot lids, to protect them from the weather when the RIBs were up and running. A yellow spiral cord clipped them to the driver, acting as a kill switch if you crashed or fell. I took both. I couldn’t find a compass, but still left the sat navs. The last thing I needed was a great big electronic arrow pointing at my exact location.
I left via the door. I bounced over the side of the first RIB I came to, slid down to the console and inserted a key. No luck. I tried the second and both Yamahas fired up. The pointer on the fuel gauge immediately showed full. A cloud of smoke belched from the exhausts. The propellers were still low in the water so, for now at least, I didn’t have to work out how to sort the hydraulics. I untied the mooring rope, hit the power lever to the right of the steering-wheel, and eased the nose gently out towards the sea.
As I emerged from the apex of the triangle a ship’s navigation lights glided past me into the canal. I left the protection of the sea wall. Wind buffeted my face. I zipped up the rest of the dry-bag and donned the hood and gloves as well.
When I’d put a bit of distance between me and the shore, I slipped the lever into neutral. I kept the engine running, but powered right down. The boat bobbed in the swell as I moved back to check the fuel lines. One 115 h.p. engine was more than enough for me to piss it to the UK. Two engines would burn twice as much.
I twisted the cut-out on what I thought was the left-hand fuel line but the right-hand one cut out instead. I found the button for the hydraulic ram and lifted it out of the water. I didn’t want any unnecessary drag.
Next priority was navigation. There was no ball compass. This boat’s direction-finding devices were all Gucci. As I came out into the sea, I was more or less heading west, so north had to be to my right. But before I went much further I was going to need Polaris.
The Pole Star is the most accurate natural guide there is in the northern hemisphere. As all the other stars appear to move from east to west as the earth rotates, this one stays stock still, directly above the Pole.
First I had to find the Plough, seven stars grouped in the shape of a long-handled saucepan. Draw a line between the two stars that form the side furthest from the handle, extend it upwards by about five times its length, and the star you get to, all on its own, is Polaris.
Once I’d found it, all I needed to do was make sure I kept it to my right until I bumped into the UK. Exactly where, I couldn’t predict.
I looked west and picked another star to aim for. I opened the throttle again and the bow lifted. The wind tugged at my hood. I sat on the cox’s seat behind the screen, glancing back and forth between my star and Polaris. I’d waver left and right; the wind and the single engine would make it impossible not to. But that didn’t matter, as long as I was going west.
I powered down until the bow dropped and I was bouncing over the surface of the water.
I thought about Robot - my mate from the battalion, not the one I’d hung on the extinguisher hook. We were posted in Gibraltar, so it wasn’t easy for him to get to Millwall on a Saturday. He came up with a plan. One Friday night, he stole a speedboat from the harbour; he reckoned that as long as he turned right and followed the coast, he’d soon reach France. Once there, he’d chuck a left to the Den. Being Robot, he had no idea how far he had to go. The boat ran out of fuel in the Bay of Biscay. He never made the game.
Shit, I was doing it again …
PART SEVEN
1
Spray blasted my face. My arse wound was sore from four hours of constant sitting and standing. My arms ached from gripping the wheel. I was exhausted and hungry. But soon none of that mattered. Lights twinkled three or four K ahead, some high, some low. I focused on the low ones, near the water. I didn’t want to end up steering towards a cliff. The biggest concentration was south-west of me. I turned the wheel and headed for the darkness about a K to the left of it.
The more I thought about this shit and the closer I’d got to the coast, the more worked up I’d become. I needed to control myself.
It was nearing first light. For some reason, that always made me feel even colder. But apart from my injuries I was feeling all right. Even the acid burn wasn’t that bad. The lack of Smarties hadn’t had any effect at all.
Half a K out I powered down, keeping the bow pointed towards the land. The tide was out. I’d have about three hundred metres of beach to cover.
About five short of the water’s edge I heard the Yamaha scrape along the bottom. I gave it a quick burst of reverse and then swung the wheel so it faced out to sea again. I unclipped the kill cord from my dry-bag. Making sure the engine was facing dead ahead, in line with the bow, I tied the wheel to the console with the wires from both keys.
I sat on the edge of the RIB with my legs spread and my right hand gripping the grab loop. I leant out towards the console, slapped the throttle lever and jumped. The engine revved and the bow came up. The boat roared off, back the way I’d come.