Crisis (Luke Carlton 1) (27 page)

FOUR HUNDRED KILOMETRES
east of Culdrose, Elise was alone in her flat, which, she reminded herself, she was supposed to be sharing with Luke. She was back from her first night out with friends since she had taken that terrifying call in the restaurant, and the evening had not gone well – at least, not for her. Three of her girlfriends had coaxed her out, saying it would be good for her to get away from the confines of the flat and forget about everything that had happened, just for an evening.

They had met up in an overpriced bar in Clapham, and were served frilly cocktails with pink umbrellas and swizzle sticks by a Polish waitress wearing a Mexican sombrero. The place had an air of enforced jollity.

‘So come on, Lise,’ one had said. ‘How’s your man, these days? We don’t hear much about him.’ Jess never needed more than one drink to speak her mind.

Elise had looked down into her cocktail glass, rather too quickly, then up again brightly. ‘Oh, you know . . .’

‘No,’ persisted Jess. ‘I don’t know! Is it on or off?’ Another friend, Hannah, nudged her gently in the ribs, but she wouldn’t let it go. ‘Sorry, just putting it out there. I mean, one minute he’s back and you’re all loved up with your phone switched off and we don’t hear a word from you, the next he’s buggered off again. I thought you said he’d left the Army.’

‘The Marines,’ Elise corrected her. ‘Luke was in the Royal Marines. He wouldn’t like anyone to think he was in the Army. He’s very particular about that.’

‘Yeah, whatever. But are
you
getting any action?’

‘Jess!’ scolded Hannah. ‘Can we drop this?’

‘No,’ said Elise, ‘you’re right to ask. The truth is, I sometimes feel like I’m on a roller coaster. When he’s here it’s like the best feeling in the world and I don’t want to be with anyone else. But then, yes, I suppose you’re right, he’s off again on his travels. And I don’t want to pin him down, I really don’t – he’d hate that. Besides, he’s got a lot on his plate and the last thing he needs is a snippy girlfriend.’

Becca gave Elise’s hand a supportive squeeze. ‘Honestly, Lise, I don’t think anyone could call you snippy. Seriously, though, what exactly does Luke do for a living?’

‘He works for the FCO,’ replied Elise, perhaps a little too quickly.

‘A diplomat?’ said Becca. ‘My uncle’s a diplomat – I think he’s an ambassador somewhere. Maybe you’ll end up living in some grand embassy.’

Elise shot her a withering look. ‘Becs, can you really see me handing out canapés and making small-talk with the Belgian ambassador’s wife?’

‘Hmm. Maybe not.’

‘So,’ Jess started again, ‘back to what I was saying. There’s this guy at work, he’s new, doesn’t know anyone in London. He’s quite hot. But I’m spoken for,
as
we all know. So I was thinking maybe I could introduce you both. You know, something to take your mind off things when Luke’s not here?’

‘Who? Me?’ Elise looked shocked.

‘Well, yes, you. I wasn’t talking to the wall!’

‘Jess! What the fuck? I’m with Luke, remember? End of.’

Elise had got up abruptly and gone off to find the Ladies. She hadn’t needed the loo, she hadn’t needed to freshen her make-up, she had needed something else: a text, a voicemail, anything, from Luke. Now more than ever. She had keyed her six-digit passcode
into her phone – it was the date Luke had first walked into her gallery – then waited for the little red message circle to pop up. Nothing. She had checked her emails. Nothing. Then WhatsApp. Nothing. Luke had gone cold on her yet again.

And now, the evening having drawn to its own desultory close, she sat on the sofa in their silent, empty flat, contemplating the blank, black screen of the switched-off TV. Maybe her friends had a point after all.

ON A BEARING
of 235 degrees they flew south-west. Skimming low over the tossing waves, the helicopters were heading right into the teeth of the storm, the assault teams up ahead in the two Sea Kings, the follow-on force close behind in a Chinook. Standing off six kilometres from the target, a Lynx helicopter from 815 Squadron was in position to vector the assault force in, sending back live feeds to Task Group HQ in Poole, Dorset, and to Regent’s Park barracks in London. Sid Khan was watching from Poole too, sitting wedged into a chair with a set of headphones clamped over his ears, staring at a flickering monitor, while an SBS captain took him through what was going on out at sea. In these conditions it was questionable how much use the blurred and rain-splashed images were to anyone. The latest signal from Fleet said the
Maria Esposito
had altered course. In these heavy seas she was making slow progress towards the coast of Cornwall. Her AIS beacon was still switched off and she was barely doing eight knots.

Strapped into his seat in the Chinook, Luke had forgotten how deafening the noise could be inside those things. Buffeted by the storm, the aircraft’s frame lurched and jolted. They were flying at less than three hundred metres above the surface of the sea and already he was aware of the cold and damp seeping into his bones. As well as his Kevlar flak jacket, he was wearing a
Gore-Tex waterproof, cargo trousers, mountain boots and a borrowed helmet with night-vision goggles, appropriate kit for an op like this where he would be putting down on the deck in the second wave. The armourer at Culdrose had issued him with a replacement Sig Sauer pistol, and Luke preferred not to wonder which low-life Colombian gangster now had his sweaty paws on the other.

His headset crackled into life and he recognized Buster Loames’s voice. ‘Gold One Alpha. Listen in, gents. The wind’s too strong to put down on the bridge wings so we’ll be going for alternate RDPs aft on the main deck. Call-sign Gold One Alpha goes in first, then Gold Two, then Three. Out.’

RDPs? Luke racked his brains to recall what this stood for, then remembered: rope down points. The means by which the commandos would drop onto the ship.

‘Contact target,’ said the pilot in the lead Sea King. ‘Five hundred metres. Eleven o’clock.’

Luke craned his neck, trying to peer through the round Perspex porthole of the Chinook. But it was pitch dark out there and the glass was splattered with rain. Instinctively he reached up and felt for the night-vision goggles on his helmet, pulling them into position over his eyes. If anything, he could make out even less of what was outside the window. Maybe he was just sitting on the wrong side to see the ship. He pushed the goggles back up. They could wait till he was off the helicopter and on the deck. In the pit of his stomach Luke felt a knot of tension. It had been there ever since he’d taken Khan’s call in the sauna. He knew a hell of a lot was riding on this mission – for him, for the Service, for the unknown future victims of whatever device the narcos were propelling towards Britain. Whatever it was, it needed to be stopped in its tracks, right here, right now, before it came ashore.

Down on the
Maria Esposito
it was the second mate who spotted the approaching silhouettes, all blacked out, no lights. He had been smoking a cigarette on one of the bridge wings, the steel viewing
platforms that stuck out from the ship’s superstructure at either side of the bridge. He dropped the remains of his cigarette underfoot, ground it out with his heel and raced back inside the bridge. ‘
Capitán!
Cuidado!
They’re coming!’

Hector Jiménez had been expecting this and took it in his stride. ‘Be calm,’ he told the man, ‘and precise. What, exactly, is coming?’

‘Helicopters! Many of them!’ They could hear them now, even above the roar of the storm, the rising throb of massed rotor blades slicing through the wind and rain. The second mate’s words triggered a minor panic on the bridge. Men started dashing about, unsure of what to do. In the confusion someone switched on the ship’s arc lights, illuminating the deck, while someone else broke open the emergency cabinet and took out the flare pistol. It was a young deckhand, and he rushed out impetuously onto the bridge wings, about to fire a flare straight at the first approaching aircraft, a Sea King helicopter lining up to hover over the deck, when a blow to his jaw knocked him over.

‘
Careverga!
’ shouted Jiménez, leaning over the deckhand with a clenched fist. ‘You dickhead! Are you mad? They will kill us all! Give me that thing!’ He grabbed the pistol and flung it overboard.

Through the reinforced glass of the bridge window the crew could see them clearly now, dropping like spiders on silken threads down onto the deck. First came the teams in the Sea Kings, fast-roping down with incredible speed even as the ropes swayed in the wind and the ship heaved in the swell. In less than two minutes the assault teams were aboard and moving in two parallel lines up both sides of the ship towards the bridge and the living quarters. Behind them the Chinook’s dedicated Special Forces pilot struggled to keep his craft in a steady hold with its ramp down, just high enough above the deck for the follow-up team to jump off without breaking their legs. This was extremely close to being suicidally dangerous, but he managed it.

Luke, one of the last few to disembark, landed with a thump, banging his knee on a metal pipe that ran across the deck. It
occurred to him that this was the second time in a few weeks he had launched himself out of a helicopter on a live op. Maybe this one would turn out better than the last.

Up on the bridge Hector Jiménez braced himself for the inevitable, but it was still a shock when it came. The heavy metal door to the bridge came crashing open so fast it nearly came off its hinges. Within seconds the room was swarming with heavily armed, black-clad men in black helmets. Their night-vision goggles were clamped on their faces, lending them an almost extra-terrestrial appearance. They were pointing their weapons at him and his crew.

‘
Que se bajen!
’ shouted the leader. ‘Down on the floor! Now!’ He motioned with the muzzle of his assault rifle towards the floor of the bridge so there could be no mistaking his meaning. Jiménez dropped first to his knees, then lay flat while his crew followed his example. One by one, the SBS team handcuffed them.

‘Gold Two. Bridge secure.’ The leader spoke into his helmet-mike. ‘Five Bravos detained.’ Then he motioned for one of his team to come over. The man he signalled to was smaller and slighter than most of the other operatives. He wore body armour, a helmet that was slightly too big for him, and carried no weapon. He looked as if he might be sick at any moment. This was the ‘terp’, the Spanish language interpreter. ‘Tell the captain,’ said the leader, ‘that I need him to address the crew. He is to tell them to cooperate and they won’t be harmed.’ One of the operatives spotted the bridge-mike attached to a curled phone cord and passed it to Jiménez. Face down on the floor, his hands tied behind his back, it was obvious he was in no position to address anyone, so two men hauled him up and put him into a sitting position against the bulkhead. ‘There you go,’ said the team leader, gesturing to the microphone. ‘Make the call.’

Jiménez, seemingly meek as a lamb, did as he was told, ordering his crew to offer no resistance. This was no time to be stubborn. He needed to keep his cool. Then he reckoned he could come through this unscathed. They were just soldiers, after all,
doing their job, and he doubted they would know what to look for. And if they did? Well, so what? It would be too late now anyway.

Jiménez looked up as the bulkhead door swung open, letting in a tall man with a pistol strapped to his thigh. He spoke briefly to the leader, who pointed straight at him. It was then he noticed the man was missing the middle finger on one hand. The next thing he knew, two large men were lifting him to his feet and dragging him backwards into the radio operator’s room behind the bridge. They sat him down at the small table and left. The tall man walked in and shut the door behind him. What was he? Jiménez wondered. A detective? A lawyer? Maybe he could get him to take the cuffs off his wrists. They were already starting to chafe.

The tall man sat in the only other chair in the room and took out a slim laptop from the day sack he was carrying on his back. He still hadn’t said a word. He placed it on the table between them, opened it, then typed something in. He swivelled the computer round so Jiménez could see it. He was half expecting it to be some sort of confession they were about to ask him to sign but, no, it was a photograph of a man’s face.

‘
Lo reconoces?
’ said the man, addressing him at last. ‘Do you recognize him?’

Jiménez did – instantly. It was Nelson García. He pretended to lean closer, frowning as he studied the image. Then he shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t know this man,’ he told him. ‘Why, who is he?’

‘I think you do, Capitán Jiménez.’

‘No, I swear, he is a stranger to me.’

The tall man sighed, almost theatrically. He had taken off his helmet and body armour, placing them on the floor beside him. Jiménez was surprised that a
gringo
with blond hair could speak such good Spanish. Now the man was typing something else into the laptop and once again he turned it round to face him.

Capitán Jiménez went very still. He said nothing.

The other man broke the silence. ‘Let me be clear,’ he said, fixing Jiménez with an unflinching gaze. ‘That man there is on the
Colombian government’s Wanted List. He is a known
narcotraficante.
And there’s no dispute about who is beside him, with his arm round his shoulders. It’s you.’

The room seemed to heave violently as the
Maria Esposito
hit a particularly big wave and the laptop nearly slid off the table. Jiménez, whose hands were still cuffed behind his back, had to brace himself with both legs to stop himself falling off his chair. The ship lurched in the opposite direction and then steadied itself. The door opened. An operative poked his head in. ‘Just to let you know, we’re taking her into Falmouth with everyone onboard,’ he said, and shut the door.

Jiménez was thankful for the interruption: he needed time to think. These gringos were clearly smarter than he had taken them for. Where the hell had they got that photo from? He didn’t even remember when or where it had been taken.