Deadly Impact--A Richard Mariner nautical adventure (14 page)

‘Back up to the top deck would be quicker,' said Richard. ‘And as far away as possible, just in case …'

‘You'll need to be quick,' warned Kolchak unexpectedly. ‘I'm beginning to feel all warm and fluffy.'

‘Right,' decided Aleks. ‘Back up to the top deck it is. Let's move. Me and the moron who shot him.'

‘Ryzanoff,' growled Roskov. ‘If you're certain …'

‘I won't delegate this,' Aleks replied. ‘But I will need help. Ryzanoff only needs to hold the torch steady. And keep his gun on safety.'

‘I'll come too, if that's OK with you, Lieutenant,' said Roskov. ‘You'll need someone to watch your back.'

‘OK, if you stay well back out of the blast area,' nodded Aleks.

‘Then I'll come to watch your back, Roskov,' said Richard. ‘Keeping well out of the blast area too.'

‘Cool,' said Dom. ‘And I'll come and watch your back, Richard. I'll keep so well clear there won't be room for anyone to creep up behind my back!'

‘That should just about do it, then,' said Richard, a little surprised at the Canadian's fortitude. ‘But we'd better hurry. Kolchak's starting to go out on us.'

There was no time for more deliberation. Kolchak was a little unsteady, but he was in that blessed interim between the painkiller kicking in and his brain switching off, so he was able to climb the companionway behind Aleks, with Ryzanoff, Roskov and Richard just behind him, ready to catch him if anything went wrong. And Dom just behind them, watching Richard's back.

The upper weather deck was still flooded with moonlight, though it seemed to Richard that the shadows had moved more than he would have expected. Kolchak and his two minders walked rapidly over to the outer limit of the bridge wing where the wounded soldier wedged himself in the angle of the safety rail and held the silver bundle of his fists up as high as his wounded shoulder permitted. Ryzanoff shone his torch on the ball-shaped parcel by pointing his rifle at it. Richard and Roskov were back by the coffin-shaped hatch cover, Dom was back by the funnel somewhere but they could all hear Aleks quite clearly. ‘OK, Kolchak, here we go.' Moonlight caught the black blade of Aleks' knife and he began to cut the sticky tape away, layer by layer, pulling it free as gently as he could. ‘What are the names of the men who went down the hatch?' Aleks asked, clearly trying to make Kolchak stay alert, but wanting to distract him for the moment from the job in hand.

‘Gerdt and Kosloff,' answered Kolchak.

‘I read their resumes,' nodded Aleks. ‘Do you know them at all?'

‘They're in my squad, so I thought I'd better …'

‘What are your impressions?' demanded Aleks sharply as Kolchak's voice drifted off.

‘Pavel Kosloff, good man, ex-GRU. Theo Gerdt, good man too. Also GRU trained. Army. Reliable. Steady …'

‘
Steady
…' snapped Aleks, for Kolchak's voice was getting dreamy again. ‘Either of them family men?'

‘Kosloff has a wife in Minsk. He was associated with the Fifth Army Corps stationed there, but he was one of the liaison team that went with General Orlov to NATO headquarters, SACEUR and then on down to JFC facility in Naples, Italy. He's got a couple of kids, I think. Gerdt's still fancy free …'

‘Gerdt's a cocksmith,' supplied Ryzanoff suddenly. ‘Had more girls than I've had shots of vodka. Got some hot Italian he met in Moscow on the go. Met her at this
Mayfair
club. Lucrezia something. He says she'll do anything—'

Aleks called, ‘Ryzanoff, come over here, I've almost got it and I need you to hold your hands over Kolchak's for a moment while I …'

Ryzanoff stepped forward obediently. Aleks pulled the next bit of tape back, exposing the grenade. But the moment that he did so, Kolchak's knees gave out and he slid down helplessly on to the deck. His head rolled over on to his shoulder and he was clearly out for the count. The grenade fell out of his senseless fingers and came rolling across the moon-bright metal.

‘SHIT!' roared Roskov and dropped to his knees behind the hatch cover. But that only stood thirty centimetres or so high. Without thinking, Richard stooped and threw the lid up to form a solid wall in front of them as Dom joined them flat on the deck behind it. As Richard did so he saw Aleks crouch protectively over Kolchak and watched Ryzanoff fall on to the grenade. He crashed to his knees, counting. After
thirty
he picked himself up and crossed to the soldier lying huddled on the deck. He crouched beside the shivering black shape and reached a gentle hand down to take his shoulder. ‘I think it's a dud, Ryzanoff,' he said. He raised his voice, calling to Aleks. ‘Lieutenant! It's dud.'

Ryzanoff stirred. ‘Thank God for that. But I think I've wet myself.'

And Roskov called from behind the open hatch cover, ‘Hey, I think I can hear someone down at the bottom of this shaft calling out for help!'

It's 8 p.m. Moscow time. The restaurant at
Mayfair
, the fashionable new nightspot on Savvinskaya Boulevard, overlooking the river, has not yet opened to ordinary clientele. But Francisco Lazzaro is anything but an ordinary client. Neither is the man who accompanies him – for he is one of the exclusive nightspot's owners. Niccolo Rizziconi is one of the new breed of international financiers. Educated in Italy and America, he graduated from Booth Business School in Chicago, then went global. He worked in Cape Town, Canberra, Amsterdam and Vancouver before taking on a managing directorship at one of Russia's largest privately owned banks. Branches of the bank have since opened in St Petersburg, Murmansk, Archangel … anywhere where there are port facilities that can handle large numbers of containers. The bank's money has begun to move into shipping and insurance, among other things. Under Niccolo Rizziconi's leadership, profits have soared.

As is common in the free-market fervour of post-Soviet Moscow, Rizziconi has put his considerable and growing personal fortune into other enterprises such as
Mayfair
. He has inordinate amounts of money invested in
Ecstasy, Grozny
and
Ras-Putin,
three of Moscow's most profitable strip clubs. Although, like
Mayfair
, they are as clearly legitimate and above-board as they are fantastically popular and successful. With each new opening the local law enforcement officers have seen a sudden rise in the amount of high-grade cocaine available in the city. But the local politicians, as well as more senior government officers, have been consulted at length and with care. Blessings have been passed down from on high, like Papal dispensations. Like the blessings of a Godfather.

As the two men settle into overstuffed armchairs and look down across the Moskva River towards the apartment blocks on Brezhnev Boulevard opposite, Lazzaro comes straight to the point. ‘The situation with
Sayonara
is nearly resolved,' he says in syrupy Calabrian. ‘I have dispensed with Tristan Folgate-Lothbury and his Lloyd's consortium. Everything we are interested in is with the Duisberg Reinsurance Company of Vancouver now. One of your earlier masterworks, I believe. It is time to move on. How are things proceeding with Bashnev/Sevmash?'

‘As discussed,' answers Rizziconi. ‘If what we plan for
Sayonara
works as we hope, then the stock in both Heritage Mariner and Bashnev/Sevmash will crash. The potential which that could offer puts even the profit we can make on the loss of the hull into the shade.'

‘The potential for growth seems limitless,' nods Lazzaro. ‘At one stroke we gain control of one of the largest commercial entities in Russia – one of the few countries that has remained less open to us than we would like.'

‘And, of course,' adds Rizziconi, ‘we also get our own private shipping company. Everything from passenger ferries to container vessels. Our own private shipping company to go with our own private port of Gioia Tauro. The other families will regret building bunkers beneath the
Aspromonte
when they should have been building businesses abroad instead.'

‘We will show them,' agrees Lazzaro, suddenly consumed with terrifying anger. ‘We will show them that it is not just those old men down in Sicily or the historic buffoons up in Rome – the Corleones and the Caesars – who know how to conquer the world! We Calabrians will do it better. The 'Ndrangheta holds the
testicoli
, the
balls
of the world here!' He cups his taloned hands as though holding the members in question. Then he grips his fingers into a shaking, emasculating fist.

‘Just so,' agrees Niccolo Rizziconi smoothly. ‘We will have Beluga and Dom Perignon with dinner to celebrate. But in the meantime, Don Francisco, would you like a little distraction? We have a young lady called Lucrezia who, I assure you, will do anything you desire. Anything.'

R
obin's phone started ringing at eight the next evening and she grabbed it, hoping that it might be Richard. But it was Patrick Toomey. ‘I'm at the Lloyd's building,' he said. ‘Can you come over? It's important.'

‘Where are you exactly? Number One Lime Street is a big place.'

‘I'm with Sir Gerald Overbury. We're in the Old Library.'

Robin frowned. Sir Gerald Overbury was a big wheel. A very big wheel indeed. Apart from that, he was the opposite of Tristan Folgate-Lothbury in almost every way. And she wasn't surprised he was talking to Pat. If Lloyd's could be said to have their own London Centre intelligence section, then Gerry Overbury was the head of it. And here he was, in the office at a time most of his co-workers would consider dinnertime. Pat had obviously been talking to him about Tristan and Francisco Lazzaro – and now they wanted to talk to her. She looked across the dressing room at her reflection in a wardrobe mirror in the flat atop Heritage House. She assumed a Chanel cocktail outfit would not offend Lloyd's strict dress code, for there would be no time to change. She speed dialled her old friend and hostess. ‘I'm going to be a little late for drinks I'm afraid, Annabelle,' she said shortly. ‘Something's come up.'

Twenty minutes after she broke contact with Annabelle, a security guard ushered Robin into the Old Library and both Patrick and Sir Gerald rose to greet her. ‘You look lovely, Robin,' said Sir Gerald. ‘As always.'

‘Thank you, Gerry. You're looking well yourself. Now, what's this all about?'

Sir Gerald threw his bantamweight frame back into one of the priceless Hepplewhite chairs that looked to have been purloined from the nearby Adam Room. His blue eyes sparked with urgent energy and his clipped moustache seemed to bristle. ‘Young Toomey here came to me asking about the Folgate-Lothbury set-up. Concerned that there might be a Mafia connection or some such thing …'

‘'Ndrangheta,' said Pat helpfully.

‘Just so. Not at all the sort of situation we would dream of countenancing, of course. But while we were looking into the possibility, we began to wonder why the Mafia would bother.'

‘Well?' demanded Robin. ‘Why would they?'

‘You don't insure your own bottoms, do you?' asked Gerry, apparently inconsequentially. ‘Not even a percentage of the worth?'

‘No. Heritage Mariner policy is to lay off all the insurance on our hulls to other insurers, mostly here at Lloyd's. It's expensive, but if anything goes wrong it's far safer. I mean, look at the
TK Bremen
; look at
Deepwater Horizon
…' She shuddered.

‘And Folgate-Lothbury's syndicate carries insurance risks for
Sayonara
?'

‘You should know, Gerry. But, unless they've laid it off in turn, then yes …'

‘And the cargo?' Gerry probed.

‘The LNG is Greenbaum International's. But that's insured in Canada.'

‘The Duisberg Reinsurance Company of Vancouver. Yes.' Gerry nodded as he spoke. He and Pat were both frowning.

‘What are you saying?' Robin demanded. ‘Where is this leading?'

‘How much did
Sayonara
cost to build?' asked Gerry, and Robin began to see where this was heading after all.

‘Seventy-five million dollars, give or take. And, before you ask, I have no idea how much the cargo's worth.'

The two men exchanged glances. ‘In excess of fifty million dollars at current rates,' said Gerry.

‘So the whole package is worth, what, one hundred and twenty-five million dollars, just for the hull and cargo?' calculated Robin.

The two men nodded thoughtfully.

‘There you have it, then,' said Pat.

‘What?' demanded Robin. ‘There we have
what
, precisely?'

‘Going through the Folgate-Lothbury records – in ways we will not discuss, none of which would ever stand up in court – we have come to suspect that since this man Lazzaro became involved with the Folgate-Lothbury syndicate, all of the reinsurance for hull and cargo has been laid off.' Gerry Oldbury leaned forward, eyes sparkling, moustache bristling. There was the faintest whiff of Imperial Leather soap and Bay Rum cologne. ‘None of the other insurance – collateral damage, environmental impact, loss of business arising, et cetera – has been laid off at all as far as we can ascertain. Folgate-Lothbury still carries all that. But
Sayonara
's hull and cargo have apparently been laid off quite recently and are now with this Canadian company, Duisberg Reinsurance.'

Robin went cold. ‘And Duisberg Reinsurance is Francisco Lazzaro,' she hazarded, knowing in her bones that this was the truth of the matter.

‘Or at least it is owned by one of his associates,' confirmed Gerry grimly. ‘So it's not likely to be completely legitimate. Not only that, but Duisberg seems to be laying it all off again to other insurers all over the world – some of it back to other Lloyd's syndicates, which is how we can be fairly accurate. It's a variation of the sub-prime mortgage market scam so popular in the nineties. Brokers bought bad debts and then sold them off to other brokers who sold them off in turn, all collecting a fat fee for the business in the knowledge that if anything went wrong – if the borrower failed to keep up the mortgage payments, say – the debt itself would actually be owned by some poor bugger in the Caymans or the Turks and Caicos. It worked like clockwork. Until the sub-prime market crashed and even the banks started going belly-up.