Defender (35 page)

Another mighty wave struck the Sea Ray, scattering them across the decks.

Lundt clawed back to his feet, using the wheel to drag himself up. Alex Morgan was crouching, hanging onto the ropes around the camping gear. The SIG Sauer P226 was in his hand.

"You're finished, Lundt," Morgan shouted over the storm. "You've exceeded your shelf life."

"Who do you think you are?" Lundt spluttered through bloodied lips and teeth, looking about him, probing the rain and estimating the distance to the shore. "You think you're saving everybody, but you're not. The ones I work for, they're still going to do what they do.
If
they don't do it this time, they'll do it next time somewhere else. And they'll keep doing it. I told you before, they're too big for you. You can't be everywhere!" Lundt was laughing. He could do it. It'd be tough, but he wasn't going down now. Not like this. In the darkness, out of Morgan's sight, Lundt was secretly reaching around behind his back. "You self-righteous prick." With that, Victor Lundt pulled the Walter P99 from the holster on his belt.

But Morgan saw the movement. He fired without hesitation and kept on firing, as he had in training down in The Pit with Rodgers just a couple of days before. And as in his session with Rodgers, every one of his rounds found their mark, impacting Lundt's chest directly over the heart. Lunde cried out in shock and pain, but still managed to fire off two rounds just as another huge wave hit the Sea Ray.

* * *

Dave Sutherland reached desperately for the harness. Directly above him Terri was feeding out cable, guiding it down to the man from INTERPOL. These guys, Terri thought, could handle anything. She'd never seen anyone else like them.

Sutherland grabbed at the harness and then, with another crushing wave, he lost it.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed, punching a fist onto the churning water. "Hang 
on, honey. We'll get you out of this." But his numerous attempts to grapple with the illusive harness continued to be frustrated. Arena, unconscious, was a dead weight in his arms, while the pain of his injured knee tore at him with every kick he made to keep them both afloat. A crushing wall of water fell upon them, followed by more in rapid succession. He hungrily gulped down oxygen at the first break in the onslaught. Arena was almost torn from him, but Sutherland held strong. Finally, after several more attempts, his right arm was through the harness again. Exhausted, he held on with everything he had left, and launched Arena safely through its yoke. Then forcing himself in and holding on to Arena tight, Sutherland gave Terri the thumbs-up.

The explosion rocked the Polair BK-117.

Lundt's gun had missed Morgan but both rounds slammed directly into the gas bottle at the back of the boat.

Bowler was forced to pull hard to starboard to avoid the monstrous fireball that erupted skyward, threatening to envelop them. The sudden manoeuvre dragged Sutherland and Arena through consecutive walls of waves that hit them hard, one after the other. Sutherland gasped as gallon upon gallon of water was forced into him. Struggling to hang on, he thought that he'd lose Arena, but his grip was so tight around her that he was more in danger of breaking her bones.

Up on the chopper and Terri scrambled back to her feet having been punched to the floor by Chuck's rapid change in direction. When she saw the end of the winch cable disappearing into the waves, her heat sank.

"Oh, Jesus!" she cried. But as quickly as the sea had risen, it fell away and Sutherland and Arena appeared. Terri began the winch, dragging their limp bodies up to the safety of the cargo bay.

With Sutherland and Arena aboard, Chuck headed straight back to the scene of the explosion.

"Where is he?" yelled Sutherland from the cargo hold, cocooning Arena in blankets.

The Sea Ray had disintergrated and there was no sign of Morgan.

"You don't want to know, Sir," replied the Observer from the door, her concern clearly reflected in her expression. "The boat's blown to pieces. Better do another sweep, Chuck," Terri said into her headset, then looking at Sutherland. "We've got to hope he's still alive."

"Alex," Arena croaked from behind them, "Alex! Is he here?"

Chuck immediately swung the chopper back around and headed straight down to the burning wreckage of the Sea Ray. On-board, everybody was tense. Arena recaptured her sense of awareness, instinctively knowing that she was now safe. Just the mention of Morgan's name had prompted her back to life. Now they were all focused on finding him.

"Tell him to search all the way out to the edges of the wreckage, Terri," said Sutherland. "He's down there somewhere." The Observer nodded and relayed Sutherland's message back to Chuck.

They had been searching for almost 20 minutes, finding nothing but debris, and Bowler reported that he was low on fuel. There was no sign of Morgan or Lundt. The Sea Ray had been reduced to kindling. Sutherland feared the worst, but was determined to continue for as long as he could convince the pilot to hang around.

"There," came a feeble voice from the port side window.

Sutherland turned to find Arena huddled against the cargo hold door on the opposite side. With blankets still wrapped tightly around her, she was resting her tired, beautiful face against the Perspex. Tears were welling in her eyes.

"There's a man down there," she said.

There was nothing quite like a peaceful Sunday afternoon in London. It was rare for them to have time alone in the townhouse. Normally it was only their weekdays spent in the city, but lately Abraham seemed to have so much going on that weekends in London were more frequent. Of course, the children were happy to stay on at home in Exeter. Their university friends were down there and, these days, they would only ever venture up to London for shopping, or if they had something particular to do.

So it was, that Lydia ]ohnson found herself satisfied after a magnificent lunch and ready to wile away a couple of hours with a novel while Abraham buried himself with yet more work. He had been particularly agitated over the past few days, glued to the news, the telephone and his computer. She knew better than to press. It was always work, always hush, hush. Anyway, later they would have a cocktail together at five - that was her rule on Sundays, no matter what - and then bridge with the Powell's, before a light supper at any one of their favourite restaurants.

Richard, the butler, had set out a tray with her tea in the sitting room, returning to the basement to conduct his weekly inventory of the pantry. Lydia ]ohnson had just retrieved the novel from her bedside table and was looking forward to a nice cup of tea when the shrill cry of the front door bell burst her bubble.

"Oh, really!" she said aloud, exasperated. "Now, who could that be?"

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Johnson," said the very distinguished man at the door. He was tall and impeccably dressed, a grey beard trimmed with military precision. 'I'm terribly sorry to impose upon your Sunday afternoon."

Lydia Johnson was taken aback. His face was familiar, but not sufficiently so to warrant an immediate recollection. Summoning all of the charm and dignity that only the finest upbringing provides for just such a socially awkward circumstance, Lydia gave a captivating smile, buying time as she trawled through her memory for an answer. Yes, there it was. But why the dickens was he here?

"General Davenport," she answered graciously. "Not at all. How delightful to see you again. Are we expecting you?"

'Tm afraid not. Is Abraham in?"

"Yes, of course. Do come in." Lydia Johnson eased the door effortlessly open to allow Davenport and his colleague to enter. She affected all the good grace and congeniality she could muster, while her heart leapt to her throat. What on earth? Davenport moved in with confidence and courtesy. But the man who emerged behind him was not introduced, and Lydia was happy not to push the poifl.t. He was solidly built and, like Davenport, well dressed. He was handsome, she noted, but the eyes suggested that a dangerous creature lurked beneath the surface. There was evidence of bruising around his left eye and cheek, and she could see surgical plaster below the cuff of his right sleeve. His silence and proximity were menacing, and Lydia felt her voice waver as she called for her husband. "Abe?"

When Abraham Johnson entered the hallway and saw Davenport and Alex Morgan standing in his foyer, his demeanour crumpled. Trouble had arrived. It would only be a matter of how long he could stave it off.

"Nobby? How nice!" But Johnson's face betrayed him. "Abraham," Davenport replied curtly. "Might we have a word?"

"We shan't be staying, Mrs. Johnson. Coffee won't be necessary."

Lydia Johnson nodded obediently at the General, gave a troubled look to her husband, and vanished towards the back of the house.

Davenport and Morgan sliced through the intimate space of the residence like an invading armada sailing through the waters of a vanquished enemy. Johnson, drawn
in
their wake, was pulled
into
his own office, propelled by an inexplicable feeling of capitulation.

On reaching Johnson's private office, Davenport took a seat of his own selection on the luxurious claret leather sofa, and gestured Johnson to take a place directly opposite him. The direction nettled Johnson, but he took his place. Morgan closed the door and remained standing by it, his face impassive, cold.

"Now, what's this all about, Nobby?" Johnson asked, trying to remain composed. "I mean, surely we could have met at the office ..."

'TU not mince words," Davenport began. The civility had left
his
voice. It would not return. "Your boy made quite a mess in Australia, Johnson. I'm sure you know perfectly well why I'm here."

'I'm sure I do not," replied Johnson defiantly. "My boy? What on earth..."

General Davenport remained silent, but drew a number of items from a battered brown leather satchel, which he proceeded to lay out on the coffee table, and began a description of each in turn.

"Transcripts of intercepted telephone conversations between you and Messrs Cornell, Turner and, of course, Lunde. The recordings have been through the usual digital voice pattern recognition examination and confirmed to be you and your confederates. Mr. Turner was found murdered
in
South Africa, but had seen fit to leave a rather detailed epitaph with his lawyers, to be opened in the event of his death. A premonition of some sort. Copies of that document and various items of correspondence detailing your actions on behalf of the Renegade Group, notably interests in diamonds and rutile mining operations in Malfajiri. These were retrieved from a USB confiscated from Mr. Turner."

"Purely circumstantial, General," Johnson hissed. "You'll never be able to make any of it stick."

"Photographs of Doctor Siziba arriving and entering this very residence a week or so ago, including a very congenial photo of you both, snapped as he was leaving two hours later. They call him The Butcher in Malfajiri. Rather questionable company for the heir apparent to one of the Foreign Office's most senior appointments, wouldn't you say? And don't get me started on the statements of your financial affairs, which I also have, dating back 15 years."

The pallor of Johnson's features had taken on a ghostly luminescence.

His jaw fell slack beneath the skin, softened at the jowls by middle age. "Finally, a signed deposition by Mr. Gregory Cornell, late of the Foreign
and Commonwealth Office. A telling tale indeed!"

"Alright, Davenport. What am I to do to sing for my supper? I'm sure not even you would be prepared to be the architect of such a scandal. You'll never form a watertight case against me. But I'm prepared to go quietly..." Morgan's fists clenched by his sides until they cracked audibly and a long hiss of suppressed rage escaped him. The heat generating within his body as he stifled the urge to spring across the room and tear Johnson limb from limb was overwhelming. Davenport sensed it. He continued,
undeterred.

"You used your position and influence over many years to amass wealth and other considerable benefits at the cost of thousands of innocent lives. Your ability to be of influence, of course, grew exponentially as your career took you within reach of permanent appointment to your current role with, no doubt, aspirations to be appointed head of the Foreign Office itself. I once told
Major Morgan here that you were driven by greed and self-aggrandisement. So, how very like you, Johnson, to consider yourself still important enough as to be worthy of a deal. The ultimate humiliation of social embarrassment and damage to your reputation must be more than you can bear. However, I'm afraid you won't be receiving any special dispensation."