Haven (4 page)

‘Where will you be tomorrow evening?’ said Purkiss.

‘I do not know. The Andreotti people reveal the location of the rendezvous only a short while before it happens. One can see their logic.’

Purkiss left soon afterwards. In the lamplit street outside, he looked up at Motruk’s window, half expecting to see the man’s silhouette. But the room was dark once more.

*

The phone trilled in his hand. Purkiss killed the noise. ‘Yes.’

‘Purkiss.’ Motruk’s voice was even lower than before, with a harsh note to it. ‘I have our answer.’

‘And?’

‘Are they with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘It is both of them. Both Cass and Silverman are in the pay of the Sicilians.’

Purkiss stared at them in turn, at their eyes.

‘Understood.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘Valletta.’

‘Are you able - ’

‘I can take care of it.’ Purkiss rang off.

He said, ‘Let’s move.’

*

Outside the hut the wind had risen and snaked around the promontory, bathing them in warm sea air. The hut was some sort of lifeguard’s shelter, desultorily locked; Purkiss had gained access with ease. Sloping away before it was a grassy vergewhich terminated in a low concrete wall, beyond which an abrupt drop plummeted to the rocks.

They stood at the edge, peering down and to the right. The cliff sloped downwards so that it was lower above the cove in the near distance. The inlet seethed with movement, men moving back and forth, heaving crates off the back of the gargantuan lorry that had lumbered down the cliff path and was parked awkwardly with its rear facing the cove.

Purkiss had watched it arrive while he was waiting for Cass and Silverman.

Fatigue threatened to smother him like wet canvas. He’d had Motruk under near constant surveillance ever since leaving the guest house the previous night. Instead of returning to his hotel in Valletta, Purkiss parked in a side street from which the guest house entrance was just visible, and settled low down in the driver’s seat to wait. At times he’d dozed, so there was always a risk Motruk would slip out unnoticed; but in the morning, as the first heat began to settle on the village, Purkiss saw Motruk emerge, with as confident a stride as ever.

It had been one of the most concentrated and prolonged surveillance jobs Purkiss had ever undertaken. He crossed the island, east to west and back again, changing rental cars at times to break the pattern, finding the expansive terrain between towns and villages a nightmare to traverse without Motruk Taking note of him. Motruk had done nothing obviously suspicious, shopping in Valletta’s mall at one point, meeting a local-looking couple for lunch at another. He’d taken a few phone calls during the day but Purkiss had been unable to catch anything that was said.

At five p.m., four hours ago, Motruk had phoned Purkiss to say his meeting with the Sicilians was scheduled for eight thirty. Purkiss confirmed that he’d set up his own rendezvous with Cass and Silverman for that time. At seven thirty Motruk had set off from the guest house in Marsaxlokk once more and arrived in this spot on the north coast, some distance from human habitation, it seemed. Purkiss took up position on the cliff and watched Motruk in the cove below, meeting a group of men. The truck arrived soon afterwards.

And after that, the container ship crept into view on the horizon.

*

While sitting in the car the night before and watching the guest house, Purkiss had phoned the High Commission. He’d argued with the night switchboard operator that yes, he did indeed need to speak to Ms Amanda Cass urgently about a matter of the utmost importance, even if she had gone home, and no, it couldn’t wait until morning. After fifteen minutes Cass had rung him back.

She’d been silent for a few seconds after Purkiss finished his piece. Then she said: ‘And you don’t believe him.’

‘That you or Silverman are working with the Sicilians? Not for a moment. And it’s not because you’ve got such honest faces or anything.’

‘Then why –’

‘Because sniffing out bent agents is my job. They wouldn’t have sent Motruk to investigate you. They’d have sent me.’

*

The soft chug of well-maintained outboard motors echoed up from the sheer walls of the cove as the first of the boats began to move out towards the container ship, carrying the first of the crates.

Purkiss and Cass and Silverman crouched by the ridge, peering down. There were perhaps twenty men down below, most of them involved in unloading the lorry and transferring the boxes to the waiting boats, of which there were four. The rest of the men weren’t dressed for physical labour and stood with Motruk, overseeing.

Cass took out her phone. ‘I’m calling the police,’ she murmured.

Purkiss held up a hand. ‘We need to find out what’s in those crates first. Give the police a reason to come in force.’

‘I’m calling them anyway. It’ll take them time to get here.’

Purkiss looked down the cliff face. It was a hundred-foot vertical drop to the rocks below. The cliff path sloped away to the right but led directly to the cove and he’d be seen if he took it.

‘Wait here,’ he said.

Silverman started to rise but Purkiss motioned him down.

‘I’ll be less conspicuous on my own.’

On his belly he crawled to the edge of the cliff. Glancing down to identify the initial points where his feet would go, he swung himself over the edge. The sensation of yawning emptiness beneath him was terrifying for an instant until his shoes found purchase on the rough rock. Gripping the ridge with one hand, he groped downwards with the other until he found a jutting piece of rock in the cliff face.

Slowly, with disjointed movements like a prototype robot’s, he began to descend.

*

Behind and below Purkiss the sounds of activity grew louder, the thrum of the motorboats waxing and waning as they made their way to and from the ship. With every scrabble of his toes against the rock face, every eked-out few inches of downward progress, he waited for the shouting to start, the searchlights to pin him to the cliff like a spike through a butterfly.

Once, he looked up. Cass was craning down, and he thought she was trying to say something but not daring to raise her voice.

Time dilated so that it felt as if he’d been climbing for an hour, two hours, when, the muscles and ligaments in his arms straining and cramping and the sweat pricking on his face, he sensed bulk beneath him. Looking down, he saw the highest of the rocks reaching up for him, ten feet below.

He dropped the last few feet, his feet slipping on the rock and tipping him to roll awkwardly on his shoulder on the shingle. For an instant he paused, his breath frozen in his chest, but the sound hadn’t been noticed. Pulling himself to a squatting position he peered over the top of a boulder.

The work was continuing, perhaps a hundred and fifty feet away. Purkiss couldn’t see inside the lorry but when the men climbed up into the back he heard an echo, which suggested there wasn’t much left to empty out.

The crates looked heavy, two men staggering to carry each one between them; but there were no external markings that he could make out in the thin moonlight. Between him and the activity stretched an expanse of flat rock and shingle. There was no way he could get closer without being seen or heard.

One of the men stumbled, his end of the crate slipping and crashing to the ground. He yelled, and two of the besuited men conferring with Motruk hurried over, cursing. They stared down at the crate. Another man came over with a crowbar and jammed the end under the lid.

It gave with a grinding tear of nails through wood. The men in suits groped inside. Purkiss strained his ears. Was that the clink of metal?

One of the men straightened, lifting a heavy object out, turning it in his hands and peering closely at it as if looking for damage.

The type wasn’t clear, but it was an automatic rifle.

Purkiss slipped out his phone and thumbed in a text message to Cass.

It’s weapons. Motruk’s running guns.

It was what he did best.

In a moment Cass’s reply came:
Have told the police. They’re heading here anyway.

They need to hurry.

The crate was resealed and lugged on to the waiting boat. Already some of the men who’d been doing the lifting were dawdling with the unmistakeable air of people coming to the end of a job.

In a few minutes the crates would be loaded on the ship and the men would be gone.

He needed to stall them.

*

Purkiss crept as far back as he could until the sea met the cliff wall. He thumbed his phone. Over at the lorry he saw Motruk step aside and lift his own phone to his ear.

Purkiss said, his voice low, ‘Motruk. Silverman and Cass have been dealt with.’

‘What did you –’

‘They said stuff I don’t understand. Things you might be able to clarify for me.’ He paused a beat. ‘They mentioned something about a shipment of crates. Something you were arranging for the Sicilians. What’s all that about?’

In the distance Purkiss saw Motruk turn away from the others. He couldn’t see his face but imagined utter bewilderment there. ‘I don’t –’

‘Here’s what Silverman told me. He was in quite a bit of pain, so he was babbling, but I made him repeat it. He said, “The crates Motruk’s passing on to the Sicilians are mostly duds.” What was he on about, Motruk?’

‘I don’t know what the hell –’ Purkiss saw one or two of the besuited men stare at Motruk and his voice dropped in pitch. ‘Look. I do not know what Silverman was talking about. What crates?’

‘You’re not trying to screw me, are you, Motruk? And I certainly hope you’re not trying to screw the Sicilians. They’ll be less forgiving than I will. And I don’t forgive.’

Purkiss saw Motruk staring out at the ship, after the crates that might, somehow, not contain guns.

Motruk said, his voice tinted with fear, ‘I will call you back.’

Purkiss watched him stride back over to the men in suits and start conferring with them frantically, using lots of arm gestures. He could imagine the story Motruk was spinning:
I may have been duped, we need to crack open all those crates
, most of all
I’ve been double crossed just as much as you have
. The two men hefting what must be one of the final crates laid it down and stood, awaiting orders.

A noise started up, a low thumping from far away that grew in volume and began to take on a different character, a choppier one.

The men clustered around the lorry and the boats looked up as one, and began to shout.

A helicopter hovered into view over the ridge, its noise almost deafening now that it was directly above. A spotlight speared downwards, transfixing the group. Purkiss twisted his neck and looked up above him. At the top of the cliff uniformed men were massing in front of a blaze of headlights.

The first call came over the loudhailer, in what must have been Malti and then Italian:
raise your hands in the air and remain where you are
.

It was a cliché, Purkiss thought afterwards, but it was also the most apt description for what happened next. Hell broke loose.

*

The men in suits scrambled for the two boats at the water’s edge, while the ones who had been doing the lifting began to crack open the remaining crates.

Purkiss half rose, no longer concerned about being seen, and watched the men hefting the guns and slamming magazines home and open fire in a semi-practised way, ripping the air with bullets. The helicopter bucked like a steed and recoiled backwards over the ridge; Purkiss didn’t think it had been hit but the pilot was moving back out of range.

From above Purkiss, the police on the cliff top began to return fire.

The two boats took off towards the hulking ship. Not all the men in suits had been able to climb aboard, and the remaining four stood waiting for the other two boats which were approaching at speed.

Purkiss ran forward a few paces and called: ‘Hey. Motruk.’

Motruk didn’t hear him at first, but was looking around in apparent panic and spotted Purkiss near the rocks. His face contorted, he reached inside his jacket and drew out a pistol, levelled it.

Purkiss sprang back, felt the shot whine off the boulder beside him. He risked a quick look and saw Motruk running in his direction.

It was what Purkiss was relying on: that the Ukrainian’s rage at having been tricked would trump his desire to save his own hide.

Motruk fired again in mid-sprint, an amateur’s error. Purkiss waited, pressed against a rock. If the man came racing round the side Purkiss would have a chance. If he took his time to walk round slowly, leaving space to aim, it would be a different matter.

Automatic fire spackled the cliff face and Purkiss ducked as a shower of gravel fell on him. He looked up, half-expecting to see Motruk drawing a bead, but he wasn’t there.

Purkiss inched around the boulder and looked. Motruk had, after all, chosen self-preservation and changed course, running to the shore. He was aboard one of the boats with two other men, and as Purkiss watched the vessel arced off across the roiling water, peeling away from the direction of the ship and heading out to sea.

*

It was over relatively quickly. Three of the Siclians were shot dead by police marksmen. The rest surrendered soon afterwards, and those who’d made it to the ship would be rounded up once the ship was intercepted. One policeman had been injured by a lucky shot, but would live.

Purkiss made his way up the cliff path, running the gauntlet of police officers who glared at him even though Cass had provided his description and told them to hold fire. At the top he saw Cass and Silverman in discussion with the officer in charge.

Cass came over. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry.’

It said all that needed to be said, with admirable concision, Purkiss thought.

‘Shame he got away,’ she said. ‘But we’ll get him somewhere along the line.’