The Collectors Book Five (The Collectors Series 5) (27 page)

              “I agree,” said Alfredo, “but then I am not paying.”

              “You two are the professionals. So long as we recover the gold and no one gets hurt another few hours doesn’t matter. What’s the saying, early to bed and early to rise? Let’s get the ROV ready for a dip.”

              No sooner had the ROV secured the charge, surfaced and Tommaso pressed the button, it dived again. Isabella repeated this process eleven times before the multiple steel straps securing the cargo were all fractured.

              “The hatch cover has taken some damage,” said Adrian, “but it can wait.”

              “Silly question,” said Petros. “but are there any large sharks in the Med?”

              Adrian smiled. “You’d better believe it, although not often seen. If my memory serves, there’s at least forty different types. The big three are around and have sunk their teeth into a few tasty morsels.”

              “And they are?”

              “White, Bull and Tiger. They only bite to see if you’re good to eat.”

“Great whites can’t have much to eat in the Med.”

They continued stowing the ROV and other gear.

“Great whites can’t have much to eat in the Med.”

              “Dolphin and Tuna are in abundance and the occasional holiday-maker. Last one I heard of was off the coast of Malta. Honeymoon couple, he swam way out to impress his new bride and a Great White took him. She thought he was waving until he disappeared.”

              Petros grimaced. “On that wonderful thought, it’s time for dinner.”

              “Adrian walked around his red submersible checking. Satisfied everything was in order, he joined the crew in the mess.

              The meal over, everyone, apart from Amadou and ZZ, retired to their cabins, showered and rested.

              On the bridge, Amadou checked their position from the sat-nav and glanced at the sweeping line on the radar display. The nearest vessel remained over thirty miles distant. He stared out of the starboard window relieved that the sea remained empty. For six hours, on the hour, he repeated the procedure. At the rear of the bridge, ZZ dozed in a chair.

              Amadou was checking the radar when ZZ said, “See any ships?”

              “Nothing except the sea and stars.”

              “When do you think the Cosa Nostra will arrive?”

              “Soon.”

              “You talk as if you know.”

              “I don’t know exactly, but they will.”

              “Funny, isn’t it? We always tell ourselves not to get involved.”

              “You’re not wrong.”

              “So why do we?”

***

At first light ZZ woke everyone except Amadou who had fallen asleep in a chair. Marco produced coffee and toasted ham and cheese sandwiches for breakfast.

              Adrian supervised the launching of the Red Devil.

              Within the hour, Adrian and Petros dropped into the submersible. Being last Petros pulled the hatch closed and sealed it before sliding into his rigid seat. His eyes gazed at the electronic control panels in front and to the sides.

              Adrian completed the pre-dive check-list, ticking each item on his sheet.

              Simone, wearing a wet suit, floated at one of the viewing ports, waiting. When he received thumbs up from inside he released the securing shackle and pulled himself onto the
Tuna Turner
.

              In the control room, Alfredo completed a radio check with Adrian.

              Those on deck watched as the submersible slipped under the surface. 

***

Adrian angled the craft as it descended. The gentle hiss as air bled from the ballast tanks was unmistakable.

              Petros stared through the viewing ports while Adrian controlled the descent. The daylight diminished into dark as the depth increased until Adrian switched on the searchlights.

              He tapped Petros on the shoulder and pointed to a gauge. “Alfredo’s depth was spot on. We’re at two-fifty metres and your ship is right in front of us.”

              The craft banked, rose over the hull and descended with the main viewport facing the cargo hatches.

              “Time you put into practice what I taught you. I’ll hover while you remove the remains of the cover.”

              Petros grabbed the single control. “Don’t shout at me if I get this wrong.” The robotic arm extended, jerked and prodded until with concentration he began to think of it as an extension of his own.

              The numerous detonations the previous day had loosened the planks still in place. When Petros secured the three fingered clamp, Adrian reversed the craft, turned one eighty degrees allowing it to be dropped clear of the operating zone. Three hours later the Red Devil with every light operating entered the hold.

              “Bloody hell,” said Petros as he saw the scattered boxes.

              “Time to surface.”

              “We could shift a lot of this ready for lifting.”

              “We could,” said Adrian. “It’s a monotonous process but easier if we place the ingots into steel baskets and to do that Alfredo may have to reposition his ship.”

              Fifteen minutes later the craft floated on the surface. Simone secured the shackle and the hydraulic crane hoisted it inboard.

              Petros shielded his eyes from the sun as it reflected off the sea.

              Adrian laughed. “Take your sun glasses next time.”

              “Good timing,” said Alfredo. “Marco’s made soup for lunch.”

***

“Bastards,” screamed Gabriele Silvio as he struck the computer keyboard with his fist. “They found the transmitter.”

              “We can still find them, can’t we?”

              “Rocco, you idiot. It might take days.”

              “But we know where they found the boat people.”

              “Go, get me the paper.”

              “The cleaner threw it away.”

              “Don’t stand there. Search through the rubbish until you find it.”

              “Yes, Boss.”

              Full of rage, Gabriele placed a chart on the table and marked the position where the transmitter stopped. From the Straights of Messina he marked the maximum distance the
Tuna Turner
could have travelled in twenty-four hours.

              “The paper, Boss.”

              He grabbed it tearing it in two.” Go and wash. You smell like an overworked whore.”

              Rocco shrugged and wandered to the bathroom.

              “Not there, idiot. Use the kitchen.” Gabriele’s eyes devoured the front page. “Sixty-five miles from Valletta.” With a pair of compasses, he scribed an arc, which bisected the maximum distance line. “I’ll have you on my radar, Alfredo, you cannot escape. Rocco.”

              “Yes, Boss.”

              Gabriele shook his head. “As my nephew I employ you but I often wonder why. Give the order and I’ll meet you and the rest of the crew in an hour on my motor yacht.”

***

With two steel baskets gripped in its claw, the submersible descended, trailing a lifting wire to the wreck. These Adrian placed on the seabed fifty metres from the open hold. The wire Petros secured by a slip hook to one basket.

              Adrian peered through the viewport, his voice relaxed. “See how the wire bends? We have to position the ship above so that the baskets don’t snag. Thankfully, the current in these parts is slight.”

              He switched the radio to transmit. “Alfredo, move to port twenty metres. Stop. Move to starboard a tad. Stop. Ahead ten metres. Stop. That should do. Petros, let’s start collecting.”

              The first basket hoisted contained sixteen bars. The second was ready as they waited for an empty basket to return.

              “Where is it?” muttered Adrian.

              “I see it.”

              “Alfredo, another ten metres to starboard.” 

              The afternoon vanished as baskets containing ingots ascended and when empty, descended.

              Adrian glanced at the digital clock on the consul. “I can’t speak for you but I’m knackered. Time to call it a day and believe me, your right arm will be sore tomorrow.”

              “Agreed.”

              On pulling themselves out of the craft, both men stretched cramped muscles.

              “Don’t you want to see it?” asked Tommaso.

              “I’ve seen every damned bar,” said Petros as he flexed his right arm. “What’s for dinner?”

***

In a foul mood, his smile as warm as a January day at the North Pole, Gabriele Silvio manoeuvred
Belladonna,
his luxury motor yacht, away from its berth in Palermo harbour. Behind him stood Rocco ready to take over. Like each of Gabriele’s men, he obeyed the rules of the Cosa Nostra without question.

              The bow of the luxury yacht lifted in the slight swell as she cleared the harbour.

              “Rocco, take the wheel.”

              “Yes, Boss.”

              Gabriele drew a line on the chart, set the autopilot, anti-collision radar, and inserted a disc into the computer. He turned a switch to fully automatic and the
Belladonna
followed a programmed track at eighteen knots. “Keep your eyes open and call me if any vessel comes inside the two mile range on the radar. I’ll have the others relieve you when they’ve eaten.”

              Rocco nodded, sat in the captain’s chair, and stared out of the windows.

              Gabriele summoned his team of eight into his stateroom. From a jug, he poured a cup of coffee and sat at the head of the ornate table. He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the polished wood before speaking. “Tonight we rest, tomorrow we work. First, we find a boat full of migrants, not difficult these days. Four of you suitably armed will kill them if they’re not already dead. The
Belladonna
will tow whatever to a suitable position and allow the wind and tide to do the rest. You will hide onboard until spotted by the
Tuna Turner
. They will, as good seafarers, come to your assistance. I suggest as soon as the craft touches the side, you kill the crew and take over. I repeat, no one is to remain alive. On the bridge you will find a radio, check it is on channel sixteen and transmit, ‘We are into fish,’ I will reply, ‘On my way’.”

              A burly, hard-faced man wearing blue jeans and white T-shirt, leant on the table. “Who is included in this party of four?” asked Antonino.

              “You can take the three men on my left. The others will assist when we come alongside and transfer the gold. Rocco will need to be relieved after you’ve eaten. The fridge in the galley is full of micro-wave meals. There’s no alcohol, so don’t bother to look for it.”

              “You can go and eat. Don’t forget Rocco.” Gabriele poured himself another coffee. The eight men stood, nodded and left.

              Satisfied with his plan, Gabriele strolled into his private galley, opened the fridge. From a selection of meals provided and prepared by a local restaurant, he chose a lobster salad. 

              On the hour, he went to the bridge, checked course, speed, and position. Once clear of the Straits of Messina he relaxed on his double bed. Sleep was a long time coming.

              The light from the morning sun shone through the porthole and woke him. In less than a minute, he stood on the bridge staring at an empty sea. He glanced at the sat-nav and marked a cross on the chart; they had made good speed. “Keep your eyes open, Antonino. It’s time for my breakfast and I look forward to a financially rewarding day.”

              “I’m sure it will be, Padrino.”

              Breakfast consisted of fresh orange juice, toast and three cups of strong black coffee. As a man who left nothing to chance, his mind considered every option.

***

On a mirror calm sea and a sunny morning, the
Tuna Turner
hovered over the wreck. Alfredo and his crew sat on the aft deck eating breakfast.

              Petros turned to Adrian. “How much longer?”

              “If it goes as well as yesterday, we’ll be finished tonight.”

              “I’ll feel a whole lot better when we unload the gold in Malta,” said Petros.

              “Why not Palermo?”