The Collectors Book Six: Black Gold (The Collectors Series 6) (3 page)

              She descended the stairs to the captain’s cabin, grabbed her few possessions and left. Red arrows defined her route through the aged car ferry. She coped with rickety wooden ladders and gaping holes in the decks until she reached the debris-strewn ground.  At the bow of Goliath her men waited.

              A lorry arrived to transport Linda and her team through the acres of mud and toxic slime. She jumped into the cab. A bang on the roof signalled the driver to start the engine and begin negotiating the wreckage-covered quagmire.

              Twenty minutes later the lorry stopped outside a small concrete building that appeared more like a bomb shelter than an office.             

              A smiling, fresh-faced man strode out towards the truck. “Mr Chris Bajwa is ready for you in his office.”

              “Has my helicopter arrived?”

              “It has been refuelled and is ready for take-off.”

              “Good. Tell Bajwa to meet me at the helipad.”

              “But he is in his office, waiting.”

              “Pass on my message or one of my men will ensure you never father any children.”

              “The smile vanished from his face as he groped for his mobile and spoke fast in his native tongue. “Mr Bajwa will be there.” He jumped into the cab. “Helipad.”

              Through huge mounds of steel, or the remnants of luxury liners or cargo ships, they drove until they crossed a railway line. Here weeds and wild grasses grew amongst the few trees where hundreds of workers’ shacks existed. The vehicle lurched along a pot-holed strip of tar-macadam until it stopped next to an area covered in painted concrete.

              Her helicopter, its engine silent, waited. Ten metres away, a well-dressed man puffed on a cigarette. In his other hand he grasped a stainless steel suitcase and a backpack.

              Linda held out her hand. Chris Bajwa went to shake it but she pushed it away. “The case, you idiot.”                                                                                     

              She grabbed and opened it. “Is it all here?”

              Chris winced as he inhaled more nicotine-laced air. “As you demanded. The rest has been transferred to your private account.”

              Linda gave each man one hundred thousand US dollars in a sealed envelope. Not one counted their money but nodded on receipt. She grabbed the backpack. “Has the hotel with all the necessary trimmings been arranged for my men?”

              “Everything is in order.” His smile was forced and his face twisted.

              Linda climbed into the helicopter and waved as the rotors started to spin. She nodded to the pilot; the craft lifted into the air and hovered. She gazed at Goliath now sheathed in a fog of black smoke. Her job was done and tomorrow Goliath would be unrecognisable from the rest of the dead ships. The helicopter banked and flew in the direction of Bhavnagar airport. Within minutes the smell and sounds of the scrap yard faded.

              One hour later she strolled from an airport toilet dressed as a Muslim woman wearing a veil. At the check-in desk for Dubai she nodded in answer to the questions asked.

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The airbus 380 from Dubai landed at Cape Town’s International Airport at three in the afternoon. Linda, with her one carry-on bag, strolled through immigration and customs unhindered.

              Outside a strong cool north wind greeted her. Shivering, she joined the taxi queue and jumped into the warmth of the rear seat when her turn came.  These days she was accustomed to travelling in reasonable style. With her bank account swollen by her latest venture she sat back and enjoyed the journey to her apartment. The taxi edged into the flow of traffic leaving the airport. She gazed out of the right hand window and thought of her future. Cape Town for the moment was home but she tended to spend more time working than relaxing.

              Thirty minutes later, the taxi pulled into the bay adjacent to the manned and gated entrance of Golden Palms estate.

              “I’ll walk from here.” She handed the driver the fare and a generous tip. For a few minutes she waited and stared into the exclusive grounds. Her mother and father would be proud of her status within the organisation.

              She punched in a series of numbers on an electronic panel and the side entrance gate opened. The two uniformed guards waved as she entered. A brisk walk took her to the main door of the marble and glass building. Once inside, the private lift whisked her to the penthouse. The lights in the corridor operated as she entered and strolled to the five bed-roomed penthouse and rang the buzzer.

              A young woman with large dark eyes, a full mouth and the figure of a boy, lay stretched out on the floor, reading a magazine. The sound of the buzzer startled her; she jumped up and went to investigate. Cautious, she peered at the security screen and saw a figure dressed in black. Puzzled, she opened the door, stared at the veiled woman and on recognising her eyes, laughed. “Why didn’t you call?”

              “Wanted to surprise you. Kiss me.”

              Frankie dragged her inside, pulled off the veil and shut the door with her foot. They kissed long and hard. Their tongues explored each other until satisfied.

              “I’ve been travelling for almost a day and need a bath, Care to join me?”

              Frankie, who worked nights in a gay night club, chuckled as she glanced at her watch. “I have three hours before I go to work.” She bent and removed the long dark robe which covered her partner’s body. With gentle hands she caressed the smooth skin.

              “Plenty of time.”

              They bathed and dried each other with soft white bath towels before heading for the bedroom.

              Linda tormented Frankie with her tongue causing her to squeal with delight. Then they took turns to please each other. 

              On the queen-sized bed in the main bedroom both women lay naked and exhausted on top of ruffled sheets.

              Frankie, still nude, made sandwiches and two cups of coffee before she readied herself for work. “I’ll be home about three.”

              Linda rested on her elbows with her head in her hands. “I’ll be here.”

              Frankie grinned as they looked at each other. “Fuck work.” She tumbled onto the bed and hugged her lover. “I never thought I’d say this.” She tilted her head back. “I love you.”

Chapter Four

West Coast of India - Six weeks later

The young Indian pilot at the controls of the aged Bell 206 helicopter grinned as he tapped Henry Wood on the arm. He pointed at the ship breakers’ yard two kilometres ahead.

              He gave a thumbs up and switched the under-slung camera to standby. At this distance many ships appeared to be at anchor in a blend of oil and mud.

              The helicopter darted over the rust-streaked vessels. Henry checked out the vessels; rust buckets, each and every one. Huge winches would drag these hulks on to the shore. Once there, hundreds of workers would descend with cutting torches. He was not interested in these but on the beach might be the vessel for which he was searching. Time was his enemy.

              The chopper began at one end of the beach and with the camera operating made a slow pass over the skeletal remains. The legion of men and women glanced up as the craft flew over. The noise of the Rolls Royce engine added to the din.

              Henry set his camera to automatic and pointed the lens at any vessel which might require further scrutiny. A second pass with the main camera still operating ended this part of his search.

              Cruising at high speed the helicopter covered the distance from the breakers’ yard to the lawn-covered grounds of the Hotel Lords. Henry, a tall, thin man with a hard face, waited for the rotors to stop before he jumped out and removed the film from the under-slung camera.

              He waved to the pilot and the craft rose into the air and returned to the airport. Once back in his suite he splashed cold water on his face. Refreshed, he contacted a local photographer who could develop his canister of film, no questions asked.

              With time to kill he connected his digital camera to the flat screen television and dragged an armchair close. With his glasses perched on his nose he started to inspect five hundred images. A smile spread across his face. He knew there was no better place to hide a ship than in a breakers’ yard.

              The hundreds of men and women bent over cutting torches and wearing little more than rags appalled his sanity as he deleted picture after picture. He understood; no work, no pay, and no food. To starve and die was not on their agenda.

              His eyes scanned one picture of a double-skinned tanker wedged between the stern of a freighter and a rusting ferry.  From his suitcase he removed a folder and from this he laid drawings of the Goliath on the small table.

              He studied the hull construction of Goliath and then back at the screen. Over thirty minutes elapsed before he knew he had found her. “With no more than six ships like her, you should have reduced the evidence to nothing,” he muttered.

              The drawings he returned to the folder. Henry grasped the whole operation. Pirates and phantom ships were controlled by one man based in Johor Bahru, the capital of southern Malaysia. No doubt existed in his mind that behind his veneer of respectability as a shipping executive, Dai Lin was the beginning and the end.

              Waiting for his call to connect, Henry walked back and forth across the floor. For a moment he stopped and stared through the plate-glass window. The phone rang three times. “Good morning, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Deputy assistant Director Peter Wells’ office.”

              “Morning, Jackie. Is he there?”

              “Hi, Henry. Sure, I’ll connect you.”

              “Hi, hope you're enjoying your vacation,” said Peter.

              He attempted to sound casual. “You may call it that but believe me, I’ve been busy.”

              “You’re on leave as far as the Bureau’s concerned. I’ll help you if I can but until you can prove your father was murdered by terrorists, that’s the best I can do.”

              “I know and thank you. But when my father’s inheritance runs out I’ll be back.”

              Peter chuckled. “I understand he was a frugal man.”

              “As tight as they come. He’d walk a mile to save ten cents. I loved him, but when my mother passed away he lost the plot. Anyway, back to business. Our man in Singapore came up trumps but claims they cannot touch Dai Lin as he operates from Malaysia. It seems Lin's people seek out worldwide shipping for disposable cargoes. I understand he’s rather selective and chooses targets of high value.”

              “His location is known and the agency has a standard protocol in such matters. We have a man who will undertake the garbage removal. The work has been scheduled.” said Peter. “Disposable cargo is the key to successful piracy and the use of sat-phones and phantom ships are the name of the game. From what I read, your father’s crew was lucky to be abandoned in their own lifeboats. These days ships and crew just disappear.”

              “What can I say? You and I both know this might be a long haul but I’m determined to find the bitch who murdered my father. You never know, she might have a fatal accident.”

              “Be careful, Henry.”

              “What you mean is don’t get caught.”

              He laughed. “As I said, be careful. Must go, being summoned by the director. Keep in contact and if the proverbial hits the fan, duck and get the hell out of wherever you are.” The line went dead.

              Although having completed a few years in army intelligence, Henry knew the odds and practiced the art of not taking unnecessary risks.

              Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in casual smart clothes, he entered the hotel’s European restaurant for dinner. Other guests glanced up as he strolled in alone and sat at a table set for one.

              “The menu, sir.”

Later that evening the photographer delivered a large cardboard box. With a fistful of rupees, he departed.