The Death Trade (13 page)

Billy nodded his approval. “Bloody marvelous.”

She entered the harbor, found a ramp and taxied toward it, dropping the wheels, and ran up onto the ramp, braked, and switched off. The man in the straw hat came down the steps from the hotel.

“Andrew Adano,” he called cheerfully. “Welcome to Ras Kasar.”

—

S
ara found her room very Arabian, small but comfortable with a private bathroom. She quickly unpacked, then showered, dressed in a cool khaki linen jumpsuit. She opened the door to the terrace, looked over the balcony, and found the others seated under an umbrella.

“Remember me?” she called.

Dillon glanced up. “We've been waiting. Come and have something to eat.”

—

T
here were onions cooked with roast lamb, rice and peppers, couscous
to follow, steam rising from the semolina, and a great bowl of peeled fruits to go with it. Ice-cold Chablis complemented the meal, the French influence on most things Algerian still surviving.

Adano, when talk had touched on diving, admitted to being sixty, but was muscular and fit-looking. “I take care of what business there is in the off-season. When things pick up, I bring in young guys to handle the pressure.”

“It sounds good,” Dillon said. “So it's the holiday trade, a few fishing boats from the town, and how much shipping?”

“You know the story of the Petra boats. That's about it—one at a time. General cargo, quite a lot of farming machinery, that kind of thing.” He poured another glass of wine for Dillon and Sara. “As Ferguson has explained, more than one boat probably delivers arms by night, but the
Kantara
seems a different case entirely.”

“What do you think of the al-Qaeda connection?” Sara asked.

“Obviously, bad news. They're devious bastards, capable of anything.” He looked at his watch. “The
Kantara
is due between four and five.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “Now, since Sara and I are supposed to be checking out the entertainment possibilities at the Paradise Club, we'd appreciate looking at your piano.”

“You mean you take it that seriously? I didn't realize.” Adano got up and led the way into a coal-dark bar, mirrors behind all the shelves, rows of bottles, the whole place stuffed with cane furniture. A couple of waiters were setting tables for the evening and a barman was on duty. A grand piano sat on a small stage with a set of drums.

Adano said, “One of the waiters can play those, but I'm short a double bass player.”

Dillon examined the piano. “Schiedmayer. Very nice. You don't see these on the market much. Lovely tone.” He sat down and played a few chords. “It's famous for always staying in tune.”

Sara lifted the lid and propped it up. “Come on, Sean, let's be having you.”

“How about ‘I Get a Kick Out of You'? Does that send you?”

“You're too kind,” she said, pulled a stool forward as his hands moved into the intro, sat down, and launched into that first famous line:
I get no kick from champagne
,
and now he pushed her at a driving pace. The barman and waiters were mesmerized and three cooks appeared from the kitchen to see what was going on. The entire place was jumping.

It ended on a high, everyone cheered, and Andrew Adano said, “My God, that was marvelous. There's no chance of you being free for the season, I fear?”

“I'm afraid not,” Billy told him. “They've got pressing engagements.”

“Ah, well, I suppose I'd better take you down to have a look at the boats and the dive center.”

—

T
here were two thirty-five-foot sport fisherman boats, each with a flying bridge and dozens of air tanks stacked in their holders in the stern. Everything was shipshape and in very well-kept condition.

Billy said, “This is as good as it gets.”

“Well, it's got to be these days if you want to get anywhere at all,” Adano said. “What qualifications have you got, Billy?”

“Master diver.” Billy shrugged. “Same with Dillon. But I've got the paramedic qualifications, too, which he hasn't bothered with. He isn't interested in saving life, only taking it.”

“As usual, you exaggerate,” Dillon said. “But let's get down to what happens tonight. Where shall we go?”

“Why not upon one of the flying bridges?” Adano said. “You can look to the outer harbor, where the
Kantara
will be lying at anchor, while we talk.”

He found some cold lager in the vessel's icebox and orange juice for Billy, and they sat there, drinking and talking.

Dillon said, “What do you think, Sara?”

“If we invade
Kantara
,
drop some Semtex in the hold and blow her up, I don't think the Algerian government will be very pleased, especially if it wasn't carrying arms at all.”

“A fair point,” Dillon said. “So what do you suggest?”

“Someone should board by night and see what's in the hold.”

“Easier said than done,” Billy put in.

“If you use the underwater approach. But if you look along the pier, you'll see a fast inflatable with a silent running motor. Last year, I passed the handling course on that craft with the Royal Marines. I could take you out there in the dark and wait for you.”

Dillon said, “Come to think of it, that would make a lot of sense.”

Adano said, “I agree. Let's go and lay claim to the boat while we can.”

—

T
he
Kantara
approached at four with a triple hoot from its foghorn, but did not immediately drop anchor in the outer harbor. Instead, it eased in beside the end of the long pier, sprang its crane hoist, and swung three farm tractors out onto the pier, where men were waiting to drive them away.

It was slow work, several crew members struggling to handle each one, supervised by Abu the bosun, Captain Rajavi directing from the bridge, a megaphone in one hand. Standing to one side, looking very much the worse for wear in shabby, dirty clothes, were Rasoul and Yousef.

A small crowd of Arabs had gathered, farmers and fishermen, a few hotel workers, a dozen or so residents. Adano, Sara, Dillon, and Billy were there, too, but back a ways—even so, they were spotted. It was Yousef who recognized Sara first, which was surprising because the only time he had seen her in the past was when he was drunk.

He grabbed Rasoul by the arm. “Look who's here. That stupid woman from the Blue Angel in Shepherd Market, the one who stuck a gun in my face.”

Not that Rasoul needed to be told who Sara and Dillon were, not after Paris. “Allah preserve us,” he said. “What can they be doing here? And that's Dillon with her.”

“What do you think it means?” Yousef asked hoarsely.

“It's crazy,” Rasoul said. “It doesn't make sense.” His face was puzzled. “Unless it's something to do with the
Kantara
.
That must be it, the only possible explanation, especially when you remember these people all work for British Intelligence. I must speak to the captain. This could be to our advantage.”

Sara hadn't noticed them, but Dillon did, and he grabbed Sara by the hand, started pulling her away, and she said, “What are you doing?”

“I've just seen Rasoul, Emza Khan's minder, and the drunken son, Yousef. I'm hoping Rasoul didn't notice us. He'd be bound to recognize you.”

“Trouble?” Adano asked.

Billy said, “What's going on?”

“Sean thinks he's seen Emza Khan's hard man and the drunken son, up there on deck,” Sara said. “How were they dressed?”

“Working clothes, just like the other sailors,” Dillon told her.

“Emza Khan's a billionaire. Why would his son be there dressed like that?”

They'd reached the steps to the terrace. Dillon said, “I haven't the slightest idea, but it's them and I want to know what they're doing there.”

“But what could they be doing on a boat we suspect of peddling arms for al-Qaeda?” Sara's frustration was starting to rise to the surface. “Emza Khan is notoriously anti-al-Qaeda, as is the government he represents.”

Adano joined in. “Maybe they didn't recognize you.”

“And if they did?” Dillon asked.

“Then we deal with that when it comes.”

“I'll go along with that,” Dillon said and turned to Sara and Billy. “As we used to say in Belfast, just make sure you carry a pistol in your pocket.”

—

R
asoul, followed by Yousef, had managed to avoid the bosun and scramble up the ladder to the captain's cabin behind the wheelhouse, where Rajavi repelled boarders.

“Get back on deck at once,” he called down to Abu. “Pull these fools out of here.”

Rasoul clutched at him. “In the sacred name of Osama, Captain, I beg you to listen to both of us, for something strange and mysterious has happened.”

He was desperate and it showed, sweat running down his face, all of which Rajavi took in with a kind of resignation.

“If you are wasting my time, I'll have Abu take a knotted rope to you. Get on with it, you fool,” and he was smiling.

Which Rasoul did, and very quickly, his story replacing that Rajavi smile with a deep frown. “You're sure about these people being British security agents?”

“A few days ago, I was in Paris with Emza Khan, staying in the same hotel as these people, the Ritz. The woman is a British Army captain in the Intelligence Corps. I need hardly remind you that my employer's position is a delicate one.”

Rajavi told him, “Wait here.”

He went out. Rasoul went to the door, noted Rajavi walking to Abu on the tween deck, then returned to Yousef. The large black bag that Rajavi had filled with their valuables was lying on the deck, and Rasoul opened it. No point in snatching the gold Rolex or the two mobile phones, but the thick wad of American hundred-dollar bills was tempting. A thousand wouldn't be missed. He counted out ten bills, slipped them in a pocket and closed up the bag again.

“Just keep quiet and go along with me,” he said to Yousef.

Rajavi returned. “You two stay here. I'll go to the hotel later to check things out. Meanwhile, I want you to behave yourselves. If you don't, I'll put you in irons. Back to your cabin now.”

They went with a certain excitement. Rasoul explored drawers, found a waterproof plastic bag, and rolled the money up inside.

“What are you doing that for?” Yousef demanded.

“To preserve it from rough treatment or immersion in water, this useful roll of American dollars. It might be the saving of us. For now, we just wait.”

—

T
he unloading of the tractors had finished, followed by a considerable amount of canned foods and produce. Darkness was very quickly descending, and to Adano's surprise, the
Kantara
didn't retire to the outer harbor, but stayed snug against the end of the pier. They all stood up on the terrace with him, taking turns examining the boat through Adano's night glasses.

Billy appeared, wearing ankle boots, jeans, and a dark sweater, a longshoreman's knitted cap pulled down over his skull. He was also wearing a backpack. He accepted the night glasses from Dillon and took a look.

“A watchman on the stern deck who shouldn't be smoking, but is. Not a soul on the upper decks, and the bridge and wheelhouse in darkness.”

He passed the night glasses to Sara, and Dillon said, “What are you up to dressed like that?”

“The original river rat, me, Dillon. There's nothing I don't know about nicking from moored ships. Compared to that, this is a piece of cake.” He produced a Walther, cocked it and slipped it into his waistband at the rear and under the sweater. “They'll all be at their evening meal.”

“What the hell is this all about?” Dillon demanded.

“You want to know definitely that there's a cargo of arms somewhere on that ship, so I'm going to find out where.”

“Now, just a minute,” Dillon began, but didn't get any further, because Billy ran away very fast, hugging the side wall of the pier. Dillon watched him go and passed the night glasses to Adano.

Sara said, “Is this just a little bit crazy, or is there method to his madness?”

“He doesn't need to waste time searching,” Dillon told her. “Not if he's ruthless enough, and our Billy is certainly that. All he needs to do is to suggest the watchman lead him to the weapons and offer him a bullet in the kneecap if he doesn't. He can do that without warning the rest of the crew, because his Walther is silenced. There he goes.”

Billy moved into view under a light, then melted into the dark, and Sara said, “Doesn't anything frighten him?”

“The first time I worked with Billy, we needed to parachute in over a house in Cornwall where Blake Johnson was in mortal danger. Billy volunteered without hesitation, which was quite something, as he'd never had any training. Does that remind you of anyone?”

—

B
illy went up the gangway, shoulders hunched, head down, hands in his pockets, aware of the pungent tobacco smell, aware of the tip of the burning cigarette, and also aware at the last minute, as he approached, that the smoker was a woman who was sitting on the watchman's knee.

Typical of many Algerian women of both French and Arab extraction, the woman spoke English, and she and the watchman were murmuring together in that language.

The man flicked on a torch.

“Who the hell are you?”

Billy struck him across the face. “Shut up or I'll kill both of you, do you understand?”

The watchman said, “Don't hurt her. My ship comes in here often. She's a regular of mine.”

Billy turned to her. “Is that true?”

“I'm just a
poule
,
but yes, we are friends.”

“Well, if he's a good boy, I'll bring him back to you unharmed. All he needs to do is show me where they stow the arms they're carrying on this ship. My gun is silenced, and if you raise a fuss, then I'd have to kill both of you.”