Counterpoint (42 page)

Max’s world collapsed around him, his
mouth fell open, and every muscle in his body went weak and limp.
His innards churned over, and as the shock took hold blackness
closed in around him as blood drained from his brain.

Gregor turned rapidly and rammed his
elbow hard into Max’s gut, winding him. Pulling hard on the hook
did no damage to Gregor because it was now around his neck like a
shepherd’s crook, around the neck of a sheep. Max fell to the
floor, a beaten man. He hardly felt Gregor’s polished brogue shoe
as it smacked into the side of his head. Blackness fully engulfed
him.

When Max slowly regained consciousness,
he could hear voices nearby laughing and joking, the rhythmic sound
of a large diesel pump and the distant pulsing gush of water. He
focused his mind on what the men were saying. A meeting was due to
take place that afternoon and buyers for the weapons would come
from many countries to take what they wanted. They must have a way
of transporting the weapons back to their own countries surmised
Max

A large gantry crane rumbled across,
high above him as he opened his eyes and tried to focus them. He
saw the large steel hook descend to a relatively new square patch
of concrete floor. Men connected chains to steel eyes set in the
corners of the slab and to the main hook. The hook slowly ascended
and finally raised the slab a little above the floor.

From the chair he was tied to, he could
see he was in the main warehouse again. It was now quite full of
crates, and the main doors were closed. The crane rumbled back
until the slab was clear of the hole and then lowered the slab to
the floor. The men slowly unhooked the slab and peered intently
down into the water-filled hole.

There was a splashing sound and a
grinding noise of metal on concrete from the hole. Lights appeared
from the black water, and the top surface of an enormous black
cylinder, big enough to house five long wheel base transit vans,
nose to tail, rose slowly into view, as water was pumped into the
chamber. The pumping stopped when the top of the cylinder was just
above the level of the floor.

Divers wearing black wetsuits and dull
black air cylinders clambered up metal steps, onto the warehouse
floor.

As soon as decking around the cylinder
was in place on the floor, men removed large bolted cover plates
from the cylinder, to the sound of a vicious hissing of escaping
compressed air, to access the cargo.

Power cables were connected up inside
and the sound of machinery, possibly compressors emanated from
inside.

Max watched in amazement as long
missiles, and other weapons were manhandled, out through the small
openings.

The cylinder was divided up into sealed
compartments, to strengthen the hull against water pressure and
safeguard the vessel in case of water leaks. Crates labelled as
machine parts in the warehouse were assembled from their flat pack
storage form, and the missiles, and other armaments concealed
inside.

Eventually the cylinder was empty, and
all but one of the cover plates were refitted. The man called John,
and Gregor, approached Max and beckoned two burly Dockers to come,
as well. The dockers lifted Max off the chair and leaving his hands
and feet tied together, they carried him over and dropped him in
the open chamber. It was a perfect way to dispose of a body and
cause great suffering at the same time.

Before the cover plate was fitted he
had time to see, in the gloom, large air cylinders and machinery
were fitted neatly to the end of the compartment. Then, with a soft
clunk, the heavy cover plate was dropped onto its rubber seal.
Darkness engulfed him, blacker than he had ever known; it felt
thick enough to drown in.

The clanking of spanners on bolt heads
slowly sealed his fate. He didn’t care anymore; his son was dead
because of him. What was there to live for?

He lay on his stomach along the axis of
the cylinder trying to get comfortable and reviewed his life. He
particularly remembered the night he met Carla. He had wanted
adventure, and from the moment she came into his life, he had got
it.

He still couldn’t
believe James was dead, he had heard the shots, but there is no
closure in that. He knew he was in the denial phase; he had been
there before when Janet, his wife died in his arms. Who was it who
said,
denial was not a river in
Egypt
. Whoever it was, it was Max’s kind
of humour, although he was in no mood for it now. Anyway, he would
be dead and out of his misery, soon.

Suddenly he felt very irked, why was he
just giving up, there must be a way out of here?

But there wasn’t of course, even
Houdini couldn’t get out, there were no tricks to pull or illusions
to create in this sealed, steel coffin.

The cylinder settled and lurched as it
sank back into the black hole.

Just enough water was left, to float
the cylinder into position over its heavy ballast keel, where it
would be reconnected. The buoyancy of the cylinder was adjustable
from outside by the divers as they negotiated it through the
underwater tunnel from the chamber and back under the hull of the
cargo ship.

A year ago, when Gregor first saw the
warehouse, he came up with the idea of excavating a chamber with a
short tunnel to the sea. He consulted a civil engineer who
explained that it was relatively simple to do with basic tools and
normal building materials. Even the large cover plate over the
entrance to the tunnel in the harbour wall was basic lock gate
technology. As the water is pumped out of the chamber and tunnel,
the water pressure from the sea would hold it in place and
effectively seal it up, leak free. Because the dock was deep water,
the large draft of the ship and cylinder under the keel was not a
problem. The customs men had often searched the ship and checked
under the hull, but never found a thing. Where the cylinder bolts
to the hull, the holes were temporarily filled with imitation
rivets of hard rubber.

In an emergency, the cylinder could be
released and remain submerged several metres below the surface.
Compressed air in the cylinder would counter hull pressure at the
shallow depths involved.

Max’s bound hands were quite painful by
now, so he decided to try and free them. He thought carefully about
what he had seen in his compartment before the cover plate shut out
the light. He sat up and slid along on his bottom to where the
machinery and cylinders were attached. Standing up carefully he
felt about for any sharp edges of metal and found one. A flame cut
piece of steel angle, although smoothed by paint, was like a saw
blade, so he used this to cut his bonds. Once his hands and feet
were free he felt in his pocket for his phone. There was no signal
of course, the cylinder prevented it, but the light from the screen
was more than bright enough to see with, and he examined the
equipment fixed to the bulkhead.

The power source was probably a bank of
batteries in another compartment, but here at least were some
motorised valves to regulate airflow and both water and air pumps.
There was also a junction box with large capacity fuses and a light
switch, presumably for maintenance.

The cylinder was on the move, on its
way down the tunnel to the sea. Occasionally it grated and bumped
against the concrete walls or roof as it was guided along.

Max felt the cylinder turn; the divers
had got it out of the tunnel and were turning it through 90 degrees
to line it up with the hull of the ship above.

A pump started up, and Max could hear
water rushing in below him. The sensation of the cylinder sinking
made him panic for a moment.

A valve opened and compressed air was
bled into the chamber to equalise increasing water pressure
outside.

Max felt the ceramic body of the fuses,
only one was warm, most likely the water pump circuit.

An idea occurred to him. If he could
control the buoyancy of the cylinder, he could make it surface. So
at least someone would see it and investigate. It seemed to be his
only chance of escape. Then another thought crossed his mind, if he
surfaced between ship and dock rather than the other side, the
cylinder would probably be crushed, leak and sink. He decided not
to dwell on that, he was as good as a dead man anyway at the
moment.

He looked for a chunk of metal he could
use as an electrical bridge to divert current to the water pump and
pump out the buoyancy tanks.

As a precaution, he pulled out the warm
fuse to the inlet pump. Whatever else happened, he was not going
down any deeper. A diver pressed the control button to descend, but
without the fuse, the pump didn’t work. Max heard the clicking of a
relay in another control box, in response to the diver’s button.
Ah! He said to himself, if I can open up the relay box, I’ll have
full control.

The tough plastic cover was too strong
to break open with his bare hands, so he searched the pockets of
the Dockers jacket for something useful. Apart from a dime coin,
they were empty. Max tried the coin as a screwdriver, and it sort
of worked. After a few minutes, he had the relay cover off. By
trial and error he found the outlet pump relay and held it down.
The delicately buoyed cylinder started to rise rapidly. Seconds
later there was an almighty clang as the cylinder hit the ship’s
hull. Rolling wildly it grated and shrieked against the hull as it
continued to rise. As best he could tell above the din, he was on
the seaward side of the hull.

Max decided to lower the internal air
pressure of the hull to prevent it bursting. He was not sure which
relay actually did this, and there was still one he hadn’t tried.
He pressed it. There were six simultaneous explosions below him and
the floor came up and hit him.

Carla made her escape from a warehouse
with a graceful gymnastic pivot through the window. She dropped to
the ground like a cat, looked quickly around and ran back to the
car. She drove away frantically searching both sides of the road
until she saw it; a phone box. She didn’t want to use her mobile
phone and compromise her future security.

She called the FBI and asked for an
agent, Steve Wilcox, but was put through to Mike Teal. “I need your
help,” she demanded, ignoring his questions. She told him Gregor
Yeltsin was at his dockside warehouse in Florida and that he had
arranged to kill her friend’s son, James Fortune, within the hour.
She gave all the addresses she knew of where James might be held.
She said, “I am responsible for framing Yeltsin,” and briefly
explained why, mentioning the murdered survey team.

“My friend is still trapped in the
warehouse; if he is caught, he will be killed as well.”

She heard commands being issued in the
background as she spoke, and knew things were happening, but what
the outcome would be was anyone’s guess.

Teal ordered a local team to close in
on the warehouse and called a contact in Scotland Yard. Within
minutes, several armed response vehicles were mobilised and closed
in on the addresses Carla had given.

James was held prisoner at the
industrial unit where his computer system was being shut down,
prior to dismantling and shipping, the furniture removal lorry was
standing by for loading.

As the armed response vehicle team
cautiously looked through the window they could see a man talking
on his mobile phone, automatic pistol in hand, standing behind a
young fair haired man, tied up in a chair.

The man lowered his phone and stepped
back raising his pistol to the back of the young man’s head. Two
fatal shots rang out, shattering the otherwise still evening air,
the same shots Max heard.

Mike Teal and his team were whisked
away to a waiting jet ready to fly to Florida. A helicopter would
be standing by to meet him when he landed, to take him on to the
dock.

Five hours later he was being brought
up to date with the local team who had staked out the area.

“Apart from the unloading of the ship,
nothing else has happened. Most of the Dock Labour had left. There
is no sign of anyone being held prisoner that we could see, but we
can’t get too close because of their security system. Gregor is
still there though.”

“What cargo have they brought in?”
questioned Mike Teal.

“Crates of machinery parts, just like
the manifest said, according to the Customs check,” the man
replied.

“I wonder why Gregor is here to watch a
ship unload?” Continued Teal, thinking aloud.

“It’s got to be something important I
guess,” the man replied.

“You know,” Teal went on, “This is all
a fuck up; we aren’t ready to pounce on Gregor yet. We wanted the
buyers and all their links before we moved in. This could also be
another half-baked set up to frame Gregor.”

“Well the girl was right about the guy
being whacked in England,” said Wilcox.

“Yes, I know, but nothing is happening
here.”

The words hardly left his mouth when in
the distance an enormous black shape seemed to rise from the dark
shimmering water. As it rose, the sound of a huge bow wave roared
across the quiet dock. The long black cylinder slid halfway out of
the water at an angle of 45 degrees, its domed end striking the
overhanging ship’s hull with a deafening clang and shriek of
grinding metal. It fell back onto the surface of the water like a
leaping whale and continued to glide towards them.

Just moments after the sound of the
cylinder striking the ship’s hull, lights came on around the
warehouse, and the main doors opened as Gregor and his men poured
out to see what had happened. The moment they saw the cylinder
charging along, away from the ship they assumed one of the divers
had accidentally jettisoned the keel and ballast.