Fear of the Fathers (43 page)

Stratton pulled away for a moment. “Oggi,” he said. “You need to help me. Lay your hands on his head. I don't know why, but there's not enough power flowing through me.”

Oggi was about to oblige when the pilot cut the engine and the dinghy drifted into something solid. He looked up, unable to believe his eyes. Rising above the water was a large metal tower. He had never been up close to one before, but having seen them in books and on the television, he knew that he was staring at a submarine.

“What the—?!” he gawped.

A hatch opened up above them and a shadowy face looked down.

“We must get on board,” said the pilot.

Stratton understood now why the pilot had been so definite about leaving Titan behind. Unless the big cat got to his feet and helped them out it was going to be impossible to get him into the submarine.

The pilot leapt off the boat and tied it to the huge metal behemoth. Jennings passed their luggage along and the pilot hurled it up to his colleague at the hatch. Once that was done Stella climbed up and disappeared inside. Jennings gave one last hopeful gaze back to Stratton and Oggi and did the same.

“Come!” urged the pilot. “You must hurry!”

Stratton looked up at the turret and calculated the possibilities of he and Oggi being able to carry Titan up the steep steps. They were approximately nil.

“Come!” the pilot shouted again.

Stratton closed his eyes and held Titan's head in his hands. He concentrated like he'd never done before. Oggi joined him, his palms on the wound, channelling every ounce of power he had.

“We go NOW!” shouted the pilot.

Oggi opened his eyes and looked at Stratton sadly. He shook his head.

Stratton gazed down at Titan, unable to focus through the tears. He moved to say something, but his throat was jammed with memories. Bending down, he kissed the panther's forehead and choked something incomprehensible. Then, with Oggi's help, he got to his feet and staggered off the boat. Titan's eyes flickered and shut.

The pilot drew a knife and cut through the rope.

Stratton wiped his eyes and watched with heavy heart and sickening stomach as the dinghy began to float away into the darkness of the unforgiving ocean.

The gunfire had stopped. Grady waited for a couple of minutes before poking his head round the side of the Jeep. With no reaction, he got to his feet and walked towards the trees, alert for the sound of movement. Satisfied that the shooters had gone he holstered his gun and returned to Cronin.

“Have they gone?” said the priest.

“I think so,” said Grady. “If they haven't then they're certainly out of ammunition. How are you doing?”

“I feel like someone's shot me in the back of the leg.”

Grady walked across the beach and examined the body of the man he'd shot. After checking his pulse and confirming he was dead, he rootled through his pockets and pulled out a wallet. He studied it under the Range Rover's headlights.

“It's that friend of yours, Alonso,” he said, walking over to the Jeep.

“I thought as much,” said Cronin. “I wonder who he was with.”

“We'll probably never find out,” said Grady. “They'll be long gone now, and I'm certainly not going to be chasing them. All I want to do is get out of here and get back to the States. After I've dropped you off at a hospital of course.”

“I'm not sure a hospital's a good idea,” said Cronin. “Too many questions.”

“I don't really think you have a choice Pat. You're going to need an operation on that tendon.”

“I know. But no hospitals. I know a place you can take me.”

“What? In the middle of Cornwall?”

“No, it's quite a way. But I'm not at death's door, so if you can just patch me up and give me some morphine it'll do for the time being. There's a medical kit in the Jeep.”

Grady retrieved the kit and set about cleaning and dressing the wound. He moved with alacrity, and five minutes later he was at the wheel of the Range Rover with a happily doped-up Cronin lying on the back seat.

“Right then Father Pat, where are we going?”

“Set your course for Oxford, Captain Grady. I shall guide you from there.”

“No problem,” said Grady. He set the SatNav and drove off up the track.

Confused and bewildered Stratton turned and headed towards the submarine's steps. Oggi followed with his hand on his friend's shoulder. He felt like he ought to say something, but he knew there were no consolatory words that could even begin to alleviate the devastation.

They had just reached the foot of the steps when Stratton suddenly stopped. “Can you hear that?”

“What?” said Oggi.

“I thought I heard a roar.”

Oggi patted his shoulder. “It's the hum of the submarine mate. Come on, let's get on board.”

Stratton petulantly flicked Oggi's hand away and spun round to face the water. “I'm telling you. I heard a roar.”

“Listen mate, I know you're upset…” Oggi began. But it was too late. Stratton had gone.

He sprinted along the submarine until he could go no further and then dived into the water. A weakened growl carried through the darkness and he swam towards it in a frantic crawl, the weight of his clothing and the strength of the current lightened by hope. He swam until his arms and legs were spent, and then he swam some more. Eventually his hands hit the side of the dinghy, and with one last body-breaking effort he heaved himself up and over the side and collapsed. A large paw rested on his chest.

“Hello mate,” he gasped.

After regaining control of his functions he started the motor and headed back to the submarine. Oggi was standing on the side arguing with the pilot. They were both relieved when Stratton came into view.

“For Christ's sake,” said Oggi grabbing the rope and pulling the dinghy closer. “You're a fucking madman. This lot were all ready to go without you.”

Stratton leapt onto the sub and beckoned Titan to follow him. The panther, still weak, limped off the boat.

“He will not make it,” said the pilot.

Stratton looked up to the hatch above. The three metre climb was far too much for the weary cat, but there was no other option. He pointed his finger to the top and instinctively Titan knew what he had to do. Shaking himself awake he strode robustly to the bottom of the steps and coiled his tired muscles for the leap of his life.

“Come on Oggi,” said Stratton. “Stand at the bottom with me.”

Titan sprang weakly into the air reaching the mid-point of the ladder. Beneath him Oggi and Stratton took his weight and pushed upwards, desperately trying to propel him on. With much ungainly slipping and sliding he inched his way from one rung to the next, sometimes moving on and sometimes falling back. But eventually, after a herculean team effort, he made it.

Stratton followed him up and peered down through the hatch. He was expecting to see another steep ladder leading down onto metal grille floors, instead he saw a forgiving staircase opening onto a carpeted, wood-panelled corridor. He descended with a limping Titan in tow.

Once Oggi was safely inside, the pilot followed and sealed the hatch. “Come with me,” he said. “You must meet the chief.”

“I need to see to the panther,” said Stratton. “I need a medical kit.”

“Of course,” said the pilot. “I will take you to the doctor, he will help you. But then you must see the chief.”

The pilot led them down into the heart of the vessel. Stratton and Oggi looked around in amazement as they walked along cramped but ornate passages that wouldn't have been out of place on a luxury liner.

The medical room was about twelve feet square with a treatment table in the middle. The walls were covered with cabinets, full of medicines and state-of-the-art equipment. The doctor was an Indian named Vashista. He was tall and broad with a stern, moustached face. As the pilot introduced them he broke into a brief smile, which faded when he saw Titan.

“This is your casualty?” he said, eyeing the big cat with wonder, and a little concern.

“Yes,” said Stratton. “He's been shot. Can you do anything Dr Vashista?”

“Please, call me Vash,” said the doctor. “And I'll do my best. Let's get him up onto the table.”

With more than a little help from Stratton and Oggi, Titan clawed his way up onto the treatment table and lay down on his good side. Vashista inspected the wound carefully.

“I think the bullet is quite deep, and it may have pierced his lungs. But the fact that he is still alive gives me much hope. I will remove the projectile and take it from there. I regret I am not an expert in feline surgery, but I will do what I can”

“Thank you,” said Stratton. “Thank you very much.”

Arman Kandinsky was a Russian Jew. Born in the late nineteen-sixties he had been brought up in poverty and oppression in communist Moscow by his father, a munitions-factory worker. His mother had died of blood poisoning after giving birth to her only child. The young Arman studied hard at school, determined to better himself and break out of the cold and sterile world in which he lived. But upon reaching his teens, he realized that whatever he did the state would own him for life, so he turned his exceptional intelligence and guile to the underworld. Falling in with a group of black-marketeers, he started to sell everything from fake Levi's to illegal foods. But it was when he concentrated his attention on the lucrative drugs market that he began to make his real money. By the time he was twenty-one, through cleverness and sheer brute force, he was the biggest name in Moscow, if not the entire Soviet Union. His profuse trafficking of cocaine and heroin had earned him the nickname ‘the Kandiman'. His ruthlessness was legendary and he was feared by all, including the authorities who accepted grateful backhanders and left him to go about his business in relative peace.

When the Soviet Union broke down in the early nineties, Kandinsky, like many others, saw a golden opportunity. By fair means, and foul, he took advantage of the confusion by amassing a huge portfolio of oil fields, pipelines, property and weaponry. By the millennium he was the richest man in the world, surpassing even Gates and Buffet, but his assets were so cleverly hidden that nobody knew. And now, as he approached his forty-second year, he was still as wealthy as Croesus and yet blissfully anonymous.

The first thing that struck Stratton about Kandinsky was his size. He was six foot eight with shoulders broader than Norfolk, and hands that didn't so much resemble shovels as scoops from mechanical diggers. His neck was thick and muscular and his freshly chiselled face shone brown and handsome under dirty blond hair. He wore blue jeans, cowboy boots and a black silk shirt. He was so much larger than life that Stratton imagined there might be a control panel at the back of his neck to switch him on and off.

“You must be Stratton,” said Kandinsky, holding out his hand and smiling like the Cheshire Cat. “I am very pleased to meet you. I am Arman.”

“Good to meet you Arman,” said Stratton, trying not to wince at the vice-like handshake he was receiving.

They were standing in the middle of a large, sumptuously-fitted room. On the back wall, as a centrepiece, was a huge television screen with black leather sofas and chairs scattered in front of it on a thick cream carpet. To the left was a twenty-foot-long bar with a marble top and mirrored frontage. It had eight beer pumps, and stretched along the back was a vast collection of liqueurs and spirits. Behind it a barman in retro bow-tie and striped waistcoat mixed cocktails for two unfeasibly beautiful women perched glamorously on stools. The right-hand side of the room was adorned with a card table, a pool table and two pinball machines.

“Would you like a drink?” asked Kandinsky. “My bar is stocked with everything you could possibly want.”

“No thanks,” said Stratton. “I'm a bit tired to be honest.”

“Of course,” said Kandinsky. “And what about you my friend?” he said, turning to Oggi.

“I'll have a large brandy please,” said Oggi.

Kandinsky waved an order to the barman and led them over to the seated area where Jennings and Stella had already made themselves at home.

“How's Titan?” Jennings asked Stratton.

“He's okay for now,” said Stratton. “The doctor removed the bullet and he's resting. We'll have a look at him tomorrow.”

“I take it your healing powers don't work on animals then?” said Stella.

Stratton frowned. “Not at the moment they don't,” he said.

One of the women from the bar came over with a tray. She was wearing black leather trousers, spiked heels and a strapless low-cut Lycra top that left little in doubt. After handing Oggi his brandy she set a glass of champagne down in front of Kandinsky, kissed him softly on the lips and walked provocatively back to the bar, flicking her long dark hair as she went. Stella tutted as Jennings and Oggi salivated like hungry dogs.