Hard Place (23 page)

The first shipyard of four that he reached, next to the Grand Bahama Shipyard, was well protected with a close-boarded fence topped with razor wire, at least nine feet high and heavily locked at the main gate. In the dry dock he saw the cruise ship standing aloof between lines of lights and four huge cranes. He walked on for another five hundred meters before he saw his goal. There, in a dry dock, was the Nomora. Its green hull and low-level white bridge stood out under the glare of overhead spotlights. He could see no sign of activity. One thing was obvious: as Darren had warned, casual access was impossible with a fence made from mesh and razor wire. But peering through it, he could see that the ship looked freshly painted. Whether the rust was still underneath or had been properly treated would be for others to find out when the vessel was caught in a Storm Force Ten.

His eyes studied the vessel from end to end. Like he always did, he used a cricket pitch for comparison. Probably she was up to fifty meters in length. What had been done in the refit costing a million quid? He had no clue as to what to expect but one thing was for sure—within those fifty meters, there was plenty of room to stash away drugs with a London street value into the billions.

Ratso moved on down the side of the yard, passing a solitary security guard who was seated in a sentry box smoking a cigarette, the smell of tobacco drifting from him. A quick glance at the heavy-duty gates was sufficient to convince him that Darren had been right—for the average Joe, getting inside the yard was a no-no. Everything now turned on his message to Bob Whewell at the IMB. As the AC had said, he’d have to use ingenuity to get aboard.

He was just bracing himself for another unpleasant walk back to the tourist area when he got lucky. A taxi pulled up to drop off someone who, though in mufti, looked like a crew member—officer material, too. While the man paid off the driver, Ratso noticed that his build was familiar, as was the bald head with tufts flying sideways by each ear. As he stepped forward to claim the taxi, Ratso was sure. My God! It’s him! He wanted to yell out with satisfaction. Immediately he half turned his own face away but he need not have worried. The drunkard seemed uninterested in anything other than keeping his balance and persuading one leg to step in front of the other without collapsing. The man belched loudly and the smell of rum lingered as Ratso took in the side view of the familiar pugnacious face, clearly profiled by the security lights along the perimeter fence. There could be no doubt.

Another duck had joined the row.

Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

Once inside the cab, Ratso turned round for a final look as the man fumbled and dropped his ID card at the security guard’s feet. For a moment, Ratso ignored the driver’s request about where he wanted to go. His heart was pounding, his pulse racing and his brain racing back to when that face had haunted him. Though the memories were unpleasant, he felt on fire, his nerve ends tingling with excitement. The driver repeated the question, this time more aggressively. Ratso had to force himself to answer, asking to be taken somewhere quiet where he could chill out with the very best local cooking, no singles crowd and no loud music.

Ten minutes later, the taxi dropped him at a small bar not far from his hotel. He needed some downtime. He was desperate to catch up on the injuries involving two of the English fast bowlers as they prepared for the Melbourne Test but now this face from the past danced before him like a kid’s Halloween lantern. Oh God! And then there’s Charlene, too late to phone now—long gone 2 a.m. over there. What to say, anyway? Will I make Christmas Day? He’d text her. That would work.

The exterior was scarcely inviting—drab colors, peeling paint and a cracked window—but inside, a cheerful woman, who Ratso took to be the wife of the owner, showed him to a table for four, which she cleared for his solitary use. The restaurant area was small, seating ten at a push but it was under half full. Ratso reckoned he could see the husband standing in front of a cooker laden with steaming pots. He ordered a beer and jerk chicken and was about to text Charlene when his phone vibrated. He saw it was Jock Strang.

“Hi, boss.” The unmistakeable rasp cut through the several thousand miles between them. “How’s it going?”

“Bloody fantastic. You’ll never guess who I just saw.” He paused for effect. “Only our old friend Micky Quigley.”

Ratso heard Jock suck through his teeth. “That Irish bastard? He’ll be the ship’s master, then?”

“I guess. We missed the sod on that freighter bust in Lyme Bay. Now we have another chance. I wonder where he’s been hiding up.”

“Play this right, boss and we’ll know where he’ll spend the next twenty years.” Jock’s laughter carried the miles easily. “But, boss, I’m no going to cheer ye up.”

“Go on, then!” He nodded to the woman as she delivered his beer, admiring the red ribbon bow in her generous ponytail. “You’re still in Cyprus?”

“Aye, right enough! I wish I wisna. It’s been a right scunner—or in English, a dog’s dinner.” Ratso poured his beer as the Scot started to explain. “I’m here with Nancy Petrie, ye ken. We stayed overnight at a crap flea pit near Larnaca Airport, run by an ex-RAF electrician who used to be based at Akrotiri. The lamps were screwed onto the bedside tables. At breakfast there was a big sign: Our cutlery is not medicine. Do not take it after meals!”

Ratso snorted a laugh. “Yeah. I get the drift but get on with it.”

“Zandro’s pilot phoned but not from the UK. Said he had no chance after Zandro gave him instructions. If you believe that.”

Ratso made a mental note to worry about that later. “So he landed while you were still kipping or noshing, eh?”

“Now, now, boss! Ach no. It wisna like that at all. He phoned from … Istan-bul.”

“Istanbul?”

“When Zandro arrived at Biggin Hill Airport, he wanted to go to Cyprus right enough—but not the southern side that we all know and love. He wanted to go to the Turkish side. It’s called the TRNC—the Turkish Republic of North Cyprus. That’s the part the Turks kept after they invaded back in the 1970s.”

“Go on.”

“But the point is, no flights from Europe can land on the Turkish side. It’s regarded as an illegal state with the Turks as illegal occupiers.” Jock paused to let the message sink in. “So flights go via Istanbul or Ankara. Of course, when your guy phoned from Istanbul, he was about to take off again. So there we are, stuck on the Greek side while Zandro’s jet lands at Ercan Airport across the border in the TRNC.”

“So you jumped into your rented car to drive across?”

“Aye, right enough. I was advised I could cross with a car at a godforsaken place called Metehan.”

“Easy, then.”

Jock snorted. “I was queuing to get across when I got chatting to a Welsh fella in the next car. He told me it was illegal to take a rented car across to what he called bandit country. He said it was deep shit to take rented cars out; the hatred on the Turkish side is too intense. In the war nearly forty years ago, there was ethnic cleansing, with thousands murdered by both sides. Each blamed the other. From what this Welshman said, both sides were barbaric. Muslims were butchered or cleared out of the Greek side and vice versa.”

“Get on with it! I’m in no mood for history lessons. You got across?”

“Aye! Eventually. At first, we decided to walk across and rent on the other side. But this Welsh guy offered us a lift, so we crossed with him.

“So?”

“He was heading to a port called Kyrenia, which the Turks have renamed Girne. He said we could easily rent a car there. Looks like a great spot for a holiday, boss. No a bandit in sight! Great hotels, casinos, bars, clubs, beaches and a port. Anyway, we rented no hassle but the sick bit? We could have driven across. It’s only cars rented in the TRNC that can’t cross into the south. The Welsh guy was wrong! So I rented and drove like the locals—that means like ye’ve no fear of death and with less skill than a learner driver with impaired vision. It was about thirty kilometers to Ercan Airport but we were too late. Zandro’s jet had landed over ninety minutes before.”

“You spoke to the pilot?”

“Aye! Eventually, yes. Giles had gone off for a bite tae eat and, if you believe him, said he’d left his phone on the plane. Eventually, when he did answer, he said Zandro had gone to … wait for it … only Kyrenia. To join his boat.”

Ratso bit his tongue rather than arse-kicking Jock for not checking that out in the port before dashing to the airport. “Any clue who Zandro was meeting?”

“The pilot didn’t ken, if you believe him. Says Zandro never volunteers.”

“How long till Zandro flies back?”

“The pilot’s on standby for tomorrow—sorry, that’s today now. It’s 4:50 a.m. here and bloody freezing, too.”

“So you found Tirana Queen, did you?”

“Aye! Eventually!”

Ratso mimicked Jock’s accent. “Aye eventually seems to be the story of this trip, Jock.”

“Right enough! Eventually’s a great word for this lousy snafu. I raced back to Kyrenia harbour and found out that even if a yacht eighty-nine meters long could get in, the berths are all full in winter anyway.”

Ratso sighed. “So, next? Eventually?”

“Someone suggested I try the Delta Marina about a mile away, so we dashed there, busting the backside of the Kia. No joy. Tirana Queen wisna’ there. I spoke to a couple of crew on a wee sailing boat who’d seen a floating gin palace moored just outside the marina but it had sailed, weighed anchor as they said, about forty minutes earlier.”

“So where are you now?”

“We’re sitting in the Kia, heater going full blast, using our night glasses. We never ate yesterday evening except Nancy shared her Crunchie bar with me. My stomach’s rumbling like Krakatoa.” He sounded more pissed off than Ratso had ever heard him.

“You’ll feel better after a good breakfast. You should be able to get stuck in after daybreak without Zandro arriving and leaving unseen.”

Jock sounded hesitant. “Our luck, as soon as I’ve started to murder bangers, egg and bacon, his damned boat will moor and he’ll be gone.”

“So where’s your observation point?”

“We’re in a lay-by on a narrow road about two hundred meters above sea level. When it’s daylight, we should spot the vessel for ten miles in any direction.”

“Nautical or Statute miles?”

“Sorry, boss but I’m no in the mood for banter.”

“Ah! Thanks.” Ratso acknowledged his meal being served. “Sorry, Jock. I was just thanking the serving wench for my dinner of jerk chicken, peas and rice.”

“Boss, stop, stop! If this goes on much longer, I’ll have to eat Nancy.”

“Okay, now listen. I want photos of every person leaving the boat and those who stay aboard. Let’s hope for Shirafi. Close-ups on anything they’re carrying. You’ve got the zoom lens?”

“Aye. When they drop anchor—heh, how’d ye like that nautical jargon—we’ll mosey on down to the marina. I guess they come ashore in a wee speedboat.”

“Tenders, they’re called, since you’re so into the hello sailor scene. And bring me back some Turkish Delight. The pink one.”

He ended the call and turned to the steaming plate in front of him but his mind was troubled. He pushed the food around as if marshalling his thoughts. The highs of just a short while ago were gone. Was the pilot to be trusted? Or was he playing games? It hadn’t sounded good. Not good, not good at all.

Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

While waiting for his coffee, Ratso sent a friendly text to Charlene promising to talk when he could. The message gone, he looked around the dining room, which was almost devoid of any features except for an incongruous solitary picture of Neil Armstrong on the surface of the Moon. Back home, the small caff would have been called a greasy spoon, especially given the curiously bent fork he had been given. But the homemade rum and raisin ice cream made up for the naked-light-bulb atmosphere.

At least his to-do list was now finished. Using Cricinfo, he updated himself about the Melbourne Test. One day he would be there watching the English batsmen walk out, trying to look confident with 80,000 Aussies baying for their blood. One day, he told himself again. Like when I’ve nailed every drug baron in London and won the Euromillions.

Seeing flaming sambuca on the drinks list, he ordered one. When it arrived, correctly served with three coffee beans, the hostess lit the liqueur and after a few seconds he blew out the flames. “Here’s to commonsense,” he muttered, thinking of the dickheads back home who had banned setting the drink alight. Health and safety regulations. Eurocrap from Brussels! No doubt you could set your nasal hair on fire, or even the hairs on your arse if you were daft enough. Consumer activists gone mad! Ratso sipped the warm, sticky glass with relish, remembering La Casaling a restaurant near Lord’s where he’d sunk several on days when rain had stopped play.

His thoughts turned to Kirsty-Ann and tomorrow night. She was an enigma—warm, friendly but with an invisible shield that warned him not to push his luck. But someone must have done, or there would have been no Leon. But what were his intentions? Once upon a time, hell he’d have been after her like a rat up a drainpipe. But now with the big four-zero approaching, life was different. No more hitting a Saturday night party with a cheapo Spanish red and ending with a shag on the shagpile.

He sighed at the flood of memories of the wild days and wilder nights but as the second sambuca kicked in, nostalgia gave way to uncertainty. These days, arresting Zandro, getting the lads in their wheelchairs up to Lord’s or bowling some late out-swingers seemed more important than chasing bits of skirt in noisy clubs. And if Kirsty-Ann fancied him, a big if, well Charlene didn’t own him, for God’s sake. But thoughts of her alone in her semi-detached in Kingston cast a long shadow over the final sambuca and lingered even after he had paid his bill. He drained the coffee and promised himself a local beer at the hotel bar before turning in.

Back in his room, he flicked on the TV and caught the end of a CNN news programme as he undressed. Then, just as he was about to climb between the tired-looking sheets, his phone vibrated. It was Bob Whewell from the International Maritime Bureau. “Christ, Bob! You’re at your desk early.”

Ratso was rewarded with a laugh. “Sorry to spoil the workaholic image but I’m in Singapore. We’re thirteen hours ahead. I already did a presentation on piracy this morning.”

Ratso laughed. “Sorry that I butted in, then. You must be busy.”

“No problem. I haven’t got all the answers yet but I expect to reply tomorrow. It’s not straight forward. But you wanted cover to get aboard the Nomora urgently. That’s fixed. I’ve spoken to the surveyor who does the classification and survey work for the State of Panama where the vessel is registered. I persuaded him to advance the ship’s survey to today and for you to join their surveyor. You will meet Tito Comores at 8 a.m. at the Pelican Bay Hotel. He will have notified the yard and is fixing your credentials.”

“Thanks, Bob. You’re a star. I owe you one.”

He lay in bed, restless from the time difference and unable to sleep. For sure, Tito would know the owners of the vessel but he’d bet it would be a faceless company and nominee shareholders. Useless. He needed real names—a trail to tight-lipped lawyers in Gibraltar would be another cul-de-sac. But what about source of funds? The thought shot through him. He sat up and turned on the light. The source of funds. Hell. I’ve nearly missed that open goal. He checked the time: it was far too late to phone Darren, so he sent him a text, his fingers fairly flying over the keys. For God’s sake! How could I have overlooked such a basic?

The room was small, the air stale and there was no minibar or tea or coffeemaker. He paced around, stared at the blackness outside the window and reluctantly poured himself a glass of sparkling water. Then he sat on the solitary chair sipping it, his angular face locked in a deepening frown. He had nearly emptied the glass when his iPhone alerted him to a message. Wensley Hughes wanted him to call when he awoke.

Brownie point time, he decided as he dialled at once. Good to be seen to be alert at this time of night. But what the hell did the AC want? It had to be trouble.