The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (20 page)

H
ans
carried a sleeping Jessica aboard
Future
, careful not to lose his footing
as the yacht bobbed under his weight in the floodlit marina’s powder-blue water.
He would love to have remained on the beach with Penny, sipping beer and talking
about anything and everything, but both knew foreign shorelines are not safe places
for tourists at night. He tucked the little girl into her bunk and returned to
the yacht’s spacious lounge to flop down on the maroon leather seating at the dining
table.

“Here.” Penny handed him a steaming mug of hot chocolate
laced with scotch. “Is she okay?”

“Land of Nod.” He smiled. “You really have a way with her,
Penny. It’s appreciated.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Hans.”

“There’s not something you’re hiding from me, is there? Ten
kids stashed away on a boat in England.”

Penny stared into her nightcap for a moment. “Actually, there
is . . .”

Unable to tell if Penny was joking, a feeling of unease
churned in Hans’ stomach.

“I was pregnant once.” She picked at a fingernail. “You
remember the guy I told you about? The one I crewed for in the Caribbean?”

“Mr. Family Man.”

Penny nodded and bit her lip. “I only found out after we parted
company. It was awful. I was stuck in Miami waiting to meet my next client for
a five-month trip to Polynesia. I didn’t know what to do – couldn’t exactly go
to sea with morning sickness and knew I wouldn’t get any support from Mr. Cheater.”

“Couldn’t your parents help?”

“Mum and Dad would have supported me no matter what, but they’d
already downsized their beloved yacht to put me through uni and then gracefully
accepted me going back to sea. How was I supposed to tell them I’d messed it
all up?”

“You terminated the pregnancy?”

Penny buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” Hans pulled Penny close and pressed
his cheek against her hair.

“It’s okay. I wanted to tell you before, but there was never
a right time. I found a clinic in Florida, handed over a load of my savings,
told myself I wouldn’t look back.”

“Penny, you made a decision all by yourself in tough
circumstances. You did what you had to do.”

“I thought I was fine, Hans. You know, big tough girl. But .
. .”

“Let me get you a tissue.”

Hans got up and rummaged in the galley drawers. He returned
with a pack of Kleenex.

“Thank you.” Penny dabbed at her eyes. “I went on a hen night
in London with a load of old mates – you know, a hen night?”

“Bachelorette party.”

“Ah, that figures. Well, the head bridesmaid arranged for us
to visit a fortune-teller – before we hit a club and got hammered.” Penny forced
a smile. “I thought, why not? Never believed in that kind of thing, but what
harm could it do? The woman stares into her crystal ball and says, ‘I see water,’
so my attention picks up. She says a few more things that make sense and then drops
a bombshell. ‘I see a baby . . . a baby girl . . . and she’s telling me to tell
you it’s all right and not to worry because she’ll always be with you.’”

“You’re kidding
me! I thought they weren’t supposed
to tell you bad stuff?”

“So did I. For the first time it really hit me – that there
was a tiny human being destined to be born into the world that I should have
been attached to for life.”

Hans kissed the top of her head and poured another shot into
their mugs.

“Penny, she shouldn’t have said that. She was taking
advantage and stabbing in the dark.”

“I know, Hans, but it dug up something I thought I’d dealt
with.
Mean
old witch!” Penny managed another smile.

“Listen, we’ve all made tough choices in the past – you know,
the best we could at the time. But I don’t ever wanna hear you question
yourself again, because . . .” Hans paused, his eyes welling up. “You’re so goddamn
good with my daughter.”

“Oh, Hans, you’re being—”

“No!” He cupped Penny’s wet cheeks. “You came to us when the
only reason I still lived was for her. And she didn’t know which way was up or
down, and I could only do so much to help. You’ve changed that, Penny. If you
hadn’t been through what you did, we would never have met, and you sure as hell
might not be such an angel.”

Penny appreciated Hans’ honesty, relieved she no longer held
a secret from him, but there was still an elephant in the room.

Hans checked on Jessica, then filled the kettle for another
drink. His back to Penny, but sensing her thoughts, “The Concern,” he said
quietly.

“Huh?”

“You asked if what happened was to do with my work.” He
poured boiling water over the cocoa powder. “Some of my work is for a syndicate
called the Concern.”

“Is it a charity or something?”

“In a roundabout way.” Hans set the mugs down on
Welcome
to Plymouth!
coasters but remained standing. “You know if I tell you this
stuff I might have to kill you?”

“We’ve all got to die sometime,” Penny joked, feeling relieved
the mood had lightened.

“No, seriously, nothing we do is untoward. We might bend the
rules on occasions, but that’s what rules are for, right?”

“Really, Mr. Larsson? I would never have guessed that about
you.”

“Ha!” Hans smiled somewhat bashfully and tugged his earlobe.
“You know about the Masons, right?”

“Of course.”

“It’s a similar setup, but without the rituals, superstition
and nepotism. Do you remember about five years ago Amy Falmer’s disappearance
in Colombia?”

“Wasn’t she kidnapped while backpacking on a gap year? Got
rescued by American special forces from some degenerate bandit group.”

“FARC guerrillas. Her father was a big name on Wall Street
and agreed to pay the ransom, but the FARC have a record of accepting payoffs
and executing the hostage anyway – or keeping them in a cage in the jungle until
they die of some godforsaken disease. They shot the intermediary dead and
retreated deep into the interior, and then a week later Amy turns up at the
American embassy in Bogota, claiming to have been rescued by US military – least
that’s what was reported on CNN. No one questioned it publically because the
Colombian government couldn’t confess to having no clue about it, and Washington
wouldn’t risk an international incident by admitting the mission had been
carried out by a civilian group. Besides, politically speaking it was a good
result all round.”

“And you’re saying it was . . . ?”

“The Concern.”

“Hans, how did you get involved in this?” Penny realized she
had stopped yawning.

“I’d solved a few high-profile cases in Maine – missing
persons, a bank heist the police drew a blank on – and some stuff abroad. Media
went all out with ‘ex–Navy SEAL, blah, blah, blah,’ and I received a phone
call.”

“From who?”

“My proposer, who later became my control.”

“Jeez, Hans, sounds like blue pill, red pill.”

Hans smiled. “It would take ages to explain.”

“Good!” Penny jumped up. “We’ve got all night, so start from
the beginning.” She grabbed Hans’ arm and steered him to the seat, then pulled
two beers from the fridge.

“The voice on the line says, ‘Remember Tromans, Glazebrook
and Munroe’ – three of my team who drowned in Sierra Leone – ‘then meet me
tomorrow in Boston.’ How could I not meet him? So we’re sitting on a park bench
like Cold War spies, and Muttley says—”

“Muttley?”

“Yeah. Depending on your role in the organization, you’re
allocated an identifier. The controls are named after movie or TV sidekicks –
Sundance, Robin, Boo-Boo, you know – the operatives, figures in Greek
mythology.”

“And you are?”

“Orion.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“So anyway, this suited white-haired guy says he works for some
kind of benevolent organization funded by stinking-rich businesspeople. Says
they employ ex-service personnel, and my name had been put forward. When I
asked about Sierra Leone, he said it was insider knowledge and gave me a few
days to think about it.”

“So if you accepted the role you would find out what
happened to your team.”

“Seemed that way, only I clocked a copy of
Metro
in
his briefcase – the free subway newspaper. So I boxed around to the nearest
station and, sure enough, he appeared and I tailed him home.”

“You really are Jason Bourne.”

“The next evening I’m sat in his apartment waiting to welcome
him through the door and knowing he was Innes Edridge, an investment banker
with Sachs. Naturally, I demanded some answers. He said that after Vietnam
there were a lot of upset folks who had put their lives and reputations on the line
for America, while others exploited the war effort – CIA operatives importing
heroin, companies profiting from both sides, politicians playing the war game to
suit their own aims. Turns out some of these unhappy people used their business
connections and military skills to expose a few of the bad guys. Others were
invited to join the cause, and things grew from there.”

“What kind of others?”

“Good people with a track record of getting things done. Could
be a doctor in Malawi or an airline owner willing to fly a team around the
world at short notice. Passports, visas, a safe house in Europe – there’s
always someone in the Concern with either the means or the connection. You just
never know who they are until you need to.”

“Sounds real Illuminati.”

“No, it’s not about power, control or a new world order, just
a global network defending the rights of those who aren’t in a position to do
it themselves. People like me get to put our skill sets to use out in the field
and feel like we do some good in the world. The fat cats get to donate some of
their ridiculous profits while playing John Wayne cum Mother Teresa from the
comfort of their office chairs.”

“I would have thought the fat cats were part of the problem.”

“Every now and again there’s a clash of interest or someone
needs bringing into line, but it gets sorted.”

“And Sierra Leone?”

“It was common knowledge the conflict was fueled by blood
diamonds. Muttley said it went all the way to the Washington, someone the
Concern had had their sights on for some time. That person saw to it we were
delayed getting off the choppers, attempting to make us abort the mission so the
West Side Boys could escape into the forest and continue to make them and their
cronies rich – or richer. Wasn’t it Chomsky who said, to find the motivation behind
conflict you follow the money trail?”

“And where did it lead?”

“It led to a guy . . . I can’t say more.”

“And?” Penny took a sip of beer.

“How do my wife and son fit into this?”

“Hans . . . I . . .”

“If you work for the Concern, you get to deal with some pretty
sick people in god-awful places around the world. Life can be cheap, and there
are no limit to the lengths some of these folks will go to protect their slice
of the pie. Every once in a while it goes horribly wrong.” Hans’ face darkened.

“It’s getting late.” Penny downed her drink. “Let’s continue
this tomorrow.”

C
ontainer
SIDU307007-9 had been drifting in the North Atlantic for months, along with its
charge of high-tech televisions. Floating flush with the sea’s surface, it was
every sailor’s worst nightmare, one resulting in many a crew evacuating to a
life raft.

A lengthy hearing exonerated the captain of the
Tokyo
Pride
on charges of sailing with improperly secured cargo. In truth, many
large vessels put to sea with serious safety issues. To penalize every company
would effectively render global trade untenable, so chalking up such incidents
to within a generous margin of error had become the norm. Besides, how often
did a force ten gale whip up the North Atlantic in April?

The majority of the trip went without a hitch, the container
ship docking in Singapore and Yemen before negotiating the Suez Canal to stop
again in Gibraltar. A few of the mostly Filipino crew took advantage of the
docking to have their photographs taken with the Rock’s infamous apes and buy
cheap liquor and cigarettes, but the majority crashed in their bunks, catching
up on sleep and saving their hard-earned cash to send home to loved ones.

It was in the North Atlantic en route from Le Havre to
Boston that the ship ran into difficulties. An unpredicted low swung in from
the Arctic, colliding with weather moving up from the Azores. With her shallow
keel, the
Tokyo Pride
took on a frightening roll, plunging to starboard
like a demented beast. Plates, cutlery and food flew sideways across the
galley, seasickness running rife as waves towered above the bridge.

The stresses resulting from a badly loaded manifest proved
too much for the weaker containers, three of them crumpling like tin cans and
causing the stack to lurch sideways, shearing off fittings designed to
withstand forty-ton strains.

Had the storm abated, the
Pride
could have limped
into port with all her goods, but it was not to be. Despite the captain’s best
efforts, a final pitch sent containers spilling into the ocean and SIDU307007-9
on its lonely voyage.