The Salt Marsh (39 page)

‘It must be very easy,' she said.

‘What?'

‘Smuggling the caesium. The guard creams off a vial of caesium, somebody fiddles the paperwork.' She pointed behind her at the finger of land. ‘A boat lands down there, on the flat part of the beach.' A boat called
Pluto.
‘Regan walks up from the beach, collects the vial from the security guard and saunters back to the boat, sails round, I suppose, to Norfolk, another deserted shingle beach, lands, drops the caesium vial for pick-up and shipping across the North Sea to Amsterdam. Then it's handed over to the Silk Road carriers. There's something quite old-fashioned about it. Timeless. Smuggling, carriers, boats, mules.'

She paused, tried to work out what the
Pluto
was doing on Dungeness beach the day Alastair had seen it. The Saturday Luke had gone missing. If it was Regan that Alastair had spotted on board, she couldn't have been picking up caesium because there was only one delivery a month, on the first Tuesday. The lighthouse beam swept through the dancing particles, the foghorn sounded.

‘And yet look at the body count. Dave. Patrick,' she said. ‘Stavros and Regan – they don't seem too worried about knocking people off, do they?'

‘Well, they are fanatics. You know, they think they are on a mission to save the world from the dirty commies. Righteous men are more dangerous than criminals. So they will do anything, kill anyone, because they have a fanatical belief in their principles.'

‘Regan isn't a fanatic. She's a drug-dealing crim.'

‘Ja, but the American guy is a fanatic. And possibly the other people he is working with.' He gave her a sideways glance when he said that. She looked away, listened to the drip, drip, drip of water running off a gutter.

‘There's only one security guard,' she said.

‘No alarms or security lights?'

‘No.'

He pointed at what looked like a speaker on a pole fixed to a concrete fence post. ‘What's that?'

She walked over. A dead gull lay at the bottom of the pole, white wings spread as if it was in flight. The spindly legs of a spider straddled its unblinking eye. She peered up at the silent speaker; everything seemed sinister, inexplicable, in the fog.

‘This used to be a maritime research centre, they developed and tested ship warning systems. I would imagine it's the remains of some prototype.'

A light spilled from a lab window, illuminated the mizzle pulsing across the courtyard.

Sonny checked his watch. ‘Ten thirty. Maybe we should go in now. Confront this guard Vince before anybody else turns up.'

She folded her arms, knocked the hard lump of the Firebird against her wrist. The pistol jabbed her painfully, a reminder of how thin her flesh had become in the last few weeks. Eaten away by anxiety. She felt uncertain, considered doing nothing, stalling, leaving Harry to sort it all out. The fog was sealing them inside its dense white walls, suffocating her body and mind. She had summoned the miasma, but now it was out of control, taking over, spooking her with its ghostliness.

‘When we find the guard, Vince, I'm going to ask him about Luke. That's all I want to know. I'm not interested in the rest of it.' She pressed her face against the chainlink; the cold metal burned her skin. ‘What if he refuses to tell us anything?'

‘We can always apply a little pressure.' Sonny's hand moved to his belt, the grip of his gun. ‘Although I doubt whether it'll take much to make him talk. I doubt he has much investment in any of this. It's a wodge of money, a job, nothing more.'

She didn't respond. The silence unnerved her; she couldn't even hear the mews of the terns. The mist that muffled their footsteps could also dampen the tread of anybody tracking them.

‘It doesn't feel right,' she said.

‘What do you mean?'

‘I've got a bad feeling. Barging in. It's too easy.'

‘Sure. We could go back to the Lookers' Hut, light a braai, heat up a can of beans. I told you, it doesn't bother me.'

She hesitated, searched the darkness for omens, a sign. There was nothing. She reached into her coat pocket; touched her penknife, thought of Luke. Perhaps he was here, nearby, somewhere, stalking Regan, just as they were. The possibility fired her resolve.

‘No. This is our chance. There's only one delivery a month. This is the only evening we can guarantee Vince will be there, so we should go in now and see what information we can get out of him.'

‘If that's what you want to do.'

‘It is.'

‘OK. We can climb over the fence at the side. We need to surprise him. Gain the upper hand. Psychological advantage.'

He dug in the pocket of his jeans, produced the Land Rover keys, his compass. ‘Here, you take these.'

‘Why?'

‘Just in case.' He looked away when he said it.

The foghorn boomed. They edged along the chainlink boundary, the yellow flowers of the prostrate broom glowing like cats' eyes in the mist. ‘This is a good place to climb over,'
he said. ‘There are some crates on the other side to break the drop.'

The store room was sightless on their side. Windows and doors faced inwards, towards the centre of the compound. Easy to cross the gravel around the rear end of the building and reach the door before the guard had any time to spot them. Chances were he wasn't paying much attention anyway. Reading the newspaper. Killing time while he waited for Regan to turn up to collect the siphoned-off, unaccounted-for caesium vial. Sonny hoisted himself up and over, jumped down on to the crates. It was harder than he made it look; she managed to haul herself up, wavered on top, her coat snagging, its contents weighing heavily, swung a leg over, eased down the other side, searching for a toehold among the crates. It would be easier coming back the other way, if she had to leave in a hurry. They huddled together, on the far side of the fence, hidden from view. Too late for second thoughts now they had crossed the border.

‘Let me go first,' Sonny said.

She didn't argue. He sidled along the fence. She was behind. He crossed the short space of open ground to reach the wall, edged along. Her too. The rough brick scraped her palm. Sonny was at the corner. Tense. Focused as he ducked below the window. She followed suit, her heart pounding. Adrenalin rush. Sonny flattened himself against the wall by the door. He had his pistol in his hand. Shit. The sight of the gun jolted her, reminded her she wasn't playing games. He opened the door, swung in. Nothing. He leaned back, beckoned her. She inched into the building.

‘Stay behind me,' he said.

As if she might think of doing anything else. They stood silently for a moment. A chance to orient herself; match their surroundings to her memory map. Grey five-drawer filing cabinet where the accounting records were kept, locked. Desk with anglepoise lamp, in tray, out tray, ashtray, kettle. Chair. Bare overhead bulb, dangling from a black flex, stark light. And then a door, closed. Not quite. A dark line around the door's edge revealed it was open a fraction.

She nodded at the door. Sonny beckoned with his chin, indicating she should stand behind him against the wall. He took a deep breath, kicked the door, pulled back. No noise. No light. Neither of them moved. Waited. And then a woman's voice.

‘I was expecting you.'

Regan. A trap?

‘Come in,' she said. ‘I'm not armed.'

Sonny eased into the doorway, both hands on his Browning.

‘What about the guard?'

‘He's not armed either,' said Regan. ‘We're doing some business.'

Sonny moved into the room, his back blocking the doorframe, arms still extended in front.

‘And what about your friend?' Regan said. ‘I presume she's lurking out there. Why doesn't she come in as well, I've got something to tell her.'

‘It's OK,' Sonny said. ‘Come in, Sam.'

She froze, panicked by the calmness of Sonny's voice. Idiot. What a fool. She shouldn't have trusted him, he was one of Regan's enforcers, working for the American after all; he had lured her into a corner, a dead end. She couldn't believe she had been so stupid. And now she was stuck; she couldn't go back, she had to go forwards. Her hand went to the Firebird in her pocket, clutched the grip, inhaled, walked into the room, found herself behind Sonny. He was facing Regan, Browning aimed, using his body as a shield to protect her.

He hadn't tricked her. He was still on her side. She exhaled. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the faces of Regan and the security guard solidifying.

Regan glared past Sonny at Sam's coat. ‘I had a badge like that,' she said.

‘The feminist badge?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I found it in Skell. Do you want it back?'

‘You can keep it.'

‘Thanks.'

‘My pleasure.'

Sam returned Regan's poisonous glare and noticed she was holding something in her hand, dull grey metal. Not a gun. Shaped like a hockey puck.

‘Is that caesium?' Sam asked.

‘Yeah.'

She was so offhand about it. ‘Don't you worry about where the caesium might end up?'

‘No.'

‘You don't care that it might be fuelling a war in Afghanistan?'

Regan's face hung like a pale moon in the near darkness of the room. ‘Look, I haven't got time for your sanctimonious questions. I don't care what you think about me. And what's more, I don't think you really care about Afghanistan either, do you? That's not why you are here.'

Sam didn't say anything.

‘I think what you are after is outside. Who you are after.'

Her stomach flipped.

Regan checked her watch. ‘He should be there by now. Waiting for you. Why don't you go and find him?' She emitted a cackle. It ended abruptly, left a dirty silence lingering.

‘What's Luke doing with you?' Sam demanded.

‘Why don't you go and ask him yourself?'

Sam couldn't move her feet, desperate to believe that Luke was waiting for her outside, but not ready to take Regan's word for it.

Sonny said, ‘Go, Sam. I'll take care of this.'

He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Be careful.'

She backed out of the store room.

The air was thick with moisture, the flash of the lighthouse reduced to a smothered gleam, the foghorn disorienting. She clambered over the crate pile, levered herself up on to the fence, swung over. Dropped down. Nobody. Was Regan lying? She peered through the blanket haze, searching for Luke. Nothing. Except the smudgy gleam of lights. Three in a row – a boat on the flat finger of beach below. The
Pluto
? She stalled, swung around, stepped away from the fence, started down the shingle, aiming for the lights. A scrunch of stones made her stop. Muffled footfall. Where? It was difficult to locate the source of the noise in the fog. She twisted her head, trying to work out what was going on. Silence. The foghorn. Silence. Footsteps again, coming from behind. Somebody walking down the slope from the research station entrance. She waited. More steps. And then she saw him, an outline emerging from the mist on the ridge above, solidifying – hands in leather-jacket pockets, the green glint of his eyes visible even in the fog. Luke. She couldn't quite believe it. He was safe. He was OK. He was here. She had guessed right; he had worked out what was going on, followed Regan's trail just as they had. She started to run up the shingle.

‘Sam,' he said.

The tone of his voice suggested caution – perhaps he was trying to warn her about something without giving anything away. Self-censorship. Was he afraid somebody was following him in the darkness? She halted. Feet sinking in the stones.

‘Luke.' She hesitated. ‘Are you OK?'

He nodded. She twiddled her hair, rat-tailed in the mist, rain dripping off the ends, down her coat cuff. This wasn't quite as she had imagined the reunion. Something was wrong.

‘What's going on?'

‘I can explain.' He sounded cagey.

‘I was worried about you,' she said. He didn't reply. She looked at his face, searching for reassurance. He smiled again, but it wasn't his usual smile. Lopsided. She dropped her eyes, focused briefly on his jacket, the badges on his lapel. The red arrow of the Anti-Nazi League. The three fans of the radiation symbol – nuclear-free zone. She blinked, looked back at his face.

‘You know Dave's dead?' she said.

‘Dave?'

‘Yes. Dave. My Dave. Dave in Skell.'

He hardly seemed to react. Shock. That's what it was. Maybe it wasn't wise to mention Dave's death, here, out of the blue, but she thought he ought to know, alert him to the seriousness of the situation.

‘Regan...' she started to say.

‘Yes. The Saturday we were supposed to be meeting up. I talked to this person from the research station.'

‘Patrick.'

‘That's right. I realized something was going on. And then I spoke to Regan.'

‘How did you find Regan?'

‘She was... keeping an eye on the research station. She spotted me hanging around. She explained what she was doing.'

Exactly as Sam had surmised.

Luke looked away, looked back. ‘She told me about her work to support the Afghan rebels. I decided it was a good cause and I wanted to help her.'

Good cause. Sam realized her mouth was drooping, she shut it. Became aware she had a lump in her throat. She couldn't compute what Luke was saying.

‘Luke, what are you talking about?'

He didn't answer.

‘I'm not sure I'd classify that as a good cause...'

She stalled, her sense of gravity shifting, body slipping, everything inverting, reversing. She was upside down. She needed to reorder the world around her, right it.

‘Sam, I can see you don't understand. These people, the Afghan rebels, they haven't got much to lose anyway. They are oppressed. Poor. It's a war of liberation. It's a fight against Soviet colonial imperialism.'