Under Fire: (A Dan Taylor thriller) (12 page)

Malta

Dan plucked his kit bag off the luggage carousel, swung it over his shoulder and headed for the airport exit. As he weaved his way through the crowd from the cheap European flight that had landed behind his, he scanned people’s faces and looked for the Sheik’s daughter. The flow of human traffic filed through customs and out into an airy arrivals hall.

His attention was caught by a woman dressed in a white shirt and jeans, dark brown curly hair haloed around a coffee-coloured complex, with high cheekbones and liquid brown eyes. She was only a few centimetres shorter than Dan. She held up a placard with two words,
LOST CAUSE
.

Dan grinned as he approached her. ‘Obviously David has told you all about me.’

She smiled. ‘A little.’

He walked around the rope cordon to join her and extended his hand. ‘Dan Taylor.’

She took his outstretched hand and shook it. ‘Antonia Almasi.’ She nodded over her shoulder at a sign on the wall. ‘Welcome to Malta, as they say. Come on. I’ve got a car outside. We can make a start now if you like. Did they give you an address for the safe house we’re going to use?’

Dan reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone and held it up. ‘GPS. I’ll drive,’ he said, and followed her through the airport exit.

The glare from the later afternoon sun hit him as they left the building. He lowered his sunglasses over his eyes and moved his bag from hand to hand as he shrugged his jacket off his shoulders.

‘I’m beginning to understand why so many English tourists escape here for winter.’

Antonia smiled. ‘Not to mention the rest of northern Europe. It’s a pretty spot here.’ She looked to her left, checked for traffic, and stepped off the kerb. She turned towards a short-stay car park.

‘How long have you been here?’ asked Dan.

‘I flew in late last night, as soon as I got the call,’ she said over her shoulder.

‘Been here before?’

She pushed her hair out of her eyes, a breeze whipping it over her shoulders. ‘Twice. Only short visits though,’ she added. She pointed at a small white two-door car. ‘That’s us.’

Dan waited while Antonia unlocked the vehicle then swung his kit bag onto the back seat. Walking round to the driver’s side, he pulled open the door of the rental car. It creaked ominously on its hinges. He ignored it, dropped into the driver’s seat then yelped as the hot leather burned through the material of his jeans.

He glared at Antonia as she grinned at him and laid a towel across her seat before climbing in and slamming the door shut. He started the engine and pushed the car into gear.

***

After parking a few streets away from the apartment which would serve as their base for the next two days, Dan and Antonia walked a circuitous route to make sure they hadn’t been followed from the airport, before approaching the building. The winter sun began to dip on the horizon, bathing the sandstone brickwork of the apartment block in a pink light.

After climbing two flights of stone steps, Dan unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside, Antonia closing the door behind them.

Dumping his kit bag on the floor, Dan pulled out an anti-bugging device and began walking around the apartment, checking each of the rooms in turn.

Antonia walked over to one of the windows which pooled the late afternoon light into the living area and peered out at the narrow street below. She turned as Dan came back into the room.

‘You don’t trust anyone, do you?’ she asked.

He glanced up and frowned. ‘No.’

Antonia folded her arms across her chest and watched as Dan paced the apartment, the anti-bugging device in his hand.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asked.

Dan stopped, turned, and grinned at her. ‘Can you cook?’

Antonia scowled and stomped out of the room.

***

Dan unzipped his kit bag, pulled out three rolls of paper and turned towards the table.

As he began to unravel the documents, Antonia picked up their plates and placed them in the sink, then leaned against it, watching as Dan laid out the reports and photographs.

‘What are those?’ she asked.

‘Latest satellite imagery of Hassan’s villa,’ explained Dan. ‘I’ve got a colleague back in London who’s monitoring a satellite feed for activity. We need to know if anything changes from what we’ve got here.’

Next, he leaned down and pulled out a laptop from the kit bag, together with a series of cables and a small box-like structure, setting out the equipment on the table.

Antonia put down her wine glass and picked up the black plastic box, turning it in her hand. ‘What’s this – a scrambler or something?’

‘Yeah – something,’ said Dan, taking it from her and putting it back on the table.

‘This is a safe house – your signal won’t be tracked.’

Dan glanced at Antonia, then back to his work. ‘It’s not
my
safe house, so I don’t know for sure I won’t be tracked.’ He began to connect the equipment together, started the laptop and frowned at Antonia. ‘No offence, but look the other way while I type in the access codes.’

Antonia shrugged, picked up her wine glass and turned away. ‘None taken.’

Dan smiled and typed in the twelve digit code. ‘Yeah, right,’ he murmured under his breath.

Within minutes, he’d set up a satellite feed between himself and London. The screen flickered briefly, and then Mitch appeared, clutching a jumbo-sized take-out cup of coffee.

‘Come here,’ said Dan, calling over his shoulder to Antonia. ‘Let’s get started.’

Introductions made, Antonia glanced at Mitch’s image on the screen, then at Dan. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘what have you got so far?’

Dan leaned over and picked up one of the aerial photographs. ‘Okay, this is a broad sweep of the property, showing all the buildings. There’s the main villa, a structure which appears to be used for storage, then this area here,’ he said, tapping the photo with the base of his wine glass, ‘is an open structure – just a roof, no walls – where they’re probably keeping vehicles.’

Antonia took the photograph from him and stared at it. ‘Do we know how many guards there are?’

Mitch nodded. ‘Not many. Hassan has a driver, a cook and a house-keeper based at the villa. Then there’re the two bodyguards he travels with at all times. Your lot at the Qatari embassy have told us that there’s probably only another two or three men on the property who guard the perimeter.’

‘That’s not many,’ said Antonia, frowning.

Dan shrugged. ‘Doesn’t need to be. The villa’s bordered by the cliffs on two sides, so they’d only have to worry about patrolling a relatively small area.’ He picked up his wine glass and took a sip.

‘How often does Hassan leave the villa?’

Dan picked up a report, his eyes scanning a series of highlighted sections. ‘Only to meet with some people in Valletta once a week – we think they’re representatives of the Iranian Government. So far we haven’t been able to get anyone into the building there to set up any sort of listening devices though.’

‘I thought that was illegal in embassies?’

Mitch shook his head. ‘They don’t meet in an embassy – they’re using a small three storey office block near the ferry terminal.’

Antonia pulled out a chair, sat down and took a sip of her wine before setting her glass on the table. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

Dan pulled out another chair and joined her, topping up their wine glasses before he spoke. ‘We can’t get close to Hassan in London – he’s probably holed up at the Omani embassy,’ he explained. ‘We know he has a regular meeting on a Wednesday at a building here in Malta – in Valetta,’ he added, pointing at the photograph. ‘That’s under heavy guard and is probably being used by the Iranian Government, so, like I said, we can’t bug that place either. Which leaves,’ he said, tossing a photograph across the table to Antonia, ‘the villa. It’s about four miles from here, and it’s where our comms team picked up a phone call made by Hassan.’

‘You’re not going to try to break in and bug the house?’ said Antonia, frowning.

Dan shook his head. ‘No – too dangerous. I plan to use some small camouflaged directional microphones which will stick to the windows.’ He bent down and pulled out a thin aluminium case from his kit bag and popped open the lid. Inside, a set of four fake hand-crafted cicadas sat nestled in a velvet base.

Antonia reached out to touch them. ‘They’re beautiful,’ she murmured.

Dan pulled the case out of her reach. ‘Our comms section chief is a keen fly-fisherman,’ he explained. ‘With any luck, these won’t be noticed for a few days and we’ll get the information we need.’

He put the case back into his kit bag and sifted through the photographs on the table in front of him. ‘Has anything changed with the surveillance since these were taken Mitch?’

‘No – but bear in mind we only have a two-hour window each time the satellite passes over.’

‘How often does that happen?’

‘At the moment, three times a day – we’re piggy-backing onto an American satellite to help with the surveillance.’

‘Okay. Then Antonia and I will go there tomorrow and recce the place as best we can.’ He pointed to an area near the property. ‘There’s a hill or a rise about a mile away from the villa – we should be able to access that from this road here.’ He stabbed the photograph with his finger and pushed it towards Antonia. ‘I want to see what we’re up against before we try anything.’

He scratched his chin. ‘Mitch – I need you to fly out as soon as we’re finished here. Once we’ve done the initial on-ground assessment tomorrow, I can go in under cover of darkness while Hassan is away from the property. You can track his movements on the satellite feed while I see what’s in those outbuildings.’

Mitch nodded. ‘Sounds good. I’ll bring the comms equipment out with me. Antonia can go with you and act as your look-out.’

‘Works for me,’ said Antonia.

Dan began to collate the photographs and documents off the table. ‘Okay. Mitch – we’ll see you tomorrow. In the meantime, we’ll get some sleep and then go to the marina where that yacht disappeared from.’

Mitch held up his hand in mock salute. ‘Happy hunting.’

‘What’s the name of the place we’re heading for?’ Dan pulled his sunglasses down over his eyes to protect them from the early morning glare.

‘Vittoriosa marina,’ said Antonia. ‘If we ask a few questions we might be able to shed a bit of light.’

Dan nodded. ‘Sounds good to me.’

‘You used to live in Malta?’ Antonia asked.

He shrugged. ‘A while back – just passing through,’ he said. He looked out the window. Two months’ work four years ago seemed like a lifetime ago. And not the happiest of times.

Antonia noticed his reticence and let him brood. She steered the small car out of the car park and turned left, turned on the radio and beat her hands on the steering wheel in time with the music.

The car cruised easily down the main road to the southern end of the island. Dan watched the scenery passing by, remnants of medieval walls and buildings punctuating the mainly flat landscape while small walled fields lay barren and ploughed, ready for the spring.

Dan wound down his window, leaned his elbow on the door frame and turned to Antonia. ‘Did David tell you much about this mission?’

She shook her head. ‘Just to meet you at the airport, provide support when needed, and take you to the marina when you wanted to go.’ She smiled. ‘I took the liberty of phoning ahead to make sure someone would be there to talk to us.’

Dan nodded. ‘Good thinking.’ As the car turned off the highway and began to follow a narrow winding road, he told her about the missing yacht.

‘Why is the yacht so important?’ she asked, slowing as the car approached an old bus lumbering along the road.

‘It might help explain some questions we have on a case we’re working on,’ Dan said. ‘It’s a long shot, but we’re under pressure for answers so we’re investigating everything.’

Antonia nodded, craned her head to the right then overtook the bus. The road dropped down into a pretty coastal town, the sea sparkling in the mid-morning sunlight.

She expertly steered the car into a narrow parking space next to a shop selling tourist souvenirs and switched off the engine. The quayside curved round the natural harbour on the opposite side of the road, the brightly painted fishing boats a blaze of colour next to the sandstone harbour wall.

‘The marina is further down,’ she pointed to a series of yacht masts in the near distance. ‘We can start there.’

Dan climbed out of the car, stretched his legs and turned, taking in his surroundings. ‘Okay, lead the way,’ he said and followed Antonia as she crossed the road, weaving between an old mini-bus and two cars.

They walked side-by-side along the harbour wall, a light breeze whipping Antonia’s long hair around her face. She pushed it out of the way and curled it round her neck with a practised flick of her wrist. She pointed out the quayside stores as they passed. ‘This is one of the more popular tourist destinations on the island,’ she explained, ‘so there are a lot of bars and cafes along this stretch. Then the marina was completed and the place exploded for business.’

‘It’s a lot different from how I remember it,’ said Dan, his eyes taking in his surroundings. His height was an advantage – he could peer over the traffic and see the row of shops and cafes stretching out along the gentle curve which followed the harbour wall.

‘You’ve been here?’ asked Antonia, surprised. ‘When?’

Dan shrugged. ‘A few years ago.’ He pointed to a building on a corner which housed a stylish café on the ground floor and what appeared to be living space on the next two floors. ‘That used to be quite an unsavoury bar.’

Antonia frowned. ‘Yes, there were plenty of places along here once where the clientele – and the staff – could be a bit rough.’

Dan grinned. ‘I know – I used to work there.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.’ Antonia blushed.

Dan laughed as they passed the café. ‘Don’t worry about it – I wasn’t exactly on my best behaviour in those days.’

‘Ah,’ said Antonia and looked away, smiling.

The row of fishing boats thinned out, and gave way to small private motor boats and yachts. Dan gave each a cursory glance, admiring engines on the back of some, and noticing that more than one yacht was in need of a fresh coat of paint. Various items of laundry strung along decks flapped in the breeze, while ropes clanged against masts. A man paused with a mop in his hand and gave a friendly wave, before turning his back and carrying on with his work.

As they reached the final curve of the harbour, the small marina came into view. Dan stared admiringly at a large motor cruiser moored alongside the wall, its freshly washed black and white bodywork gleaming in the morning sun, a dive deck surrounded by tan leather seats and a jet ski parked on the back.

‘You like boats?’ asked Antonia, amused by his gaze.

‘I like the
idea
of boats,’ Dan grinned. ‘Not sure I want the work that comes with them.’

Antonia laughed and gestured at the cruiser. ‘If you can afford that, you can afford the staff to go with it,’ she said. ‘Come on – the office is down here.’

The marina office was a small modern wooden building, with a covered deck area at the front with tables and chairs and a drinks vending machine next to the front door. An older man who sat with a newspaper spread out in front of him glanced up at them as they walked up the steps to the deck, nodded, and went back to his reading as they entered the office.

A cluster of small bells hanging from a piece of string on the door announced their arrival. A woman appeared from a back office, wiping her hands on a towel and smiling.

‘Morning,’ she said. ‘How can I help?’

Antonia stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Antonia Almasi,’ she said. ‘We spoke on the phone this morning I believe.’

‘Ah yes,’ said the woman. ‘Sylvia Camelleri.’

Antonia introduced Dan and then pointed out to the marina. ‘Did you know Paul Spiteri?’

Sylvia nodded. ‘He was based here for the last two years,’ she said. ‘Before that I think he worked in Greece – I’m not sure. But always on the yachts – the clients trusted him.’

‘Did he have regular customers or just take whatever work came up?’ asked Dan.

Sylvia frowned, thinking. ‘I know when he first came here, he didn’t advertise – people just knew him by reputation. But then times got hard, people had to sell their toys and Paul started to take work where he could find it.’

‘Was he trustworthy?’ asked Antonia, and put her hand up to placate the woman. ‘I mean, if times were hard, would he worry about who he worked for?’

Sylvia leaned on the counter and looked at the marina outside. ‘You know, I’m not sure. I’d like to say yes, but,’ she shrugged, ‘if you need work and you need it badly enough, who knows?’

‘What records do you keep for people who use the marina?’ asked Dan.

Sylvia smiled, bent down and picked up a large book which she placed on the counter-top. ‘This is our register,’ she explained. ‘Everyone who wants to stay has to provide identification, like a passport, and how long they’ll be staying. Phone number, place of origin, that sort of thing.’

Dan glanced down at the register. ‘Do you mind if I take a look?’

Sylvia shook her head and turned the register to face Dan.

He casually flicked through the pages, figuring that just because people provided details, it didn’t mean they were correct, or were even checked in the first place.

‘The yacht that disappeared,’ prompted Antonia. ‘Whose was it?’

Sylvia took the register back from Dan and traced her finger down the page. ‘Here. Paul had brought it from Rhodes at the beginning of the week. He was supposed to be leaving yesterday for New York.’

Dan fished into his jeans pocket and pulled out a photocopy of the news report about the missing yacht. ‘Apparently a film producer had bought the yacht after seeing it during filming in Rhodes,’ he read, then folded up the page. ‘I guess he’ll be screaming at his insurers right now.’ He leaned on the counter. ‘What about family? Is anyone over here looking for answers?’

Sylvia shook her head. ‘Paul was a loner. I remember we had a party at our house once and a few of us got pretty drunk. He sat on the terrace with Antony, my husband, and said that’s why he loved crewing yachts for people – he got an adopted family every now and again.’ She gazed sadly out the window. ‘I don’t think anyone’s looking for him.’

‘How good a sailor was he?’ asked Antonia.

‘Very good,’ said Sylvia. ‘Some people just think they are, but Paul had years of experience in some very tough conditions. Just disappearing into thin air off the coast here…’ she frowned. ‘Impossible.’