66 Metres (11 page)

But the thought of her, of something good in his recent shitty existence, made him try one last time. Danton had never begged for anything, and wouldn't start now. But…

‘Who you going to send, Lazarus, to make sure the girl delivers? A team of young-and-dumb Russian motherfuckers who'll stick out like sore thumbs and don't know shit? I'll blend in, find the girl, get the device, bring it back. And I know Adamson, that CIA prick; he acts like a suit, but there's more going on, I'm sure of it. I could take him out.' His mind worked fast, trying to outrace his heartbeats and Lazarus' trigger-finger. He didn't turn around. Instead he spoke to the wall in front of him, felt the Glock's presence behind his head, listening, judging, weighing the options.

‘It comes down to trust, Lazarus, old friend, and our code. This goes bad, I'm betting you'll not be far behind me. Who do you trust to do the job, Lazarus, to do whatever it takes, kill anyone who knows too much, get it done without too much mess and no trail back to you or your boss? You and I, we operate according to a code, not like these newbies. You know I won't do a runner, and I'll go down without squealing if it comes to that.' He cut himself off; to say any more could tip the balance the wrong way. Odd, he felt young again. His heart didn't slow, but his breathing smoothed out. He was ready either way.

The cushion appeared on the top of the sofa next to him. Lazarus patted it once, then came around back to his seat, gave Danton a long, appraising stare, then tossed the Glock onto the chair. Pulling out a mobile, never taking his eyes off Danton. He made the call, in Russian, then hung up.

‘Leave first thing in the morning. Take this phone; only I will call you on it. Eliminate Adamson, the girl too. If you've not got the Rose within seventy-two hours –'

‘You'll send in your team, and we both know what their first job will be. You won't have to. I'll get it done.'

Lazarus nodded. ‘I'll see myself out.'

As Lazarus' massive frame silhouetted the doorway, Danton couldn't resist asking one last question. ‘Sasha … Do you think she's waiting for you, you know, on the other side?'

Lazarus paused, turned his head halfway, and nodded. ‘She was a good Russian girl.' With that, he left, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Danton stayed still for a while. That had been close. But the job was no sweat. He'd find this little bitch, Nadia, put a bullet through her skull and take the Rose. Maybe have a little fun with her first, Lazarus wouldn't care, nor would Kadinsky. But the adrenaline was still pumping through him, and he knew there was only one way he'd get some sleep. He stood up, grabbed his coat, pocketed the Glock, and headed out to the street where Gloria used to work.

***

Jake did the trip one more time in the police boat, from Lambeth Bridge to Tower Bridge. It must have been quite an underwater swim. Of course she would have had the tide tugging her along. Still, no mean feat of navigation, never mind with those currents down there. He looked over the side again. The water was turgid, swirling. Visibility was shite.

He climbed up the ladder onto the
Mirage
, ducked and weaved through a spider web of yellow and black police tape, and flashed his temporary badge borrowed from MI6 as necessary. Once they saw that badge the police didn't want to know his name or what he was interested in. Lorne was in the pleasure boat's bar section, studying a report. Another short dress, in her hand a cocktail glass with clear liquid and a cherry. As he entered, she nodded to someone behind him. Suddenly they were alone.

She carried on reading. ‘Any thoughts yet?'

He waited till she looked up, then shook his head.

She closed the report. ‘We have several leads, all flimsy to say the least. One or two here,
one in Penzance, and one in the Isles of Scilly.'

He shifted on his feet.

‘Ah yes, you have friends there, don't you?'

‘What's the lead?'

She took a sip. ‘Probably nothing. A Russian girl was searched there yesterday. Clean, apparently.'

‘So, why –'

‘First, she's a ghost. Below the radar for five years. No media presence anywhere. Not an email, not a single electronic payment of a bill. Very unusual, except for an operative. Second, one of the crew of the Naval Patrol boat thought there was a piece on the boat when they arrived that wasn't there when they left. He only realised it later. Wasn't going to report it, but the captain is apparently a stickler for these things. Probably nothing, but someone should go down there just in case.'

‘London, Penzance, Scilly Isles,' he said.

‘Yes, we don't need your intelligence wizardry to join those particular dots. Pretty much a straight line.' She took another sip.

She was wearing lip gloss. Crimson. It had been his favourite colour on her. He dismissed the thought. He needed to know the operational parameters of this… investigation. He fed Lorne his observation. ‘The diver was female,' he said.

She stared at him a moment, then put the glass down. ‘When were you going to tell me?'

‘Now,' he said.

She picked up her phone.

‘I'll go,' he said.

‘You're an intelligence expert, Jake, not a field operative.'

He thought of the diver saving the pilot. Now he almost wished he hadn't mentioned it. ‘Even if it is her, I doubt she has it. My guess would be that it's already on the continent. Rotterdam or Frankfurt. Maybe Paris.'

She still held the phone. ‘I need more.'

He'd read all the intel. There was no pattern to see. It was too early. But he did have an instinct.

‘Frankfurt,' he said.

She leant back. Her short dress rose up slightly, revealing more of her thighs. He kept his eyes on hers.

‘Why?' she asked.

‘To me this has Russian mob stamped all over it. Audacious, but more loose ends than if Spetsnaz or other Special Force outfits were involved. I'm guessing the Kolorokov Brothers. They've been looking to raise their game for a while, and there was a Russian cyber-attack attempt on the MOD recently, trying to hack into the Rose project. Kremlin wouldn't come after it directly, but they might get someone else to. The Kolorokovs have an operation in Frankfurt, and certain contractors they use. A staging post before heading back to Russia.'

In truth it was a leap of faith. But if he had to bet, that's where his money would go. And he was hedging his bets as well, as the CIA had been known to use some of the very same contractors, and he never put anything past the CIA.

‘All right.'

‘And if I find her, and she
is
the diver?'

She tapped her phone twice, flashed perfect white teeth. ‘Anything else?'

‘Anne,' he said. ‘And the boyfriend.'

She picked up her glass, stole the cherry into her mouth, swallowed it. ‘Already in play. I'm looking after it personally.' She put down the glass and opened the phone, stared intently at it as if reading, and without looking up, waved one hand, dismissing him.

He was immune to her power games, and was happy to leave. He wondered if she knew he'd spent a whole year in the Scillies completing his training, from sports diver to advanced instructor, after Sean… Of course she knew. But it would be good to see the gang again. He could do some diving, meet this Russian girl and confirm it was a dead end. By then Anne would be back on track, and the Rose would have been found. Lorne would have ten others like him working on this, no matter what she said. The CIA would also be looking. Stupid not to have involved them from the start.

As he hailed a taxi to take him to Paddington station, he got an SMS on his other phone, from Bjorn.

Fifty metres, all three of us ok. Vibeke misses you. Stay away from her.

Jake smiled. Maybe in a week's time he could join them in Lanzarote.

First, find the girl.

Chapter Six

Nadia ran with long strides through a mosaic of puddles reflecting the dawn sun. She threaded through the water-logged obstacle course of bollards, nets and stacked crates, feeling slightly chilled from running into the steady breeze. She preferred it that way, it reminded her of home. Besides, it made her run faster, and the rising sun would warm her on the way back.

She slowed to a stop as she came to a wooden diving shack. It stood at the top of worn stone steps descending to a jetty where a five-metre rigid inflatable boat – a RIB, as all divers called them – gently rocked, two sturdy Jefferson engines at the rear, two hundred horsepower apiece. She smiled. This boat would do. A lean young man with dark hair and a ragged fringe, wearing a slightly ripped grey wetsuit, moved nimbly in the wavering rubber dinghy as he stowed gear. He hefted two cylinders at a time as if they were paperweights, sure-footed as he bounced across the boat's inflated rubber tube onto its aluminium deck to stand them upright on the stainless steel centre-rack. He wrapped elastic around the top valves so the tanks wouldn't come loose when surfing big waves. She watched his hands: long, flexible fingers, strong but not wizened like a fisherman's. Nadia had a thing about hands.

Clear water slopped against the sides of the grey boat. The visibility was good. She could see the bottom. Granite boulders and sea-grass, three metres down. Two close-knit schools of silver fish hung underneath the boat, looking for food amongst the seaweed and algae slime of the harbour wall.

She stared out to the horizon, shading her vision from the sunlight shimmering on the waves. The sea looked calm, maybe Force Two, no visible wave crests or white horses outside the harbour walls. Beyond lay the beginnings of the Atlantic Ocean. Next stop after the Scillies was America. There would be big ocean rollers further out.

Another man exited the shack. Podgy, with an unruly mop of curly, straw-like hair, sporting a faded blue Seven-Tenths dive t-shirt, oil-stained white shorts and cheap trainers. He hopped down the steps carrying a plastic crate of diving knives and grey Aladin dive computers.

The first man spoke to him while tying up the last of the cylinders. ‘We need to get a move on, Ben.' He didn't add ‘Careful!' as the second man bounced and almost fell into the boat, but his look said it all.

The chill morning air bit deeper through Nadia's top, raising goose-bumps on her thighs and arms, chiding her to start running again. But she stayed to watch, forearms across her chest. She cupped both hands over her mouth and nose to stave off the chill breeze.

The one called Ben looked hungover, unsteady on his feet, the colour of his face not too far from that of the algae sticking to the underside of the boat. As he set down the crate, she noticed
he had a jumble of keys in his left hand – presumably for the dive shack, maybe the ignition key for the boat, too. She saw Ben's immediate future.

Her father used to play a game with her when she was five. He would hold something out – a pencil, or something more fragile or precious, even one of her prized crystal figurines – and then stare into her eyes, daring her to blink. When she did, a few seconds or maybe half a minute later, he would drop the object, her mission being to catch it before it smashed onto the ground. This ritual drove her mother nuts, though she never complained, even when Nadia didn't react fast enough, understanding that her husband was determined to teach his daughter a valuable lesson.

Ben was going to puke. The lean one, whom she presumed to be the skipper, had his back to him, hauling the last two cylinders and weight belts on board. She moved to the edge of the harbour wall, just above the boat. She had no credit cards or electronics on her, save her waterproof diving watch and the room key. Nothing perishable in seawater.

Ben put the keys on the boat's outer tube, then suddenly pitched forward and retched, spraying vomit into the water, making the fish underneath first dart away then return into the mustard cloud.
Breakfast time
. She focused on the keys. Still there. The other cried ‘Jesus, Ben!' even as his eyes spotted the keys. Ben leant heavily onto the boat's outer rubber tube, scooping a handful of seawater to wash the vomit from his mouth. The keys slid off, and plopped into the water.

‘Fuck, no!' shouted the other one.

Nadia's feet had already left the ground. Her hands and head hit the bracing water. She arced underneath the plume of puke-soup, opening her eyes as silver fish flashed out of her way. A glint of bronze sank to the bottom. She kicked down with a measured pace to follow it until the keys landed on a small rock. Grasping them, she stayed a moment, unable to focus on anything clearly, but not caring; life was so uncomplicated down here. She kicked off the slimy rocks and swam around the fish-and-vomit plume to reach the surface, breaching it with a big smile, hoisting the keys high in her right hand. The two men gaped at her. The lean one burst out laughing, and reached out with both hands. Nadia swam towards him.

‘And to think I never believed in mermaids,' he said. He took both her hands, braced himself with one foot on the tube, and hauled her clean out of the water. She stepped onto the tube in front of him. Still holding her hands, he looked her up and down. ‘Well, bugger me backwards if I haven't just fallen in love.' His grin was infectious. ‘I've just salvaged you,' he said, ‘which means by international law you're mine now. I'm Pete, by the way, your new owner.'

‘I'm cold,' she said, holding his gaze.

Ben grabbed a towel from one of the boat's small cupboards and cast it around her shoulders as she stepped onto the boat's deck. She shivered, then smiled at them both ogling her. ‘Nadia,' she said.

She handed Pete the keys. When he took them he stroked her hand.

‘
Spasiba
,' he said, putting on a Russian accent, his grin transforming into a handsome smile.

‘You're welcome,' she said, holding back from smiling too broadly.

Ben mumbled something, the only intelligible word being ‘coffee'. She nodded and he loped up the steps, then returned. Pete handed him the keys to the shack.