The Rock (3 page)

The industrial dock was similar to those at Plymouth and Portsmouth and set two hundred metres away. HMS
Lizard
rested in the dock.

Peering through his Nikon Sporter EX 10x50 binoculars, Gardner watched the crew descending the walkway, mates in relaxed Dartmouth rig of polo shirt and chukka boots, psyched up for the run ashore.

He glanced at the passport-sized photo of Petty Office Stephanie Wright clipped to the front of a personnel folder. Nothing in her file indicated that the daughter of a Scottish carpenter and English teaching assistant was likely to be involved in drug smuggling. Good attendance at school, unblemished record in the Andrew since she passed out three years ago. But he kept coming back to her eyes. They were glassy and faded like denim. Impenetrable. Wright was hiding something.

Any minute now, she’d show up for her meeting with Bald.

The name tasted like hot tar on his tongue. Help me, Joe, Bald had said in the jungle. He’d help him all right. Help make that lying bastard pay.

Three days in Gibraltar, and Gardner was fighting an inner battle with himself. Part of him desperately wanted to exact revenge on Bald. And yet a ball of self-doubt lodged in his throat. John’s not like Dave Hands, a voice said. He wasn’t born dodgy. He must be caught up in something. And shit, maybe he does need your help.

Three days.

Gardner had touched down on the Rock in the dead of night, catching a redeye from Rio to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, where he had boarded a connecting flight to Heathrow and spent three hours nursing cups of tepid coffee and digesting the newspapers. The coffee barely dented his jet-lag and the news was so depressing it made him want to eat his own face. Finally the last call came for BA490 direct to Gibraltar.

He had travelled with no luggage, but Land’s parting instructions had been clear. Proceed to the carousel. Once the last remaining traveller has disappeared, a man will approach you. Do exactly as he says.

‘We have no idea how wide or deep the network goes,’ Land had said. ‘It’s not unreasonable to think they have eyes and ears all over the Rock. Assume you’re being watched at all times, wherever you are.’

‘Who knows about the mission?’ Gardner had asked.

‘No one’s been informed about your presence on the island except myself, a field agent and my bosses. If you screw up, I’m afraid you’re on your own.’

‘Music to my ears. Where are you going to be in all this?’

‘Not putting my feet up at Babylon-on-Thames, if that’s what you’re suggesting. The Firm is keen for this to be executed without any hitches. Since Mr Bald isn’t familiar with me, it’s considered both safe and, shall we say, agreeable that I stay on in Gibraltar in a supervisory capacity.’

Twenty minutes at the luggage carousel and Gardner had found himself alone with a guy in a flannel suit who looked a couple of quarter-pounders short of a heart attack. He was reading a paperback. A cartoonish action figure stood beneath a macho title. Only half the author’s name was visible. Andy somebody. The guy’s hand covered the rest.

‘Come with me,’ a voice had said to his back.

Gardner had turned and saw a guy in a buttoned-up suit and shades. In forty-degree heat. He followed him across the polished marble floor to the terminal exit. A Grand Cherokee Jeep with fifty-percent tinted windows sat in the parking lot.

‘This is your motor,’ the guy had told him. ‘And this is your place.’ He handed him an envelope along with the Jeep fob. Inside was a hotel key.

‘Land said John’s here already.’

‘Flew in directly. Staying at the King’s Hotel,’ the guy said.

That had been three days ago. Now he refocused as a steady procession of boisterous matelots fucked off out of the dockyard and headed straight for the pubs in Casemates Square.

But no one matched the description of Stephanie Wright.

The last of the parties filed out of the frigate. Gardner swigged from a bottle of mineral water and watched a macaque scratch his balls beneath a palm tree’s starburst shade.

At four-fifteen Wright finally appeared.

She came off the boat alone and decked out in a pressed white blouse with side lapels. Her top button was undone. She carried a laptop case.

A quick glance down the street, then Wright left the dockyard and hailed a taxi.

Gardner dumped the binos. He urged the Jeep forward, racing down Rosia Road. When he was eight car lengths from the taxi, he eased off the accelerator. The cabbie was taking a seemingly random route around the Rock: a right on to Boyd Street, a quick left on to the narrow, winding Prince Edward’s Road, left at the Castle Road intersection. A third left on Fraser’s Ramp heading into Range Town, so that the taxi had, in short order, doubled back on itself.

Gibraltar’s changed a lot, Gardner thought. On his first visit, as a wet-behind-the-ears Para, before he’d tried his hand at Selection, the place had been a chaotic mix of swarthy faces and red buses, olive sunshine and messy drinking establishments buried down sidestreets: the Hole in the Wall, the Angry Friar… Everything felt corporate now.

The taxi bypassed St Andrew’s Church and continued down Prince Edward’s Road, leading into Europa Road. Its rear brake lights blazed opposite the Alameda Botanic Gardens. Now Wright jumped out of the taxi and walked on towards the King’s Hotel. Gardner pulled smartly into the side of the road.

Wright glanced furtively up and down the street. She climbed a set of steps flanked by bright green and pink flowers and disappeared inside the hotel, leaving Gardner staring at its Art Deco exterior. He knew from Land that Bald was staying in room 39.

Twenty minutes later Wright emerged and took a cab towards town.

Gardner followed her just for the hell of it, although he already knew the score. He’d been watching her for the past two days, and the routine was always the same, with a few minor differences. A ride around town, to throw anyone on her tail. Quick visit to the King’s Hotel, then an hour or two wandering the main streets and sipping coffee, before a return to the frigate. On each occasion she lugged the laptop case.

He figured Wright was unloading small packages of the coke, secreted inside the carry case. Rather than risk one big shipment, she was taking the safer option and drip-feeding the snow to Bald.

She debussed at Convent Place, where the road collided with Main Street, bordered at the end by the Governor’s residence. Bunting in pastel colours swayed in the sea breeze. He had to admit, she was pretty hot. Brunette hair, pin-straight with a kink at the ends. The way she walked, swinging her hips like she’d sprung from a jeans ad.

Gardner’s secure iPhone sparked into life, shocking him out of his daydream. He answered, eyes trained on Wright as she window-shopped and lit a cigarette.

‘Still tracking the Wren, are we?’ Land’s voice carried down the line like a door opening on to a blizzard.

‘Another exchange just went down. Same place. I make that twelve in total.’

‘She’s certainly taking her time,’ Land said. ‘Listen up. The situation on the ground has changed dramatically. It appears that Bald is in serious trouble.’

Gardner looked at his watch. Five o’clock. Wright left a couple of hours between trips to Bald’s hotel, so he doubted he’d see her again until seven or eight.

‘I said, Bald’s in—’

‘Heard you the first time. But I’ve been back and forth from his hotel for the past forty-eight hours, and in all that time he hasn’t shown his face once. The only thing he’s in danger of is racking up a massive bill on the bar tab.’

‘I’m afraid you’re wrong on that score. Our intelligence friends received an anonymous tip-off. Three men arrived on the Rock this morning. They’re planning to rob our friend of his product before he gets a chance to sell it on. If that happens, our hopes of uncovering the full smuggling ring are dead in the water.’ Land coughed. ‘How many more trips does our Wren have to make?’

‘One or two max,’ Gardner said. He guessed the laptop bag could hold a maximum of four kilos of Colombian snow, divided up into 500-gram tubes.

‘Sounds about right,’ Land replied. ‘The
Lizard
is refuelled and due to set sail again tomorrow, so Wright’s time is almost up. The word we have is that these men plan to attack Bald this evening.’

‘Just after she’s made her final trip.’

‘We can’t let them wreck the plan.’

Wright disappeared down a sidestreet. Gardner felt a bead of sweat slither all the way down his back to his arse. Something doesn’t add up, he thought.

‘Joe?’

Shit. He knew what was coming next.

‘I need you to kill them.’

1921 hours.

The Newman’s Pub on Casemates Square was, according to a tourist pamphlet, an old favourite of the British Armed Forces personnel. Today it was brimming with married couples and screeching hen parties. Golan wasn’t thrilled to be there. Given the choice, he’d rather be in an old-fashioned bar with some Thelonious Monk playing and a glass of Château Rollan in his hand.

He found her easily enough. The rock-side cameras had filmed her disembarking and wandering towards town, and for him it was simply a case of scouting the bars around Main Street and Casemates. She brooded at a corner table, soaked in boozy shadows, nursing a glass of rosé. The moment was right. He moved in.

‘Quite a party outside,’ he said, stopping by her table.

‘If you say so.’ She necked the rest of her rosé, motioned to the bartender.

‘Something the matter?’ His voice was a master class in control. Soothing, concerned.

‘No. Why would it be? I’m fine—’ She shook her head. Angled it. ‘Don’t I recognize you from somewhere?’

‘No.’

She laughed. ‘
No?
’

‘No. You don’t.’

The waiter brought over the bottle. ‘But how can you be so sure?’ she said. ‘Maybe I
did
see you somewhere, but you happened to be looking the other way. People are always spotting me out and about and telling me later.’ She kept her eyes on him as she sipped from the fresh glass.

‘What you say is impossible. I’ve only been in town a few hours.’

‘So where were you before that?’

‘France.’

‘Your whole
life
?’

‘If a man has to make a city his prison, Paris is as good as any.’

‘And what did you say your name was?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘There’s that sure voice again. Never wrong, are you? Well, I’m Steph.’

‘Alain.’

Golan had some more small talk lined up, when the doors swung open to his six and a gang of beefy women yelled at the waiter for more Jägerbombs. He frowned at them, pretending to ignore her reaching for the laptop case braced between her legs.

‘We don’t get women like that in Paris,’ he said. Then he edged his hand closer to hers and smiled his best smile, the one where his chin, cheeks, lips melted into one another like beeswax. ‘But I’m sure they have their own charm.’

‘Not bloody likely. I have to share living quarters with about twenty of them.’

‘You’re Royal Navy?’

‘Royal bitches, more likely.’ She attacked her rosé. ‘The other Wrens are at each other’s throats night and flipping day. Who can drink the most. Who can lick a matelot in a fair scrap. I thought the boys were bad, but they’ve got nothing on the Wrens.’

‘You sound like you want to leave?’

‘And I will, soon enough,’ she said. Her eyes slid from the wine glass to a spot between her legs. ‘Just a few little things to take care of first.’

His hand almost touched her trembling fingers. Suddenly he flinched, spilling the glass of rosé over her top.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s fine,’ she replied, standing up and brushing her shirt. A waitress rushed over and wiped down the table. ‘Shit. I need to wash it off.’ Nodding at the case, she added, ‘Do you mind watching this for me?’

‘No problem. And again, my apologies.’

Two minutes later she returned, the rosé stain now a fleshy pink. She straightened her top and smiled awkwardly at Golan.

‘I have to leave,’ he said. ‘Good luck with whatever you have to do.’

That smile lingered on her face. A tinge of regret maybe?

No matter. He’d got what he came for.

2048 hours.

‘The villa’s on Sir Herbert Road,’ Land had said. ‘Other side of the Rock.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Cowboys. Mercenaries with time on their hands and no work. A growing problem for us.’

‘American?’

‘These particular cowboys are British.’

‘I’m going to need a weapon.’

‘I understand.’

‘Because I’m guessing the targets are armed—’

‘We think so.’

‘—and they know how to use a gun.’

Rule number one in any contact situation, Gardner reflected: Never underestimate your enemy.

‘Go to your apartment. Our field agent’s left a little present for you,’ Land told him.