“Boris? It’s Bobby here. We picked up the goods tonight, but we were seen. I think the police and coastguard will be flying over the Irish coast tomorrow, and it will be risky. I’m phoning from my boat, and we’ve just been having a brainstorming session. Listen, we have a solution. Hire a commercial fishing boat, and meet us at a GPS location we set up, and you will have lifting gear on board, it will take a few minutes only. And you can unload in the harbour without arousing suspicion. We are prepared to finance your hiring of the boat.”
“Not as easy as you think. It will take time, would you agree? And also, did you know that the Irish Navy have boarded more than one thousand fishing boats last year? They are allowed to do this under the fishing regulations. That could be awkward, no?
But I will make some enquiries in Cork tomorrow with my people. You are going to stay at sea, for the moment, yes? It could be maybe twenty-four hours before we could meet you. Have you fuel enough?”
One moment, I must speak to my brother here.” When he had related the gist of the call, Gerry said, “Fuel will be okay, we can put a sea anchor out, and hardly use any fuel. But he is right about the Navy. It needs some investigation. Presumably they are looking for boats out side of the fishing areas. But Boris will find out.”
Gerry spoke again to Boris. “Okay, we have enough fuel. Gerry agrees about the navy, but see what you find out. Speak to you tomorrow.” He took the phone back to the wheelhouse, and when he came back into the stateroom, Murphy was just entering from the deck. He looked rather pale. “Are you okay?” asked Bobby.
“Does the boat always rock like this?”
“No. Mostly it’s much rougher. We’ve got a calm sea tonight. Tomorrow, we are going to be waiting, and the boat not moving. Then it will rock, you just see.”
Murphy groaned. He sat down, and accepted a proffered whisky. Ten minutes later, he was outside with his head over the rail.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Miller got into the car. “Bloody hell, I dropped the night glasses, and that guy picked them up. You don’t want to know how much they cost.”
“That guy was really upset to see us when the headlights lit us up, wasn’t he? He was at us like a panther,” said MacBride.
“You can’t blame him. We’ve put him at risk. Did you see the inflatable?”
“Yes. It was stencilled down both sides: Contessa, Douglas.”
“Dead giveaway.”
McBride said, “Are you going to tell the super in Belfast?”
“Too true, though I might have difficulty convincing him, in view of the ferry incident. Still, he can’t afford to ignore it.”
Miller dialled the superintendent’s number, and was surprised to find he was on duty. He explained what they had seen.
The superintendent said, “Very interesting. Fits in with snippets we’ve been picking up. I’ll follow it up, thanks a lot.”
“Share it with the English cops, if you will. I’ve got no contact with them.” Miller finished the call.
“The case ends here, I suppose,” said McBride, “but I think
we moved things on, and I don’t imagine Murphy will be at liberty for long.”
“Talking about the case ending,” said Miller, “I meant to tell you. My sister phoned this morning, saying there was a letter for me, marked URGENT. I asked her to open it and it was from my employers asking me to report to their office in Kinshasa. That’s in the Democratic Republic of Congo. I told you I’d signed on for some more rough and tumble. My air ticket is for two days’ time, flying out of London. I’m leaving the hotel tomorrow. I’ve really enjoyed myself, John.”
“I think I might just fly out to Douglas, and spend a few days painting on the island. I’ve never painted there. I must speak to Ian, and see whether he thinks the paintings will sell. It’s all about money when you’re painting for a living.”
They drove back in silence to the Manor House hotel, each occupied with their own thoughts.
Both men were in the hotel bar, enjoying a nightcap, when Miller’s phone rang. “Dusty, I made some enquiries after you told me about Murphy.
“You’ll be interested to know that the Contessa is a motor yacht owned by a guy called Bobby Bell, who lives in Dublin, but was born in Belfast. He has never been apprehended but is known to have a shady past. He’s into property development now. That’s a bad business since the recession. I could imagine him fencing the goods for Murphy. Thanks for the tip- off.”
He told McBride what the policeman had said.
“That reminds me I said I’d phone Ian Smith. He pulled his own phone out of his pocket, dialled.
Smith answered. “My goodness, John you do keep some late hours. It’s half past eleven.”
“Sorry, Ian, I didn’t realise, are you in bed?”
“Good God, no. I’m having a drink, and trying to sort out some accounts.”
“Ian, I thought about nipping over to the Isle of Man to do some painting. I know I’ve two more to finish here, which will be done tomorrow, if the weather holds. What I wanted to ask you is, would you be able to sell paintings of the island?”
“Should be able to, there is a couple of galleries I supply over there, so it’s a good idea. Look forward to seeing them.”
McBride said goodnight to Ian, arranging to take the local paintings over to him late the following day. He turned to Miller: “Looks like I’m going to Douglas”, he said.
“You’d better be careful, without me to hold your hand. Don’t get yourself killed.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Gerry had the Contessa ambling along at about six knots, the Gardner diesels burbling along.
The sea, now that they were away from the land, had a slight swell, and Murphy was still out on the aft deck, looking distinctly seasick.
Bobby went out to him. “I have some pills somewhere, do you want me to dig them out for you? Or even better, I’ve got a wristband my previous wife used. It presses on a certain nerve, and, supposedly stops you feeling sick. My wife swore by it, and would wear it always when she was aboard. It stopped her throwing up, that’s a fact.”
“Bobby, I’ll try any fucking thing, the way I feel”
Bobby rummaged around in some drawers in the stateroom, and came through to the deck with pills, a glass of water, and the wristband as well.
“Right, Eamonn, put the band on your wrist – the button goes at the bottom, same side as your palm, that’s it. Now take a couple of pills.” He put the pills and the glass on the table which was in the covered part of the deck. “You can find me in the wheelhouse, that’s through the stateroom and up a couple of steps. Let me know if you’re going down to your cabin. I don’t want to think you’ve fallen overboard.”
Bobby went through to the wheelhouse to talk to Darren who now had the helm, and was yawning, his hair tousled, and he had obviously been sleeping in his clothes.
Bobby said, “Tired? I take it Gerry has filled you in on the course and speed?”
“Sure has. And I’ve got to heave to when the Irish mountains show on the horizon. He thinks there will be choppers flying along the coast trying to spot us. Quite exciting isn’t it?”
Bobby looked carefully at his face. He was being serious.
An hour went by, now without conversation, Bobby searching the sea for other boats. He thought he saw a ferry on the horizon, but in the faint haze, it could have been a trick of his eyes. The radar was on, but Bobby didn’t even bother to check it. There was a noise behind him, and Murphy came into the wheelhouse, beaming. “This wristband is working a treat, I’m off down to my cabin now, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Goodnight,” said Bobby, and to Darren. “Do you want something to eat? I’m going to cook bacon and egg.”
Darren turned to him. “That would be great, thank you Mr Bell.”
“Hey, you can call me Bobby. Two eggs okay?”
Darren nodded, and smiled. Bobby went forward into the galley, poked around in the refrig
erator, found eggs and bacon. He found a fresh loaf in the bread bin, stuck some slices in the toaster, put eggs and bacon in the frying pan. It was not long before he came into the wheelhouse with two plates.
He put them on the edge of the chart table, disappeared to grab knives and forks, also coming back with a napkin to protect the table surface. Darren and he quickly tucked in, and as they were scraping the last of the food into their mouths, Gerry appeared, looking refreshed, even though he had barely two and a half hours’ sleep.
“Hey, Bobby, do you think I could have an early breakfast?” Bobby nodded, went out with the two empty plates.
Gerry went over to the chart table, read the GPS, and made a pencil mark on the chart. “About half an hour we want to be heading south west, round the coast of Anglesey,” remarked Gerry, “but I’ll take the wheel before then. He looked at the radar; nothing within ten miles of them, and nothing coming towards them. He quickly calculated how long to be equidistant from the Welsh and Irish coasts. He made some more pencil marks on the chart, used a calculator, reckoning maintaining six knots, and came up with a time 6 a.m., about another four hours cruising. It would be dawn at about four thirty. He turned the chart light out, and when his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he could see the horizon line, and a faint glimmer on the waves, from the light of a quarter moon. He opened the wheelhouse door, and stepped on to the foredeck. It was cool, but not so cool that he shivered in his shirtsleeves.
He could hear the sound of the waves as the boat slowly went forward. The diesels could only be heard out here, if one listened carefully. Gerry took big breaths of the crisp air, and then turned and went back into the wheelhouse, to be met with aroma of eggs and bacon, which Bobby had just brought through from the galley.
I’ll eat this through in the stateroom, Darren, and then you can go off duty for four hours. Then I’ll expect you to be back in the wheelhouse, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” said Darren, his eyes alternately on the horizon, and watching the compass bearing.
At four thirty, Gerry watched the dawn gradually spread across the seascape. To him, when at sea, this was the magic time. He felt as if he was the only man on the planet. There was nothing but sea whichever way he looked. He faced astern to see the moment the first glimpse of the sun rising out of the sea. And there it was, the wheelhouse taking on a pink tinge from the first rays of a new day. He turned back to the charts, and plotted a new position. The yacht was nearly mid sea now, equidistant from land. He yawned and rubbed his face. Darren would be up soon. Bobby had gone below only two hours ago, and Gerry would not call him before seven, if he wasn’t up here before. He hadn’t seen anything of Murphy for several hours. They were south of the ferry routes here, and he hadn’t seen any ship, never mind a ferry for three hours now. He checked the radar again. Not a blip.
He heard the wheelhouse door opening. He turned back to see Murphy entering, a grin on his freshly scrubbed face. He was still in his pound shop clothes that he’d worn the day before.
“It isn’t often I’m awake at this time of morning, never mind out of bed,” he said, “but it is worth it for the weather.”
“Yes, at the moment,” Bobby said, but the forecast isn’t good for tonight. There’s a storm blowing up later. It won’t bother us, we’ll just ride it out at sea. The only problem with storms is near land. But I would hate it to interfere with transferring the cargo.” He looked at Murphy. “It might mean we have to ditch it overboard.” He watched Murphy’s reaction.
Murphy said, “If you do that, you can chuck me in as well.”
By ten that morning, everyone was up on deck, looking across at the Irish mountains showing up on the horizon, blue grey in the bright daylight.
Gerry said, “Look, now, there, just coming to the right of the big mountain, can you see the helicopter?”
“That’s the second one this morning. By all accounts, that is quite a search they are putting on,” said Bobby
The Contessa was lying now with the sea anchor out, the rope stretching out from the bow, the boat lying downstream of the sea current, hardly making any drift at all. When Gerry had checked they had only moved three hundred yards in an hour.
Murphy had cooked a meal ranging between breakfast and dinner in its constituents. This had been a big surprise, finding Murphy to be a more than adequate cook. Bobby thought that your guests on a voyage sometimes surprised you.
The sound of the phone ringing gave everyone a start. Bobby dashed into the wheelhouse.
“Hello there Boris I didn’t expect an answer so soon.” He listened without comment for about a couple of minutes, and then said, “I should think so. Just give me the readings again.” He grabbed notepaper from the chart table and a pencil, and started writing figures down.
He read the figures back to Boris. “Just let me talk to my brother,” he said, turning to Gerry, who was now waiting behind him.
“Gerry, it’s Boris, he’s suggesting one pm at this location.” He showed him the paper he had scrawled the figures on.
Gerry calculated mentally, looked at his wristwatch. “Lots of time, it’s barely two hours steaming.”
Bobby spoke in the phone. “Okay, Boris, that’s fine. In fact we’re only two hours from that location, so if you want to make it earlier, we can do it.”
“It’s a matter of the Irish destroyer, I know its itinerary, and we don’t want to be anywhere near it, so let’s leave the time I stated: one this afternoon”
When he had terminated the call, Bobby said: “Gerry, you heard that?”
“Yes, I caught the gist of it. We can start out now and be there an hour early, that’s what I would suggest. Anyone who isn’t needed, should get their heads down for a few hours. The weather is going to be blowing up by three o’clock, and I think we’re in for a hard night, judging by the latest forecast, but it will blow out quickly, by six or seven tomorrow it will be calm again, they say.”
Darren and Gerry went out on deck to pull the sea anchor in, and then they set off for their rendezvous, Bobby at the helm, Darren also in the wheelhouse.
By the time they had reached their rendezvous, the sea was quite choppy. They put out the sea anchor, and watched for the fishing boat. It was Darren who saw it first.
“Look, Bobby, I’ve spotted her.” He was pointing, and Bobby following his finger, spotted her too. First it was just a smudge, and then they could see that it was a small trawler. “Darren, get the others up on deck.” When Darren disappeared, Bobby went to the locked cupboard in the stateroom, unlocked it, and took out two of the AK 47s. He went on the aft deck with them. When Darren came back up, he sent him to set the starboard fenders. By now they could clearly see the fishing boat, blue in parts, rusty in parts, standing higher in the water than the Contessa. There was a hoist amidships, based on a central mast. Bobby could see several men on deck.
Gerry appeared at his side, taking one of the AK47s. “Good man it shows we are ready if they cause trouble. Shall I signal that they come alongside on the starboard.”
“Yes please,” said Bobby.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Darren and Murphy were on hand to take the ropes when they were thrown by the fishermen. The two boats were quickly nestled alongside each other. The roughening sea sent plumes of water up between the boats. Bobby looked up to the deck of the trawler, now at least five feet above them, saw Boris and gave him a quick wave. Boris leaped down on to the Contessa’s aft deck, after biding his time, waiting for the right moment when both boats had momentarily paused in their tossing. He grasped Bobby’s hand, the one not clasping the machine gun.
“Hello friend. There’s no need for the guns, surely?”
“I hope not,” replied Bobby, “but there are more of you than there are of us. Have you got the password for the bank account?”
“Sure I have, Bobby.” He reached in his reefer jacket pocket, brought out an envelope, presented it to Bobby, clicking his heels mockingly. Bobby smiled. “Let me just go
and check this, I know you will want me to. Can I offer you a drink, meanwhile? You would like a vodka perhaps?”
Boris grinned. “You do know our weaknesses, yes?”
“Eamonn, go into the stateroom with Boris, and get him a large vodka from the bar, and something for yourself.”
Bobby went straight into the wheelhouse, taking his machine gun with him, which he leaned against the chart table. He opened his laptop, entered the bank website, and once it came up, entered the user code, and then the account code. He then had to enter his password, which he did. The account balance was displayed on the screen: Three million, two hundred thousand pound sterling. Tearing open the envelope Boris had given him, with trembling fingers he withdrew the single sheet. Across the centre of the paper was the second password needed to move the balance over to his account. He typed it in.
A message was displayed. “Both passwords validated. To transfer funds between accounts press, and there was an image of a button. Bobby clicked on the button, and a new page opened up with: From account number – to account number – amount in figures –
Bobby filled the spaces, from the account with the money, to his own account, and the value 3,200,000.00 and ticked ‘pounds sterling’. He then clicked on transfer. The computer showed another page with his own account, and amount transferred. Bingo, the money was in his account! He hurried back out of the wheelhouse. Eamonn and Boris were still at the bar in the stateroom, leaning there, drinking and talking.
Bobby came in, “Okay Boris, thank you, the money is transferred. Shall we start moving the cargo?”
“Ah, yes, Bobby, we have work to do,” and tossed the remainder of the drink down his throat. “I have also, for you, some cash, as agreed.” He handed the briefcase to Eamonn. Murphy put the case on the bar top, and clicked the catches, opening the case. It was full of fifty pound notes. Murphy’s eyes glistened. “Thank you,” he said.
They all moved out onto the deck. “Is this the bullion here?” asked Boris, picking up one of the boxes, and hefting it in his hand. Can we see inside one of the cases?” We need a crowbar, or even a screwdriver will do.” Bobby shouted over to Darren, who shot away into the wheelhouse, and returned immediately with a ten inch screwdriver.