‘Understood,’ Sumners said, putting down the paper. ‘I take it you arrived at your planned destination.’
‘Affirmative,’ Stratton said, then paused to choose his wording. ‘I need you to think of another team to relate this party to. Last week you stopped me from heading elsewhere. You with me?’
Sumners reached for a notepad and pencil as he considered the first of what he expected to be several clues. He wrote down the word ‘Norway’ since it was where Stratton had been going when Sumners redirected him to Rhodes. ‘Yes,’ Sumners said.
‘That place is where our team used to play their team.’
Sumners’ pen hovered above the page - where Stratton’s team used to play their team. Play meaning to operate against. Their team meaning the only people they operated against in Norway - the Russians. ‘I’m with you,’ Sumners said as he jotted down ‘Russians’ on the notepad.
‘My colleague gave you some letters written in that team speak,’ Stratton said.
Sumners jotted down ‘Gabriel’ then ‘Viewer notes in Russian??? - Thetford’.
‘I have no meaning for that yet,’ Sumners said.
‘Understood. Reference the big fish I caught recently that prompted this party,’ Stratton said.
Sumners wrote down the word ‘Supertanker’. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Find a connection between the fish and the team national,’ he said.
Sumners drew brackets connecting ‘Russians’ with ‘Supertanker’.
‘A team national came through this location recently.’
Sumners scribbled the word ‘Kastellorizo’ then connected it to the word ‘Russians’.
‘My colleague believes the hare came through here recently. Reference where my colleague got a dent when I wasn’t watching.’
Sumners scribbled down ‘Thetford Forest’. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Possibility it was the same national.’
Sumners connected ‘Thetford Forest’ to ‘Kastellorizo’ and ‘Russians’. ‘Understood,’ he said.
‘Here’s the wild card,’ Stratton said. ‘The national is in possession of something portable. My friend’s concerned about such a thing.’
‘Unclear,’ Sumners said.
‘Me too. But there is a lot of reference to it. That national carried something here. Bear it in mind and maybe it’ll fit in somewhere.’
Sumners scribbled down the words ‘portable object???’. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘I’m gonna wait till morning,’ Stratton said. ‘See what daylight brings.’
‘Understood. Speak to you later,’ Sumners said, and disconnected.
He studied his notepad for a moment then got up, went to his writing desk and reached for a mauve-coloured phone.
Stratton pocketed his sat. phone and looked out over the water wondering if there was anything he had overlooked. He decided not to spend any more time concentrating on it. In his experience, unsubtle or not obvious connections tended to make their own way to the surface, and not always quickly.
He headed back towards the house.
Zhilev cut the boat’s engine for the last time and it spluttered in the darkness for several seconds, resisting, holding on to life as if it knew its future was uncertain in these strange waters hundreds of miles from home and after an adventure its owner never intended it to have.
Zhilev felt relief in the silence, with the cessation of the vibrations that had been slowly making him numb. He let go of the wheel and squeezed and released his fingers repeatedly, getting the blood flowing around them again to relieve the pins and needles that came without fail at the start of each day of his journey. Ironically though, the vibrations appeared to stop the aching in his neck. Hour upon hour at the wheel in the small cabin, standing or slouched in the uncomfortable wooden seat with its lumpy cushion, should have left him in an agonising mess, but there was no sign of the pain as long as the engines hummed and his hands were on the wheel.
The boat rocked and bobbed gently in the light swell caused by the prevailing southeasterly wind which had been at his back all the way down the Suez Canal. The worst part of the journey from Kastellorizo had been crossing the Mediterranean to Port Fu’ad, the entrance to the canal. Zhilev had topped up a dozen large cans with fuel for the non-stop journey and lashed them to the decks forward and aft of the small wheelhouse. Fortunately the weather had remained calm, a surprise for the time of year, allowing him to snatch a few hours’ sleep while the wheel was tied in position, without straying too far off-track. The small marine GPS he had bought in Marmaris along with all the relevant charts had proved more than adequate. He had never used one before, having learned sea navigation in the Spetsnaz using a compass and dead reckoning. He was hugely impressed with the modern technology that told him where he was at any given time. It even calculated his average speed and distance to his destination, once he had read the manual several times and thoroughly understood the complicated device.
By day three he was so engrossed in the journey he began to daydream about other sea journeys he would like to do now that he had re-acquired a taste for the ocean, and then something horrific happened. A tinge of doubt had somehow crept into his head about his mission. The doubt was laced with a kind of fear that spread through him like fire in a field of wheat until he reached out for the key on the tattered control panel, turned off the engine and sat in silence in the choppy water, staring at nothing while his mind raced to find a foothold of sense amid the sudden panic.
Finally the Zhilev of the past emerged once again and stood tall to take charge, cursing the weak old man for allowing uncertainty to take a grip and demanding he find his spine. He reminded himself about one of the many lessons he learned in the ranks of the Spetsnaz, that it was during those times when a soldier felt at his weakest that he had to recognise the dangers of making decisions he would regret. This mission was revenge for the murder of his brother, but it was something else. It was an opportunity to put his glorious Spetsnaz on the map. Once Zhilev’s mission was complete, the practically unheard of unit would be on everyone’s lips and it would have the respect it had always deserved as the finest Special Forces the world had ever known. Even those among his peers of old who would not openly agree with his mission would grudgingly have to admit it was a deed few could have accomplished.
Zhilev took the photographs of his brother from his pocket and looked at the one on top inside the now wrinkled and worn plastic bag. Vladimir was standing alone on the deck of a supertanker, wearing his white engineer’s boiler-suit and hard-hat, the wind tugging at him. He looked strong and at ease with the world. It had a controlling effect on Zhilev even though he could not remember when the photo was taken. Vladimir was wearing a slight smile as if he could see Zhilev. Zhilev asked himself what his brother would truly say about this mission. It was easy to imagine him disapproving, but Vladimir was quite capable of picking up a weapon and fighting to protect his beliefs, let alone his family. He could quite easily approve of Zhilev’s actions and tell him to push on and destroy those who had killed him and left his family without a father. But it did not matter what Vladimir would have thought. He was not always right about everything. It was Zhilev’s choice to avenge Vladimir’s death, and this was the way he was going to do it.
Zhilev turned the key and ignited the engine. He put the photo away, took up his GPS to check the bearing and adjusted the wheel.
Zhilev’s arrival at Port Fu’ad and his first contact with an Arab since working with the Palestinian Liberation Organisation more than fifteen years earlier reinvigorated his contempt and hatred for the race, and, combined with the inconsolable grief for his brother’s death at their hands, only served to fuel him further. As he arrived at the entrance to the canal, a pilot boat, crewed by the pilot and his assistant, sped out to meet him. Zhilev slowed to nearly a stop as they approached, expecting to receive information about port fees, agents and where to get his boat measured for the canal transit fees. But the first demand the pilot shouted at him was the singular word ‘cigarettes’. Zhilev did not have any cigarettes and informed them of the fact as best he could in English, the most common language between them although neither of them spoke it well. Zhilev was not prepared for the pilot’s reaction to his apparent refusal to provide any baksheesh. The man threw his throttle forward and rammed the small fishing boat while at the same time shouting what were no doubt obscenities in Arabic. But neither was the
