Bejo pulled the boat ashore as Chase squeezed as much water as he could from his clothes. ‘What’s the plan, Mr Eddie?’
‘The plan is for you to stay here and wait for me,’ Chase told him. He could see the young Indonesian’s disappointment even in the dark.
‘But I want to come.’ He started towards the shacks.
Chase held him back. ‘When I said “stay here and wait for me”, I was being polite. What I meant was “stay here so you don’t get your fucking head blown off !” Wait here.’
‘But—’
‘Stay!’
‘I’m not a dog, Mr Eddie!’ Bejo protested in an irritated whisper as Chase cautiously made his way along the waterline.
He reached the first building, the large covered dock. As he’d thought, the cruiser was inside, the .50-cal still mounted on its bow. It hadn’t even been unloaded, a belt of ammo dangling from it. He shook his head. Amateurs.
He moved on. The other shacks were lit inside and out by bulbs strung from their roof beams, a generator puttering away somewhere to power them. He crept to the nearest shack and peeped through a gap in the wood. A strong smell of hot grease and searing meat hit him, something sizzling in a large wok atop a camping gas hob. The skinned carcass of a goat hung from the ceiling, chunks of flesh having been crudely carved from it. A man was drunkenly whacking away with a large cleaver.
It wasn’t Latan. Chase moved on, slipping round the shack to the waterline. A rickety walkway ran along it, connecting the huts to a jetty. The RIB was moored to the latter, along with a couple of small rowing boats.
It struck him that the RIB was the only boat capable of a fast getaway; the cruiser would have to be untied, started up and reversed out of the dock. Once trouble started - and it would - the inflatable powerboat would be the first place the pirate leader would run.
He had to make sure Latan didn’t get away. Sabotage the engine, maybe? Or . . .
A noise behind him, a creak of rotten wood. Chase spun, fists ready to pummel the pirate—
‘Mr Eddie!’ squeaked Bejo, throwing up his hands in fright as Chase arrested a blow inches from his face.
He hauled Bejo into the shadows between two of the shacks. ‘I told you to stay put!’ he hissed.
‘They killed my friends!’ the teenager insisted. ‘I want to help - I
‘They haven’t been paid yet?’ That explained why they were still here, then - and if he could identify Latan’s employer . . . ‘Okay,’ he said reluctantly, ‘stick with me. But do
‘Okay, Mr Eddie,’ Bejo replied, smiling. ‘So what do we do?’
Junk was scattered round a tree stump between the shacks. Chase picked up a coil of rusted steel cable. ‘Keep watch here, warn me if anyone’s coming.’ He started to creep along the jetty.
‘Where are you going?’
Now it was Chase’s turn to smile. ‘To make sure that boat’s tied up properly.’
It took a couple of minutes to complete his work. Job done, Chase moved back ashore, and accompanied by Bejo continued his search for the pirate leader. The largest and noisiest shack contained about a dozen men, most of them engrossed in a fast-paced dice game that involved a lot of aggressive shouting as the others looked on and drank.
Still no sign of Latan. They passed through the shadows to sneak up to a small hut. Sounds of activity came from within, but this definitely wasn’t gambling, except with the possibility of contracting a sexually transmitted disease.
Feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur, Chase looked through a hole to see a bored-looking woman lying on a ratty mattress as a drunken, sweaty man pounded away at her. The bearded Casanova wasn’t Latan, however, so Chase withdrew. He was about to carry on to the next shack when he realised Bejo wasn’t following. He glanced back to see the young Indonesian gawping at the scene inside the hut, mesmerised. In equal parts impatient and amused, he moved back to pull him away—
A large man with a crooked scar running from his temple to his cheek threw open the gambling den’s door and strode towards the hut, shouting angrily. Chase pushed Bejo down, then froze. He was in shadow, his clothes dark, but the pirate was only a few feet away as he banged on the door. If he looked to the side, even for a moment, his eyes would adjust enough to make out the shapes hiding there.
But he didn’t, instead continuing to hammer at the door. The man inside said something that was unmistakably the equivalent of ‘Give me another minute!’ This didn’t satisfy the scarred pirate, who kicked the door open and stomped inside. A yelp, some thumping, and then the interrupted lover was flung out into the open, trousers round his ankles. The door slammed shut. The bearded man yelled a half-hearted insult at the hut, then gathered up his dignity and his pants before trudging back to join the men in the gambling den.
Chase and Bejo remained still until he was inside, then crept round the back of the love shack. The next shack contained only a man sprawled across a bunk, snoring and drooling, with an overturned bottle of whisky beside him. Not Latan. Then a dark, empty shell of a hut, its ceiling half collapsed. They were running out of places to search . . .
A new noise. Not from the pirates - from the sky. A helicopter.
Chase and Bejo dropped flat behind some rusting fuel drums as several men emerged from the largest shack. A fierce wind whirled round the camp as the chopper appeared over the trees. The men were armed, but not on alert. They were obviously expecting the new arrival.
Chase finally spotted Latan, emerging from a small hut at the edge of the derelict settlement. Carrying a canvas bag in one hand, the pirate leader was tugging a shirt over his bare shoulders with the other. He joined his men, and they moved to an open area near the treeline as the helicopter switched on its spotlight and descended.
‘Wait here,’ Chase told Bejo. ‘Seriously, don’t move.’ He checked that nobody else was coming from the buildings, then quickly crawled on his stomach to another pile of abandoned junk closer to the landing site. He wanted to get a good look at whoever Latan was meeting.
The helicopter touched down, two men in dark jungle camouflage fatigues and bearing SIG assault rifles jumping out from either side, clearly unimpressed by the pirates facing them. As the rotor blades wound down, a third man emerged and surveyed the scene before striding towards Latan. About Chase’s age, mid to late thirties, he guessed; tall, blond, eyes commanding. A professional soldier.
‘Are you . . . Mr Vogler?’ Latan called over the falling noise of the helicopter.
The blond man stopped a few feet from him. ‘I am.’
‘Where is our money?’
‘Where are the items?’ Vogler countered. His English was crisp and precise. Chase knew the accent: Swiss.
Latan opened the bag, showing him Nina’s laptop and the clay tablet. ‘Here. But . . .’ His momentarily hesitant expression suggested that he knew he was about to chance his luck, but was greedy enough to try anyway. ‘We want more money. None of my men were supposed to die.’
‘Ironic,’ said Vogler, unconcerned. ‘I was actually thinking about
‘We kill everyone,’ Latan insisted.
‘Then you completed the deal as agreed - and you will accept the agreed payment.’ Vogler gave him a cold look. ‘I’m sure your friend in Singapore explained that. Trying to deceive the Covenant of Genesis would be very dangerous.’ Chase made a mental note of the odd name - the pirates’ paymasters? ‘We would usually have done a job like this ourselves, but time was a factor. So be grateful for the work . . . and the money.’
He gestured to one of his men. The soldier reached into the helicopter, taking out a briefcase and bringing it to him.
‘Your payment,’ said Vogler, opening the case and showing its contents to Latan. Chase couldn’t see how much was inside, but Latan’s eager expression suggested it was plenty. ‘Now, give me the artefact.’
