Zero Hour (2010)

It was safer for both of them. If I fucked up and Tresillian didn’t see things my way, he’d want to know where Lily was. Whatever he did to me, I couldn’t tell him what I didn’t know.

Anna understood. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m going back to the UK. That’s where all this shit started.’

The TV rolled the same mobile clip of the explosion, over and over again. At least it was somebody’s lucky day.

‘All three of us could leave, right now.’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve got to go back. If Lily is safe, Tresillian won’t touch us. He needs her. I have to sort a few things out.’ I gave her a slightly crooked smile. ‘Then we can spend whatever time I’ve got left watching the geese fly over the Moskva River.’

We stood only a few centimetres apart.

She took my hands in hers, unable to speak. She looked like she was going to break down at any moment. She held my hands to her face and kissed them. She gazed into my eyes.

I’m not sure what she saw there, but she wasn’t smiling back.

29

I headed up a pathway that ran along the left side of the triangle. The sea lapped against the rock wall. A cargo ship cast off its mooring ropes and pulled away from the docks. The glow of arc lamps and vehicle lights at the ferry port filtered across the water and cast weak shadows on the concrete below me.

At last I found what I was looking for. The Coast Guard here had two RIBs, monsters, well over thirty feet, both with twin 115 h.p. Yamaha outboards. At least, I assumed they were the Coast Guard. They had the word Kustwacht plastered every-where, which sounded about right. Whatever it meant, it looked official, which in turn meant it belonged to an organization that would have demanded full tanks before binning it for the day.

The Kustwacht’s land base was a boring-looking cube of a Portakabin with loads of little signs and notice boards outside. I ignored it for now. There was no blaze of lights to suggest anyone was home.

I jumped on the first RIB and pulled up the wooden flooring planks by the engines to expose the fuel-tank cap. It was locked, just like on a car. The two 115s had motorcycle-type locks securing them to the boat.

I checked the centre console, which was basically a steering wheel with a Perspex shield in front to protect you from the wind and water. There were no keys tucked away inside, and no compass or sat nav either - just an empty cradle.

I climbed out and walked towards the Portakabin. The windows were covered with something that looked like chicken wire. It was screwed in from the outside, so was probably intended to protect the glass from passing yachties rather than stopping people like me gaining access. No one in their right mind would rob a police station or a coast guard’s - unless they were deep in the shit to start with.

A couple of minutes of ripping and tugging was all it took. I left it hanging from the frame and slid the window to one side.

I pulled myself up until my stomach was on the sill and wriggled inside. The smell of cigarettes and rubber hit me first - the place smelt like a garage. There was just enough ambient light to make sure I didn’t crash into anything.

I moved to the rack of orange dry-bags hanging neatly by the door. These Gore-Tex overall things had integral rubber boots and hoods, and gloves that you zipped on and off from the cuffs. I riffled through them until I found a suit my size and zipped it up as far as my stomach.

I looked around for the RIB keys. They wouldn’t be lying in a designer bowl. There would be a log book with them, noting who’d been on board, how much fuel was used, how long they were out, all that sort of stuff. You sign in and sign out each time you use them.

Two thick plastic folders with serial numbers stencilled on the front lay at the top right-hand corner of the desk. I flicked one open. Of course the RIBs had been filled up. Both were done at 19.00 tonight. Bean counting is the same anywhere; it doesn’t matter what language it’s in. The admin god decrees it. They’d each been out for two hours during the day. One had been topped up with sixty-eight litres, the other fifty-two. The tanks had to hold more than a hundred. They’d want to get five operational hours out of them.

The keys were in the folders too. Both had rubber covers, like jam-pot lids, to protect them from the weather when the RIBs were up and running. A yellow spiral cord clipped them to the driver, acting as a kill switch if you crashed or fell. I took both. I couldn’t find a compass, but still left the sat navs. The last thing I needed was a great big electronic arrow pointing at my exact location.

I left via the door. I bounced over the side of the first RIB I came to, slid down to the console and inserted a key. No luck. I tried the second and both Yamahas fired up. The pointer on the fuel gauge immediately showed full. A cloud of smoke belched from the exhausts. The propellers were still low in the water so, for now at least, I didn’t have to work out how to sort the hydraulics. I untied the mooring rope, hit the power lever to the right of the steering-wheel, and eased the nose gently out towards the sea.

As I emerged from the apex of the triangle a ship’s navigation lights glided past me into the canal. I left the protection of the sea wall. Wind buffeted my face. I zipped up the rest of the dry-bag and donned the hood and gloves as well.

When I’d put a bit of distance between me and the shore, I slipped the lever into neutral. I kept the engine running, but powered right down. The boat bobbed in the swell as I moved back to check the fuel lines. One 115 h.p. engine was more than enough for me to piss it to the UK. Two engines would burn twice as much.

I twisted the cut-out on what I thought was the left-hand fuel line but the right-hand one cut out instead. I found the button for the hydraulic ram and lifted it out of the water. I didn’t want any unnecessary drag.

Next priority was navigation. There was no ball compass. This boat’s direction-finding devices were all Gucci. As I came out into the sea, I was more or less heading west, so north had to be to my right. But before I went much further I was going to need Polaris.

The Pole Star is the most accurate natural guide there is in the northern hemisphere. As all the other stars appear to move from east to west as the earth rotates, this one stays stock still, directly above the Pole.

First I had to find the Plough, seven stars grouped in the shape of a long-handled saucepan. Draw a line between the two stars that form the side furthest from the handle, extend it upwards by about five times its length, and the star you get to, all on its own, is Polaris.

Once I’d found it, all I needed to do was make sure I kept it to my right until I bumped into the UK. Exactly where, I couldn’t predict.

I looked west and picked another star to aim for. I opened the throttle again and the bow lifted. The wind tugged at my hood. I sat on the cox’s seat behind the screen, glancing back and forth between my star and Polaris. I’d waver left and right; the wind and the single engine would make it impossible not to. But that didn’t matter, as long as I was going west.

I powered down until the bow dropped and I was bouncing over the surface of the water.

I thought about Robot - my mate from the battalion, not the one I’d hung on the extinguisher hook. We were posted in Gibraltar, so it wasn’t easy for him to get to Millwall on a Saturday. He came up with a plan. One Friday night, he stole a speedboat from the harbour; he reckoned that as long as he turned right and followed the coast, he’d soon reach France. Once there, he’d chuck a left to the Den. Being Robot, he had no idea how far he had to go. The boat ran out of fuel in the Bay of Biscay. He never made the game.

Shit, I was doing it again …

PART SEVEN