To his left, and lying on his side, was his partner, an older Afghanistan veteran, sometimes morose, sometimes laughing – but always there, watching his back. He would operate the laser sight. Normally mounted on a rifle, today he would simply point it at the target. In the failing light it would do its job. On the surface of the roof beside his hand was an electronic detonator that would set of a chain of fire crackers in the street below. No-one would hear the sharp whiplash crack of the Dragunov on the roof.
Below them, on the water, Quayle stood alone on the flying bridge. It was warm but, in spite of that, he wore a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of baggy track suit pants. His feet were bare and, although he hadn’t trained for some time, the layers of hard skin around the edges of his feet were still thick. He lifted a cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. Below him, in the main wheel house behind the tinted windows, Kirov sat behind an array of weaponry that included a flare gun, his own pistol – now with a silencer affixed – and the queen of any infantry battle, an M60 machine gun. One of the Spetznatz men loaded a belt into it and cocked the action. If it came to that, then they were in trouble. No amount of fire crackers or police blind eyes would help then. But then, if it came to that, as Quayle had said, who cared anyway?
The three hostages were below in the main saloon, guarded by one of the Soviets, and the final pair of Kirov’s men were suited up and waiting, breathing through snorkels to conserve their tanked air at the bathing platform. They carried light waterproof arms and powerheads and, if necessary, would board Fung Wa’s boat from the rear.
Quayle took another puff and inhaled deeply. Given the timeframes, they had taken all the precautions possible for a counter strike by the Chinese. Now all they could do was wait. He looked across the harbour and, smiling, picked up a pair of big Ziess glasses. Come to me, my darling.
At the wheel of the boat, Cockburn sat in a big leather chair and wished the Royal Navy were tied up alongside them, not the little ski-boat. As he muttered curses to himself, Chloe appeared and handed him one of the cups of coffee she was carrying. He took it wordlessly and she began to climb the steep stairs to the flying bridge.
“Chloe,” he said. “Leave it now.” Lifting a finger, he pointed out the big opaque wheel house windows. There, across the harbor, moving towards them, was a big modernistic boat with a cathedral hull and square ports. Behind it moved a second smaller boat. She felt a flicker of fear move up her spine.
Quayle dropped cat-like through the hatch from the flying bridge. Smiling at Chloe, he took the cup from her hand.
“Alexi – your two divers. The second boat. That’s the back-up. The marksmen stay on the big job. They’re to wait for your signal, unless something breaks that we can’t see. And tell ‘em not to bloody shoot me or Holly. OK,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “Let’s get the women up now and into the fizz boat.”
“How long has he known about this place, here on the water?”
“Three hours,” Quayle answered. “Why?”
“Long enough to get his own divers,” Kirov replied pointedly.
Quayle swore softly. He had missed that possibility. He looked at Kirov. “Suggestion?”
“Da.” The Soviet turned and spoke rapidly to the two men waiting in wetsuits on the bathing platform. “We will watch the fish finder. If he sees something, he can alert one diver. The other will cross to the other boat.”
“One enough?” Quayle asked.
The expression on Kirov’s face told him the question was stupid.
“Good. Let’s do it.”
Kirov nodded and, taking his gun from the shelf, he picked up the radio, dropped it into his pocket and put the slim-line headset on.
The other boat hove to two hundred yards from Quayle’s. As he watched the last of the women clamber into the runabout, he wondered how many people were watching the switch from offices and hotel rooms.
Kirov started the motor, then dropped down below into the tiny cabin with the hostages. Quayle took the wheel and eased the bows round. Then, with the engine barely above an idle, he headed for the midpoint between the two bigger boats. Ahead he could see a small tender leaving Fung Wa’s boat and he resisted the temptation to pick up the binoculars. Kirov, however, had no such compunction. Scooping them up, he poked his head above the gunwale and trained them on the tender.
“Three I can see.” He paused for a second. “But there may be more below…”
“Did you see a woman? Dark hair?”
“She’ll be down in the bows, just like ours. Don’t worry, Titus. We’ll know soon enough.”
Please God, he prayed, let her be safe and well. She is just too good and too decent to be a victim of this. She deserves better. I swear to you, you whom she believes in, her God,
