Easing back on the power, he let the boat settle in the water.
They were almost half way. In another minute, the diver would be under the hull of Fung Wa’s boat.
The other boat was close now. Here it came, idling towards them. Quayle no longer needed the binoculars to clearly see Fung Wa standing at the wheel, the man beside him openly holding a small automatic weapon.
Meanwhile, up on the roof of the port police building, the sniper zeroed in on the man while his partner took a last look at the photo and peered through the laser sight his finger on the trigger. The spot would appear dead centre on Fung Wa’s chest.
The two boats were now in hailing distance. Quayle turned his boat beam on.
“Let’s see her!” he called.
“All in good time, Mr Quayle,” Fung Wa called back. His voice had lost its resonant quality and was filled with tension.
No doubt about it: he was up to something.
Quayle tapped his foot once and Kirov spoke into the tiny microphone. A second later, a tiny red spot danced across Fung Wa’s chest as Quayle said a silent prayer of thanks for calm waters.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” he called, his eyes glittering. “Take a look at your front. That red spot is a laser sight. One funny move that my man doesn’t like and someone dies. Now bring her up!”
Fung Wa looked down quickly and then hurriedly stepped to one side, pushing the armed man – who was sweeping air with his gun, looking for the threat – aside. But no sooner had he moved, the spot reappeared on his breast. His anger flowing, he snapped out an order and, as the guard lifted his weapon, Quayle heard the meaty thump of a high calibre bullet hit flesh and bone. In that same instant, the guard slammed back and downward onto the transom. His body twitched for two seconds. Then it relaxed.
He was stone dead.
Several seconds later, the faint crackle of fireworks carried over the water.
Kirov bent into his earpiece to listen, and quickly turned to look to the rear. Quayle resisted the temptation and kept his eyes firmly on Fung Wa. There in the water, bobbing on the surface thirty metres behind their boat, were the bodies of two divers. The first’s buoyancy jacket was inflated and the water around what remained of his head was pink. The second was also dead – but this time seemingly intact. The powerhead blast, it seemed, had taken him in the back.
Kirov turned, his gun resting on the gunwales, aimed at Fung Wa. Below them, in the small cabin, someone began to sob and another voice spoke in rapid, almost hysterical Cantonese.
“Temper temper!” Quayle cried out. “Next time, you say good-bye to Noi and the China deal. Now bring her up!”
Fung Wa looked back at Quayle, trying to believe what had happened to his men, trying to understand where the shot had come from. For the first time, it seemed, he was realising that he had been out thought. He snarled down at the helmsman who still lay prone on the deck between the seats. The man stood and ducked forward into the bow section, reappearing a moment later, pushing a figure.
She seemed smaller, bowed over, a hood masking her features. Her hands were bound behind her, pulling her arms back cruelly – but Quayle had no doubt it was Holly. Her foot hit something on the floor of the boat and she tripped forward, smashing into the deck.
Quayle’s anger and frustration peaked. As he cried out, Kirov’s hand shot out and took his shoulder, standing up, his gun aimed rock steady at the Chinese.
“Cut her free, you bastard, or they’ll be scraping your fucking brains off the deck!”
The helmsman didn’t wait for Fung Wa to tell him. He pulled a small knife from his pocket and rapidly cut away the bonds.
“Now the hood, you fucker of your own mother!”
Kirov had a mad look in his eyes, the Cossack blood of his forefathers bubbling up inside him.
Fung Wa glanced down. There, on his breast, the red dot still danced.
Fung Wa’s helmsman pulled the hood pulled clear and, at last, Quayle saw her: her tousled rich brown hair, her eyes wide and frightened, her red-rimmed mouth covered by tape.
“Hands up!” Kirov shouted. “Both of you. Very high. We will come alongside. Exchange.”
Fung Wa stood back, a look of complete defeat across his face. In front of him, the helmsman lifted his hands high over his head – but Kirov wasn’t satisfied with the speed of response. Bent in the classic marksman’s crouch, he squeezed the trigger. The big gun gave a silent cough and the perspex windscreen beside Fung Wa’s head shattered and split into a spider’s web of opaque cracks. Recoiling instinctively, the surge of fear bought him back to reality. His hands came up. The faint crackle of fireworks reached them again and, as Quayle eased the throttles forward and manoeuvred the boat around, keeping the tender between them and the big cathedral hull, he knew that someone on the big boat had done something stupid and had died. His face was a mask of anger, his grey eyes glittering and his jaw set. It was taking all his self control to allow Kirov command. It was right and he knew it. He was too close, too emotionally involved.
In the other boat, Holly was coming to her feet. Quayle watched with immense pride as, with shaking hands, she pulled the tape from her mouth, squaring her shoulders and holding everything back, determined not to give Fung Wa the pleasure of seeing her break down.
The boats nudged and Quayle crossed from one to the other like a big cat. Now it was his time. Up close enough to use his hands and feet.
Fung Wa must have remembered, because he was
