Legacy of Guilt, page 16
Lancaster, picking over the blueprints of the island’s facilities said, ‘Okay, let’s say we agree that a sub is possible, far-fetched, but possible. Where would he go? I don’t imagine you can just sail into a port in a homemade submarine.’
‘Some of these narco-subs are capable of travelling thousands of kilometres, but Wallace wouldn’t need to. He has a small fleet of ships that he could have rendezvoused with.’
Lancaster rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I think I know what the answer to this is going to be, but do you have any information that shows how he might have done that?’
Riley tapped the keyboard again. ‘If we assume that this sub was capable of a speed of around ten knots, and we look at the movements of Greenline’s other ships, it gives us this.’
The image on the screen was a map of Southeast Asia with several coloured circles drawn on it.
Lancaster looked at the screen, then at Thomson. ‘Okay.’
Riley pointed at one of the circles. ‘The course of this ship intersects with the area the sub could have covered.’
‘Could have?’
‘I am making quite a few assumptions, but we also have to look at the fact that the ship did a U-turn within a few miles of that intersection and sailed to Muscat in Oman. It stayed in Oman for two days then sailed back to Singapore. Why would they do that?’
Lancaster looked at Riley. He wanted to check how certain she was of her facts. There wasn’t time to get someone to go over all of this to confirm it. ‘So where is Wallace now?’
‘I don’t believe that they would risk bringing a nuclear device over land. I think they transferred it to a ship.’ She pointed at the coloured line that showed the track of another vessel. ‘This is the MV Augustus. It also belongs to Greenline and left Muscat the day after the other ship arrived.’
‘And where is it now?’
‘It’s currently heading for Southampton. Due to dock there tomorrow.’
Lancaster stared at the screen. Riley’s evidence was a mixture of assumption and guess work, but he had launched missions on less defined information. ‘I want that ship boarded as soon as it docks,’ he said to Thompson. ‘Pass it off as a random customs check or anti-drug smuggling operation. Find me any evidence that what Anna says is correct. They’ll need armed back-up if Wallace is on board with his men.’
Thomson grabbed her coat and headed for the door. ‘I’m on it.’
Riley closed her laptop. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘This is where you leave it to us, Anna.’ Lancaster could see that Riley was disappointed, but she wasn’t up to being out in the field just yet. ‘You can stick with me.’
‘What about Logan? I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near Wallace when he catches up with him.’
Lancaster could see that Riley was looking for him to agree that Palmer was still alive. She wanted to assuage her guilt. ‘Look, Anna. I can see how much this means to you and I understand. Palmer, if he’s alive, is out for revenge. We’re bound by the law. We can’t get involved in anything like that.’
‘But he can help us.’
Lancaster shook his head. ‘I know men like Palmer, they are valuable up to a point. When something like this happens, they become more of a liability. If he turns up, he might get in touch with you. If he does, you must let me know. I must get the police involved and bring him in. We can’t have him running amok. Do you understand, Anna?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
Lancaster could see from the look on Riley’s face that she didn’t mean what she said. She looked angry. After everything Palmer had done for them, he didn’t blame her. He was angry too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Vicky Thomson stood on the dockside of the Port of Southampton’s cargo terminal and watched the tugs that manoeuvred the MV Augustus into position. The port was a vast area capable of taking the biggest vessels and offloading their cargos. Whether that be containers full of electrical goods, imported cars, tons of gravel, food, or people. Thomson could see two cruise ships berthed in the distance and two huge ocean-going container ships. Compared to them, MV Augustus was tiny.
Greenline had registered that the MV Augustus was being used to move large consignments of military hardware to and from deployments all over the world. The containers filling the ship’s decks were full of the supplies needed to keep a private army operating in the field. Everything from armoured vehicles to tents, portable toilets and showers to kitchens, and, of course, weapons.
The weapons that MV Augustus routinely carried were never offloaded in the UK, firearms restrictions were too tight. They were onward shipped to Greenline’s facility in South Africa where they trained most of their assets. Regardless of that fact, they were still liable for inspection by the authorities. Manifestoes had to be checked, everything accounted for, and anything that was disembarked had to be searched, including people.
Border Force and Customs Officers backed up by police stood along the dock ready to board as soon as a gangway had been lifted into position. A coastguard boat was following the MV Augustus into the harbour just in case anyone tried to make a run for it, and six police vans were parked along the jetty. Unseen from the outside, the armed officers within readied their weapons. They hadn’t been told the exact threat but knew there could be a well-armed paramilitary unit on board. As the gangway was lifted into place, the customs and police officers filed along it to the deck of the MV Augustus.
A bitter wind whipped around the cranes that ran along the jetty and Thomson pulled her coat tighter. There was nothing she could help with, the rummage teams that searched ships knew what they were doing. In the past, they had found drugs, weapons, cigarettes, and people hidden away in some of the most ingenious places imaginable. Containers that were longer on the outside than the inside, false decks and bulkheads, even fan trunkings and water tanks, all had been used to smuggle. Sometimes the give-away was the body language of the crew or simply that something didn’t feel right. Thomson watched as the teams began their search on the upper deck. It was going to be a long day.
***
It was just before midnight when a knock on Thomson’s car window woke her up. The senior officer from the Border Force beckoned her over to a building that ran along the dock, opposite the berth where the MV Augustus was docked. Thomson rubbed her eyes, fastened her coat, and got out of the car.
Inside the building was a small office that had been commandeered to hold the impromptu meeting away from curious ears that didn’t need to hear what was said. Senior officers from the British Transport Police, Hampshire Constabulary, HM Customs and Excise, and the Border Force stood around a deck plan of the MV Augustus. Each compartment had been crossed off as it had been searched and reported to be clear.
One of the customs officers handed Thomson a cup of tea. ‘Sorry, we’ve drunk all the coffee.’
Thomson held the cup in both hands, warming up her fingers. The wind had stopped but it was still bitterly cold. ‘This is great, thanks.’ She pointed at the deck plan. ‘I assume you didn’t find anything.’
The senior Border Force officer spoke first. It was his teams that had carried out most of the search. ‘Nothing at all, it’s one of the cleanest ships we’ve ever searched. Normally we would find something, even if it’s just the crew with some contraband.’
‘But there was nothing on board? How unusual is that?’
‘It’s very unusual. Normally we would find small items but not take any action. It’s a matter of scale. There was one thing though.’
Thomson blew steam from her cup. ‘What was that?’
The officer pointed at a compartment on the plan. ‘Here, in one of the machinery spaces, some welding had been done recently. One of my rummagers said it actually looked like they’d built a false bulkhead to hide something, but then put it back again.’
‘Anything else?’
The customs officer who had handed her the tea stepped in. ‘When I was talking to the captain during the day, his body language was a bit off.’
‘In what way?’
‘It seemed like he was nervous but wasn’t worried about us finding anything. If he knew the ship was clean, why be nervous?’
Thomson didn’t think that was evidence of any wrongdoing. The captain could have been nervous because of the size and intensity of the search. For all he knew, one of his crewmen could have been smuggling something. ‘Okay, is that everything?’
The Border Force officer threw his empty cardboard cup into the bin. ‘Just one more thing, I don’t know how useful it’ll be.’
Thomson put her cup on the table. ‘Everything helps, no matter how small.’
The officer’s facial expression showed he was thinking of the best way to put this information across without seeming stupid. ‘Ships, especially older ships like this, tend to have a smell of oil and diesel about them. They smell industrial. The areas that don’t are the galley, which obviously smells of food, and the accommodation spaces. The accommodation smells of people. Over the top of the oil and diesel there is a smell of soap, shampoo and deodorant hanging over an underlying aroma of sweat and old socks.’
Some of the people around the room laughed at his description and nodded in agreement.
Thomson had no experience of life on a ship but couldn’t imagine living somewhere that smelt like that. ‘Okay, I’ll take your word for that. You found something unusual?’
‘Compartments that haven’t had people living in them for a while soon go back to the industrial smell. We entered a six-berth cabin on deck three that was empty, but still smelt of people. When we asked about it, the crew said it wasn’t used.’
‘How long would the smell linger for?’
‘In my experience, a couple of weeks at most. People were living in there when it left Oman.’
Thomson thanked them all and waited for them to file out of the room. Fifteen hours of intensive searching and they had found nothing, except a bulkhead that might have been moved and an empty compartment that smelled of old socks. It wasn’t a great day’s work to report back on. She checked for anyone standing within hearing distance, picked up her phone, and called Lancaster at his home.
***
As the sun rose over the south coast of England, Wallace, Brad and Chernov sat in a white campervan waiting to board the ferry from the Isle of Wight to Portsmouth. The rest of the team were behind them in a black people carrier. When the MV Augustus entered the English Channel, they had climbed into an inflatable boat to complete the final part of their journey. Before dawn, while the MV Augustus was still in the approaches to Southampton harbour, they were landing on a secluded beach on the south coast of the island. There were no customs officials or police officers to stop them and no immigration officers to check their passports. No one was looking for them here and the beach was deserted.
Their first stop was a garage close to the beach. It belonged to a relative of one of the guards. It was small and basic, but it had all the tools they needed. The owner had been paid a substantial amount of money to stay at home for the day and was happy to do it. Business hadn’t been great lately and the extra cash would come in handy.
The building itself was large enough to fit three cars in. It had a pit and a lift next to an area for changing tyres. There was a toilet and a separate screened off area where customers could make themselves a cup of coffee and watch their cars being worked on. The two vehicles were backed in through the roller doors and the windows were covered up. Two of the guards got to work with blow torches and welding equipment while Wallace, Brad and the others helped themselves to coffee.
Over the next few hours, Chernov’s device was secured into a compartment that had been created in the bottom of the campervan. It looked like part of the chassis, a support for the bench seat and bed at the back. The top plate had been welded into position and painted. The only way to get the device back out was to cut the compartment open. Anyone carrying out a casual search would be oblivious to it. The same was true of the compartments in the back of the people carrier that were full of weapons. All of them, bar a couple of 9mm pistols that were under the front seat, had been sealed in.
Once the modifications were complete, they spent the rest of the day prepping for the completion of the job. The plan was fine-tuned and memorised, all the guards had to do was follow the plan and do as they were told. The bumper pay packet they would receive at the end of the operation would make them all rich men. The extra resources they needed had been arranged and would be picked up on route. With preparations complete and a meal inside them, they remained hidden in the garage until they had to leave for their ferry. With everything loaded up, they climbed into the vehicles and set off for the port.
Chernov shuffled about in the front passenger seat. ‘Could we get something to drink soon? I could also do with a toilet break.’
Brad sat behind the wheel with his elbow hanging out of the side window. He looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s like being on holiday with a four-year-old. The only thing he hasn’t asked so far is, “are we there yet?” for fuck’s sake.’
Wallace was relaxing on the back seat, his head back and legs stretched out. ‘Shut up, both of you. You’ll get plenty to drink and time for a toilet break when it’s safe. Sergei, you don’t go anywhere without me, understand?’
Chernov turned round in his seat. ‘I understand, Kane. I’m just thirsty.’ He pointed at Brad. ‘He could at least close the window, it’s cold in here.’
Wallace sat up. ‘Jesus. Brad, close the window. Sergei, stop complaining. Both of you, shut up.’ He lay back down again, shaking his head.
Brad shot a menacing stare at Chernov. ‘Just remember, Sergei, you’re only valuable to us for a little while longer. After that, watch your back.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was mid-morning before Thomson made it to Lancaster’s office. She didn’t get back into London until 3 a.m. and was worn out by the drive. Lancaster told her that he would wait for her to arrive before he spoke to Riley about the previous night’s events. He wanted someone there who Riley felt close to in case she needed support.
Thomson knocked on the office door and went in. ‘Good morning, everyone.’
Riley was making coffee. ‘Morning, Vicky. Do you want a cup?’
‘Yes please, Anna. I need something to keep me awake.’
Riley poured milk into the three cups and handed them round. ‘I didn’t sleep much last night. I kept wondering what was happening on the ship, what you found.’
Thomson sat down next to Riley and put her hand on her knee. She knew that this wasn’t going to be easy. Riley wouldn’t take this well. She spoke softly, reassuring. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Anna, so I’ll just explain it how it happened. We didn’t find anything.’
Riley sat forwards. ‘But that’s not possible.’
Thomson put her hand on Riley’s. ‘We searched for fifteen hours. There was no sign of Wallace or the bomb. There was nothing concrete to show that they had ever been there.’
Riley pulled her hand away and stood up. ‘No, I followed the trail. It had to be there, they had to be there.’
‘The searchers thought the crew might have been up to something, but it doesn’t mean they’re linked to Chernov.’
Lancaster walked round the desk to where Riley stood. ‘I’m sorry, Anna. There just isn’t enough to go on. There’s no trail for us to follow.’
‘But if I was wrong about that,’ her heart began to pound. ‘I could be wrong about Logan.’ Riley was trembling, tears began to run down her face.
‘It doesn’t mean that. I’m sure he’s alive and well somewhere. We’ll see him when he’s ready.’
Riley stepped away from Lancaster. ‘No.’ She was shaking her head. ‘No!’ she looked at Thomson then ran out the door.
Thomson had seen people lose it before. The extreme pressure of the job, the constant secrecy. Riley was showing all the signs, it was too soon for her. She needed to be back at Yardley Manor, now, for her own wellbeing.
She looked at Lancaster. ‘Don’t worry, Edward. I’ll look after her.’ Thomson picked up Riley’s backpack and headed out the door.
***
Yardley Manor was originally a nineteenth century country house belonging to an industrialist whose family had made their fortune in coal. Eager to show off their newfound wealth, they bought a large plot of land and built a country house. The last occupant, Frederick Yardley, left his entire estate to the crown after the First World War and subsequent Spanish Flu pandemic robbed him of his heirs. After a spell as a convenient country home for a couple of minor royals, it became a hospital during World War Two. Soldiers returning from the battlefield with disfiguring injuries or from prisoner of war camps with mental scars were treated there. From that point, it never returned to being a family home.
In the last twenty years, it had mainly been used for the treatment of those returning from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The number of soldiers needing treatment meant that Yardley Manor became experts in mental trauma, in the same way that hospitals in Belfast became experts in kneecap injuries during the troubles. It was a matter of need. Although there were a number of NHS facilities to treat physical injuries, hospitals like Yardley Manor were tragically few and far between. The number of beds that they had was nowhere near enough.
The original eighteenth century part of the house had now been given over to admin and consultation rooms. Its rabbit warren of corridors and narrow staircases were no longer suitable to house patients. A modern extension at the rear was where the accommodation was now situated. Each of the sixty rooms was a decent size and had its own bathroom. They all had televisions, desks with space for a laptop, and comfortable chairs. The kitchen facilities were shared between each group of six rooms and there was a large communal garden. It looked like a cross between a student hall of residence and some of the more modern military accommodation. There had been a concerted effort for it to be a calm, restful place and at the same time avoid anything that made it look and feel like an institution.
