Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

Midday off the coast near Motril, and they could begin their journey home.

Riley pulled the car off the road near a short stretch of beach and glanced at her watch. It was 11.30. She looked across at two small hotels nestled against a backdrop of sandy rock and coarse, scrubby trees. The Hotel Palma was neat and brightly painted in white and sea-blue, while its rival, the Flores was a modern aluminium and glass creation. The road here followed a sharp curve in the coastline, clinging to a steep drop down to the sea, and other than the small line of sand which had largely been man-made to bolster the two hotels, there wasn’t much to attract tourists.

Offshore a cluster of small vessels was moored in haphazard fashion, with bright marker-buoys bobbing gently on the waves among them. Other vessels moved back and forth, heading east and west towards Almeria and Malaga. Most were gleaming white with flashes of shiny chrome, crewed by people for whom this was a highway to pleasure and relaxation, not work.

Palmer raised his head from the back seat and picked up a pair of binoculars he had purchased that morning in Malaga. They wouldn’t have impressed a naval officer or a bird watcher, but they were quite sufficient for his needs.

“I hope you don’t intend claiming for those on expenses,” Riley said dryly.

“Of course not.” He focused on the moored craft. “I put them on yours.” There was little activity except for a small semi-rigid boat with two men on board. They were holding station near the marker-buoys and as he watched, a black-suited figure popped up from the water and passed up what looked like a large, yellow underwater camera. One of the two men on board took it from him, while the other helped him clamber over the rounded gunwale.

“Might be part of the survey crew,” he said. “Looks like they’re getting ready to go to lunch.”

Riley was looking towards the hotels, where a few vehicles were parked and a coach was unloading tourists. A Land Cruiser was just pulling in from the Malaga direction, its tinted windows masking the occupants.

She had been toying with the idea of seeing if they could rent a sea-facing room for the afternoon, but dismissed it. It would have been a good observation point but would probably lead to idle speculation among the staff. And she doubted the Grossman group was the only one interested in current comings and goings at this particular point today.

She pulled a floppy hat from the back seat and grabbed a beach bag. “Come on,” she said, donning her sunglasses. “Time to hit the beach. I think the enemy’s arrived.”

Palmer followed her glance towards the Land Cruiser in front of the Palma hotel. “Right. But which enemy are you talking about?”

He clamped on a baseball cap and got out of the car, dropping the binoculars into a plastic bag. His pale legs stuck out from a pair of tan shorts, and his loose cotton shirt flapped in the breeze.

Riley looked at him and raised her eyebrows. “Palmer — you’re a sight.”

“Don’t knock it,” he murmured cheerfully. “I’ve had my moments.”

“Yes…but when?”

They walked down onto the beach and sat just below road level. From here they had a good view of the sea, the beach and, if they peered over the top, of the hotels and car park as well as the road from both directions. There were few people on the sand, and they guessed many had gone in for lunch. Out at the survey site, the boats were silent and deserted.

They settled back to wait. Occasionally Palmer raised his binoculars to scan the horizon, while Riley applied sun-cream to her arms and legs.

After a few minutes Riley heard a car door slam, and risked a peek back at the Land Cruiser. She was just in time to see a man walking away from the vehicle and entering the Palma. It was too brief a look to see whether it was John Mitcheson or one of his men.

A crunch of tyres on gravel drew her attention to the other end of the car park, as a nondescript white Toyota stopped near the Flores and parked away from the other vehicles. When no one got out, Riley nudged Palmer.

“Fancy some lunch, Frank?” she asked. “My treat.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Lead the way, boss. Throw in a gallon or two of iced water and I’m game.”

They picked up their bags and walked across to the Flores, away from the Land Cruiser. As they neared the Toyota, Riley risked a glance from behind her sunglasses. She could just make out the shape of a driver through the glass, but no detail.

Inside, the Flores was cool and airy. A lounge area ran along the front of the building, with a canopy over the glass to provide shaded viewing of the sea and beach. Riley ordered sandwiches and drinks, and they sat and waited to see what happened.

Six miles out from the coast the Soukia was nearing the end of its run before landing its catch at a small harbour near Almeria. The skipper scanned the horizon, eyes alert for a boat approaching or the sudden arrival of the Spanish coastguard. He also checked the sky for the tell-tale dot of a helicopter; the drugs patrols were using newer and more modern methods to track down boats like the Soukia and the risk was increasing daily.

Yet they had been lucky for a long time. Easy runs with no problems other than having to deal with the drunken Englishman, Bignell. Now, though, things had changed; the Englishman had gone and a woman had taken his place. He hawked and spat over the side. She wouldn’t last, the fat woman. She didn’t sound as though she knew what she was doing. Still, there would always be someone else to take her place, eager to trade for the powdered gold or anything else with a commercial value.

A shout from one of his men made him look ahead. A speck was curving round on an intercept course towards them. He throttled back and shouted for his men to get the package ready.

The speck became a fast, white launch favoured by the pleasure-seekers on the beaches of Spain. A would-be rich man’s toy that would not stand the first big wave that hit it. Ideal for this kind of job, though.

With another glance skywards to check for aircraft, he waved a hand and his men jettisoned the rubber package and scuba-gear over the side, where it sank just below the surface, its position marked by a small coloured buoy.

He saw a similar marker-buoy fall away from the approaching launch, and increased his own speed towards it. The launch growled by a hundred metres away, its twin screws lifting its nose clear of the waves. There were two men on board, both in their middle thirties, looking tanned and fit. The skipper noticed they stood in the launch with a relaxed stance, like men accustomed to the sea. With a faint hint of anxiety he realised these men weren’t amateurs.

As the launch fell back and curved round to pick up the package, the skipper picked up his mobile phone and watched. It was as he thought; the boat had not even stopped and was now powering back towards the mainland. Very smooth.

He slowed the Soukia alongside the marker-buoy and watched his men lean out with a grappling hook to snag the rope. After the other boat’s display of expertise, he hoped they caught it first time and didn’t expect him to come round for a second try. He was about to press the send button on the mobile to confirm all was okay, when he saw that, instead of having a rope and package attached to the buoy, there was nothing but lead weights hanging from it to keep it upright in the water.

He turned to shout at the launch. To his horror, instead of disappearing towards land, it had slowed and crept up alongside and was now reducing speed to match his own. One of the men was standing against the gunwale. He was holding a gleaming black machine pistol and smiling in anticipation.