Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘Salik just said to use a light.’

‘Flash it three or four times, then wait,’ said Shepherd.

Hussain did as he was told. They stared in the direction of the shore. Nothing.

‘They’re not there,’ said Hussain.

Shepherd turned up the brightness of the GPS screen. They were right on course. He pulled out the piece of paper Salik had given him and cross-checked the reference, which matched. ‘We’re where we should be.’ He pulled back on the throttle and the boat settled into the water, rising and falling with the swell of the waves. ‘Flash the torch again.’

Hussain switched it on and off. On and off. On and off. He groaned.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I feel sick.’

‘You’ll be fine.’

‘I feel really sick.’

‘It’s because we’re not moving forward. You’ll be on land in a few minutes. Flash the torch again.’

Hussain did as he was told. ‘Where are they?’ he whispered.

‘Relax,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re making me nervous.’ He frowned as he peered into the darkness. He hoped nothing had happened to spook Kreshnik. Shepherd didn’t have as much faith in Europol as Hargrove had. All it would have taken was for one of the French surveillance team members to have shown out and the Albanian would have called off the whole thing. ‘Again,’ said Shepherd.

Hussain flashed his torch. Almost immediately a powerful single light flashed on and off to Shepherd’s right. He applied power gently and moved the boat towards the beam. It flashed again.

‘See? You were worrying about nothing,’ he said. He increased power and moved closer to the beach where he made out a figure, holding a large flashlight. Some distance behind him, Shepherd could distinguish a squat silhouette, which he assumed was a vehicle. He edged the boat forward until he felt the hull scrape across sand. The man on the beach was wearing dark clothes and a ski mask. Shepherd could see the van clearly now. The rear doors were open and two men, also wearing black clothes, were unloading cans on to the sand. They, too, wore ski masks but from their body shape and the way they moved Shepherd could tell they were Ervin and Artur.

The man with the flashlight went to the van. He tucked the light into his belt and picked up two cans. Shepherd kept the engine ticking over, with just enough throttle to keep the bow on the sand. Hussain jumped off the boat on to the beach, holding the tow rope.

The man with the cans splashed into the water and walked past him. ‘Nice night for it,’ said Shepherd. The man grunted something unintelligible that he figured was probably an Albanian insult. He shrugged. So long as he wasn’t getting his feet wet, he was happy.

Ervin and Artur carried the rest of the cans to the water’s edge and left them there, obviously having decided there was no point in them all getting wet. When the man with the flashlight saw what they were doing he yelled at them, but the two Albanians laughed and went back to the van.

This time the man swore in English, then beckoned to Hussain. ‘You can help me,’ he said, with a strong Albanian accent.

‘He has to keep that rope taut,’ said Shepherd, ‘and I have to keep my hand on the throttle.’

The Albanian swore again as he waded back to the shore to pick up more cans. There were twenty in all. If the three that Rudi Pernaska had brought into the country contained a million euros, the cans on the boat would probably hold closer to seven million. He could see why the Uddin brothers wanted an armed guard on the run.

By the time the last can was in place the Albanian was soaked. Artur and Ervin watched from the beach, their hands on their hips.

‘Okay, Hussain, back into the boat,’ said Shepherd. He gunned the engine to hold it firm against the sand as Hussain clambered on to the prow, then eased himself over the windshield. It was a far from elegant manoeuvre, accompanied by a lot of grunting and groaning. He sat in his seat, gripped the handrail, and Shepherd put the throttle into reverse to pull the hull slowly off the sand. He kept the boat moving backwards until there was several feet of water under it, then turned slowly so that they were pointing towards England. He pushed the throttle forward, but kept the speed to just under five knots. ‘Right, Hussain, where are we going?’ he asked.

Hussain took a scrap of paper from inside his waterproof jacket and handed it to him. Shepherd entered the co-ordinates into the GPS. The computer showed the route. It was a beach about twenty miles east of Southampton. He pulled the night-vision goggles over his eyes and pushed the throttle. ‘Home, James,’ he said, as the boat leaped forward.

‘What?’ said Hussain.

‘Nothing,’ said Shepherd. ‘Hold tight and enjoy the ride.’

It was just after three in the morning when Shepherd cut the engine and fished his mobile phone out of his pocket. He slid the goggles on top of his head and stared out into the darkness as he pressed ‘redial’. Salik answered almost immediately.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Salik.

‘Nothing,’ said Shepherd. The rib rose and fell with the swell.

‘You’re late,’ said Salik.

‘It took longer than we’d thought to load up,’ said Shepherd. ‘The Albanians didn’t want to get their feet wet. Anyway, are you ready?’

‘We’ve been ready for the last hour,’ said Salik.

‘Flash your headlights,’ Shepherd said.

‘Now?’

‘Now,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do it twice.’

Shepherd stared towards the coastline. To his left he saw two beams cut through the night sky, just for a second. Then again. He took a bearing off his compass, then pulled down the goggles and gunned the engine.

He was half a mile from the beach and reached it in less than a minute. He slowed the outboard as he got closer. He could see the Mercedes on the road beyond, and a Transit van. It was the Mercedes headlights that had flashed from the shore. Three men were standing by the van, but they were too far away for him to see who they were.

He repeated the manoeuvre he’d made on the French beach, edging the boat forward slowly. The hull crunched on the pebbles and Shepherd held it where it was. Hussain knew the drill now and climbed over the side with the rope. He held it tight and Shepherd flashed him a thumbs-up.

Salik and Matiur walked over the beach, their shoes slipping on the pebbles. They held their hands out at the sides as they waddled along in their thick overcoats, like a couple of agitated penguins. Two other Asian men, younger and fitter, followed them.

‘Tony!’ called Salik. ‘Everything is okay?’

‘Perfect,’ said Shepherd. ‘Take the stuff off the boat and I’ll get the hell out of here.’

Salik said something to the two young men and they hurried over, grabbed two cans each, then jogged back to the van.

‘You’ve done well, Tony, thank you,’ said Salik.

‘You don’t have to thank me. Just have my money ready tomorrow.’

Salik grinned. ‘Don’t worry, it will be.’

It took about ten minutes to unload the cans, then Hussain tossed the rope into the back of the boat.

Salik waved goodbye. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow. Our office.’

‘I don’t know where your office is, Salik,’ shouted Shepherd.

‘We’ll call you.’

‘You’d better,’ said Shepherd. He put the engine into reverse and edged away from the beach, then turned the boat, pulled on the goggles and made for Southampton.

Shepherd took the boat to its mooring, then drove to the Best Western hotel, where he gave the transmitting equipment to Amar Singh. Hargrove was out with the surveillance team, on the trail of the Uddins.

‘You came over as clear as a bell,’ said Singh. ‘Hargrove called the French and they were there to see the whole thing. Captured it on film with infra-red cameras. Hargrove told me to tell you what a great job you did.’