Беар Гриллс - The Hunt [=The Devil's Sanctuary]

It was 10.30 p.m. New York time – so 10.30 a.m. China time – when the two figures – a man and a woman in their late thirties – emerged from the bridge and closed up the vessel as if they were going out for a night’s partying. The Chelsea Piers Marina was a great location from which to do so: the Chelsea Market, the UCB Theatre, and many of New York’s finest bars, cafés and clubs were just a few blocks away.

The Sokolovs left the Nordhavn knowing that they were never going to return. A fisherman by profession, but one who had drifted into more nefarious business due to the vagaries of fate, Mr Sokolov had thrilled to the few weeks that he had skippered the vessel. He would never be able to afford such a fine boat himself, even though he had been very handsomely rewarded.

In return for undertaking a long ocean-going journey and following some simple instructions, enough money had been wired into his offshore account to start a new life wherever he and his wife might choose. Or they might simply buy a seaside dacha – a penthouse retreat – and retire to their native Russia.

For the Sokolovs, it was a dream come true.

Deep in the Nordhavn’s bilges lay an inspection pit for checking the state of the fibreglass fuel tanks. It had provided ample space to conceal the wooden crate with the simple console bolted onto it. Mr Sokolov guessed the package contained drugs. What else could it be? He presumed that now he had activated the console, as instructed, it would signal the drug gang’s pickup point, and they’d home in to wharf 47, to collect their cargo.

He’d heard about such things before: drugs runners even left bales of narcotics at sea, with a homing beacon attached. That way, trafficker and recipient never had to meet. Far safer. Far fewer risks. He didn’t doubt the switch he had flicked would trigger that kind of a pickup.

Even so, the call that he had received from Mr Kraft to trigger the console had come as something of a surprise: he’d not been expecting it for some days.

But his was not to reason why: he had executed the final stage of his contract.

Now to disappear.

Some 3,500 miles away, the Petrovs exited the Nordhavn 52 that had been their home for the last few weeks. Fitted with a 1,670-gallon fuel tank and a 1,514-litre fresh-water tank, the yacht lying at berth in London’s St Katharine Docks Marina was built for ocean-lapping journeys. Displacing 40.82 metric tonnes, she had proved remarkably stable during the long voyage.

A former fisherman, Mr Petrov had been recruited by the same Russian criminal cartel as his friend, Mr Sokolov. When both had been made the same offer by the mysterious Mr Kraft, it had seemed too good to be true.

Well, if it looked that way, it generally was.

In recent days, Mr Petrov had started to worry about just what their vessel was carrying.

He’d not raised it with his wife. He didn’t want to worry her. It was more than enough stress sailing between continents and trusting to luck that their mystery cargo wouldn’t be discovered.

Most people they had met along the way seemed to think it perfectly natural for a Russian couple in their mid thirties to own a two-million-dollar yacht. In their minds, every Russian was an oligarch and should boast at least one such vessel. Well, the reality was far different. And Mr Petrov for one was very glad to be getting off this ship and away from whatever might be coming.

Mr Kraft’s surprise call had woken him in the depths of the night, but Mr Petrov didn’t care: it couldn’t come soon enough.

He’d flicked the switch on the console and shut up the yacht, then he and his wife had hurried along the quayside to meet their 3.30 a.m. Uber.

Mr Petrov wanted out of London.

He had a bad feeling about what was about to happen and he couldn’t seem to shake it.

When taking the contract, he’d agreed with his good friend, Mr Sokolov that it was most likely drugs they’d be carrying. It wasn’t the first time they had run such cargoes. If rich Westerners wished to ruin their lives by jacking up on heroin, more fool them. But as he’d approached Britain’s coastline, he’d been gripped by this unshakeable worry.

Upon taking Mr Kraft’s call, he’d tried to book flights leaving from London’s City Airport, just a short drive away. But at such notice there had been no availability. Instead, they would need to travel right across London to Heathrow Airport. From there, he’d booked British Airways direct to Moscow, leaving that evening.

As he stood on the quayside, Mr Petrov checked his watch. The taxi was late. No doubt still trying to find its way onto the marina. He searched for any sign of the car: most likely a black Mercedes or Audi.

A few blocks west, the floodlit towers of London’s City banking district rose like a monument to the power of the financial markets. A stone’s throw away lay the historic Tower of London, where Britain’s royal rulers had once locked the treasonous, to await their execution at nearby Tower Hill.

Mr Petrov wanted out of this city, before he and his wife ended up imprisoned in the Tower themselves.

Five thousand miles from St Katharine Docks, Hank Kammler settled back in his executive chair in his subterranean command bunker, smiling grimly. Three calls made: three devices primed to blow. He could hear the clock ticking in his head: the countdown had begun.

Whatever Jaeger and his people might try now, of one thing he was certain: they weren’t about to stop the carnage that was coming.

The fuse had been lit.

He was no expert, but he knew enough to envisage what was about to happen. When the Little Boy and Fat Man bombs had been dropped over Hiroshima and Nagasaki, they had been detonated several hundred feet above the cities. That had maximised the immediate destructive power of the blasts.

By contrast, the first of Kammler’s INDs would be detonated at ground level. The blast effect would be lessened, but conversely the radioactive contamination would be increased, because the radiation wouldn’t disperse in the air. Those parts of the cities that weren’t flattened would be rendered uninhabitable for decades.

Hundreds of thousands – maybe millions – would die: either an instant death from the blast, or a lingering one from radiation poisoning. That alone was some achievement.

It had taken seven decades to get to this point.

The humiliation of the Third Reich was about to be avenged.

And once Kammler’s gunmen had finished off Jaeger and his team, he would slip away to another place of hiding. He had many.

It was all coming together, despite the damage inflicted here by a few desperate individuals.

Such was war, Kammler reflected.

Plans evolved as necessity dictated.

And revenge truly was a dish best served cold.

There was a squawk of static in Jaeger’s earpiece. Message incoming.

‘Going dark,’ Raff confirmed.

Seconds later, the dull, rhythmic thud of the generator ceased. Raff had considered a few options for stopping it: blowing it up, cutting the wires, slicing through the fuel pipe. But in the circumstances – and once he’d picked the lock on the generator shed – it was just as easy to press the STOP button.

Sure, Kammler might send out his gunmen to get it restarted, but to do so they’d have to leave the bunker’s entrance, which any second now was going to get hosed down by Alonzo. And the big African American wasn’t exactly short of ammo: Jaeger and Raff had handed over all their remaining 40mm grenade rounds.

Screw it, Raff told himself. He ripped off the generator’s fuel hose and stuffed it in his pocket. Now it definitely wouldn’t start.