‘Thanks,’ he said, disengaging the engine. The diesel choked off, drowned out by the patrol boat propellers revving in reverse as its prow manoeuvred alongside. She glanced over Mike’s shoulder to the sonar display. Sixty-six metres of water beneath them. But there was something else there, something big – the edge of a shipwreck, judging from its shape. At least sixty-six was better than seventy. As a teenager she’d learned to dive in the Caspian Sea with her uncle Dmitry, though never so deep.
Mike caught her elbow. ‘Listen, I’m –’
She placed a forefinger across his lips, just as a gangplank clattered down on the port side. Nadia went back to her place on the starboard side while Mike tied the gangplank down. As she leant over the edge to scoop some seawater onto her face, she lowered the Rose into the sea, held it underwater so it didn’t splash.
She let go.
Two sailors stood at the other end of the narrow bridge, waiting for Mike to finish. They were armed, wearing white Navy-style belts and holsters. Nadia glanced into her bag and read the GPS on her phone. It had stabilised. She intoned the figures twice in her head. The two sailors walked across the plank and jumped down into the boat. She looked up at them, hands by her side.
The captain looked serious, a shock of white hair framing a face of granite. The younger one behind tried not to grin. The captain looked her over, then stormed up to Mike.
‘Licence,’ he barked.
Nadia noticed four more sailors on the patrol boat. One on the bridge was holding a radio. They looked earnest, which meant they knew something, though almost certainly not everything. Mike was briefly interrogated, but only mildly; he was local. The captain began speaking in low tones, and she pretended not to listen amidst the water chopping against both hulls, and the creaking of the gangplank as it see-sawed between the two vessels. The captain was asking Mike about her. She reached into her backpack, switched off the GPS app, and searched for her passport. The captain came over and stood above her, his right hand near his holster. She handed him her ID.
‘I’m here for some diving and sightseeing,’ she said. She knew there were plenty of Russians on holiday in Cornwall at this time of year, many of them divers. In Russia, she’d probably be taken into custody on suspicion, but in England the burden of proof was higher.
He shone a flashlight onto her passport, then to her face, then back to the document. Without taking his eyes off hers, he handed the passport to the other sailor, who dashed back over the gangplank as if everything was perfectly stationary, not two boats pitching in darkness, locked in a frenzied embrace.
She tried to stay calm, suppressing thoughts of Janssen’s bloated corpse, probably already found by police divers.
‘How long are you here, Miss Laksheva?’
‘Until Friday,’ she said, ‘then to London, then back home to Russia.’ She showed him the tickets. The flights were booked, so they could check her story, though she wouldn’t be taking those particular planes. She smiled, but his face remained stern, which meant he knew blood had been spilled.
Mike watched her from the steering console. She could see he was wondering.
‘Let me see your bag, miss,’ the captain said.
She handed him the backpack and he rooted around inside. He was thorough. But there was nothing inside to worry about. He handed it back to her. He didn’t look happy. From his pocket he pulled out something that looked like a phone, but was clearly a detector of some sort, and wandered around the boat, opening up the two small cupboards under the console. The detector made a small pinging noise. It was hunting for the Rose. Sammy had been right. She wondered what the detector’s range was. Thank God she’d tossed it over the side. The captain walked past her again. She held her breath as she suddenly remembered the Beretta hidden on the underside of the ledge where she sat. Shit! How the hell would she explain that? The gun was smaller and slimmer than the Rose, but if the captain bent down to look… The pings continued as normal, and he didn’t search further. She breathed out, trying to keep her face normal, not showing the wave of relief she was feeling. After a minute he put the device back in his pocket, and turned to Nadia.
‘Where are you staying?’
She’d booked yesterday. ‘Old Smithy’s Inn, Hugh Town.’
He called back to the boat. ‘Check her reservation. Old Smithy’s.’
The captain stared at her. She studied her toenails.
The other sailor returned, and they moved away from her, conferring. Nadia caught Mike glancing at her backpack. Had he seen inside it? Maybe nothing detailed, but might he sense there was less inside than before?
The captain returned her passport. ‘Have a nice stay, Miss Laksheva.’ He half-turned away, then came back to her. His tone of voice changed. ‘Are you all right, Miss? You seem a little shaken.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Really.’
Without turning his head, his eyes flicked briefly to the left, where Mike was standing behind him. ‘Because if anything… anything improper, that is, uninvited –’
She made eye contact. ‘No, really. Thank you. I’m fine.’ She glanced at Mike. ‘He’s the perfect gentleman.’ Maybe not quite true, but everything was relative.
He gave her a measuring look, then turned to Mike. ‘We’ll escort you into the harbour.’ He paused, then added, ‘I’ll be calling Old Smithy’s at eleven to check her safe arrival.’
Mike nodded, looking a little shaken himself, and started the engine. The captain and his mate crossed back to their boat. Nadia sat down heavily. Once underway, when she was sure no one was looking, she put her head in her hands.
As they followed the grey patrol boat, she watched Mike. He’d said little since the boarding. She’d asked him what was going on, and he’d said the captain had told him there’d been a drugs-related Mafia killing in Penzance yesterday. Mike was clearly rattled. There was little eye contact or chat during the rest of the trip. She stayed at the back of the boat. He seemed to take that as a signal. As they neared the harbour, the patrol boat turned abruptly and headed back out to sea. Mike got busy, and she bent down as if re-arranging the contents of her backpack, retrieved the Beretta, and hid it amongst the clothes in her bag.
After they’d moored, she and Mike walked along the quay, next to each other but not too close, and without discussing their destination, he led her to Old Smithy’s Inn.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked. He stared at the inn, then back to her. ‘Listen,’ he started, ‘about tonight –’
‘Mike, I’m sorry, I led you on, but the thing is, I’m not really ready for…’ She felt she owed him more, and let out a half-truth. ‘Something bad happened to me back in Penzance… you know, a guy.’
Mike nodded knowingly. ‘Must have been a real arsehole.’
She stared right back at him, and thought of Janssen. ‘He was.’ Saying it outright, she acknowledged that Janssen was dead and gone, could do no harm to her or anyone else. In her mind she imagined Janssen, Toby and Kilroy beneath the waves where Sammy had disposed of them.
Mike shifted on his feet. ‘If you need anything…’ he glanced at the inn again, at the door. She realised he was worried someone might come out and see him with her. It was a small town, after all.