The solution was obvious: leave the pilot. Let him drown. There were all sorts of ways to rationalise it later. Instead, she knelt on the cloying river bottom, the Rose locked between her knees, and undid her stab jacket harnesses. She freed the tank and, with some effort, strapped the stab jacket around the pilot, and pumped a little air into it, so he’d be buoyant and she could still breathe. Then she disconnected the inflate hose. She clipped the VHF to her weight belt, held the tank under one arm, the Rose under the other, the regulator still in the pilot’s mouth, and finned up to the surface. The beauty of a stab jacket was that it was designed to keep even an unconscious diver’s face above the water-line.
She surfaced awkwardly, made sure he was still breathing, and removed the mouthpiece. Flashing red and blue lights lined both banks. A cacophony of sirens assaulted her as water trickled from her hood and ears. Searchlights from two police helicopters zigzagged methodically across the river, heading her way. Struggling to hold onto the box and her tank, using the diver as a float, she fished for the VHF and clicked it on.
‘Janssen, I have it.’ She switched channels. ‘Sammy, I’m coming.’
She let go of the pilot and immediately sank, weighed down by her belt and the tank. Suddenly everything was brilliant white, the pilot silhouetted above her on the surface. But then it grew dark again. Dammit! She finned hard, hovering just below the unconscious pilot. The searchlight swung back and stayed. Good. She descended again.
Nursing the tank under one arm, she swam along, hugging the bottom of the Thames, finning towards the Mirage pleasure boat that had now been evacuated due to Sammy’s hoax call. By the time she got there it would be deserted; the police would have worked out that it had been a distraction. It was the one place they wouldn't be. But she was late, and the banks were crawling with police.
She surfaced briefly, to get her bearings. The Millennium Bridge was right above her, people walking quickly across it. A few stopped to take selfies. Re-oriented, she descended again and began finning. What if Sammy wasn’t there? Worse, what if Janssen was there alone, or with his two cronies? She didn’t trust him an inch, he might just take the Rose from her outstretched arms and then shoot her in the face.
Calm down. Janssen was on the other side of the river. Sammy would wait, he’d never let her down before. Nothing ruffled him. All that would be waiting on the Mirage would be Sammy, a ladder, a towel, her clothes and backpack, and Sammy’s Suzuki to get them both out of central London before roadblocks locked down the capital.
Nadia’s heart rate eased off a few notches, and she got into a smooth, powerful finning rhythm. She had the package. Soon Kadinsky would have it. Then she and her sister could get an apartment somewhere, stay out of trouble, and live a normal, inconsequential life.
She craved normal.
Twenty minutes later, on the abandoned Mirage, she dried off and sipped bitter Irish coffee from Sammy’s flask. Sammy, as usual, wore a full-face crash helmet. All she could see were his ink-black eyes. He was still on an unofficial Irish-British blacklist due to IRA activities, and there were too many surveillance cameras in London.
As she took a last sip, she dared to think it was all over. Five years, tenth op. And in the previous nine she’d never had to kill anyone. The ops had all gone pretty smoothly, a few guards or rival mafia hoods had ended up in hospital. No graves. And all they had to do now was get the package to Kadinsky. Then she and Katya… She held back the thought. It’s not done yet. But she allowed herself a moment to savour the coffee and whiskey.
She donned her crash helmet, ready to escape London with Sammy and the package. She glanced at the bag where Sammy had stashed it, and for the first time wondered what it could actually do, how dangerous it really was. But as she swung her leg over the back of the bike, three gunshots rang out clear across the Thames, from a tall tower block. Janssen’s location. She and Sammy held their breath.
Sammy’s VHF crackled, and she heard Janssen, panting as if he was running, his voice more excited than scared.
‘Three police down, we switch to site B, tomorrow.’
Sammy shook his head. ‘Site B, affirm.’ He clicked off the VHF. ‘Fuck!’
Nadia stared across the river, a gnawing certainty in her gut that all hopes of a normal life had just slipped beneath the placid waves.
Sammy nudged her arm. ‘Let’s go.’
As he threaded them through London’s smaller streets, she rested her crash helmet against his back. No matter how tough it had been up till now, everything was about to get harder. This had been their biggest operation ever, and Janssen had just upped the stakes by spilling blood. She might have to fight her way out of this one. And the question that had dogged her for the past five years, the one she’d hoped to finally put behind her, rose to the surface.
Did she really have killer’s eyes?
Her father struggled, screamed at her. ‘For God’s sake, Nadia, pick up the gun, shoot them!’
The two commandos didn’t seem to know she was there. She walked calmly over to the table, lifted the newspaper, and picked up the Beretta. Odd. It had a silencer. She’d never noticed that before. As they threw the hood over his head, she stood sideways to them, feet splayed, raised the gun with a straight right arm, competition style, and fired two head-shots, one for each commando. The trio slumped to the floor. Her father lay still. She walked over, nudged his leg with her foot. No movement. Then she heard her father behind her. He sounded disappointed.
‘You must always look your enemy in the eye. You must make sure. You must let them know, let yourself know that you mean it.’
So who was the corpse? She crouched and lifted the hood. Katya. Two shots. One in each eye. Nadia tried to scream, but she had no voice.
She jerked bolt upright, gasping for breath, her heart hammering in her chest, and opened her eyes in darkness. The same fucking nightmare. Sometimes Katya, sometimes her father, once her mother. Whoever she shot, her family got killed. She lay back down. Rain pelted the wooden roof, and the previous evening’s events slammed into her mind. She closed her eyes. Out of one nightmare…
Sammy stirred next to her. They were both fully clothed, lying on stale towels inside a beach hut he’d broken into no more than four hours ago, her backpack serving as a pillow. She could smell his scent. Six ops with Sammy, and he’d never made a move on her. Not even a flirtatious remark. She’d been happy with that. But right now she wouldn’t mind some comfort.
‘You awake, Nad?’ he asked.
‘Afraid so.’
He touched her brow. It was slick with cold sweat. ‘Nightmaring again?’
She didn’t answer. She’d never told him what they were about. Not a good idea.
Sammy sat up and switched on an interior light, a single harsh yellow bulb hanging from a twisted cord. She covered her eyes, rubbed them, then forced them open again.
‘Almost six,’ he said. ‘Time we found out exactly how much shit Janssen has dumped us in.’
He turned on a portable radio. The early morning shipping forecast was just ending. They listened to the first five BBC news items, then he switched off the radio. The rain eased.
‘What the fuck?’ he said, facing her.
She