‘An RTC? An accident led you here?’
Moran replied in a hoarse whisper. His stomach ached from the punch she’d given him. ‘Yes. But now is not the time for discussion.’
‘Agreed. The trucks usually roll in around two-thirty.’
‘We won’t be here.’ He took out the purple phone. ‘Yours?’
‘Yes.’
Moran passed it to her, along with the charger. ‘Probably enough charge to use it for a few minutes if need be.’
‘You’ve thought of everything.’
‘That’ll make a change, right enough. Look, I’m fairly sure they’re running firearms.’ He watched her gather what few belongings she’d been allowed to retain – a jacket, hairbrush, basic toiletries. ‘Explosives too, probably. Through the UK to Ireland.’
‘If you say so. I haven’t seen much of anything for the last few weeks.’
‘They’ve kept you in here twenty-four seven?’
Samantha spread her hands. ‘I had a toilet. I could wash. I’m still alive.’
He looked her up and down. She was wearing a stained blouse, ragged jeans. Her hair was awry and unwashed, her skin sallow and pale. There were deep, dark bags beneath her eyes.
‘You look bloody awful.’
‘Well, thanks a bunch, Brendan. You sure know how to make a girl feel good.’
‘Did they tell you anything? Interrogate you?’
‘Who?’
‘Our friends from Moscow. The guys who took you. The two drakes.’
‘Drakes?’
‘Long story.’
‘Brendan, I was brought here, dumped. No one told me anything. I got food, grunts. That’s it. I figured I was in Holland by listening to the warehouse guys through the door.’
Moran was baffled. ‘So, they’re waiting for something – or someone. Otherwise…’
‘Otherwise by now I’d be at the bottom of the North Sea wearing nothing but concrete boots? Yes, you’re probably right. I haven’t been idle, though.’ She went to the half-concealed window, drew aside the ragged curtain. The pane was barred, but Moran could see that one of the five metal uprights had been sawn through at its base, slotted carefully back into position.
‘One down, four to go. Gave me something to do. Steel nail file, if you were wondering. Not the kind you get in Boots.’
Samantha was putting on a brave face, but it was obvious to Moran that she was far from OK. This wasn’t the cool, confident agent he’d last seen in his own sitting room. Perhaps her isolation had been a softening-up exercise, a prelude to interrogation.
‘We’re leaving,’ he said gently. ‘But, before we go, I need proof. I want to be sure.’
‘Lead on. You’re mission control right now.’
Moran closed and barred Sam’s cell, and they headed right, towards the rear of the building, where he’d previously noticed a stacked row of wooden crates next to a triad of forklift trucks, huddled close together as though in the middle of some private, mechanical conversation. They had made it almost as far as the crates when the rumbling of a diesel engine and the clank of the perimeter gate announced an end to their solitude.
‘Here they come. Regular as clockwork.’ Samantha still had hold of the broom handle she had swung at Moran as he entered her cell, and she was hefting it in her right hand like an athlete awaiting the javelin event in a decathlon. ‘Can I suggest making ourselves scarce?’
They scurried to the rear of the warehouse and crouched behind the crates, the noise of the engine growing in volume by the second. Presently the massive warehouse doors peeled slowly apart and a truck rolled noisily in from the compound, coming to a halt fifty metres from their hidden position with a hiss of air brakes and a final burst of noise.
‘We can’t stay here, that’s for sure.’ Moran raised his head, quickly ducked down.
‘I’m not objecting. You’re the one who wants to poke around.’
The truck doors were open now; it wouldn’t be too long before the forklifts were assigned to the task of loading or unloading.
Moran rapped his knuckles on one of the crates. ‘I need something to prise the lid off.’ He cast his eyes about and found what he was looking for; a selection of tools had been left on the floor close by, probably for use in packing and securing the crate contents. Keeping his head down, he shuffled to the end of the line and selected a slim crowbar. He waved it in the direction of the truck. ‘Keep your eyes peeled. This won’t take long.’
A minute later he had the crate open. The dim overhead lighting revealed the contents: a neat row of what appeared to be automotive parts. Whatever they were, they weren’t illegal. Gear machinery, driveshafts? Engine parts? Moran had no idea. He lifted one item out, then another, and another until he had a whole set of parts laid out on the floor beside him. A glance in Samantha’s direction was rewarded with an affirmative nod. Carry on. So far, so good.
He poked around in the straw, feeling for the next layer. Material. Jackets. No, Kevlar jackets, or flak jackets as they used to be known. Getting warmer. He piled the jackets on the floor next to the crate. His fingers touched metal. He began to free the object from its packing, but before the whole thing was uncovered, he knew. He brushed the residue of straw aside, felt in his pocket for his mobile, took three photographs before removing the item. Kalashnikov machine guns. PK series, with and without mounts.
Samantha hadn’t moved. There was time. He selected two samples from the disassembled weapons, a receiver and a barrel, placed them in his bag, hurriedly replaced the engine parts he’d removed, secured the crate lid as best he could. No point trying to reseal it, too much noise. He’d just have to hope that no one noticed, or that the loading crew assumed that some distracted employee had forgotten to secure it correctly. In any case, Moran wasn’t planning on waiting to find out. He’d used all his reserves of luck for one day.
He became aware of the sound of approaching footsteps in the same instant that he registered Samantha’s absence. One second she was crouching at the far end of the row of crates, the next, she was gone.
The footsteps were headed for the opposite end of the row of crates, the end that Samantha had recently vacated. Moran looked desperately for cover. His only recourse was to ease himself around the corner of the crate stack when whoever it was came into view. But that would expose him to the rest of the warehouse. No choice, Brendan…
He backed away, trying to judge the optimum moment to round the corner. The footfall behind was soft, but audible. Before he could turn, something cold jabbed into the small of his back.
‘Draai je langzaam om.’
A hand grabbed his shoulder, twisted him around. Tattooed overall man, Moran’s acquaintance from his earlier visit, curled his mouth into a grimace that Moran guessed was intended as a sardonic smile. ‘Ah, Detective.’
Now that he was facing the opposite direction, Moran had an unobstructed view. A glance to his left told him that, so far, the workers swarming around the newly arrived truck hadn’t spotted what was going on in the distant corner of their warehouse. He could also see what was going on behind his captor, and so he concentrated on holding the man’s attention for the few seconds it would take. He spread his hands disarmingly. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.’ He offered an apologetic smile.
‘Mistake?’ The giant spat the word back at him. In the next moment his expression changed to one of puzzlement as he tried to make sense of Moran’s instinctive grimace of anticipation.
Samantha swung the broom handle in a wide arc, like a baseball player with an outsized bat. It was a long, sturdy length of wood and it struck the back of the man’s bald head precisely at the base of his skull. His eyes rolled up and he sank to the floor like a collapsed balloon.
‘OK, quickly.’ Moran got hold of the arms and between them they dragged the body behind the crates.
Samantha’s phone gave one short beep, and then another. Moran raised his eyebrows.
‘They found me,’ she said simply. ‘That’s all they needed. My phone.’
‘The good guys, you mean?’ Moran was watching the progress of the truck team. One had broken away from the group and was walking purposefully towards them, hands deep in his overall pockets.
‘Yep. There’s an encrypted tracker routine built into the circuitry. But the phone needs to be on for it to work, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Moran replied. They backed away from the crate stack and flattened themselves against the wall. The rear warehouse door was a smaller version of the entrance, and would almost certainly be electronically operated. There was, however, a personnel door built into its metallic frame. It was probably locked, but it looked as though it might be forced, given enough weight and impetus.
The truck team guy was almost at the crate stack now. No, wait. He had made a slight alteration to his course; he was heading towards the forklifts.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Samantha voiced the question in a hoarse whisper.
‘Maybe. But what’s outside?’
‘A smaller yard. Fenced. Tall gate. Topped with wire or glass; I couldn’t see it that clearly.’
‘And beyond that?’
‘A service road. Runs along the sea wall.’
Moran watched as the guy in the overalls started up the forklift. ‘And how urgently are your buddies likely to respond, now they know where you are?’
‘Within fifteen minutes. Maybe faster.’
Moran nodded. ‘OK, so all we have to do is get to the service road.’
‘In theory.’
‘In theory?’
‘They’re good. Just trust the process.’
‘If you say so.’
The forklift was skimming across the floor towards the crates. The operator clearly intended to begin at the side closest to him. Which was logical, and also good news, because tattoo man was lying at the other end. It would take two or maybe three journeys back and forth before the guy clocked that anything was wrong.
Samantha shot him a sideways glance. ‘You any good with forklifts?’
‘If you’d care to reprise your broom routine, I’ll be happy to give you a quick demo.’
‘You’re on.’
Samantha waited until the forklift had manoeuvred to a fresh stack, the rear of the vehicle towards them. She broke cover, crept forward, cat-like, until she was directly behind the machine. The broom handle swung again and the forklift operator toppled out of the vehicle and onto the floor.
Driverless now, the forklift swung to the left and began an unscheduled detour in the direction of the articulated truck. Samantha was busy pulling the body behind the crates. The forklift was gathering pace – the driver’s body must have knocked one of the controls as he fell.
Any moment now and the runaway vehicle would be the centre of attention.
Moran made a dash for it. His leg, never the most helpful asset in situations like these, shot him a bolt of pain from his ankle to his hip. He wasn’t going to break any land speed records but he judged that he was moving slightly faster than the forklift. He increased his pace, gritting his teeth, aware that his damaged limb might simply collapse completely, just shut up shop. He hadn’t moved this fast since the Blasket mortar attack, and his body was letting him know all about it.
A shout. Someone pointed, heads turned. He was a metre or two shy of the forklift. It seemed to be speeding up; with a final effort, Moran drew alongside, hoisted himself into the seat, jabbed at the pedals, searching for the brake. He guessed right on the second attempt, and the truck slewed to a standstill. Four levers. Which one? Moran spun the wheel, engaged the first lever. The truck span on its axis, pointed to the rear.
Good guess, Brendan…
He stamped on the accelerator. If it was an accelerator…
It was. The truck lurched forward. Moran kept his foot flat on the floor.
Samantha was standing by the personnel door. She was making signals. Two hands, raised, jabbing forward.
The forks. That’s what she meant, the forks…
He fumbled with the second lever. Nothing happened. Behind him, the sound of feet slapping on the warehouse floor.
The third lever.
A grinding noise of hydraulics. The twin forks lifted. He waited until they were roughly at the height of the centre of the personnel door, leaned on the lever a second time.
He was, what, ten metres away?
Samantha moved aside as he hurtled towards her. The door loomed. He made a slight correction. Just before impact the thought occurred to him that the door might be reinforced. If that was the case, he was surely headed for Rotterdam’s A&E department – if van Leer’s employees felt generous enough to call an ambulance.
Which was doubtful.
The twin forks struck the door dead centre. Moran was pitched forward against the wheel and a terrible rending noise preceded a cloud of plaster, brick dust, wood splinters, a sudden sharp pain in his shoulder … and then fresh air against his cheeks, someone shaking him.
He was lying on his back and someone was shaking him.
Shouting, confusion.
‘Get up.’
Samantha’s voice.
He stumbled to his feet, Samantha’s arm supporting him.
A car engine, revving. A second impact, screech of tyres. Someone got hold of both shoulders, hauled him up, shoved him hard. His head bumped glass – a window. He felt leather beneath him. A door slammed. More revving, his stomach left behind as the vehicle reversed, skidded, righted itself, hurtled away. Voices yelling, protesting, fading away.
Moran dragged himself upright. They were in a four-by-four. A driver, himself and Samantha in the back. The vehicle was breaking every traffic regulation in the book, but Moran didn’t care. He let his head flop back on the headrest, watched the lights of Rotterdam whizz past, like a blurry trail of multicoloured fireworks.