Moran heard the heavy steel door behind him open and then close with a bang as the wind caught it and slammed it into its frame. He was reluctant to upset the delicate balance of stability he had spent the previous few minutes achieving, so he didn’t turn round immediately. He reasoned that Samantha would hesitate to shoot him in the back, would want some final word of absolution before she did what she had to do. The ship yawed, and he swivelled to face her, his back to the railing and his hands curled tightly around the metal tubing.
Her hair blew wildly as the wind caught it and he was struck once more by how attractive she was. She didn’t look her age; her body could have belonged to a woman ten years younger. Her grip was firm, and the small automatic she held was unwavering, unaffected by the flurries and gusts being hurled at them by the North Sea squall.
‘You figured it out, Brendan. As always.’
‘Sorry if I’m getting a tad predictable in my old age.’
A stray wisp of hair stuck to Samantha’s cheek and she brushed it away. The pistol stayed where it was. ‘This is hard for me.’
‘Forgive me if any expressions of sympathy appear inadequate.’
The ship rocked again, and Moran experienced the illusion of the world being tipped backwards. His stomach see-sawed along with the motion.
‘How did you know?’
‘Flynn.’ Moran had to shout as the noise of the wind grew stronger. ‘Flynn is the only other person I told – that I recorded the conversation with Gallagher. I happened to mention it was a cassette. And so did you.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all.’
Samantha’s feet were placed apart for balance. As the ship moved, she swayed with it. Sea legs, Moran thought; there’s experience for you, right there. She was looking at him intently, as though she wanted to burn his image onto her memory.
Better keep talking, Brendan.
‘And the more I thought about your disappearance, the credit card, how you’d been locked up for weeks for no apparent reason, well–’ He tightened his grip on the rail as spray flew up, soaked his back. ‘It didn’t make sense.’
‘I was supposed to do this before,’ she said. ‘I sent you out for a walk instead.’
‘So what’s changed?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing. Nothing about the way I feel, at least. But there’s too much at stake. You’re not going to part with the tape now, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then. You understand.’
‘What did they offer you, Samantha? Money? Property? Kudos?’
‘Moscow?’ She laughed. ‘None of the above. It’s not about material gain, Brendan. It’s a matter of principle.’
‘I’ve heard that before somewhere.’
The gun was levelled directly at him. He couldn’t get to the door in time, and even if he did she would shoot him before he was half way down the staircase. No one would hear. As long as he kept her in sight, faced front, there was a chance.
‘How do you know I haven’t left instructions to despatch the tape to Thames House?’
She cocked her head. ‘I don’t think so. I think you intended to give it to me directly. When you found me.’
He shrugged, nodded. ‘You’re right. That’s what this whole setup was about. Clever. You knew I’d take the bait.’
‘You don’t like loose ends, Brendan. I’ve learned that much about you.’
A seagull cruised down to inspect them, hung on the wind for a moment, and was gone. No food, no stay.
‘I’m disappointed about Flynn,’ Moran said. ‘One man I thought was dependable.’ Disappointed didn’t come close. He felt crushed by his mentor’s betrayal.
‘And he is, Brendan, so far as the Republican cause is concerned.’
‘A closet extremist, all these years.’ Moran shook his head sadly. ‘I missed that one. I looked up to him. So I’m not always right.’
‘Is he so wrong? He’s willing to stand up for his cause. Not everyone can say that about themselves.’
‘I have no problem with a cause. It’s the methods I’d call into question.’
To his right, on a deck far below, Moran could see a knot of merchant seamen busy with some nautical task. They were absorbed in their work, too far away to be of any assistance, even supposing they’d be willing. ‘Something must have happened to turn you from your original cause, Samantha. Something made you renege on your masters. What was it, I wonder?’ He hesitated to use the word traitor, although the term seemed to fit the bill.
Samantha was keeping her distance. The automatic was still pointed at Moran’s chest. If he rushed her, she’d get a shot in way before he made contact. The wind snatched at her voice, made her shout to get the words across.
‘I was a student – Cambridge, if you want to know. One of my professors was more than he seemed. I knew there was something slightly mysterious about him. He was a headhunter for the intelligence service.’
‘He had his eye on you?’
‘In more ways than one, as it turned out.’ Samantha flicked the unruly strand of hair away from her eyes, but the gun remained steady.
‘He recruited you. And then he seduced you.’
She nodded, her lips twisting with distaste at the memory. ‘I was young, impressionable. I looked up to him.’
Moran shook his head. ‘Oh, no, no. Don’t tell me this is all some kind of revenge trip? So what, he dumped you? You were devastated. How could a man you respected, a man you held in such high esteem mistreat you so badly? Is that it?’
‘His wife found out. We got careless; he blamed me for the indiscretion; I left some article of clothing where I shouldn’t have.’
‘And naturally, he was never going to leave his wife.’
Samantha’s compressed lips gave him the answer.
‘So, you joined up but always intended, at some suitable point, to slip away from your spymasters, go over to the other side just to get your own back on the professor. Rather childish, don’t you think?’
A shrug. ‘Maybe. He’s long dead, of course, but I won’t pretend it wasn’t hugely satisfying to imagine how he’d react if he knew. But there’s more to it. You need to wake up, Brendan. Great Britain lost the ‘Great’ a long time ago. The country’s a shadow of what it once was. The empire is over. It won’t be long until the real world power makes its move, assumes its rightful place.’
‘Russia? You really believe that?’
‘If you only knew what I’ve been privy to, Brendan. It’s only a matter of time. I know whose side I want to be on.’
‘I think you’re deluding yourself.’
‘I don’t think so. Have you any idea how easy it is to bring influence to bear in Whitehall? Especially where money is involved. Where do you think certain key political parties receive the majority of their donations from?’
‘A covert network of Russian oligarchs, no doubt.’
‘Correct. And a great deal of money buys many favours.’
‘The enemy inside?’
Samantha’s mouth formed a disdainful smile. ‘Enemy? Saviours, more like. The UK is currently run by a bunch of privileged playboys. They deserve all they get.’
‘In that respect, I might find myself agreeing with you.’
She raised the automatic. ‘I’m so sorry, Brendan. I really am. I can’t allow that tape to fall into the wrong hands. This is where it ends.’
At that moment, the ship plunged into a deep trough and Samantha was propelled forward into Moran’s arms. He held onto her and, for a second they clung together like the lovers they had almost become. He caught her wrist in a firm grip, but the rain made her flesh slippery, and as the ship righted itself she tore herself away, staggered back. The automatic came up, purposefully this time, and she squeezed the trigger.
Moran felt a punch in his midriff and doubled over, slipped down the railing, legs splayed on the soaking deck. He couldn’t catch his breath. It was like being badly winded, only exponentially so. He was vaguely aware of the Rotterdam Comet beginning a new plunge.
With nothing to hang on to, Samantha lost her balance and slid across the deck towards him; he felt her foot catch on his outstretched leg. Although his cheek was pressed against the deck, he had a clear view of what happened next. Samantha hit the railings hard and the automatic was thrown from her hand, went skittering across the deck and over the side. The railing, whether through negligence or sheer bad luck, gave way on impact with a scrape of tormented metal. For a frozen moment, like a still from a movie, Samantha held onto the unsecured tubing as the ship continued its downward dip. In the next second she and the railing had disappeared over the side.
Moran felt himself sliding and caught hold of the railing base, which had been partially torn from its mount. Two rivets remained. He hung on. His legs dangled over the abyss and he knew that, if the ship continued its current trajectory, he too would be swept overboard. He didn’t have the strength to hang on for long. His chest was a breastplate of agony, and a fierce pulse was hammering in his temple, like Thor with his mythological hammer. Still he held on.
After what seemed an eternity, he felt the deck levelling out. As it reached the horizontal, Moran let go, began to crawl towards the stairwell. If he could reach the door, he might be able to force it open. At first, the ship’s opposite roll assisted him and he made good progress but half way across he felt the familiar pull as, once again, the deck canted sharply beneath him. He grabbed the nearest object, a protruding air vent, wrapped his arms around it.
The pain in his chest intensified as he fought against gravity. When the ship flattened out again, he threw himself forward onto his hands and knees. Getting his feet beneath him proved even harder, but it had to be now, or he would be dragged back again towards the missing railing.
Lurching to a half-crouch he flung himself at the door, wrenched it open, tumbled down the first three stairs, slid on his back the rest of the way until his head was resting on the upright steel banister at the foot of the stairwell. He dragged in lungfuls of air, tried to calm himself. Gingerly, his hands began to explore his chest area. He stripped off his coat, found the straps securing the Kevlar vest and gently loosened them, slipped out of the garment and held it up for examination.
Just below the breastbone was a deep indentation, scarred at it edges by the heat and impact of the bullet. He pulled his shirt open, the buttons pinging and scattering on the floor. The bruise was already well-formed, the colours radiating outwards like a blurred butts target. He probed his ribs and groaned. Bruised, certainly, but hopefully, not broken.
It took another five minutes to reach the cabin. Moran stretched himself out on his bunk as the Rotterdam Comet continued its journey to London. No alarm had been raised, no panic or man overboard klaxon had sounded. Samantha had gone to her death silently, exactly as she had intended for Moran.
He closed his eyes.
No one asked any questions as he disembarked; no one even cast a curious glance in his direction. Merchant seamen went about their business, unloading, supervising quayside workers, arguing and swearing, whistling tunelessly as dockside workers did. Moran found himself walking along a service road next to a clutch of warehouses that looked as though they were in the process of restoration. His legs felt odd, like flesh-coated springs rather than bone-covered muscle. The pain in his chest was bearable, provided he took care not to make any sudden movements. The train station was a ten-minute walk, and Moran felt he could manage that.
He turned right, following signs to the railway, and very soon became aware that he was being followed. He stopped, turned, in no mood for evasion. An ordinary-looking man was walking smartly along the same route. Thirties, clean shaven, casual jacket and chinos. He looked vaguely familiar. Moran waited for him to catch up.
‘Hello.’ The man greeted him brightly. ‘Sorry. Intended to meet you off the ship – had a few matters to clear up first. Took a bit longer than expected. Always the way. Good trip?’
Moran didn’t need to ask for identification. The guy’s whole demeanour was pure MI5.
‘I’ve had better,’ Moran told him. ‘How can I help?’
‘You’ve been jolly helpful already,’ the man said cheerfully. ‘Samantha not with you?’
‘She lost her sea legs, I’m afraid.’
The man made a sympathetic face. ‘I see. Ah well, I’ll cross that one off my list.’
‘You’ve been following me,’ Moran said. He remembered now: the young guy in the car, always in the background, just out of reach, unseen at close quarters – except for his neighbour, Mrs P, who had reported his presence in Pangbourne.
‘Bit strong. Keeping a watchful eye is a better way of putting it. Cigarette?’
‘Not for me.’
‘Very wise.’ The agent lit up a Benson and Hedges and drew in smoke. ‘Listen, I believe you might have something of interest to us.’
‘Of course. You know all about it.’ Moran felt a huge weariness come over him. ‘And about Samantha’s loyalty reshuffle, I’m assuming?’
‘Indeed, indeed.’ He exhaled smoke, nodded enthusiastically.
‘But you let her off the leash, to see where it would lead you?’ A plane droned low overhead on some unknown flight path, filled the area with the noise of its engines.
The guy raised his voice to compensate. ‘She had to finish a little job for us, but then she went off the radar. Figured out what she was up to, and then lo and behold, up you pop again.’
‘She tried to kill me.’ Moran felt anger burning in his throat. ‘Was that part of your little job?’
‘No, no, no! Not at all.’ The man looked stricken. ‘She was batting for the other side. We have no designs of that sort.’
‘That’s comforting. So it was only Liam Doherty’s murder that was sanctioned by your lot?’
The man took another pull on his B&H. ‘No. That wasn’t part of her brief. Her new company issued that order. We wanted Doherty alive, as it happens. Look, I know it all sounds a little rough to a respectable police officer like yourself, but–’ he shrugged. ‘It’s a dirty game. We try to keep one step ahead. Most of the time we succeed. Other times–’ he shrugged again, ‘one has to concede the odd wicket.’
‘All for the greater good,’ Moran muttered.
‘Exactly so. Exactly. Now, I don’t want to keep you. You have things to do, murders to solve, all that sort of thing.’
Moran sighed. ‘The tape is with my neighbour. Mrs Perkins. I’ll let her know you’re collecting it.’
The man beamed. ‘Splendid. That’s the ticket.’
‘Be nice to her.’ Moran glowered. ‘She’s a good friend.’
‘Of course, of course. Absolutely. Well, I shan’t keep you. Thanks for your help, Chief Inspector.’
‘You don’t want to know what I found in Rotterdam?’
‘At Guust Vervoer?’ The man allowed himself a little chuckle. ‘The trade route? Don’t worry. We know all about it. And after we air the contents of your inspired recording, well, how can I put it?’
‘MI5 win by an innings?’
‘Spot on. I like that. Have a nice evening, DCI Moran.’
Moran watched the man walk away. He looked at his watch, acutely aware that he’d been out of contact with the team for way longer than he’d intended. Time to get back to work. He had a lot to catch up on.
Moran squared his shoulders and walked resolutely in the direction of Tilbury station.