Glasgow
6 p.m.
April 18th
It was a pleasant drive across to Ardrossan on the Atlantic coast. Clarky owned an ex army nineteen eighty- four Land Rover series three, used in Northern Ireland, but with the ‘mesh’ protection removed. It still had the ‘high velocity’ HV protection of the armoured wind shield. Clarky was very proud of it, though to make it less obtrusive he had re-sprayed it dark blue.
They had left Motherwell at four thirty in the afternoon. The A72 took them out of red brick and house crowded Motherwell onto the A71 and they traversed Scotland westwards into the pretty green fields of Ayrshire. The Ayrshire dairy cows scattered amongst the greenery flashed a camouflage pattern across Stanton’s eyes as a steady fifty miles an hour took the two men in mutual silence into Kilmarnock.
Cold as it was getting in the pre night cooling Stanton felt the warmth and comfort of the Landy’s heaters and felt cocooned behind the strong metal and the bullet proof glass. Ahead of him were some unknown dangers, the usual companions in his otherwise single existence, and several times he looked at Clarky thinking of their Legion days, the brutal punishments and harsh training which had hardened their bodies and the bloody deeds that had hardened their minds. For a moment warm and calm he reflected that it might be time to quit, but at just over an hour they entered the outskirts of Ardrossan and Stanton felt his destiny inexorable draw him back into the ‘game’.
As Clarky pulled up in the Ardrossan town railway station car park he turned to his friend.
“Here we are. The marina is up that way.” Clarky pointed up Prince’s Street.
The moment was pregnant with unspoken thoughts. Neither man wanted to impose his thoughts on the other, but both sensed the other’s fears.
They had trained together and served in the First Foreign Cavalry Regiment and seen action in the first Gulf war. After their short, but intensive Legion training he and Clarky had found themselves in the Persian Gulf in September of 1990. Both had left the Legion around the same time; Clarky had made senior corporal and yet of the two only Stanton had seen the carnage of Rwanda, in his case a special transfer.
Having left the Land Rover both men stood looking at each other.
“Is this mission sacred?” Clarky volunteered echoing the Legionnaires’ code.
“No not really. No honour and no fidelity I’m afraid.”
Clarky suddenly stepped forward and embraced Stanton. Stanton somewhat unwillingly embraced his old comrade.
“We are still family you and I. We are still brothers.” Clarky said. “Take the boat, but whatever the prize at the end of this ‘mission’ is you must consider sailing away.”
“I’ll think about it, take care of your self my friend." Stanton replied and then he watched Clarky get into the dark blue light armoured vehicle and drive away with the lowering sun on its back window.
This moment defined him; always alone. As an orphan his only family had been the Legion and after that there had been no-one. He shrugged off the thoughts and claimed new ones, those of stealing a boat.
It was half five as Stanton headed for the station cafe; in a bag Clarky had given him were his weapon, still in the plastic bag, tools and a map of the area. He ordered coffee from the half hearted woman behind the till and sat in the dim light on a high stool in the corner of the small empty room.
The map showed him the marina and its sea ward entrance. He knew that he couldn’t simply take a boat. He would be spotted, even after dark. Looking at the landscape he saw a better plan. To the north of the marina was Mariner’s View which had a path towards the end of which was the northern half of the narrow marina entrance. Stanton felt sure that if he could wait on a boat leaving, in the dark, he could drop into the water and steal aboard the boat from that point, as it passed. He sipped his coffee and wondered on the likelihood of a boat going out at night from the Marina into the uncertain waters of the Firth of Clyde. His plan B was to swim the marina from that point and climb aboard a boat after dark, circumventing the watchman and the locked jetties. There was no ‘gate’ to the sea and though sailing out under motor power was noisy he felt sure he could get away with the night to cover him and the loss of the boat wouldn’t be noticed until morning.
His coffee finished Stanton walked up Prince’s Street and up to the marina. There was little activity. He looked at the usual security systems, metal spiked gates and punch code entry systems. There was a marina office with a watch man and CCTV pointing only towards the boats, sitting like white sardines tied to floating wooden jetties. Stanton noted the CCTV angles with DIC in mind. He thought of Spencer.
He looked across the harbour to Mariners Walk scoping for witnesses. There were four cars parked there, but no-one walking the path.
Ten minutes later he found himself on the spit of land along Marina’s walk as the sun began to set slowly. To his surprise and annoyance, as it was still light, he saw a boat pulling away from the jetty furthest south, a man at the back had just cast off and was heading for the wheel house. It was a long white and blue ocean going cruiser. Stanton looked around, scanning the cars parked behind him and looking for people nearby. An elderly couple had left their car parked and had walked past him, intent on the sunset, two minutes before he got there. They were standing at the seaward edge with their backs to him.
The boat slowly rippled its way to the entrance. Stanton knew it was his only chance for plan A. He looked down into the Marina waters by the wall below him. The sunset cast shadow into the dog leg of the wall and entrance spit. He looked around one more time and thinking of the buffer buoys on the side of the nearing boat he dropped into the water feet first with a well practised lack of splash and barely surfacing his head, submerged from the nose down he hugged the shadowy corner ready to spring.
On the harbour wall the old man looked around wondering if he had just seen something or not. His wife’s warm mitten gripping his cold bare hand took his mind away from the thought and back to the sunset.
In the wheel house of the boat Kevan Dean, the boat’s owner, was momentarily distracted by his passenger, a buyer for the boat whom he was unhappily taking for an impromptu trip. The man had called earlier in the after noon and had arranged to take a short sail around four, but the man, a banker named Griffith, who’d travelled from Inverness that day, had been very late. Dean needed to sell the boat and Griffith clearly had the money to buy it. Happy or not Dean agreed to take him for a half hour trip. Luck was on Stanton’s side as Dean was in such a hurry that he hadn’t pulled in the bump buoys, such was his keenness to get out and come back quickly. Griffith had asked about the controls and looking briefly away from the harbour entrance Dean missed Stanton’s drop and, too busy focussing on his exit point, he gave no thought to the now empty harbour wall, though the missing figure, noted a moment before, jarred his reality before priority thinking glossed it over.
The engine sound loud in his ears and the wash of the boat against his stroke Stanton struck out from the wall and fast crawled the four metres between himself and the passing boat. Two powerful kicks of his feet and an upper body thrust gave him the momentum to rise out of the water and grab the rope threading the bump buoys to the side of the boat. He twisted his wrist around the rope and he hung by the boat’s side an arms length down allowing his body to be hidden by the water as he was dragged away into the Firth of Clyde.
The water was cold, but he wanted to clear the Marina before getting on board. To the old couple watching the boat leave he was just extra surf thrown up as the boat speeded up on exit.
“This Landguard Nelson 33 is a rare find and I know it’s pricey, but you get a lot for the hundred and thirty thousand. Built to take the seas rough or smooth, she’ll cruise at 15 knots, but you can push her to twenty one. You’ve seen the four berths and there’s even a shower. It’s a real peach. When we get into open water I’ll let you steer her, she handles really well.” Dean spoke with his eyes fixed on the water ahead.
It was fair to easy going. There was only a slight swell and Dean was right that the boat was built to take the sea. Outside as the boat picked up to ten knots Stanton was struggling. From his view of the boat he couldn’t climb directly up the side as he’d be in full view of the wheel house. Spray filling his mouth and his grip slipping he went hand over hand down the side of the boat. Luckily he was on the passenger seat side and so Griffith, an inexperienced sailor didn’t notice the random knocks of Stanton’s body against the hull.
Stanton, wet and exhausted hauled himself onto the back platform deck of the boat. The canvas cover was folded back and the door to the cabin was closed. He gathered himself, drew his pistol from the plastic bag. He checked the action carefully and on his knees peeked through the door window. Both men were seated left and right in the wheel house. Opening the door would alert them and there was no way to keep both under the barrel of the gun. He measured strides to the wheel seats and pulled the door open. He passed through the cabin pistol ahead of him and when Griffith’s head was centre of the sight he squeezed.
There was a shocking explosion of blood against the inside of the wind shield, Dean froze in his seat, gagging at the slumped body of his buyer, a man he’d met less than an hour ago. The body twitched. Dean turned with an agony of fear in his stomach and so much of it showing in his eyes to look down the barrel of the PSS.
Dean was stunned that the pistol had made no sound. There had been no bang and no flash. The silence of the death, as if by some evil magic shocked him greatly. It had been as if Griffith’s head had spontaneously exploded.
“Don’t move. Have you got an auto pilot?”
Dean nodded dumb fear tying his tongue.
“Set course for Aberystwith and put it on. No sudden moves.”
Dean did as he was told under Stanton’s evil gaze.
“Show me the controls then we’ll get the charts and have a chat.”
Dean showed Stanton over the controls with the occasional glance at Griffith’s corpse, oozing blood over the wheel house. When Stanton was satisfied he sat with Dean in the lounge cabin, the two men sitting opposite each other. Stanton ran his eye over the sea between Ardrossan and the Welsh coast.
“What’s this all about?” Dean asked.
“A boat theft.” Stanton said coldly not looking up.
“That’s it? Why kill a man?” Dean’s voice was high pitched and betrayed his fear and shock.
“I don’t leave witnesses.”
“What kind of thief are you?” Dean asked.
“I’m not just a thief.” Stanton raised his eyes from the chart and looked Dean in the eyes. “I’m mostly an assassin. I needed a boat.”
“Oh.” Dean’s face fell. Then suddenly with fear and triumph he said “You’re the man who escaped from Perth aren’t you.” Stanton nodded and Dean fell silent.
His planned route in mind and how to follow it clear Stanton readied himself for the next unsavoury task.
“Get me some sheets from the cabins.”
They went below and collected sheets. Stanton drove Dean at gunpoint back to the wheelhouse.
“Wrap the body in the sheets and drag it to the back of the boat.”
“His name was Mr Griffiths, Tom Griffiths.” Dean gagged as he pulled the body onto the sheets and wrapped the dead man. “I don’t suppose that matters to you?”
Stanton didn’t answer. He knew what was coming he’d been there before, twice. Two times he’d had to listen to the victim’s of his assassinations before he was ready to kill them.
“My name is Dean, Kevan Dean.”
“Just wrap the body and drag it out.” Stanton’s voice was like the scraping of metal on an iceberg.
“I have a family… a wife and children… my son is nine and my daughter is only two… I haven’t done anything…” Dean’s voice was desperate almost a sob.
“Just do as you’re told.”
“Whatever you’re doing… I could offer money… everything I own…” Dean looked into Stanton’s face and saw a little hope in the assassin’s raised eye brow.
“I’d need a million cash?” Stanton barked out harshly knowing that even if Dean had the money and gave it to him he’d still have to kill him.
Dean’s face fell.
“I’m worth that, but not in cash.” He said quietly.
“Too bad.” Stanton shrugged the death sentence.
Dean carried on and dragged the body out of the narrow door and out onto the back of the boat under the evil eye of the pistol. Stanton looked and saw that the coasts were hazy lines a good distance away; they’d just passed the southern tip of Arran. They both stood at the back of the boat, Dean standing over the mummified body of the banker.
“Throw it over.”
“Can I say a prayer?” Dean asked, part stalling and part feeling the need to pray.
“If you think anyone will listen.”
Dean bowed his head, trying hard from memories of church in childhood to get the words right. He crossed himself, wishing that he’d led a more godly life, been less concerned with his business, spent more time with his son. He began to cry, lifting the body he said the Lord’s Prayer out loud. Griffith’s body made a dull smack as it hit the water.
Stanton was expecting tears and begging, it had been the way before, but Dean mustered some pride. He turned and faced Stanton self consciously wiping the tears from his face.
“Do you think anyone will pray for you when your time comes?” He asked Stanton a note of anger rising in his voice.
“Does it matter? Drop to your knees and ask whatever God you believe in to save you or welcome you it doesn’t matter to me.”
“I’ll say my prayers standing. I won’t die on my knees.”
“Then stand on the edge, facing out.”
“No you look me in the eye when you kill me you cold blooded son of a bitch!”
Stanton smiled. “You’re brave. Okay Kevan Dean, as you wish.”
“If and when they find my body I want my son to know that I faced my killer.”
“Touching.” Stanton said aimed the pistol at Dean’s head and pulled the trigger.
Dean knew what was coming and knew he had his chance. He knew the pistol was silent and so focused all his attention on Stanton’s trigger finger, no easy task as the boat rose and fell, but the will to survive can make people momentarily superhuman, sometimes.
Very suddenly he threw his hands to his face covering it, cried out and dropped back as he saw Stanton’s finger tighten. Stanton had fired. Dean fell backwards, unhurt, into the Irish Sea. The boat was doing twelve knots and the bump and ride of its passage made Stanton’s vision unclear. He felt sure he’d shot him dead centre of the head, but he watched the body for a moment and assured that it wasn’t moving went to clean the wheel house. Stanton knew he rarely missed.
Dean lay still on the water for as long as his breath allowed him. When he raised his head the boat was distant. Dean knew he didn’t have long in water that cold, but Arran couldn’t be too far back. Dean swam for his life thinking all the time of his family.