Page 64 of Nobody's Hero
‘I’ve heard of them.’
‘And removing yellow from the crime scene is kinda their calling card?’ Carlyle said. ‘A way to taunt the cops? Like the Beltway snipers leaving tarot cards and the Night Stalker leaving pentagrams?’
‘Nothing like that,’ Koenig said, shaking his head.
‘I don’t understand then.’
‘No reason you would, Bess. You were military. Jen was CIA, then private intelligence. And Margaret’s an academic. But I was law enforcement. I was tuned in to a different kind of rumour mill. One that was fed at both ends – by the copsandthe robbers. And during my last few months with the SOG, there was a rumour about a father-and-daughter contract-killing team. High end. Referrals only. Most of us dismissed it. But it was persistent. Kept cropping up when perps were trying to make deals.’
‘And the yellow?’
‘Way I heard it, the dad has xanthophobia,’ Koenig said.
‘Which is?’
‘For the dad it’s a debilitating condition that makes it impossible for him to be near the colour yellow. For the daughter it’s employment. She goes on ahead and cleans the kill zone of anything yellow like—’
‘Bananas, Van Gogh prints and smiley-face air fresheners?’
‘Exactly, Bess,’ Koenig said. ‘She cleans the kill zone, then he moves in and does the actual deed.’
‘Do you know how to find them?’ Draper said.
‘I’m not even sure they exist.’
‘But you want to go to New York anyway? What’s your plan? Stand on the corner of 53rd and 3rd with a caged canary, see who pukes?’
‘We’re not going to New York to stand on a street corner,’ Koenig said. ‘We’re going to New York to offer someone the deal of a lifetime.’ He paused. ‘If she’s still speaking to me, that is,’ he added.
‘If who’s still speaking to you?’
Koenig told her.
‘Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding,’ she said.
Chapter 69
MVSwan Hunter. The Arctic Bridge.
It was the Devil’s Hour, 3 a.m. The time of night when ghosts, witches and demons were at their most powerful. For superstitious Russian sailors, 3 a.m. was the wrong time to be out on deck.
But it was the right time for Captain Volkov.
MVSwan Hunterwould soon enter Canada’s exclusive economic zone and the Royal Canadian Navy regularly patrolled their waters. And although the RCN was more concerned with protecting one of the world’s richest fishing resources than boarding a grain ship they’d seen a hundred times before, it was a risk Captain Volkov didn’t need to take.
Anyway, Volkov was sick of the Australian. He hadn’t seen him since he’d cut off his ear, but he could feel his presence. He knew he’d be in his cabin, wishing ill on everyone on board. It was like having Jonah as a passenger. The Australian was bad news. The sooner he was off his ship, the better for everyone.
Volkov sent a message to the first mate. Told him the crew were in their cabins and that he was ready. The first mate replied immediately. Said he would collect the Australian and lock everyone else inside just in case. It wouldn’t be necessary. Volkov had plied the crew with vodka all night. He said it was to celebrate leaving Russian waters after the two-year refit. Really, it was to ensure they were sleeping like the drunks that, given the chance, Volkov knew them to be. By the time they woke, they would be able to see Canada.
Jenkins, the now one-eared Australian, had wrapped a bandage around his head. A crude job made from strips of pillowcase. He glared at Volkov but lowered his eyes when the Russian showed him his clasp knife. Jenkins knew he wouldn’t be thrown overboard like the bosun. He was mission critical. He was the only one who could navigate the smuggled cargo around Nova Scotia and on to Maine. But he also knew he still had lots of appendages Captain Volkov could cut off. So, instead of pushing his luck, Jenkins swallowed his pride and thought of what he would do when the job was over, and he had a million bucks in an offshore account and nothing to do but get fat.
Volkov and Jenkins made their way to hold five – the one with the false bottom. The first mate unlocked the controls to the crane. They had rehearsed this once in Murmansk, and that had been once too much. It wasn’t rocket science. Volkov pressed the button that opened hold five’s cargo hatch. The hatch cover was two large panels. They were on wheels. Hydraulic rams pushed them along their tracks until they hung over the edge of the ship like stubby wings. When the hold was open, the Australian jumped into the false bottom. His feet sank into the animal feed. The first mate lowered the crane’s jib. Four chains were fitted to the hook. The Australian fastened a chain to each corner of the false bottom and climbed back out. The first mate raised the jib. The false bottom, animal feed and all, lifted into the frigid air. When it was clear of the hold, the first mate rotated the jib until the load was over the water. He then lowered it into the sea and unhooked it. The false bottom and the chains disappeared into the depths of the Arctic. The Australian leaned over the side, but it was too dark to see anything.
The first mate switched on the hold lights, and Jenkins and Volkov climbed down the hold ladder. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just stared at what it was they were being paid to smuggle.
It was a boat. A four-year-old NorseBoat 21.5 calledLady Sybilto be precise. The open model with a fiberglass hull. The kind of boat you’d expect to see sailing the Miami coast. It had an easy-to-handle sloop rig. Sailed well. Not that the Australian would use the rig. Nor would he use the four-horsepower outboard engine that came standard with the NorseBoat. This one had been fitted with a pair of twenty-fives.
‘What’s inside this thing, mate?’ Jenkins said.