Through the tiny device in his ear, Dillon could hear Chapman and the others reporting in every thirty seconds. Their voices barely above a whisper, as they talked to each other. He stayed close to the seabed as he made his way towards the Solitaire. Fifty feet from her bow line, he surfaced behind a large ocean going yacht, pulled out the night vision goggles from the watertight dive bag, and put them on.
“Chapman, can you hear me?” Dillon whispered. “Loud and clear, Jake.”
“Vince, are you and LJ getting this?”
“One hundred percent, loud and clear Jake.” Vince replied.
Dillon floated there in the darkness, watching for any activity on board Malakoff’s luxury vessel. Two men emerged from the bridge; both had automatic weapons slung over their shoulders, and were smoking cigarettes. They moved along the outer gang-ways, talking to each other in French. Every twenty paces, they’d stop, and look over the rail for anything suspicious below.
“It’s as we thought. They’re patrolling the gang-ways in twos.” Dillon said.
“What do you want to do?” It was Chapman who replied.
“We’ll wait. See how long it is between patrols, and if any of the others are lurking in the shadows. So keep your eyes peeled, Rob.”
Dillon watched, and waited patiently for another ten minutes. He’d picked out Mazzarin in the shadows by a lifeboat. Zola on the uppermost sun deck, making no attempt to conceal himself. And, Kurt standing just below the bridge smoking a cigarette, an AK47 rifle slung over his left shoulder.
He placed the night-vision goggles back inside the bag, and got ready to dive again.
“Vince, I’m on my way. Give me sixty seconds and then kill the juice.”
Vince confirmed, and a moment later Dillon descended to fifteen feet and approached the Solitaire.
Captain Armand used the two way radio to summon Kurt and the others on to the bridge. Pierre appeared just behind him, Mazzarin and Zola came through the hatch on the starboard side a moment later and joined them. Except for Armand, each had an AK47 rifle in their hand.
“You two,” Armand said to Mazzarin and Zola, “go to the stern deck areas, and keep yourselves out of sight and alert.” The two former Foreign Legionnaires, nodded their understanding, and left. “Pierre. You are to patrol the port gangway, as well as the forward deck. Stay alert, because if you don’t, you will be dead.” Armand said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand towards the port side hatch.
With an air of superiority and aloofness, the bodyguard said, “I will post myself in the vicinity of Herr Malakoff’s suite, captain. Please keep in contact.” He then turned and left the bridge.
Armand watched as the big German left. How melodramatic, he thought with contempt, dressing up entirely in black. He took off his jacket and threw it over the back of his captain’s chair, revealing the butt of the SIG Sauer P226 pistol sticking out from the leather shoulder holster that was strapped under his left arm. His mood, like the others, was tense, as he poured a generous measure of vodka into a glass tumbler. He returned to his chair, sat down and leaned back, sipping his vodka and just staring out of the windscreen in front of him.
With the underwater lights on, Dillon dismissed all notion of getting on board the Solitaire by using the anchor line. Instead he stayed close to the keel, attaching one of the limpet mines amidships, as he swam to the stern and surfaced. Seconds later, Vince cut the power to the Solitaire.
Dillon wasted no time, exchanging his dive mask for the goggles again, slipped out of the buoyancy jacket, and clipped it onto the dive ladder complete with air tanks. With the goggles on, he was able to see clearly and immediately spotted Mazzarin leaning over the rail. As the gangway lights went out, he shouted something to one of the others, and then walked off down the starboard side to see what had happened.
Suddenly, Zola appeared out of the darkness. Dillon was aware of footsteps descending the metal steps towards him, and eased back under the water, placed the regulator back in his mouth and floated just beneath the surface. Zola paused halfway down and lit a cigarette. The flame from the lighter dancing in cupped hands. And then, he was standing on the edge of the dive platform, just above Dillon’s head. His outline rippling above the water, not more than six feet away. Dillon took out, from inside his wetsuit jacket, the watertight dive bag containing the silenced Glock, surfaced without a sound on the far side of the dive ladder, took it out, and extended his arm. He then seized his moment and gently squeezed the trigger, twice.
Zola glanced round in Dillon’s direction, pulling hard on the cigarette. He was still holding the white pencil like stick to his lips as the silenced Glock coughed twice as Dillon shot him in the chest. He crumpled onto the dive platform, slid over the edge and dropped headfirst three feet into the water.
There was hardly a splash, but Mazzarin heard it and started back along the gangway towards the stern.
“Hey, Zola, where are you, you okay?”
“Yes,” Dillon called back in French, “I’m fine; I just slipped on the wet deck.”
At that moment, Rob Chapman appeared in the inflatable, about fifty feet off the starboard side. Rowing aimlessly around in circles, and singing very loudly and out of tune.
Mazzarin immediately looked around, and the next instant, Dillon could hear him running off up the gangway towards the forward section to find out what all the commotion was about.
“Well done, Rob. Keep up the good work.” Dillon whispered.
Dillon unzipped his wetsuit jacket, and tucked the Glock back inside. He then hauled himself up the ladder onto the dive platform, and lost no time in moving quickly across it, up the steps and along the main stern deck area to get to the cover of a large stowage locker.
Kurt, sitting on a chair outside Malakoff’s bedroom suite, the Russian AK47 rifle across his lap, heard the commotion outside through the open porthole at the end of the gangway, and frowned. Stood up, and went and listened, before going out to investigate what was happening.
Pierre appeared from around the corner on the port side, just as Dillon was crouching behind the stowage locker. He moved cautiously, in the near total darkness towards the edge of the main deck, the AK 47 was already in his hands, the safety catch in the off position. “Zola. Where are you?” The Frenchman demanded, as he peered down towards the dive platform.
“I’m over here, I’ve found something.” Dillon replied in faultless French, and as the Frenchman started to turn around, Dillon was already standing up behind him, his arm extended, the silenced Glock in his hand. He fired, and shot him once between the eyes.
Dillon, immediately moved forward, checked that he was dead, before dragging the body back across the deck, and concealing it behind the stowage locker.
He’d heard no other sounds, apart from Rob Chapman out on the water, and Mazzarin shouting at him to get away from the Solitaire. He had not heard Kurt come silently out through the hatch. But, as he stood up and started to turn around, became fully aware of the burly bodyguard standing not more than four feet away from him, the AK47 pointing at his stomach. At that moment, the Solitaire’s power generators cut in, and as the gangways were once again flooded with light Dillon winced through his night vision goggles as the magnified light blinded him.
“Drop your weapon, Mr Dillon, and remove the goggles.”
Dillon felt the barrel of the AK47 against him and, without protest, did as he was ordered.
“Now kick them both towards me. Slowly now.” Kurt bent down, picked up the Glock and the goggles, not taking his gaze from the former army intelligence officer for a second.