By the time they reached Dubrovnik two-and-a-half hours later the fog had already dissipated and the first shafts of dawn light stippled the darkened horizon like the initial brushstrokes of a magnificent watercolour.
The pilot pointed downwards as they flew over the section of harbour owned by Werner Freight. It was a much smaller area than the Trieste complex, comprising only two wharves and a line of warehouses painted in the company’s distinctive colours of black, red and yellow.
The pilot, having already radioed ahead to the harbour authorities, had established that the Napoli had yet to dock in Dubrovnik, its arrival time now uncertain due to the delay caused by the fog. There was currently no ship berthed at either of the two wharves.
When the pilot banked the helicopter away from the harbour to rendezvous at a predetermined spot marked on a chart which had also been included in the holdall, Graham and Sabrina slipped on their flippers and facemasks, then put their Berettas and black plimsolls into the waterproof pouches and secured them to clips at their waists. The coordinates on the chart turned out to be an area some five hundred metres off-shore. It was the perfect place for the drop. When the pilot had lowered the helicopter to within ten feet of the water he nodded his head vigorously, the signal for them to deplane. No sooner had they jumped through the open hatchway and hit the water than the helicopter ascended and wheeled away over Ploce Beach towards the airport.
They were both experienced swimmers and consequently neither had any difficulty in covering the distance to the wharf, the last hundred metres being swum underwater using snorkels to avoid detection in the beam of the powerful floodlights which were still on despite the growing light of day. Once at the wharf they rested for a couple of minutes then Graham led the way to a rusty steel ladder at the juncture of Wharves Seven and Eight. He climbed it until his eyes were level with the newly tarred surface of the wharf. The area was deserted except for a company Land Rover parked outside the warehouse facing directly on to Wharf Eight.
The warehouse door suddenly opened and a man emerged, an Italian Spectre sub-machine-gun slung over his shoulder. Graham ducked down, waiting for the sound of approaching footsteps. There was none. He raised his head slowly then cursed under his breath. The man was standing on the other side of the Land Rover, his head bent forward to light his cigarette. He tossed the spent match aside then leaned back against the passenger door and folded his arms across his chest. There was no route into the warehouse without disturbing the man and even Graham didn’t fancy his chances against the Spectre, arguably the most lethal short-range machine-pistol on the market. He whispered to Sabrina and in reply she removed her flippers while balancing with one hand gripped around the strut of the ladder.
She handed them to him then slipped on her plimsolls and tucked the Beretta into the webbing around her waist.
‘Distract his attention when I give the signal.’
‘Oh, yeah? Have you any idea just how potent the Spectre is?’
‘Sure. It’s got a fifty-round magazine and has an effective range of a hundred-and-fifty metres.’ She put her hand lightly on his arm. ‘He won’t get off a shot. Trust me.’
She climbed up on to the wharf before he could reply and moved cautiously, doubled-over, to the near side of the Land Rover. Crouched down on her haunches, she quickly assessed the situation before giving Graham a nod. He ducked out of sight and a moment later tossed her flippers up on to the wharf. The guard swung round sharply and unslung the Spectre, waiting for the owner of the flippers to come into view. After a few seconds he frowned and took several hesitant steps towards the edge of the wharf. He stopped, now clear of the Land Rover, his back to Sabrina. She rose ghost-like from her hiding place and chopped her hand down viciously on the side of his neck. He crumpled to the ground.
‘Mike!’ she hissed.
Graham scrambled up on to the wharf where he helped her push the unconscious guard under the Land Rover.
‘Hendrique’s here,’ he announced, after peering through the driver’s window.
She shouldered the Spectre. ‘How do you know?’
He pointed to the brown attaché case on the back seat. ‘It contains the game I played with him on the train.’
‘So if Hendrique’s here–’
‘It’s fair to assume Werner’s with him.’
She opened the door fractionally but all she could see was several crates, each with the now familiar Werner logo stamped on the side, stacked neatly against the wall. She gripped the Beretta tightly in her hand and pushed the door open further. The shadowy warehouse was divided into three rows of stacked packing crates with two spacious passages left between them for easy vehicle and machine manoeuvrability. They slipped inside and Graham closed the door silently behind him.
‘We each take a passage,’ he whispered.
She shook her head. ‘I say we stick together. There are at least four of them plus who knows how many guards. All armed.’
He conceded with a shrug.
They reached the end of the passage and he was about to turn into the second section of the L-shaped building when she grabbed his arm and put a finger to her lips. They both listened but could hear nothing.
‘I heard voices,’ she whispered.
‘They’ve got to be around somewhere. Come on.’
He pressed his back against the crates, the Beretta held barrel upwards by his face, then peered carefully into the adjoining passage. It was deserted. The section was laid out like the one they were in, with three rows of crates spanning the two hundred metres to the far wall. He indicated the middle row and they darted into one of the narrow apertures between the crates where he was able to look out into the other passage.
Werner was seated at a table with his back to them in a glass panelled office at the end of the passage. He was playing cards with Kyle and Milchan. Hendrique was leaning against the wall, watching them. The Franchi SPAS shotgun lay on the filing cabinet beside him.
‘Remember what the boss said about shooting to kill,’ Graham said.
‘I know what he said. I was there, remember?’
He lapsed into silence. She placed the Spectre on the ground behind her, then crouched down to study the best angle for her intended shot. She rested her right wrist on her left forearm to steady her arm and lined up the back of Werner’s head in the rear and frontsight.
‘What’s that noise?’ she whispered.
‘What noise?’
‘It’s like a rustling sound.’
‘Rats probably,’ he said indifferently. ‘Yeah, there’s a hole in the bottom of the crate by your foot. They’ll be in there.’
An image of the crate teeming with bloated, scurrying rats filled her mind and she stumbled backwards out into the second passage, the Beretta clattering to the ground.
Hendrique already had the shotgun in his hand when he turned to investigate the noise.
Graham launched himself at her at the same instant Hendrique fired through the office window. He felled her with a low, brutal football tackle a split-second before the shotgun cartridge ripped a jagged hole in the crate directly behind them. Hendrique kept them covered while Kyle and Milchan collected the fallen weapons, which included the Beretta from Graham’s webbing belt.
As they were yanked to their feet both Sabrina and Graham noticed the contents of the damaged crates. AK47s.
Werner ignored them when they were brought into the office. He was glaring at Hendrique.
‘So much for your hand-picked guards. Or perhaps these two were beamed down into the warehouse by a spaceship.’
For once Hendrique had no reply to Werner’s sarcasm.