Graham tossed the Spectre on to the seat behind him, then ran his fingers through his damp, tousled hair. ‘You think he was mad?’
‘Wasn’t he?’
‘He was a fanatic, he believed what he was doing would ultimately further his cause.’
‘Including the destruction of half of Europe?’
‘If necessary,’ he said bluntly. ‘Fanatics are driven by passion, not madness. Were the Japanese kamikaze pilots mad?’
‘It’s a form of madness.’
‘It’s a form of extremism,’ he countered.
They heard the sound of rotors in the distance behind them and Sabrina slipped the speedboat into gear then turned it around to face the oncoming helicopter. It was a thirty-feet Augusta Bell JetRanger, the Werner logo displayed prominently on either side of its fuselage.
Kyle was at the controls, Hendrique beside him.
When the helicopter was fifty yards away it dipped into a steep dive and Hendrique fired a burst from his Spectre through the open cockpit door. The bullets went wide of the speedboat.
Graham resisted the temptation to fire at the undercarriage as the helicopter flew over the speedboat; he had only one magazine and every bullet would have to count. Sabrina swung the wheel violently and made for the sanctuary of the harbour. Kyle banked the helicopter in a wide arc and homed in on the speedboat, dipping it low overhead. Graham dropped the Spectre as he and Sabrina flung themselves to the floor, and it was lost overboard. They were down to two handguns against whatever arsenal Hendrique had stored aboard the helicopter.
Hendrique dropped the first grenade as the helicopter swept low across the speedboat’s bow. Sabrina had to take immediate evasive action by slewing the speedboat to the side and moments later the grenade exploded, showering them in a fine spray of water. A second grenade, dropped from a higher altitude, exploded within a couple of feet of the speedboat and Sabrina had to use all her expertise to keep control of the wheel when the hull was pitched out of the water by the resulting wave. She zigzagged the speedboat through the water, making it impossible for Hendrique to drop a third grenade with any degree of accuracy. They reached the temporary shelter of the hangar. It was a stalemate. If they ventured out the helicopter would be waiting for them. If the helicopter descended into view its occupants would be perfect targets.
The helicopter swept past the hangar and Hendrique flung a grenade through the entrance.
The speedboat was idling too far back for the explosion to do any harm but they both knew it would be only a matter of time before Hendrique started to use his Spectre. Bullets fired indiscriminately into the confines of the largely unprotected hangar could go anywhere.
When the helicopter returned Hendrique did use his Spectre, sending them both diving for cover again. Graham was the first up and he inspected the minor structural damage. Three bullets embedded in the speedboat’s nose. Three bullets which could just as easily have hit them. Sabrina? Her name shot through his mind and there was a certain reluctance in his limbs to move as he turned to look behind him. She lay sprawled across the linoleum floor at the back of the boat.
Kyle was preparing for another run when the speedboat emerged from the hangar, its hull barely moving through the water, with Graham standing despondently behind the wheel.
Hendrique ordered Kyle to take the helicopter lower.
‘She’s dead. You killed her, you bastard!’ Graham shouted, then cast a despairing glance over his shoulder.
She opened her eyes fractionally and winked at him.
‘I’m through with all this,’ he shouted up to the helicopter.
‘Throw your gun over the side,’ Hendrique called down to him.
Graham’s hand hovered over the Beretta in his webbing belt.
‘Do it!’ Sabrina hissed.
He threw it into the water.
The Augusta Bell was powered by a single 400-hp Allison turboshaft engine situated in the roof of the fuselage close to the rotors. She would get only one chance to hit it so it was imperative for the fuselage to be at a precise angle before she could attempt the shot. She had to immobilize an engine she couldn’t even see.
The fuselage was almost broadside on and her fingers tightened around the Beretta at her side. Any moment now and the whole target would be in sight. A distracted thought flashed through her mind. If she failed, Graham would be the first to die. In a strange way the thought gave her a renewed confidence in herself. The whole fuselage on Kyle’s side was now directly above her. She extended her arms upwards and fired twice.
Graham, having been told by Sabrina in the hangar to treat the speedboat like a car, accelerated away from beneath the helicopter. She vaulted over the seat and took the helm then reduced speed and pivoted the speedboat around so they could watch the helicopter.
The rotors were already slowing and Kyle was frantically struggling to restart the engine. The helicopter dropped lifelessly from the sky and pieces of the fuselage were flung into the air as it broke into two on striking the water.
‘Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that?’ Graham asked in disbelief.
She shrugged modestly then headed the speedboat out towards the open sea. Neither of them noticed a second speedboat creep gingerly from the hangar, its occupant waiting until they were a speck on the horizon before setting out after them, careful though to keep his distance.
The coastguard relayed the Napoli’s position to Sabrina over the small radio transmitter on the speedboat and twenty minutes later they sighted the 17,000 tonne freighter in the distance.
Its rusted hull was in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint and the only indication of its affiliation to the Werner empire was the company flag flying beside the Liberian flag of convenience high above the stern. As they drew closer they saw the vague outline of the company logo on the funnel underneath a fresh coat of white paint.
One of the crewmen standing by the railing pointed to the yellow ‘W’ on the speedboat’s bow and a rope ladder was immediately dropped over to the side of the ship. Graham managed to secure the speedboat to the foot of the rope ladder and as he negotiated his way up the side of the hull he was thankful the sea was still relatively calm. Hands reached out through the railings and helped him over the side and on to the deck. He then gestured for Sabrina to follow. She was halfway up the ladder when an observant crewman noticed the gentle curves beneath her wetsuit and word quickly spread across the deck that a woman was about to come aboard. When she did finally clamber on to the ship she was met with an onslaught of wolf whistles and lascivious suggestions.
‘Where’s the captain?’ Graham demanded of the nearest crewman.
The crewman’s answer was to point to the bridge.
The captain, a stout Irishman called Flaherty, eyed them suspiciously when they appeared on the bridge. The Beretta tucked into Sabrina’s webbing belt didn’t go unnoticed by him.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’
‘There’s been a change of plan, you’re to dock in Dubrovnik after all,’ Graham said.
‘Just like that?’ Flaherty said sarcastically. ‘For your information I only take my orders from one person. Mr Werner himself.’
‘Stefan Werner’s dead,’ Sabrina said, then took a step towards Flaherty, her hands extended in a pleading gesture. ‘It’s imperative that you change course and dock in Dubrovnik.’
Flaherty turned away and looked out across the sea, his finger feeling for the emergency button on the underside of the chart table. It set off a warning signal in the officers’ quarters of trouble on the bridge.
‘My orders are to bypass Dubrovnik altogether to make up for lost time and unless I hear differently from Mr Werner I don’t intend changing my course.’