‘So you don’t believe the captain’s involved?’
‘No, sir,’ Sabrina replied.
‘Mike?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so, sir.’ Graham glanced up at the bridge. ‘How many men have you brought with you?’
‘Five.’
‘That’s enough,’ Graham muttered.
‘Enough for what?’ Philpott replied suspiciously.
‘To handle things here. Sabrina and I want to go back to the warehouse and take a closer look at those AK47s.’
‘You don’t think this Milchan will be any trouble? These five are all on the technical staff, they’re hardly trained to deal with some marauding wrestler.’
‘You won’t have any trouble from him, sir,’ Sabrina said reassuringly.
‘I’ll see you both when the ship docks then,’ Philpott said.
They made their way towards the helicopter.
‘Mike? Sabrina?’ Philpott called out after them.
They turned, their heads ducked low.
‘Well done,’ Philpott said.
They gave him a wave then hauled themselves into the helicopter cabin and Graham closed the door after them.
The helicopter touched down on Wharf Eight and waited just long enough for them to jump out before taking off again and banking away sharply to the left as it headed back towards the Napoli.
They entered the warehouse.
‘I’ll take this section, you take the one nearest the office,’ Graham said.
‘How do we open the crates?’
‘I saw a crowbar by the door as we came in. You’re sure to find something round there.’
She decided to go straight to the office; it seemed the most logical place for storing tools.
She froze on reaching the doorway then slowly removed the Beretta from her webbing belt.
The board had been cleared from the table. In its place was a mug of coffee, still steaming.
Graham was somewhere in the warehouse, unarmed and unsuspecting.
She saw him as she turned away from the table. He was standing in the juncture between the two sections of the L-shaped warehouse. Hendrique was behind him, the shotgun barrel pressed under his chin. As she approached she noticed the deep laceration on the right-hand side of Hendrique’s face, running from the bridge of his nose down across his cheek.
‘That’s far enough,’ Hendrique said when she had come to within fifteen feet of them.
She stopped.
‘I must compliment you on your excellent shooting, Miss Carver. Kyle didn’t stand a chance but, as you can see, I’ll have a reminder of it in the years to come.’
‘It’s over, Hendrique,’ she said. ‘Werner’s dead and the plutonium’s been recovered. Even Milchan’s turned against you.’
‘Milchan?’ Hendrique said contemptuously. ‘You’re welcome to him although I don’t know what use he’ll be to you. He never knew what was in those kegs – how else do you think I got him to babysit them from Lausanne to Trieste? With the amount of radiation he’s been exposed to over the past few days I can’t see him lasting out the month.’
‘You put him in that freight car knowing it would kill him?’
‘Someone had to do it,’ Hendrique replied indifferently. ‘As for the plutonium, I didn’t want anything to do with it anyway but the KGB had other ideas and used a little blackmail to persuade me to see it their way.’
‘What about those AK47’s?’ she asked.
‘I’ve been using Werner Freight for three, four years now as a means of transporting arms around the world. Werner knew nothing about it. It was purely coincidental that he and I should end up working together. I’d been hoping to shift at least part of this shipment.’ He shrugged. ‘Too bad. At least I’ll get away safely.’
‘You’re not going anywhere. Not this time,’ she said, levelling the Beretta at Hendrique’s head.
‘The shotgun is loaded, only I don’t know whether the cartridges survived in the water. Not that I think you’d shoot anyway. Graham’s life isn’t in any danger. I’ll release him unarmed as soon as I’ve put enough distance between myself and the authorities.’
‘Shoot him!’ Graham shouted as Hendrique took his first tentative step backwards.
She wavered, just as she had done on the train. The photograph of Carrie and Mikey came to mind. Carrie with her alluring brown eyes and Mikey with his cheeky, mischievous face. Innocent victims of justice. Then she remembered Graham’s words after he had allowed Hendrique to win the electronic board game on the train. ‘–the one with the stronger willpower always wins. Intimidation invariably leads to defeat–’
She fired.
The bullet struck Hendrique above the right eye. Graham’s arm swept across his chest, knocking the barrel out from under his chin. Hendrique toppled backwards against a row of crates, then slid to the ground, the surprise still mirrored in his sightless eyes.
Graham prised the shotgun from Hendrique’s hand, pointed it at the wall, and squeezed the trigger. Plaster and mortar erupted into the air as the cartridge tore a jagged crevice in the wall.
Sabrina’s face went pale.
He tossed the shotgun casually on to Hendrique’s body. ‘You win some, you lose some.’
For a moment she thought he was going to put his arm around her shoulders.
Instead he gave her a pat on the back.
‘You’re okay, partner.’
She watched him walk out on to the wharf then smiled to herself. Hardly a eulogy, but it was a start.
Twelve
‘Where’s Graham?’ Philpott asked, prodding the face of his desk clock with his fountain pen. ‘I bet he’s doing this on purpose.’
Whitlock and Sabrina exchanged glances. The thought had crossed their minds. Whereas they had arrived within minutes of each other at the United Nations building, with time to spare, Graham, ever the nonconformist, was now over fifteen minutes late. Sabrina sat down on one of the black leather couches and cupped her hands over her mouth to hide the smile as she watched Philpott’s glowering face.
‘Insolence isn’t funny, Sabrina,’ Philpott said, without looking at her.
‘I agree with you, sir.’ She removed her hands from her face to reveal a deadpan expression.
‘More coffee, sir?’ Whitlock asked, crossing to the dispenser.
‘No, and stop pacing the floor like an expectant father.’
Whitlock slumped on to the couch beside Sabrina.
A light flashed on the desk intercom. Philpott depressed the switch below the light. ‘Yes?’
‘Mr Graham’s here, sir.’
‘Mike Graham, in person?’ Philpott said sarcastically.
‘Yes, sir,’ came the hesitant reply.
‘Thanks, Sarah.’ He switched off the intercom and used the small transmitter on his desk to activate the door panel.
Graham came in carrying a cardboard box under his arm.
‘Nice of you to drop by, Mike,’ Philpott said tersely and closed the panel again.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, sir, but I’ve been down in the foyer for the past ten minutes trying to clear this through security,’ Graham said, tapping the cardboard box.
‘You’ve got the whole day to go shopping–’
‘It’s not for me, sir, it’s for Sabrina,’ Graham cut in to prevent Philpott from delivering one of his monologues on discipline.
‘For me?’ she said with wide-eyed disbelief. Graham placed the cardboard box on the coffee table between the couches. He removed a folder which had been wedged under one of the flaps and placed it on Philpott’s desk beside the other two documented reports submitted by Whitlock and Sabrina.
‘What is it?’ she asked with a hint of excitement.