‘Wait here,’ he said.
Silverman started to rise but Purkiss motioned him down.
‘I’ll be less conspicuous on my own.’
On his belly he crawled to the edge of the cliff. Glancing down to identify the initial points where his feet would go, he swung himself over the edge. The sensation of yawning emptiness beneath him was terrifying for an instant until his shoes found purchase on the rough rock. Gripping the ridge with one hand, he groped downwards with the other until he found a jutting piece of rock in the cliff face.
Slowly, with disjointed movements like a prototype robot’s, he began to descend.
Behind and below Purkiss the sounds of activity grew louder, the thrum of the motorboats waxing and waning as they made their way to and from the ship. With every scrabble of his toes against the rock face, every eked-out few inches of downward progress, he waited for the shouting to start, the searchlights to pin him to the cliff like a spike through a butterfly.
Once, he looked up. Cass was craning down, and he thought she was trying to say something but not daring to raise her voice.
Time dilated so that it felt as if he’d been climbing for an hour, two hours, when, the muscles and ligaments in his arms straining and cramping and the sweat pricking on his face, he sensed bulk beneath him. Looking down, he saw the highest of the rocks reaching up for him, ten feet below.
He dropped the last few feet, his feet slipping on the rock and tipping him to roll awkwardly on his shoulder on the shingle. For an instant he paused, his breath frozen in his chest, but the sound hadn’t been noticed. Pulling himself to a squatting position he peered over the top of a boulder.
The work was continuing, perhaps a hundred and fifty feet away. Purkiss couldn’t see inside the lorry but when the men climbed up into the back he heard an echo, which suggested there wasn’t much left to empty out.
The crates looked heavy, two men staggering to carry each one between them; but there were no external markings that he could make out in the thin moonlight. Between him and the activity stretched an expanse of flat rock and shingle. There was no way he could get closer without being seen or heard.
One of the men stumbled, his end of the crate slipping and crashing to the ground. He yelled, and two of the besuited men conferring with Motruk hurried over, cursing. They stared down at the crate. Another man came over with a crowbar and jammed the end under the lid.
It gave with a grinding tear of nails through wood. The men in suits groped inside. Purkiss strained his ears. Was that the clink of metal?
One of the men straightened, lifting a heavy object out, turning it in his hands and peering closely at it as if looking for damage.
The type wasn’t clear, but it was an automatic rifle.
Purkiss slipped out his phone and thumbed in a text message to Cass.
It’s weapons. Motruk’s running guns.
It was what he did best.
In a moment Cass’s reply came: Have told the police. They’re heading here anyway.
They need to hurry.
The crate was resealed and lugged on to the waiting boat. Already some of the men who’d been doing the lifting were dawdling with the unmistakeable air of people coming to the end of a job.
In a few minutes the crates would be loaded on the ship and the men would be gone.
He needed to stall them.
Purkiss crept as far back as he could until the sea met the cliff wall. He thumbed his phone. Over at the lorry he saw Motruk step aside and lift his own phone to his ear.
Purkiss said, his voice low, ‘Motruk. Silverman and Cass have been dealt with.’
‘What did you —’
‘They said stuff I don’t understand. Things you might be able to clarify for me.’ He paused a beat. ‘They mentioned something about a shipment of crates. Something you were arranging for the Sicilians. What’s all that about?’
In the distance Purkiss saw Motruk turn away from the others. He couldn’t see his face but imagined utter bewilderment there. ‘I don’t —’
‘Here’s what Silverman told me. He was in quite a bit of pain, so he was babbling, but I made him repeat it. He said, “The crates Motruk’s passing on to the Sicilians are mostly duds.” What was he on about, Motruk?’
‘I don’t know what the hell —’ Purkiss saw one or two of the besuited men stare at Motruk and his voice dropped in pitch. ‘Look. I do not know what Silverman was talking about. What crates?’
‘You’re not trying to screw me, are you, Motruk? And I certainly hope you’re not trying to screw the Sicilians. They’ll be less forgiving than I will. And I don’t forgive.’
Purkiss saw Motruk staring out at the ship, after the crates that might, somehow, not contain guns.
Motruk said, his voice tinted with fear, ‘I will call you back.’
Purkiss watched him stride back over to the men in suits and start conferring with them frantically, using lots of arm gestures. He could imagine the story Motruk was spinning: I may have been duped, we need to crack open all those crates, most of all I’ve been double crossed just as much as you have. The two men hefting what must be one of the final crates laid it down and stood, awaiting orders.
A noise started up, a low thumping from far away that grew in volume and began to take on a different character, a choppier one.
The men clustered around the lorry and the boats looked up as one, and began to shout.
A helicopter hovered into view over the ridge, its noise almost deafening now that it was directly above. A spotlight speared downwards, transfixing the group. Purkiss twisted his neck and looked up above him. At the top of the cliff uniformed men were massing in front of a blaze of headlights.
The first call came over the loudhailer, in what must have been Malti and then Italian: raise your hands in the air and remain where you are.
It was a cliché, Purkiss thought afterwards, but it was also the most apt description for what happened next. Hell broke loose.
The men in suits scrambled for the two boats at the water’s edge, while the ones who had been doing the lifting began to crack open the remaining crates.
Purkiss half rose, no longer concerned about being seen, and watched the men hefting the guns and slamming magazines home and open fire in a semi-practised way, ripping the air with bullets. The helicopter bucked like a steed and recoiled backwards over the ridge; Purkiss didn’t think it had been hit but the pilot was moving back out of range.
From above Purkiss, the police on the cliff top began to return fire.
The two boats took off towards the hulking ship. Not all the men in suits had been able to climb aboard, and the remaining four stood waiting for the other two boats which were approaching at speed.
Purkiss ran forward a few paces and called: ‘Hey. Motruk.’
Motruk didn’t hear him at first, but was looking around in apparent panic and spotted Purkiss near the rocks. His face contorted, he reached inside his jacket and drew out a pistol, levelled it.
Purkiss sprang back, felt the shot whine off the boulder beside him. He risked a quick look and saw Motruk running in his direction.
It was what Purkiss was relying on: that the Ukrainian’s rage at having been tricked would trump his desire to save his own hide.
Motruk fired again in mid-sprint, an amateur’s error. Purkiss waited, pressed against a rock. If the man came racing round the side Purkiss would have a chance. If he took his time to walk round slowly, leaving space to aim, it would be a different matter.