“No, but it’s the only one coming in early.”
“How many passengers does it take? Six?”
“Four to six.”
“Tell you what,” Grant said. “We have to check with our girlfriends. If they give the okay, we’ll be back in an hour.”
“Sure you don’t want to leave a deposit?”
Grant shook his head. “We’ll take our chances. Thanks for your help.”
“You’re Yanks, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, we are.”
“Thought so,” the old man responded as he turned away, and struck a match against the edge of the counter.
Grant looked at Baranski and winked. “Guess we got enough information. Let’s go.”
They went up South Quay Hill, walking along the narrow path on the left side of the road, staying close to a stone wall. Once at the top of the hill, Grant said, “Well, Gunny, this is where we part company. Sure appreciate you meeting me under these circumstances.” He extended a hand to the marine.
“You let me know if I can help with anything further, sir. Don’t feel like I’ve done much so far.”
“Need you to be eyes and ears, Gunny. If you need to contact me, I’m at the Atlantic Hotel, but by early morning, I plan to move on base.”
“All right, sir.”
“One more thing, Gunny.”
“Sir?”
“Who’s your C.O.?”
“That’d be Lieutenant Colonel Donaldson, sir.”
“I’m gonna have to bring him in on this. Security will have to be tightened.”
“Should I have him call you, sir?”
Grant shook his head. “You just put him on alert. I’ll call him when I get back to EOD.” He stepped closer to Baranski, staring dead on into the marine’s eyes. “Don’t take any chances. I need you on this one.”
“Yes, sir. Understand, sir.” With a slight wave, Baranski started walking toward Fore Street, saying over his shoulder, “Good luck, sir!”
Grant turned to look out over the harbor and Newquay Bay, hesitating long enough to give Baranski a good head start. While he waited he wondered what the odds were seeing those two men leaving in the boat. His instinct was telling him they were somehow involved.
He glanced at his watch. Talking with the Brit CID agent would have to wait. He only had time to get back to the base, put in a call to Torrinson, then ream Henley’s ass for not telling him about his brother-in-law. Henley could have personal reasons for keeping his mouth shut, but there wasn’t any excuse when it came to the security of nukes.
He headed for downtown and the car park. His intention was to return to the harbor well before fourteen hundred hours.
Chapter 8
Two miles off the Cornish coast, due west of Newquay, a forty foot catamaran with twin, two hundred twenty-five hp engines, drifted on three foot swells in the Celtic Sea.
Standing at the port side stern, Callum Quinn rested his forearms on the stainless steel rail. Worn black work boots stuck out from beneath his tan trousers. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up. His blond hair was neatly trimmed, but was still just below his ears. Not accustomed to being without a beard or mustache, he’d occasionally run his fingers across his jaw. It had been five months since he last changed his appearance.
Two years prior, Reese Larkin and five fellow members of the Provisional IRA attempted to plant bombs in the crowded tourist area of Piccadilly Square. Two tourists were killed in the shootout. British commandos killed four of the members and captured Larkin. After precise planning, and catching the British police completely off guard, Quinn and his small band freed Larkin.
Today, Quinn’s blue eyes roamed the horizon. He finally saw a small motorboat off the port side. He lifted the binoculars hanging around his neck, then he focused on the approaching craft.
Turning toward the cabin, he called to Shaun Delaney as he pointed, “There’s the boat, port side. Ready the ladder.”
Delaney attached the stainless steel, three-step boarding ladder to the deck at midships, then stood back, waiting and watching as the smaller craft pulled alongside.
The engine sputtered as the boat’s driver backed down, maneuvering it closer to the larger boat. Standing at the bow, the passenger balanced himself as the boat rocked in the swells. He tossed a rope to Delaney, who tugged on it until the boat was alongside, then he tied the end to the railing near the ladder.
Moving cautiously, the passenger grabbed hold of the ladder and stepped onto the bottom rung. Quinn extended a hand to assist the new arrival onto the deck.
Delaney untied the rope and tossed it onto the deck of the smaller craft. Brady Farrell steered the boat away, circling around to the fantail, where he would remain until the meeting ended.
Callum Quinn wouldn’t expect any small talk with Victor Labeaux. It was all strictly business. “Come into the cabin,” Quinn directed, noticing a thin leather briefcase Labeaux was carrying, also noticing the bulge of a pistol inside it.
Labeaux followed Quinn into the cabin. The space wasn’t elaborate: Two bench seats, one port, one starboard, a two-burner stove, a small round sink and fridge. A “captain’s” chair on the starboard side was positioned in front of the wheel.
Labeaux tried to maintain his balance while he looked at Shaun Delaney sitting in the captain’s chair.
Delaney gave Labeaux a sideways glance before swiveling the chair around, again facing the bow, continuing to keep watch. So far, he hadn’t seen any other boats in the area.
Quinn motioned with his hand for Labeaux to sit on the bench on the starboard side.
Labeaux put the briefcase on his lap, waiting for Quinn to sit. Instead, Quinn went to the small fridge under the sink, taking out two bottles of Kilkenney beer, offering one to Labeaux, who declined.
Quinn put the extra bottle on a folding table, then he opened his bottle. Taking a long swig, he sat on the bench seat behind the table.
Labeaux looked at the younger man. “Are you finished? Can we get started, Callum?”
Quinn nodded. “Were you successful?”
“I have the information I was waiting for,” Labeaux responded, unlocking the briefcase. He removed some papers then held them at arm’s length.
Quinn reached across the table. “Is the information accurate?”
Labeaux nodded. Removing a handkerchief from his inside pocket, he patted sweat on his brow and dabbed at his mouth. Being on any boat always made him nauseous. He replied, “They’re copies of the originals, confirmed by my source.”
Quinn perused the top paper. A very precise diagram showed building locations: airport tower, EOD compound, barracks, U.S. Marines’ compound, RAF compound and barracks, two large hangars. Although it wasn’t labeled, he knew by looking at it — the underground storage facility for the nuclear weapons.
He turned the paper, laying it upside down. The second page showed the schedule of all flights for the next five days.
And finally, he was looking at page three. The critical schedule showed delivery of specific weapons, arriving from the U.S. and the Netherlands.
Quinn slowly sucked on his beer. That brief moment gave him a chance to look at Labeaux, the leader of the whole operation. If he passed this man on the street, he’d most likely ignore him. He looked like an average, working-class man, not the cunning terrorist he was. A terrorist who was for hire, taking on any job, working for any country, and always for a very high price.
Anyone who worked with him, assisted him, hired him, understood their responsibilities, understood his demands, understood they could not deviate from his plans. If they did, whether the operation was successful or not, someone would pay dearly, if only to set an example.
The only thing that might make someone take notice, if one could get close enough, would be Labeaux’s eyes, which Quinn could only describe as completely emotionless, empty. But behind those blue eyes was a mind that kept him alive through all the most dangerous circumstances… the terrorist attacks that he himself had planned. Labeaux didn’t just devise the attacks. His ego demanded his complete, intense, personal involvement.