Flicking off an ash, he glanced overhead. The evening was cool with a perfectly clear night sky. The silence gave him a chance to think about his new life in France and what it would be like.
He took another drag from the cigarette, when he spotted a glimmer of light. Headlights. He dropped the cigarette, then walked behind the Cooper and waited. Gradually, the sound of a car engine cut into the silence. Headlights grew brighter.
The vehicle was still thirty yards away, around the backside of a curve, when it stopped. He started walking when it started forward again, coming around the curve, continuing toward him. Carter squinted and shielded his eyes with a hand to his forehead. Then, the car came to a standstill. The driver killed the engine.
Leaving the headlights on, the driver got out and closed the door. From the brief moment the inside overhead light came on, Carter got a glimpse of the driver, but not enough for recognition. What he did recognize was the vehicle — a dark-colored Range Rover.
The man came toward the front of the Rover. Carter didn’t move. “I assume you have the envelope, Mr. Carter.”
Carter immediately recognized the voice and accent as the same person who contacted him, who asked him to be part of something. Something important. Something extremely confidential. Carter judged the man to have had proper upbringing, probably having attended a school such as Oxford.
“I have it,” Carter answered, lowering his hand and turning his head slightly to avoid the bright headlights. “I assume you have my money?” No answer. He shrugged his shoulders, then turned around and started to walk to the front of the Cooper.
The man gave a word of warning. “I’d be careful if I were you.”
“Don’t worry. The bloody package is on the passenger seat. Okay?” No response, so Carter opened the door and lifted the envelope from the seat. Walking slowly, he held it out in front of him until he was just a few feet away, finally getting a better glimpse of his contact: medium height, blond or possibly gray hair, small features, wearing shirt and tie, dark slacks, dark cardigan sweater.
“Now, please back up against your car while I check the contents,” the man said.
Carter obeyed. “I don’t have a bloody weapon, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Placing the envelope on the side of the hood, the man ignored Carter’s remark, then proceeded to remove the envelope from the plastic. He slid a finger along the seal and pulled out three papers, holding them in front of the headlights. Smiling briefly, he stuffed them back inside the envelope.
Carter extended an arm and pointed toward the envelope. “I guess that’s what you were looking for. I’ll take my money and be on my way. I have plans.”
“I appreciate the risk you took, Mr. Carter, and I thank you for making the delivery on time and without incident.” He held up the envelope, saying, “I am grateful that you did not let your curiosity get the best of you.” He reached into his trousers side pocket and withdrew a thick, white envelope, holding it toward Carter.
Carter’s full attention was on the envelope. He had no idea someone was behind him. The envelope was almost within his grasp, when everything went black. He didn’t know what hit him. He collapsed in a heap by the rear of the Cooper, not dead, but unconscious. A trickle of blood slid down his temple, rolling across his eyelid.
Standing over him, holding a Smith & Wesson, was Victor Labeaux’s assigned bodyguard, Brady Farrell. He re-gripped the pistol by the handle, then put it in his leather shoulder holster.
He bent down, put his hands under Carter’s arms, then dragged him to the front of the Cooper, propping him up in the passenger’s seat. Walking around to the driver’s side, he signaled Labeaux. Farrell shoved his stocky girth behind the Mini’s steering wheel.
Following a path that transport trucks drove on during daylight work hours, he kept the car in first gear, with parking lights only, slowly going uphill until the path leveled off.
Checking that Carter was still unconscious, he put the car into neutral, then dragged Carter to the driver’s side. After Carter was secured behind the wheel, Farrell rolled the window down. Grabbing the steering wheel, he directed the car closer to the edge of the pit until the front wheels started sliding on damp ground. A final push and the car went over the rim.
Picking up speed, the small car skidded across the slick surface, until the tires hit patches of dry clay. The momentum flipped it over onto its roof. The windshield shattered. Wet and dry clay sprayed throughout the interior. Going into a spin, the Cooper continued sliding down the steep hill, finally hitting the water, throwing greenish water and sludge everywhere. Within seconds, the car, and Derek Carter disappeared.
Labeaux slowly walked to the opposite side of the Rover and got in the passenger side. Closing the door, he stared into the darkness, waiting for Farrell to return.
Chapter 2
During summer months, it wasn’t unusual for the water temperature to reach sixty-two degrees in the Celtic Sea. When the sea was calm, visibility underwater could be sixty-five feet, but the currents here can be strong. It’s at this point where sea meets the English Channel.
Today he wore a regular wetsuit, more than enough to keep him comfortable, considering the temperatures he’d been exposed to in the past. He still remembered the sensation of sudden chills as freezing water would seep into the neck of his drysuit when missions took him into the Bering Sea, North Atlantic or Pacific.
He didn’t have his Draeger, only scuba tanks, swim fins and mask. Grant Stevens wasn’t on any mission, but on two weeks’ leave. And he was in one of his favorite playgrounds — water.
Six days ago he arrived at RAF Mildenhall and spent the night at the military lodge. The next day he rented a car and drove seventy miles to London. After making a quick stop at Navy Headquarters on Audley Street, he headed to his final destination for some well deserved R&R.
Newquay, once just a small fishing port, had grown into a favorite vacation spot for the British. The population was normally fifteen thousand, but during the summer season it swelled to nearly one hundred thousand. This coast of England had become known as the “Cornish Riviera.”
Quaint shops lined narrow streets throughout the downtown area, with Newquay Harbor sheltering a small fleet of fishing boats and private boats, both motor and sail.
Tolcarne, Towan and Fistral were three of the popular wide, soft sand beaches near downtown, with Fistral being a famous beach for surfers. A well-known fact for those who came here, was the tide along this coast could range from ten to twenty feet.
Grant wasn’t here for sightseeing, though. He came specifically for scuba diving. The southern point of the U.K. was known for having some of the best dive sites in all of Cornwall.
Hearing the sound of scuba bubbles, Grant swam around the forward section of a sunken ship. Today’s dive was a non-penetration dive, meaning he and his dive buddy would only swim over and around the outside of this particular wreck. He checked the oxygen levels in his tanks then gave an okay sign to his dive buddy who was swimming toward him.