Pushing off again, they swam to their right for twelve minutes until they rounded the headland and discovered a second, much smaller bay backed by low cliffs. Coming ashore, they landed on a steep little sandy beach, no more than thirty yards from front to rear. At the back was an overhang of cliff, and centuries of rock-falls had divided up the beach with a series of natural partitions. As a lying-up point, it was ideal. Even in the dark they could tell that it must be out of sight of the jetty, and the combination of overhang and rock-falls would help conceal the boats from any aircraft that might come in. Furthermore, the carry from water to cache-point, was the shortest they were ever likely to get.
Over his covert radio Merv sent the message: ‘OK. We’ve moved 400 metres to the right of our original approach line. Beach clear.’ Then he cracked out a cyalume chemical light, placed it in an empty tin can, brought for the purpose, and laid the can horizontally on a rock so that the green glow could be seen by the crews but by nobody on land.
A few minutes later, the boats purred in out of the night. The cache was so close to the water that there was scarcely any need to post sentries to secure their landing-point, but the team went through the drill anyway. They carried the boats the few yards to the base of the cliff, dismantled them under the overhang, and pitched scrim nets over them. Finally they changed out of their diving gear into DPMs and got a brew on.
‘Watch the water, guys,’ Roger Alton, the second-in-command, warned them. ‘It’s going to be bloody hot later on, and if anything goes wrong in the jungle we may have to hang around here for a couple of days. So we’ll need all we’ve got. The other thing’s sunburn. For Christ’s sake keep your heads and arms covered.’
The tide was coming in, and would soon cover the beach. But Roger was taking no chances. He went back to the edge of the water and, working backwards, scuffed away their tracks with a paddle.
‘It’s like Robinson fucking Crusoe,’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t reckon anybody’s ever landed here before.’
Leaving two sentries to guard the base, the rest climbed warily to the ridge above them. They could see the odd palm tree outlined against the stars, but on the ground there was little vegetation, apart from tussocks of grass.
Everything seemed to be in miniature. The whole island was only about three ks in diameter, and the top level of the headland was no more than thirty metres above sea level. It was still dark when they reached it, but against the paling sky they saw the outline of Mount Desierto, rising to a short, blunt peak ahead of them. The upperworks of the ship showed white against the land opposite; she was moored with her bows to their right, and three or four hundred metres ahead of her, on the inland end of the quay, they could make out a huddle of pale-coloured buildings.
As they lay on the ridge, Merv checked off features he remembered from the map. ‘It’s a dry creek,’ he said, pointing down to the right. ‘Comes to a point just below us here. No river. The airstrip’s down there, round the corner, and the old bauxite workings are at the back of it. There’s a road from the port to the strip, but that’s the only one. No other habitation. What we need is cover for an OP.’
Moving along the ridge to their left, they soon found some. A palm-tree had blown over in a gale, bringing up a big plate of earth on its roots, but it was still alive, and its tumble of branches offered excellent shelter, not only from aircraft but also from the sun. When dawn broke they realized that their OP had one bad feature: the sun came up just to the right of the mountain, in their faces, and they were looking straight into the light. Otherwise, they were ideally placed, not least because the seaward flank of their headland, behind them, was out of sight of the port, and guys could move up and down between OP and base quite freely.
At 0645, as soon as they’d established that the ship was the Santa Maria, they got through to Tony in Bogotá on the satcom.
‘Blue Team on location,’ Merv reported. ‘The target’s here.’
‘Roger. Have you identified the hostage?’
‘Not yet. The locals are only just starting to move.’
‘OK. Keep me informed. And well done. The Red Team’s ready when you are.’
‘Roger. We’ll let you know.’
Merv established a rota of two men on stag at the top, two at the bottom, and the rest crashed out, cooking or whatever. He and Roger took the first stag, to gauge the strength of the opposition and work out a plan.
One of the first things they realized was that the buildings at the end of the quay were inhabited. Doors started opening while it was still half light, and people went in and out. The watchers saw that a good deal of work had recently been done, both to the buildings and to the quay. Patches of fresh-looking cement showed up on the dock wall, and some of the buildings had had a new coat of paint or whitewash.
Soon the narcos’ plan of action was apparent. Machinery started up on board the ship, and the derricks began lifting nets full of bales ashore. The cranes landed each load in the open back of a decrepit four-ton truck, which drove off down the airstrip road, disappearing round the bend of the hill to the OP’s right.
‘They must have an air-lift going to the mainland,’ said Roger — and soon his assessment was proved right by the arrival of a twin-engined Cessna, which came in from the north-west, over their left shoulders, took one sweep to the south, turned back towards them, into the wind, sank out of sight and landed. Half an hour later they heard its engine wind up again for take off, and got themselves well tucked down among the palm leaves, knowing that it would come low overhead. Sure enough, it cleared them by no more than a couple of hundred feet, struggling for height under a heavy load.
‘Easy enough to make sure the ship never leaves,’ said Roger.
‘Swim out and put a charge on the props?’
‘Exactly. The trouble is, they’d still have plenty of time to top the Rupert. Somehow, we’ve got to cut him out first. If that poor bastard’s in one of those cabins, he’s going to bloody bake when the sun gets up. The ship looks that crappy I bet she hasn’t got air-conditioning.’
Two more flights came and left. By then another team had taken over the OP. As Steve was scanning through binoculars, he suddenly said, ‘Jesus! There he is!’
Jerry, his companion, whipped up his own pair of glasses and watched as Black emerged from the building they’d christened No. 2, with his hands cuffed together in front of him, followed by a guard wearing DPM fatigues and armed with an MP 5. He’d been ashore all the time. He was wearing a white shirt and dark trousers, but he looked in bad shape: his clothes were filthy, and his face had a dark, puffy appearance.
Steve gave a double tug on the communication cord which ran down to the base of the cliff, and Roger came scrambling up. ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’
Roger, who’d never worked with Black, but had seen him often about the camp at Hereford, gave an exclamation of disgust. ‘It’s him, all right. But they’ve been hitting him about. Bastards.’
Black and his escort walked a couple of hundred yards along the airport road, then turned and came back. Exercise, time. They went out and back three times, Black walking slowly and awkwardly because of his handcuffs. Then for a few minutes both prisoner and gaoler sat in the sun on a low wall. Two more guards appeared and sat with them. Then all four disappeared into the building.
‘OK,’ said Roger. ‘We know where he is. But why have they got him there, I wonder?’
‘The heat, probably,’ said Steve. ‘In such a sheltered position, the ship must be like an oven.’
‘He must have spent the night there — otherwise we’d have seen him come ashore. If they’re going to keep him in the same place tonight as well, all the better. Much easier to grab him from there than on board.’