“All he was doing was tying up loose ends. He’s going to have to make a report to the British government and the new UN committee regarding the identification of the wreck as a war grave. That’s what he and Kazantzakis were out there with you to ascertain, and he’ll finish the job properly. In fact, he asked me to come on board, to contribute anything I’d found on the convoy attack to help flesh out the report. We were graduate students together at Cambridge, and he knows the quality of my work. I agreed to go down to the IMU campus to collaborate with one of their researchers.”
“You agreed what?”
Collingwood looked nonplussed. “I thought it would look good. To have my name on the report would make it look as if we’d had a productive collaboration, as if Deep Explorer had done everything it could to facilitate IMU. It would give you a clean bill of health and make it less likely that you’d be interfered with next time.”
“I don’t need a clean bill of health. Not at the risk of Howard having insider knowledge of where I might be going next. I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s playing you.” Landor slammed one hand on the table, staring angrily at the chart, and then got up and limped over to Collingwood, glaring at him. “Did you tell him anything about our new operation? That you were coming out to visit us?”
Collingwood looked uncertain, and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so. What does that mean?”
“He didn’t ask.”
“He wouldn’t, would he? Did you tell him you’d just been to the U-boat archive?”
Collingwood brightened. “That’s when he asked me to contribute to the report. We were both lamenting the fact that the National Archives contain little on the U-boats, and he asked me whether I’d been to the Deutsches archive. I told him I was there several months ago to research U-515 and the West Africa convoy, in the lead-up to Deep Explorer finding Clan Macpherson.”
“And did you also tell him that you were there again a few days ago, after he and Kazantzakis had done their dive?”
Collingwood looked nonplussed again. “Why not? I’d just flown in from Dusseldorf that morning, gone straight from Heathrow to Kew. Jack saw my Deutsches Archiv pass and said he was wondering whether to visit himself. I gave him the contact details of the guy there who looked after me. They’re incredibly helpful, and I knew they’d be flattered to hear from Jack Howard.”
Landor raised his arms in the air in vexation, and then let them fall. “So. Jack now knows that I sent you to the U-boat archive after we knew that Clan Macpherson was a write-off. That’d be just enough for him to wonder where we were going next, to keep an eye on us via Landsat. He has an American who does that for him, the geek with long hair who looks such an idiot in those IMU films. So by now Jack will know we’ve come up this coast, and he’ll be putting two and two together. He’ll have guessed that you found something new as a result of your visit to the U-boat archive that has led us here.”
The captain turned to him. “We’ve probably got nothing to worry about. We’re in international waters, and there’s nothing he can do to us with the resources he has to hand. The nearest IMU vessel, Seaquest, is at least four days away in the Palk Strait off Sri Lanka. And even if Howard has friends in Somalia, I don’t think that should concern us. The few patrol boats that comprise the Somali navy hardly ever leave port and they don’t seem to have the guts to confront anyone. And with things heating up with Iran, the anti-piracy Combined Task Force 150 is going to be looking elsewhere. We should have a free hand.”
Collingwood looked at Landor. “All I’ve done is what you wanted. I’ve found you a prize far more valuable than Clan Macpherson. You’ll be able to recoup your losses easily and sail out of here rich men.”
Landor stared at him coldly. “You’re right. You’ve told me everything I need to know.” He turned to the captain. “Dr. Collingwood has a flight to catch. Can you slow the ship for a helo launch?”
The captain nodded and went through to the bridge. Landor looked at the Boss, jerking his head toward the door, and the two men followed the captain, shutting the door behind them. After a few moments, Landor opened the door again and gestured for Collingwood to follow. “All right. The helo’s revved up, ready to fly you off. Our pirate friend is going with you because he needs to get back to his village and get ready for the next phase of our operation.”
“He’s a pirate. You didn’t tell me that.”
“The Kalashnikov is as good as a skull and crossbones. But we’re paying him more than he’d ever get from kidnapping and ransoming any of us. Just don’t provoke him.”
Collingwood shut his briefcase, then hesitated. “About my payment. Fifty percent on contract, fifty on coming up with the goods. That was our agreement. I think this counts as the goods.”
Landor paused for a moment, and then took Collingwood by the shoulder, steering him out onto the bridge. “I’m going to do one better than that. I’m going to cut you in on a percentage of the gold, ten percent, the same proportion as the captain and the operations director, Macinnes. Does that seem fair? It’ll make you a millionaire. Our banker will be in touch once you’re back in England. Have a good flight.”
Twenty minutes later, Collingwood sat beside the Boss in the rear passenger seat of the Lynx as it clattered away at low level from Deep Explorer, the downdraft from the rotor kicking up spray from the sea. The helicopter gained altitude, tilted forward and roared off, soon leaving the ship far behind. There had not been enough intercom helmets, so the two passengers were just wearing ear defenders. As Collingwood looked out, clutching his briefcase, he saw that they were still heading east, into the Indian Ocean. He turned to the Boss, tapping on his ear defender. The Boss raised it, and Collingwood shouted into his ear, “We’re going in the wrong direction. The African coast is west, and we’re going east.”
The Boss, who had been listening to music, rocking with the beat, took out his earbud headphones. “Eh?” he said. “No, this is the right direction.” He pointed down to the waves. “Very dangerous, English. Very dangerous.”
Collingwood lifted his defenders, struggling to hear against the roar of the rotor. “What do you mean?”
“Very dangerous, lots of sharks. No fishermen come out here, no navy, no Americans, no Obama, no English, no nobody.”
“I get it,” Collingwood shouted. “A very dangerous place. So a good time for the pilot to turn around.”
“Hey, English.” The Boss prodded him with the muzzle of his Kalashnikov. “You know how to swim?”
“Not very well, actually. Time I learned.”
“Yes, English, you learn. You learn now.” The Boss reached over, unclipped Collingwood’s harness and prodded him hard. “Now get up.”
Collingwood looked at him in alarm. “What do you mean? What are you doing?”
The Boss curled his finger round the trigger and aimed at Collingwood’s chest. “I mean, get up.”
Collingwood did as he was told, dropping his briefcase and grasping for handholds as he swayed in the confined space. His briefcase slid toward the door and he lunged for it, nearly following it out. He turned back to the Boss, enraged. “What did you do that for? That had everything in it, all of my notes, now lost in the sea.”