Tamara Sullivan once more gave up on the book in her hand. She leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes and prayed that the two and a half hour flight would bring less turbulence than the last few months of her life had managed to generate
2
The wisteria adorning The Gibraltar Straits Hotel seemed to dance in the warm summer breeze. As the sun tipped its way over the western horizon and darkness filled the sky, a young couple sat on the hotel veranda sipping cocktails and gazing into each other’s eyes. Both lovers were oblivious to the more mundane matters being concluded in the main conference room within.
‘So once again, I would like to thank you for your time, energy and dedication, both tonight and hopefully on into the future. And before we all head home, it is my happy duty to announce that our joint small businesses initiative has succeeded in raising its target of £25,000, thus enabling us to create, for Gibraltar’s St. Margaret’s Child Care Centre, a new play garden!’
The audience applauded warmly and with some relief that the meeting was drawing to its long-overdue finish.
‘Thank you, Mrs Jennifer Tavares, for all your hard work,’ added the evening’s master of ceremonies. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, that will be all for this six monthly general meeting...’ His words trailed off as he became acutely aware that he was talking to over a hundred rear ends, all heading towards the main exit.
At the Atlantic Village Marina, the moon shone drunkenly upon the water’s edge. Unlike the opulent, designer beauty which surrounded him, the lone motorcyclist preferred to keep to the shadows, his middle finger flicking the clutch as he waited impatiently.
Thirty yards away, in the darkened main cabin of one of the marina’s finest yachts, his accomplice was hard at work with fevered intent. A hold-all bulged under the weight of its contents as the masked man took anything of obvious value and stuffed it inside. The yacht swayed and bowed on the water, as if trying to shake off its malevolent intruder. With a shrill, piercing screech, the yacht’s alarm rang out as the man rushed back out onto the deck. The roar of the motorcycle engine was music to his ears as he jumped from the boat and clambered onto the back of the waiting bike. Clinging onto his fellow rider for dear life, the bike took off at a speed that only an experienced biker would countenance. The high speed robbers passed effortlessly through the marina’s open security gate as the guard in the booth shouted into his phone.
The bike leant heavily as it ate up the corner and sped down the marina road which ran at a parallel with the airport’s imposing runway. At this moment an Airbus A321 touched the ground, it’s engines exerting the huge power of reverse thrust which would finally bring it to a standstill. Simultaneously, the bike raced towards Sir Winston Churchill Avenue, the main road that crossed the runaway and led to the Spanish border and the Costa del Sol beyond. The first indication that the robbers’ timing was misjudged was a closed barrier prohibiting a crossing and the immediate possibility of an escape northward. The tyres screeched in a sudden turn as its riders leant in hard and headed fast towards the centre of Gibraltar town.
Peering through the aircraft window as the plane neared touch down on terra firma, Tamara caught a fleeting glimpse of the fast moving motorcycle as it raced down the marina road. Her attention did not linger. Her eyes were drawn instead to the myriad lights of the sovereignty shining brightly against the pitch-black darkness of The Rock’s vast backdrop.
The flight had been a non-stop battle to stop her fellow passenger chatting her up. The large man with the flying phobia seated next to her had insisted on transferring his fears into a constant stream of questions and banal observations. Worse still, he had begun to smell and the stench of drying perspiration was beginning to hang cloyingly in the air, despite the best efforts of the aircraft’s noisy air conditioning system to disguise it. At one point, as they flew high over the outskirts of Madrid, she had even toyed with the idea of utilising her oxygen mask by way of escape. Fortunately for her, her companion had eventually noticed the lack of warmth being returned by his beautiful co-passenger and had ceased conversation. However, as the plane began its descent to the peninsula, it became clear that he had merely been planning his revenge for Tamara’s lack of bonhomie.
‘It’s quite dangerous, you know,’ he said ‘ Landing in Gib. Fifth most dangerous airport in the world’.
‘Goodness,’ replied Tamara.
‘The number one, numero uno dangerous airport in the whole of Europe. It’s the Rock, of course. Apparently causes dangerous up currents or down drafts, that sort of thing. And the runway is ridiculously short. Designed for military aircraft, you see. Pretty hairy most of the time. You religious at all?’’
If she had bothered to answer, Tamara might have told him that she was a Catholic. A lapsed Catholic and guilty about it. But guilt was something she was used to. Her religous failings simply joined the back of an ever- growing queue of imperfections.
The aircraft reached the end of the runway and began to taxi towards the terminal- the sound of the premature unclicking of seatbelts signalling the beginning of the crush and rush to be off and out of the claustrophobic tube. Tamara chose to relax and wait for the mob to leave. Flying was no fun on a budget airline and the rush to the baggage carousel was something she would pass on. After all, luggage handlers made all travellers equal by their talent for not serving up cases, prams and golf clubs on a first come first served basis. One got one’s baggage as and when the fates allowed and tonight, Tamara was cool with that. After all, she was in no hurry to check into her budget hotel - merely short term accommodation until her apartment was available at the end of the week. There would also be no one to welcome her at the passenger terminal and Tamara was cool with that too.
‘Welcome to Gibraltar,’ the flight attendant offered as Tamara left the aircraft.
‘Thanks,’ she replied, ‘but I’m not entirely sure I will be.’
The narrow streets of the town were still busy with tourists, although it was evening. The motorcycle weaved its way through them – it’s engine roaring in frustration as the robbers grew increasingly anxious. This had not been their intended getaway route and as such was proving to be a haphazardly improvised plan B. Rounding a corner, they narrowly missed a group of teenagers crossing the street - the exchange of insults between both parties broken only by the bike’s angry acceleration up the street and away.
Minutes before, motorcycle officers Ferro and Bryant of the Royal Gibraltar Police Force had witnessed the speeding bike blaze past them. Within seconds, the policemen and their powerful Honda motorcycles were pursuing at speed - their duo of sirens giving clear indication that a chase was on.
Entering the densely packed Casement Square, alive with restaurants and promenaders, the thieves were forced to slow and manoeuvre through the thick throng of humankind. As they kicked and punched their way through, the shocked crowd parted like the Red Sea. No sooner had the parting closed, it was forced open again to allow the flashing police bikes clearance. The younger revellers in the square laughed carelessly at the disruption. Older and wiser heads looked on in concern. A female tourist cried out in pain at the broken nose she had just received from the flailing fist of the passenger on the first motorcycle.