Rip Tide

He liked Blakey, an ex-MI6 officer who had carried the professional habits of a lifetime into his new career, although by all accounts he had been around the block a bit. Blakey had the relaxed, confident style and old-fashioned manners which to Berger spoke of an English public school education. Some of his fellow Americans would regard Blakey with scorn – a typical Brit, they’d think, with extravagant, overdone courtesy overlying a snobbish conviction of superiority. But Berger had met other Englishmen cut from the same cloth and he knew better than to underestimate them. He had studied Blakey and observed how his charm and courtesy enabled him, apparently effortlessly, to extract donations from the wealthy – the female variety in particular.

He’d seen too how in dealings with the City, the corporate world and government, another side of Blakey appeared: an analytical intelligence, a command of detail and a fierce determination to succeed. With his staff he was kind and considerate, happy for them to think (especially the younger ones) that they had worked out for themselves what in fact he had taught them, but he showed no tolerance whatsoever towards incompetence or laziness. Blakey’s reputation as a good boss had gone before him round the charity world so that UCSO, unlike many other similar organisations, was able to attract and keep staff of the highest quality.

Blakey’s familiar voice came on the line. ‘Hello, Mitchell. How are things in Athens?’

‘Well, it’s getting hot here, but it’s hotter off the Horn of Africa.’

‘Have we got another problem?’

‘No, thank God, but not for lack of trying. The Aristides was almost boarded early this morning. Fortunately a French patrol boat intervened.’

‘Any casualties?’ Blakey’s voice remained calm, but Berger could sense the tension in his response.

‘None. Though I understand there was some shooting.’

‘The French have never been slow to pull the trigger,’ said Blakey with a laugh. Then, more seriously, ‘Sounds like a close call.’

‘It was.’ And Berger knew they were both thinking how close UCSO had come to disaster. ‘The thing is, David, this is not only the third attack by pirates, but also the third time they’ve picked an especially valuable cargo. Since the last hijacking we’ve had half a dozen shipments go through unmolested – and two of them were on the Aristides. ’

‘Which would suggest they’re not targeting the ship in particular, but specific shipments on her?’

‘Exactly. I’m beginning to wonder if they know all about our cargoes.’ He paused, and the silence hung heavily between them.

‘How could they know that?’ asked Blakey.

‘I don’t know. Unless…’ said Berger, and stopped.

Blakey filled in the dots. ‘That is pretty worrying.’

‘I know. But I thought I’d better raise it.’

‘Quite right.’ Blakey paused, then said, ‘ If information is getting out it needn’t come from Athens, you know – we get the manifests here.’

‘Of course,’ said Berger.

There was a long sigh. ‘Pinning this down is going to be a problem – that’s if there is anything to pin down in the first place.’ Another pause then Blakey said, ‘Let me have a word with one of my old colleagues. He might be able to help – or least give us some pointers on how to get to the bottom of this quickly. I’d say speed is of the essence, wouldn’t you?’

‘Absolutely. Though we haven’t got another shipment scheduled for the Horn until the end of next month.’

‘Good. That gives us some time. Let’s hope it’s enough.’

Chapter 4

Liz had been back in London less than a day when a call came in to her office from Isabelle Florian. A gang of pirates had been seized by the French Navy in the Indian Ocean, attempting to hijack a Greek merchant ship. One of them was carrying a British driving licence and, though he had said virtually nothing to his captors, did appear to be British. He had been taken to Djibouti by a French patrol boat and was being flown back to France. He should be arriving at La Santé prison in Paris within the hour. Isabelle enquired if Liz had an interest in questioning the prisoner? The details of his driving licence were being sent across by secure means as she spoke.

By the time Liz had walked along the corridor to the open-plan office, Peggy Kinsolving, the desk oficer who worked with her, was already receiving from France a copy of a British driving licence issued to an Amir Khan, aged twenty-two, at a Birmingham address.

Liz smiled at her young researcher. ‘Dogged’ just about summed up Peggy’s way of working. A librarian by training after her Oxford degree, she had an insatiable appetite for facts, however obscure, and could trace connections between them that other people couldn’t see. She stuck to the scent of a promising trail like a bloodhound, and sooner or later always came up with the goods.