Gold Sharks (8 page)

The sharks had on this occasion paid little attention to the bait. It lacked the excitement of life's final struggle and the absence of blood. The crabs, however, immediately sensed the potential banquet. It had been a struggle for them at first, trying to get to the body as it swayed gently from the safety line but, when the current changed, the body nudged into the buckled angle iron brackets, allowing them to quickly scramble aboard to gorge on their prize.

In the circumstances, the divers chose not to exit the protection of their pressure sphere. Instead, using the robotic arm, they tapped the seething mass of shells, attempting to frighten them away. Some took the metallic hint but a significant majority chose to ignore the intrusion, probably believing it was a challenge for their lunch. Jake banged even harder, dislodging more of the prehistoric-looking carnivores. Eventually, he was able to grab the diver's weight belt. He tugged on the arm and called to the winch man to raise them a metre. The crabs fell away in a tangled heap, revealing the air tanks, the weight belt and tattered remains of the neoprene suit. There were no hands nor head; all that remained of the body was inside the suit. To add to the macabre scene, the suit moved and bulged periodically as smaller crabs inside it continued unhindered to strip the remains of the skeleton.

There was a tense silence in the confined sphere. The two Chinese divers looked away from the screen and covered their faces, forcing back the bile. The true horror of the pathetic remains seeped slowly into each of the observers' minds. Even Jake, the toughest and most experienced of all of Big J's divers, swallowed several times.

“Come on then,” he growled eventually, “lets get the fuck out of here!”

w

The flight from Tokyo was only half full; the airlines of the world were still struggling to shake off the effects of the September eleventh terrorist attacks in New York.

It was evening as Alex Scott checked into his hotel overlooking the teeming Hong Kong waterfront. As soon as he was in his room and using his new, all singing and dancing mobile telephone, he called the contact given to him by Tokyo Police Chief Haki.

The phone bleeped. Almost immediately a voice answered in Chinese.

“Hello, Haki's friend, I believe you're expecting my call?” Alex responded.

There was a slight pause. “Mr Scott?” another pause “Mr Alexander Scott?” came the agreed response.

“You got it in one,” Alex confirmed. “When can we meet please?”

“I'll come to you,” the voice answered. “I'll be there in about ten minutes.”

Alex agreed and the phone went dead; he looked at the handset for a moment, shrugged his shoulders and switched on the television. As the set warmed into life. The Simpsons blared out at him in English. “Not really very Chinese!” he noted to himself, switching to another channel. The local news in Chinese, he decided, was more typical but no more entertaining. He turned the set off. A few moments later, a tap on the door made him jump up from his chair. He cautiously opened the door. Standing in the corridor was a medium height man carrying a large rolled up golfing umbrella.

“Mr. Scott I presume?” the man asked, presenting the umbrella.

Alex smiled. Haki just loved these cloak and dagger introductions. He opened the door wide and invited the man into the room.

The man extended his free hand. “Ling,” he said, introducing himself.

Alex took the hand; it had a good firm grip, he noted.

“Come on in, make yourself at home.” Alex pointed to the free armchair. “I can't offer you any hospitality without calling room service.”

Ling waved his hand.

“Thank you but no thank you,” he smiled politely.

They sat facing each other. Ling laid his umbrella on the floor beside the chair before leaning forward, clasping his well-manicured hands together.

“Haki asked me to put myself at your disposal. He told me very little other than that you are looking for an unusual cargo and the Syndicate are involved.”

Ling spoke English immaculately. He was oriental but it occurred to Alex that he must have some European ancestry.

“Yes that's right. The Syndicate are very much involved and are suspected of smuggling a lethal cargo of military arms and munitions out of China to the Philippines. I need your help to intercept and destroy it.”

“I presume that this cargo is to be transported by sea?” Ling, not showing emotion of any kind, asked by way of a reply.

Alex nodded.

“Then it has to be stored close to the docks, yes?”

Alex nodded again.

His confidence growing, Ling sat back.

“In my opinion therefore, it would be more successful if the cargo were to be destroyed in transit. In neutral waters so to speak? Do you agree?”

“That also makes good sense, assuming that we know how and when it is to be shipped,” Alex replied, adding, “I take it then that you will assist?”

“Yes of course, Haki is an old friend, we have worked together on many occasions. He tells me that you helped him when his son was murdered in Manila.” He looked saddened for a moment. Then, looking up, he asserted, “When Haki recommends someone to me, there is no need to ask any more questions. If there were more law enforcement officials like him in this world, we would be all the better off for it.” Ling stood up. “There is much to do and only a very few people can be trusted anymore. Oh, and just so that you understand, the last time I assisted with a SONIC versus Syndicate operation, two members of my family suffered unspeakable deaths. Had I cooperated with the Syndicate they might have lived. Just thought you should know. Now I have even more reason to oppose their evil regime.” He changed his tone. “I will call you in the morning, on your mobile, if I may have the number please.”

Alex scribbled the number on the hotel notepad.

Ling took the note, read it carefully, and then handed it back to Alex. “Thank you, I will remember the number. You must destroy that now.” They shook hands again and Ling turned to go, then, holding out the coloured umbrella, smiled briefly, “Will I need this for identification next time or can I leave it at home?” Using it like a walking stick, he left without looking back.

w

Greg and Oscar reported to the quay the next morning as planned. Dick was waiting patiently in the cockpit of his boat, holding a large mug of tea in his hand. The woman was up on the forward deck, re-lashing the fishing poles.

“You're in good time gentlemen,” Dick greeted them. “Fancy a cup of tea while I warm up the engines?”

They both accepted the offer and the woman noted the request and dashed below to prepare it. She re-appeared moments later holding a plate with two stuffed rolls, each twice as wide as the plate.

“You like?” she smiled shyly.

They accepted out of courtesy, not knowing what was in them. The engines roared suddenly then settled back to a fast tick over, allowing time to warm up slowly. Oscar took a bite. It tastes good, he decided. In fact, as the flavour of whatever the rolls' contents were spread gradually around his taste buds, he became aware of some thing mildly spicy and deliciously rich.

“I don't know what it is Greg but it tastes really good!”

Oscar looked up at Greg, not noticing the woman looking for a sign of approval or otherwise as she peeped shyly through the companionway door. Greg, however, did notice and took a large bite from his bun, chewed briefly then grabbed at his throat, making gagging and choking sounds. The woman screamed and ran across to Dick looking for protection. Dick turned, momentarily unsure what was happening. Greg, however, realising that he had rather overplayed his hand, knelt down in front of the still unsure woman and begged forgiveness. Dick roared with laughter. The woman, not quite so easily reassured, skipped haughtily passed the grinning but still supplicant Greg, to vanish below.

“Sorry Dick - a poor joke at this time of day,” Greg apologised, getting up from his knees.

Dick just waved his hand dismissively and turned his attention to his beloved engines. Eventually two mugs of tea were placed on the floor at the entrance of the door; there was no sign of the lady.

“So where do we want to go today gentlemen?” Dick asked as he eased the throttles back to the idling position.

“Someone told us last night that there are some good wrecks somewhere off the island of Corregidor. Do you know any of them?” Greg asked innocently.

“I know where the island is alright but why go all that way when there are hundreds of equally good wrecks much closer?”

Dick looked away in disbelief.

“Anyway the current's formidable out there - you have to be very accurate with the tide if you are to stay over a wreck for any time.” Then he added, obviously trying to emphasise the risk, “it's also a sort of meeting place for half the sharks in the South China Sea!”

“Well in that case perhaps we could catch a shark without too much difficulty?” Greg offered in the same innocent tone.

Oscar made the final bit of reasoning.

“Well actually I'd quite like to see the island out of sheer curiosity. I've heard so much about it. It is the place where the Americans made their final defensive stand in the war isn't it?”

Dick capitulated.

“Corregidor it is then. Annie?” he called, leaning over into the cabin.

The woman appeared, leapt nimbly ashore and released the mooring lines, skipping as lightly as a gazelle back onto the foredeck, where she curled them into tidy bundles and stowed them in a locker as they headed to the harbour mouth and the open sea of Manila Bay.

Greg discreetly switched on his GPS.

“You can sit back now gentlemen; its about forty-five miles.”

Dick looked straight ahead. “About two and a bit hours.” He looked back at his passengers and added, “or it could only take an hour and a bit, if you're prepared to pay for the extra fuel for a quick trip?”

“Go ahead, let's see what she can do!” Greg replied, genuinely excited. The engines hummed and the vessel picked up and skimmed through the water at close to forty knots.

“You better know,” Dick shouted above the unified roar of the powerful diesels, “she burns about two gallons a mile at his speed; is it still OK?” he grinned.

“You bet!” shouted Greg, signalling his approval with the diver's OK sign.

After about half an hour, the island appeared as a hazy smudge on the horizon.

“So what do you want, to visit the island or to fish?” Dick asked.

“Listen Dick, I suppose you'll think were a couple of fools but we bought some wreck positions from a man at the restaurant last night. Here, have a look. Do you think we've been robbed? Are they real?”

Dick looked with indifference at the list of latitude and longitudinal positions. “Until we put them on the chart they don't mean a thing to me,” he said honestly.

Leaving the helm to the autopilot, he took the list and carefully marked each of the positions on his paper chart. There were five positions on the list; two matched marks already on Dick's own chart and the others were apparently new locations.

“There you are,” he declared. “I know those two and, who knows, the others may easily be wrecks - after all dozens of vessels have been lost in these waters over the years.” He pointed to the furthest mark, just beyond the island. “I should think that one's a bit of a waste of time. It's right on the edge of the landmass. The seabed shelves suddenly from seventy to five hundred metres; the currents out there are the strongest to be found anywhere in this part of the world,” he chatted on casually. “The other two could be worth a try though,” he ventured, looking up, raising his eyebrows and grinning philosophically.

Greg looked at Oscar.

“What do you fancy? Shall we try a bit of fishing then visit the island later?

“Whatever you think,” Oscar replied and looked at the chart. “Lets apply a little ‘lady luck' and try...” He closed his eyes and stabbed his finger on the mark nearest to the so-called impossible position. He opened his eyes again.

“This one?” he smiled with apparent satisfaction.

“OK gentlemen let's go fishing,” Dick sighed and returned his attention to the navigator, made an adjustment and looked ahead. “About half an hour at a guess,” he announced, his mind still trying to work out just what these people really wanted.

f

Having just enjoyed a breakfast of - according to the Room Service menu - “freshly mixed exotic fruit juices, a selection of home-made bread and pastries, butter and conserves”, Alex Scott sat looking out over the busy harbour, leisurely drinking a second cup of tea.

The hundreds of large and small craft transfixed him as they managed, apparently without hitting one another, to manoeuvre in and around the teeming harbour. Of course, from the comfort of his luxury hotel balcony, he couldn't hear the barrage of shouting and curses.

His mobile bleeped. “

Good morning Alex, Ling here.”

Alex returned the greeting.

“I have some information that is worth looking at,” Ling continued. “Can you meet me on the waterfront in a few minutes?”

“Just say where,” Alex replied easily.

“Good. Right opposite your hotel you'll see an estate agent's office. I'll be there in about ten minutes.”

“That's fine, see you there,” Alex agreed, taking a final gulp of his tea and returning the mobile to his pocket.

He wandered down to the lobby and out and into the sunlight. Instantly aware of the searing heat and deafening traffic noise, he looked in vain for a pedestrian crossing. Undeterred, he following some locals, who simply took their lives in their hands and stepped into the path of the slowest looking vehicle. Then, amidst the sound of screeching tyres and the blast of a multitude of horns, he scrambled to the other side.

“I've lived dangerously most of my life,” Alex greeted Ling as he entered the estate agent's office, “but crossing that road was the riskiest thing I've done for years!” He shook his head in genuine wonder.