The Lazarus Trap (21 page)

Matt made the second call while standing in line to buy ice cream. Two young children at the front of the queue couldn't make up their minds. The ferry's waiting room was large as an airplane hangar and all hard surfaces. Outside, the fog had condensed into drifting rain. Six kids ran in tight little circles around the chairs and played like fighter planes. A mother screeched at them to give it a rest. Matt could have discussed the crime of the century and nobody would have noticed.

Matt's contact at head office demanded, “Give me the good news.”

“Don't have none, do I. There's been no chance so far to do it clean like you said. Haines has stayed in crowds every step of the way.”

“So what's the bloke doing, then?”

“He's going for the boat.”

“You're certain of that?”

“I'm standing in the Portsmouth terminal with him now.”

“Follow him.”

“I never been one for water. Not even in a glass.”

“I didn't ask that, now, did I? Matter of fact, I don't give a toss. You do what you're told.”

Matt swallowed against a nervy stomach. He could handle most things. But watching a ship go up and down on the telly was enough to have him shutting his eyes and humming a little tune. He glanced over to where his mate stood in line at the ticket counter. “You want this bloke clean away, not seen away.”

“That's the ticket.”

“Like an accident at sea, maybe.”

“Nobody's meant to notice a thing. Do him quiet and do him fast. You got that?”

“I heard you the first time.” Matt swallowed against the dread of his first journey ever on a boat. “Bad weather, no sky, he'll never be missed.”

“Where's our lad now?”

The loudspeaker blared overhead, announcing that the ship was boarding. Matt stepped from the line. “He's headed for the gate.”

“Hang on, the boss wants a word.”

If Matt had not already been green, this would have done the trick. In all the years he'd been on the old man's ticket, Matt had only spoken to Boss Loupe twice. Even so, he instantly recognized the old man's voice. “Matthew, is that you, lad?”

“Yes, Mr. Loupe. Sorry about the din.”

“Never you mind. Listen carefully, my boy. Word is, the gentleman you're tailing is headed for the Syntec Bank on Jersey.” The old man spelled out the name. “Above all else, your job is to make sure he doesn't arrive.”

“I'll do him on the boat, just like you said.”

“Nice and quiet, mind. Not a soul's to notice. Leave it for the island if you must. So long as he doesn't enter that bank.”

“He'll be gone like smoke, sir. You can count on me.”

“I am, my boy. We all are.”

Matt shut the phone and swallowed hard a second time. Messing up a job the boss was watching didn't bear thinking about.

If only it wasn't going down on a poxy boat.

VAL COULD'NT BE SURE. BETWEEN THE JET LAG AND THE NEWS-paper article, his senses were jammed on overload. Not to mention the disorientation brought on by this featureless grey day. His world had been jarred too far off its axis. Nothing was registering with clarity.

But he was fairly certain he was being followed.

The two men back in the terminal had been noticeable by their size. One rose almost to Val's height but was cadaver thin. He wore skin-tight clothes that only accented his narrow frame. The other was a bullish giant with a shaved head and a tattoo on his neck. Both had been watching him as he went through the boarding process.

What was more, Val feared he had seen that same tattoo on the guy who had bumped him in the airport. But he could not be certain.

The departures terminal was connected to the boat by a covered walkway. This led to a sloping ramp rising to the middle-deck entry. Val's heart drummed in time to rain striking the walkway's canvas cover. At the gangplank Val slipped the duffel bag to his other hand, gripped the rail, and turned as if to give England a final glance.

The beefy guy was just slipping past security. His narrow-faced mate was nowhere to be seen.

The vessel's entry hall was crammed with excited passengers and squalling kids. Val slipped around a bustling tour group, crouched, and scurried down the main hall. He entered a largish chamber done up as a ship's salon from a bygone era. A café stood at one end and a bar at the other, with circular brass-rimmed tables and wire-backed chairs and Tiffany lamps and polished wood flooring. Val stepped into the bookstore by the opposite wall and slipped behind a revolving magazine stand. He crouched almost to his knees.

A massive pair of Doc Martens boots hustled by, stopped, and turned back. A few moments later they were joined by a set of black lace-up boots with pointed toes. The two stood there together for what seemed like eons. Then they split up.

A young woman with an olive complexion approached Val and asked hesitantly, “Are you all right, sir?”

He made a very feeble pretense of searching the bottom rack. “Do you carry
The New Republic?”

“Is that a journal?”

“No, never mind.” He raised himself up in stages, checking carefully. The pair were nowhere to be seen. “Thanks anyway.”

He had to find someplace to hide.

MATT AND JOCKO HAD WORKED TOGETHER ANY NUMBER OF TIMES. There was little chatter, or need for it. Jocko joined the queue of foot passengers jostling good-naturedly toward the gate and the gangplank beyond. Their mark was about fifty feet ahead.

The metal detectors and security inspectors were trouble. Matt always preferred to carry a full set of tools on him. Today he'd just have to rely on Jocko. He slipped back to the gents' and pulled his knife from the special sheath tucked in the small of his back. The handle was a lovely set of brass dusters made special to fit his undersized hand. He wrapped the knife in paper towels, climbed onto a loo, and stored the bundle up top of a cistern. He dropped down and surveyed his handiwork. He would so miss that knife. It was like parting with his best mate.

When he came back into the terminal, Jocko was already through customs. Matt rejoined the queue, passed through the metal detectors, handed his false ID to the coppers, then headed for the boat. It was raining harder now, really coming down in buckets.

The high-speed craft was one of those new jobs, lifting up on an angled V like something off the telly. There was limited car space. The entire ship could have fitted into a larger ferry's main hold. Which made their job all the easier. Matt slipped around the crush of families milling about the entry, telling himself there was no need for the way he already felt. Not while they were still tied up at the dock.

Jocko waved him over. The big man was looking none too pleased. “I've lost him.”

“You can't have.”

“He's not here, I tell you.”

The boat's turbines chose that moment to rumble awake. Matt leaned against the side wall. “You're sure he came on board?”

“I walked the plank right behind him. I'm telling you, he's done a Houdini.”

“He must've made us.”

“That's what I reckon as well.” Jocko looked more closely. “What's the matter with you?”

“I don't like boats.”

“So what's the plan?”

“We find him, is what.” Queasy or not, Matt had no choice in the matter. “Where do you think he's gone?”

“He don't have all that much space to maneuver. This boat's tiny. There's the level below us for cars; it's locked tight as a drum. There's these four great rooms and whatever they got up top, and that's the lot.”

“So you have a gander around this level.” Matt kept one hand clamped to his gut. “I'll go search up top. Keep your eyes peeled.”

“And if I catch him, what then?”

“We got to do this one clean. That's the word. Don't do him if there's anybody about.” The motors rumbled and the boat slipped away from its mooring. Matt swallowed hard. “The boss spoke to me personal.”

“When was this?”

“Back in the terminal. We don't do this job right, we never go home. That's as plain as it gets.”

Overhead the loudspeakers started up their cheery hello. “You're not having me on, the boss gave you the word?”

“Mr. Loupe himself.” Matt forced himself off the side wall. The boat was already pitching. “We find this bloke, and we do him.”

The boat was claustrophobic. And fast. The rain was a solid sheet of water upon the forward facing windows. To either side, spumes flew up high as the third floor where Val now stood. Below him was the boat's only car deck, now locked. He knew because he had tried both doors. Below that, he assumed, was the engine room. Above him was the observation deck where people huddled in protected alcoves and enjoyed the sea air.

Val took a chair in the central salon between the two passenger compartments that ran the entire length of the ship. His table was by the wall, which gave him a view of both entrances. But he was totally exposed.

The ship's motors sounded a single deep note, thrumming in his body. Val needed to rest. Despite his adrenaline-stoked fear, he could feel the jet lag and the missing night's sleep deep in his bones. Val leaned his head against the rear wall. The soothing vibrations carried through his temple. He blinked slowly. Then he forced himself to his feet. If he stayed there, sooner or later he would doze off.

The problem was, the boat was constructed to do away with all blind corners. Val stationed himself at the opening to the crammed luggage rack and searched the forward compartment. The boat was all noisy crowds and rain-swept glass and open spaces.

Val retreated into the bathrooms, one after the other. But the places were crawling and the stall doors were symbolic at best. Every new face threatened to become the mammoth bruiser with the tattoo.

He hesitated in the doorway leading back into the hallway. As a trio of beery louts shouldered past, he spotted a door marked “Staff Only.” Val watched as two officers passed through. They remained deep in discussion. The younger of the pair used a key connected to his belt by a silver chain to open the door.

Before the door could lock shut, Val slipped across the hall and caught it with his heel. He waited through a pair of breaths. Then he pushed the door open a fraction and glanced inside. The doorway opened into a short hall, which then descended down a series of steps. Val heard the sailors' voices disappearing into the distance. He saw no one. What he could see of the hall was narrow, windowless, and empty.

He stepped inside.