Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [46]
Two other mercenaries were loading gear from the back of a Mercedes van, swearing and laughing. One of them, the man who’d shown her the hand grenades in the lemon crate, called a greeting to Ace. Aboard the boat now Ace could see Dfewar in the shadows of the cockpit, bent over some kind of small portable work station, typing at a keyboard. She had felt a lump of ice forming in her stomach as she walked along the jetty. Three times she almost turned back to the German boy and his Polish vodka. On the docks the rear doors of the Mercedes slammed and the men loaded the last of the equipment. They cast off and jumped on board. The men who had been smoking in the shade got to work securing the boxes and crates. Massoud was not amongst them. He was not amongst the men who had been working on the dock. He was not with Dfewar in the cockpit. The engines of the boat came alive, pushing it away from the jetty in a growing wake of foam. The marina shrank behind them. The mercenaries were all busy around her. Dfewar was working on his computer. Massoud was not on board. Ace felt shaky as relief began to set in. She leaned out over the side of the boat and let the sea breeze push into her face. When she smiled she could feel the wind pressing cold against her teeth. The German boy wasn’t such a lost opportunity. Ace didn’t like tattoos anyway. Eagles and tigers and hex signs on his gold skin. Nice muscles, though. The water was deep and blue, the shadow of the boat moving across it at speed. Ace’s own shadow skimming the water as she raised her arm to wave at a tourist boat. It was cold in the breeze.
Ace moved away from the side of the boat, turning in time to see Massoud come out of the hatchway that led down to the galley.
The motion of the boat was lazy and gentle, despite their relatively high speed of travel. The deck rocked slightly under Ace’s feet. Massoud looked at her, then away. He walked out into the sunlight on deck and unbuttoned his shirt. He was stretching his arms up, barechested in the sunshine, when something landed at his feet. Massoud reached down to pick it up. It was an inflatable life jacket. The one Ace had bought before leaving Antalya. She stood with her rucksack open, waiting, pleased with the accuracy of her throw. Massoud was lifting up the life jacket and Ace moved across the deck towards him, swaying a little with the motion of the boat. Massoud stood holding the jacket and when he looked up she saw his eyes and she knew.
It was Massoud who had gone into the Novotel, riding up in the silent elevator, gone into Ace’s room and fired bullets into the bed where she was sleeping. Where she should have been sleeping. Now he stood in front of her and smiled. Ace smiled back. She had something else in her rucksack to show him. But Massoud reached out and grabbed the belt that held up Ace’s jeans. He pulled hard, tanned fingers locked on the leather band, and swung Ace around. She stumbled across the deck, off balance, and collided with a tarpaulined crate, almost falling. She was still clutching her rucksack. Massoud didn’t even turn to look at her. He called an order to the men at the rear of the boat. Ace was reaching into her rucksack. Except for Massoud’s voice, there was silence on the boat. Ace had the pistol out. Massoud turned and saw it. Now there was complete silence.
‘Jump into the water,’ said Ace in Turkish. The grammar might be wrong but the meaning would be clear enough. It was one of two phrases she had memorized on the road from Antalya. Working with a Berlitz book and a flashlight in the dark bus while tourists snored on either side of her. Massoud stared at her for a moment. Ace squeezed the handgrip on the Python, holding the pistol with both hands, and thumbed the safety catch off. Massoud watched her calmly then strode back down the boat, coming towards her. Ace repeated the phrase, clearing her throat. Massoud was laughing. He was close to her, his open shirt flapping in