Artemis
Prologue
Standing on the point and looking westwards, an observant onlooker would be able to determine the outline of a small boat moving off shore, away from the beach. But these was no such person this particular evening. The end of summer had put paid to that, scaring off first the end-of-season tourists that could enjoy the last of the temperate sunsets. The dog-walkers were the next to go, preferring the safer footpaths inland through the village and into the hills beyond, than the unsteady footings of the cliff-edge in the half-dark. A few hardy types had been forced to retire by shrill winds threatening harsher weather to come, if not this night then soon. So now there was no-one on the cliffs to see the passage of the craft. Neither did the boat advertise its own presence, with neither lights or engine noise providing a signal. A few people knew it had gone; fewer still had the nerve to speculate where it had gone and these kept their opinions to themselves. After all, it doesn’t do to question, not out loud.
The outboard was started when the boat was barely out of earshot of the shore. After all, who would be listening? Any engine noise not covered by the sound of the wind would be masked by the air conditioning units of the Anchor House hotel, their steady thrumming barely noticeable, part of the background noise of the bay. Anyway, who would care, thought the boatman to himself. No-one would be looking, no-one would be listening. He looked back towards the village, its form barely visible by now, a mix of lights and shadows. Who would care.
The yacht looked like a pleasure cruiser, a rich man’s gadget bought to guarantee passage into the marinas surrounding the islands and bays of the north west Mediterranean. Long and sleek despite its width, it boasted two masts which, furled so neatly, looked unlikely to ever have been used on the high seas. The bridge area was on two decks, one open to the elements for coast-hopping in summertime, the other below, a cabin equipped - some would say over-equipped - to navigate the seas. Above the bridge, a large, flat cylinder covered a powerful radar linked to a computer screen in the cabin. In front of the screen sat a man in the jeans and pullover which were this year’s standard issue at marina shops the world over. The expression on his face, however, was at odds with his dress, as though he had borrowed someone else’s clothes and he was hoping that nobody noticed. He had been staring at the screen for some time
The man spoke into a microphone at his side. “We have him on screen, sir”.
“Bring him in, then,” echoed a metallic voice from the speaker.
The man punched a button, causing a small red lamp to flicker momentarily, then settle to a regular, heart-beat flash.
“Emitter locked on, sir. Off engines.”
A sudden, electronic bleep from the small device caused the boatman to sit up, startled. He had forgotten he had the device in his pocket; since opening the small package in his bedroom, he had certainly forgotten the intensity of the noise which had caused his wife to come running up the stairs. At the time, he’d shrugged it off, said it was a new gadget he was trying for the boat on approval. She’d left dissatisfied, after all she’d be right: where would they find the sort of money to buy such hi-tech gizmos? He hadn’t been too convincing, but she’d let him be. Maybe, after this, they would have a little spare cash, but he was trying not to think about it too much. After all, he might not agree with it, whatever it was.
He took the device from his jacket pocket and flicked on the screen. It was part GPS, part homing device - he took a reading of where he was and an arrow indicated which way he should be going to meet - well, whatever it was to be. He looked hard in the direction of the arrow but could see nothing. Still, these things couldn’t be wrong now, could they? He steered until the boat was heading in the right direction, then he turned up the throttle.
All was dark on the yacht but the computer screen and a single, flashing red lamp. All was quiet, apart from the occasional monotone of the radar operator.
“Four hundred yards…”
“Three hundred yards…”
“Two hundred yards…”
“One hundred yards, in position. Check now”
The silhouette of a second crewman passed the operator and left the cabin, walking out onto the deck.
The first the boatman knew was a sudden bright light ahead of him, above the water. He cut the throttle, slowing the boat right down as he approached. For the first time that evening he felt apprehensive, maybe even a little afraid. It was a cold night, he thought to himself. Slowly he guided himself towards the light. A voice projected towards him, how and from whom he had no idea.
“Cut your engine.”
He cut his engine.
The crewmen watched as the gap closed between the fibreglass hull of the yacht and the little boat, looking all the smaller against the cruiser’s bulk. Had there been enough light it would have been possible to read their faces: a combination of cold, a desire to be elsewhere and a slight disdain as they looked at the scruffy, squinting native below them. Still, needs must. The radar operator threw a coil of rope into the dinghy where it was tied off
The man in the boat was about to ask for instructions before he heard a grating sound and, looking up, saw a boom swinging slowly out, silhouetted against the last of dusk’s clouds. Suspended at the end of the boom was what looked like one of the laundry bags that he had seen in the hotel porch waiting for the weekly collection. An electric motor started and the bag began to lower into the boat. As it came within his reach he stood and, using the bag to steady himself, he guided it into the middle of his boat between the two plank seats. He unhooked the cable and gave it a tug without knowing what he was supposed to do, all the time watched by the brightness of the torch and whatever lay behind it. He waited a little longer, and remembering the telephone call (“there will be no instructions… do what I am telling you now…”) untied his boat. He thought through the remaining instructions (“…back to the bay… there’ll be a white van… let them deal with it”), wondered what the load was and when he would see any money.
The engine on the little boat started again, second try. Unnerved by the whole situation (and feeling a little stupid, like he’d been caught in a wine bar), he fumbled the throttle a little and nearly stalled the engine as he over-revved, before settling back down and heading toward the shore. Back on the yacht, the two men returned to the cabin below deck, glancing at each other with eyebrows raised before resuming their positions. The radar operator seated himself in front of the screen and flicked on his microphone.
“All clear, sir”
“Thank you, Charlie,” returned the loudspeaker.
In a cabin below the main deck, an international number was keyed into a Vodafone. The line rang twice before the click of an answerphone was heard and a message began to replay. Without waiting for the message to end, a grey-haired man uttered four words and immediately hung up.
“The bird has flown.”