Chapter 20

A2 Southbound

“What do you know?”

A valid question, given that Steven had been on the phone he had borrowed from Morrison since they began their drive south. Still, he wished the demanding old bugger would give him a second or two to arrange his thoughts. There was something…

“What did they say?” Morrison added.

Steven glanced across the backseat of Morrison’s SUV—just one of the many vehicles in the billionaire’s stables—at the man himself, the one who had gotten him into this unholy mess. He fought to keep the scowl from his face. If he had learned one lesson in life, it was that it was always best to play his emotional cards close to his vest.

“There’s no sight of them at the Chunnel entrance. And so far nothing on the water either. CCTV footage shows the Ducatis parked by the docks in Dover, but nothing more than that. The revolving cameras are set on a fifteen-minute timer, and they didn’t catch the moment the group arrived or if they boarded a vessel. The Border Agency has tracked and searched every ship that has docked or disembarked from the Dover docks today. So far, nothing.”

Morrison’s top lip curled back, revealing a set of teeth that had been polished to perfection. Those stark white teeth had always made Steven uncomfortable. They reminded him of sharks’ teeth. And he couldn’t help but picture those teeth sinking into the neck of some innocent—

“That’s disappointing,” Morrison said, interrupting Steven’s thoughts. It was just as well. The images that had begun to form in Steven’s head were enough to make him retch.

“It’s more than disappointing. It’s bloody frustrating,” he grumbled.

Every hour that ticked by, he felt the blade of the guillotine hovering above his head slip a little more. Still, he couldn’t focus on the fear living inside him. There was still work to be done. There was still a chance he could make it out of this unscathed.

“And suspicious,” he added, running through scenarios. As a former SAS officer, he knew how operators like the three who had burst into Morrison’s office thought.

“Suspicious?” Morrison lifted a bushy gray eyebrow, his eyes sharp. He might like to act the aging playboy, but Steven knew that was all smoke and mirrors. Morrison’s parties, his ready smile, his boozy debaucheries and fat-bottomed women were just icing covering a poisonous cupcake. “Suspicious in what way?”

“Our friend inside Scotland Yard said that the HMC Valiant reported following a cod boat from Dover to Folkestone and back to Dover. According to the Border Agency blokes, the vessel kept making odd course corrections.”

“Did they search the boat?”

“Yes.”

“Well? What did they find?”

“Nothing but the captain and a fair bit of bait.”

“I’m sorry.” Morrison blinked. “Why is that suspicious?”

“I’m not sure as yet.” Steven punched Redial on the borrowed mobile.

When the man from Scotland Yard answered, Steven wasted no time with pleasantries. “The captain of that cod boat you spoke of, what was his name?”

“Rusty Parker,” came the reply.

“Rusty? Sounds American.”

“Is American.”

As Alice would say, curiouser and curiouser. “Thank you.” Steven thumbed off the mobile and took a deep breath. The smell of Morrison’s expensive cologne filled his nostrils, and he wondered how Morrison’s driver, a man by the improbable name of Ramón, could stand being confined in such a small space with the evil old fart day after day.

He glanced at the rearview mirror to find Ramón concentrating on the motorway in front of him, piloting the SUV with easy efficiency. Ramón must have felt Steven’s attention, but he never took his eyes off the road. Steven pictured him as one of those figurines depicting the three monkeys. Ramón saw no evil, heard no evil, spoke no evil.

Steven absently wondered if that might work for him too.

Too late, a little voice whispered.

“What are you thinking?” Morrison asked.

“I think something smells off.” Lifting the borrowed phone, he dialed Benton’s number. The hacker genius picked up on the first ring. “Who’s this?”

“Surry,” he said. “Are you too busy with things on your end to do a little online digging for me?”

“No.” Steven could hear Benton slurping something noisily through a straw. “I just built a firewall so high it will take this wankstick hours to climb it. Tell me what you need.”

“I need you to find out anything and everything you can about a man named Rusty Parker.” He gave Benton the information he had on the bloke. That he was American, that he owned a cod boat anchored in Dover. “See if you can find a connection between him and Chelsea Duvall.”

“Done.”

The click of the line told him Benton had signed off.

Steven was still trying to figure out what was niggling at the edges of his instincts when Morrison interrupted his thoughts. “And while Benton works his magic, what shall you and I do?”

“Keep on ’til Dover.”

“I feel a bit Bondish, even if I do say so myself.” When Morrison smiled, all teeth and with a sick twinkle in his eye, Steven fought the urge to recoil.