The Horse at the Gates (53 page)

‘I want to do my bit,’ Bryce insisted.

‘Safety first. Besides, my sea burial skills are a bit rusty and we don’t have a Bible on board.’

Bryce cracked a smile, but inside his stomach lurched. It was something he’d thought about during the troubled nights he’d just mentioned. What better way for Mac to rid himself of his problems than to toss him overboard, into the dark, cold graveyard of the Atlantic ocean? Bryce shivered, turning to watch the boy at the water’s edge, now a tiny figure in the distance. No, Mac wasn’t a murderer. He’d killed people, sure – he was an Afghan veteran, after all – but not in cold blood. He wasn’t the type, Bryce reassured himself.
Try telling yourself that when you’re five hundred miles offshore,
his inner voice taunted. Bryce shook his head to clear the thought. It was too late now, anyway.

Mac gulped the last of his coffee and handed the empty mug to Bryce. ‘Alright, let’s get prepped. Tell the lads to stand to. You can keep watch on the bow if that’s alright.’

‘Sure.’

‘Don’t forget your safety line.’

Bryce returned the tray to the galley and made his way down to the front of the vessel, getting as close to the bow as possible. As the
Sunflower
drifted past the medieval fort and rounded the southern tip of the spit into deeper waters, he felt the wind strengthen as the boat turned to starboard and headed west. He lifted his sunglasses from around his neck and slipped them on. The sun was behind them now, its strong light dappling the water, making it difficult for Bryce to spot obstacles or debris floating in their path. He screwed his eyes tight, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scanned the sparkling water. Behind him he heard the main sail being lifted out of its protective jib, the electronic motors hoisting it to the top of the mast. It billowed once, twice, then the wind caught it and it snapped taught, taking the boat with it. Bryce held on as the vessel listed a little, then settled in the water. There was nothing quite like it, being on a boat at sea, powered only by the strength of the wind. He no longer felt the steady throb of the engines beneath his feet as wind and tide took over completely.

The land on either side drifted by, the patchwork fields and wooded hills of the Isle of Wight to port, the long, empty beaches and inlets of the Hampshire coast to starboard. Boats of various sizes dotted the waters around them: freighters heading for the shipping lanes, a flotilla of fishing boats, their nets and pots bundled on cramped aft decks, chugging towards their designated grounds. They were out of the ferry lanes and it was too early for the fast boats and pleasure craft. All in all, traffic was minimal and the
Sunflower
had the waters pretty much to herself.

Bryce sat on the deck, his legs dangling over the bow, his arms hooked over the rail guard. The water passed beneath him, the odd wave catching the boat and breaking over his waterproofs. It was both exhilarating and soothing at the same time, watching the sea slip by, the wind in his face, the taste of salt on his tongue. He was suddenly reminded of a moment, just before the bomb, when he’d returned to his office to pick up the Heathrow dossier. He vaguely recalled the promise he’d made to himself back then, to take some time off, hit the waters, recharge his batteries. Never in his wildest imagination did he ever think it would be under these circumstances.

Ahead, the land began to crowd the Solent from either side, funnelling the
Sunflower
through the fast moving gap of Hurst Spit. Bryce got to his feet, alert once again as the chalk cliffs and a large, red-bricked fort closed in to port, a solitary white lighthouse on the spit’s sandbanks to starboard. The waterway was clear and soon they were through the gap and the land fell away. He felt the boat turn a few degrees to port, the bow slicing through the sea on its new course. He heard the squeak of rubber boots on the deck behind him and saw Mac approaching, the wind whipping the collar of his waterproofs. Up on the fly bridge, one of the others handled the boat as the wind filled the giant sail above, driving the
Sunflower
westward.

‘Everything ok?’

‘Fine,’ Bryce replied, getting to his feet. They stood silently for a moment as the offshore winds began to make themselves felt and the boat picked up speed. ‘To tell the truth, I’m a little apprehensive.’

‘About the voyage?’

‘About afterwards. This isn’t going to end with me sailing off into the sunset.’

‘That’s for sure.’

Bryce shivered in the sharp wind, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets. ‘By the time we get to the Azores I’ll be wanted for the murder of three people, and the evidence will be overwhelming. No-one will ever believe I’m innocent.’

‘So what will you do?’

‘Stay out of sight, get my strength back. Make a plan. It’s going to be a long and uncertain road, Mac. God only knows where it will lead.’

They stood in silence for a few minutes, the wind gusting across the bow, the ripple of the sail above them. It was Bryce who finally spoke.

‘Tell me what happens, when we reach Tortola.’

The former marine braced his feet as the
Sunflower
rode a sudden swell. Bryce wasn’t so quick, snatching at a guideline as the bow bucked, then settled. Mac lent him a steadying hand. ‘You alright?’ Bryce nodded. ‘I know the Road Town marina well,’ Mac continued. ‘We’ll use the opportunity to resupply there before pushing on to Miami. Don’t worry though, getting you ashore will be easy. We’ll do it after dark, when the bars are busy. There’ll be lots of people around. The Immigration bods tend to stick to office hours and marina security is pretty laid back. Getting out onto the island won’t be a problem.’

‘Good,’ Bryce said. ‘All I need then is change for a phone call.’

Mac grinned. ‘I’ll stick it on the bill. This friend of yours, how do you think he’ll react when you show up on his doorstep?’

Bryce considered that for a moment. It had been a while since he’d spoken to his long-term benefactor, even before the bomb, but Bryce had little doubt that Oliver Massey would provide his old friend sanctuary. ‘I’ve known him for almost thirty years. I’ve a feeling he’ll be pretty pleased to see me.’

Mac nodded. ‘Well, you’ll get a decent tan while you’re there. The Islands are lovely this time of year. A good place to recuperate, recharge your batteries.’

Bryce watched the coastline fall away, the foamy wake of the
Sunflower
spreading out across the waters behind them. ‘It’s not just physical, Mac. I’ve got blood on my hands.’

‘You did what you had to do,’ Mac reminded him. ‘Look, the important thing is that you’ve disappeared, dropped off the grid. You know how hard that is to achieve in this day and age? You’re the one with the tactical advantage now. Focus on that.’

It was true, Bryce had vanished like an early morning mist, yet he had to keep praying the trail to Hamble would stay cold, that Tariq’s wolves would continue going around in circles, following one false trail after another. He had a sudden mental image of Tariq himself, livid with frustration as each avenue of investigation reached another dead end. But it wouldn’t end there, oh no. He knew Tariq too well, his determination, his ruthlessness. How he would love to see his face when he hears the news that Gabriel Bryce is alive and well. That would be something.

‘One thing’s for sure,’ Mac added, ‘they certainly won’t be looking for you in Tortola. Right now we’ve got the wind behind us and an empty ocean ahead.’ The westerly breezes seemed to pick up just then, filling the sail above them and urging the boat towards the distant horizon. ‘Come on,’ Mac smiled, clapping a hand on Bryce’s shoulder, ‘let’s get aft. There’s work to be done.’

As they headed back along the deck, Bryce suddenly turned around. ‘The letter, did you manage to post it?’

‘One of the lads did it late last night,’ Mac confirmed. ‘Dropped it in a box in Guildford.’

Bryce nodded, relieved. ‘Thanks, Mac. It means a lot.’

‘No probs. Who is she, anyway? A relative?’

A smile played across Bryce’s face as he watched the coastline of England drift by, the boat carving steadily westwards through the deeper waters of the channel. ‘Ella? Just a friend. A very good friend.’

Overhead, a flight of black-tipped gulls dipped and screeched, their wings beating effortlessly as they escorted the
Sunflower
out towards the open sea.

Danny brushed aside the tent flap and stepped outside, shielding his eyes against the low sun. He took a moment to stretch his aching limbs, then headed off between the rows of white canvas tents that stretched across the flat, sunbaked desert.

He walked slowly, conserving his energy in the oppressive heat. The surrounding terrain was featureless in all directions, except for a thin ridge of hills to the south-west. Beyond those hills were the mines where most of his fellow detainees worked. Danny had yet to see them and he thanked God for that particular blessing. Out there, across the arid desert, thousands of prisoners worked night and day, hacking away at rock faces deep underground, filling carts full of mineral deposits and transporting them to the surface in dilapidated, creaking cargo lifts. It was dangerous work and many had died. Danny had no intention of joining them, preferring his current employment to anything the mine offered.

The workings of the mine, and its recent victims, were regular topics of discussion amongst the prisoners around the evening cooking fires: the nature of the accidents, the injuries sustained, which seams were the most dangerous. They talked of ways to improve their chances of survival, until exhaustion overcame them and they stumbled back to their tents for a few hours of rest. Others slept where they lay, wrapped in thin blankets beside the fires. Often, one or two remained under the covers, even after the sun had risen, the lethal combination of workload and disease finally taking its toll. That was where Danny came in. The dead were his living.

They were the lucky ones, many said. Their spirits had been released and were free to roam the desert, to travel on the winds, to leave this place far behind – wherever this place was. The southern Egyptian desert, probably near the old Sudanese border, his friend Malik had said. Malik knew a bit about birds and once he’d seen some sort of lark that only existed in this part of the world. That was good enough for Danny. Malik was a clever bloke, educated. Well, maybe not so clever. In a previous life he’d been a surgeon, the Imam who’d died under his knife one of Cairo’s more important scholars and a Sharia judge. One hundred lashes, followed by ten years of hard labour was cruel punishment, but not nearly as bad as forty years without parole, without visitation rights, where the comforts guaranteed by European penal laws were patently ignored. Here there were no prospects, no hope. That’s what Danny had to endure.

The details of his own trial were fading now, only the terrifying aftermath still etched into his memory. They’d dragged him screaming from the court in Maadi and transported him to the notorious Burg-al-Arab prison outside Alexandria, the initial beatings so bad that Danny had to be hospitalised twice, the second time for internal injuries after a vicious gang rape. There, the doctors had taken the opportunity to chemically burn the offensive tattoo from his arm, his screams echoing across the prison, providing spiteful entertainment for the other inmates. During his recovery he’d written to his father and banned him from visiting, afraid that his physical condition and emotional scars would tip the old man over the edge, unable to trust himself and admit that he’d contemplated ending his own life. He spent the first year in solitary confinement, mostly for his own safety. It was during his sixteenth month of imprisonment that they finally came for him. The sun hadn’t yet risen when he was quietly removed from his cell and transported to a military airfield to the west of the city. There he was frogmarched up the ramp of a cargo plane and shackled to the floor with scores of other prisoners. The plane had taken off, the morning sun streaming through the port side windows. They were headed south, the journey lasting for about two hours. A distance of four or five hundred miles, Danny reckoned. The outermost edge of the new European empire. Maybe further.