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Martin put it as coming from the Leeds/Bradford area. Martin could not work out what he was for, except possibly a cook.
That left three: Martin himself clearly granted his presence as the personal gift of Osama bin Laden; a genuine chemical engineer and presumably explosives expert; and the mission commander. But he was not present. They would all meet him later.
In the midmorning, the local commander, Lampong, took a call on his satellite phone. It was brief and guarded, but enough. The Countess of Richmond had left Kota Kinabalu and was at sea. She should be coming between Tawitawi and Jolo islands round sundown. The speedboat crews that would intercept her still had four hours before they needed to leave. Suleiman and Martin had changed from their Western suits into trousers, local flowered shirts and sandals, which were provided. They were allowed down the steps into the shallow water of the creek to wash before prayers and a di
The two divers were lucky. Most of their fellow passengers were from Malaysia, and were diverted to the non-UK passport cha
It might have been the shaven skulls, the stubble on the chins or the brawny arms emerging from short-sleeved flowered shirts on a bitter British March morning, but one of the customs officers beckoned them to the examination bench. “May I see your passports, please?”
It was a formality. They were in order.
“And where have you just arrived from?”
“ Malaysia.”
“Purpose of visit?”
One of the young men pointed at his dive bag. His expression indicated it was a pretty daft question, given that the bags bore the logo of a famous scuba equipment company. It is, however, a mistake to mock a customs officer. His face remained impassive, but he had in a long career intercepted quantities of exotic smoking or injecting material coming in from the Far East. He gestured to one of the dive bags.
There was nothing inside but the usual scuba gear. As he was zipping the bag back up. he ran his fingers into the side pockets. From one, he withdrew a folded card, looked at it and read it. “Where did you get this, sir?” The diver was genuinely puzzled. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before.” A few yards away, another customs man caught the rising tension, indicated by the exemplary courtesy, and moved closer.
“Would you remain here, please?” said the first officer, and walked through a door behind him. Those ample mirrors in customs halls are not for the vain to rearrange their makeup. They have oneway vision, and behind them are the duty shift of internal security-in the case of Britain, MI5. Within minutes, both divers, with their luggage, were in separate interview rooms. The customs men went through the luggage, fin by fin, mask by mask and shirt by shirt. There was nothing illegal.
The man in plain clothes studied the now-unfolded card.
“It must have been put there by someone, but not by me,” protested the diver. By now, it was nine-thirty. Steve Hill was at his desk in Vauxhall Cross when his private and very unlisted phone rang.
“To whom am I speaking?” asked a voice. Hill bristled. “Perhaps I should ask the same question. I think you may have a wrong number,” he replied.
The M15 officer had read the text of the message stuffed into the diver’s bag.
He tended to believe the man’s explanation. In which case… “I am speaking from Heathrow, Terminal 3. The internal security office. We have intercepted a passenger from the Far East. Stuffed into his dive bag was a short handwritten message. Does ‘Crowbar’ mean anything to you?” To Steve Hill, it was like a punch in the stomach. This was no wrong number; this was no crossed line. He identified himself by service and rank, asked that both men be detained and that he was on his way. Within five minutes, his car swept out of the underground garage, crossed Vauxhall Bridge and turned down Cromwell Road to Heathrow.
It was bad luck on the divers to have lost their whole morning, but after an hour’s interrogation Steve Hill was sure they were just i
They went over everyone they had met since packing the bags. Finally one said, “Mark, do you remember that Arab-looking fella who helped you unload at the airport?”
“What Arab-looking fellow?” asked Hill.
They described the man as best they could. Black hair, black beard. Neatly trimmed. Dark eyes, olive skin. About forty-five, fit-looking. Dark suit. Hill had had the descriptions from the barber and the sailor of Ras al-Khaimah. It was Crowbar. He thanked them sincerely, and asked that they be given a chauffeured ride back to their Essex home.
When he called Gordon Phillips at Edzell and Marek Gumie
“Pull out all the stops,” he told Edzell. “Just scour the world for a missing ship.”
As with Captain Herrma
This time, there was no need for ceremony or threats of violence unless instructions were obeyed. The only task the Countess of Richmond had to perform was to disappear, with her crew, and forever. Her valuable cargo, what had lured her to these waters in the first place, would be a total write-off, which was a pity but could not be helped.
The crew were simply marched to the taffrail and machine-gu
Lampong knew his sharks.
Liam McKendrick was the last to go, roaring his rage at the killers, calling Lampong a heathen pig. The Muslim fanatic did not like being called a pig, and made sure the Liverpudlian mariner was riddled but still alive when he hit the sea.
The Abu Sayyaf pirates had sunk enough ships to know where the sea cocks were. As the keelson began to flood below the cargo, the raiders left the Countess and bobbed on the water a few cables away until she reared on her stern, prow in the air, and slid backward, tumbling slowly to the bottom of the Celebes Sea. When she was gone, the killers turned and raced for home.
For the party in the long house of the Filipino creek, it was another brief call on a sat phone from Lampong out at sea that triggered the hour of departure. They filed down to the cruiser moored at the foot of the steps. As they went, Martin realized that the ones being left behind were not showing any sense of relief but only deep envy.