Free Deadly Impact--A Richard Mariner nautical adventure by Peter Tonkin Page B

Robin’s message comes in. Harry’s fingers are shaking with cold because it is drizzling and the temperature is unseasonably low, even allowing for the time, which is a little after two a.m. And a bathing costume is the least appropriate apparel that anyone could possibly be wearing under the circumstances. In fact, Harry is fortunate not to be working stark naked. ‘Come on,’ snarls the Pitman. ‘You can strip it faster than that!’
    Harry’s shaking fingers pull the little Hechler and Kock P30 apart, laying the sections neatly on the table. Harry is working blind: sight is denied for it is well after midnight and the lights are out, even though this is just another one of the Pitman’s little training exercises. ‘What really bugs me, Pitman, is that there’s nothing equally uncomfortable I can make you do with a computer programme, a virus or a worm. I think you’re beginning to take these exercises too far!’
    â€˜You’re breaking my heart,’ grates the Pitman gutturally. ‘I’m not wearing any more than you are but I’m not shivering or whining. Now get a move on. Just ’cause you’re the hacker doesn’t guarantee you’ll only get to sit on your ass and play with your laptops and tablets. And no one ever promised us we were going to have to field-strip our weapons on a sunny afternoon!’
    Just as Harry snaps the final sections of the handgun back together, the Pitman’s phone rings. Robin’s face fills the screen, providing the only light. ‘We’ve lost contact,’ Robin says. ‘Richard should’ve reported. He hasn’t.’
    â€˜We’re on our way,’ promises the Pitman. ‘Harry: dry off and do your magic thing. I’ll look after the Hechler and get us some clothes.’
    â€˜There’s more to it than that,’ Robin continues as the Pitman carries the phone into the house behind the discreet little office front overlooking the canal at Jolicoeurstraat in the Zuidoost business district, flicking on the lights. ‘Richard’s been lackadaisical, as usual, but like I said, he swore he’d contact me the instant they went aboard.’
    â€˜OK. But you said there was more.’
    â€˜Have you heard of the ’Ndrangheta?’
    â€˜In Amsterdam, who hasn’t?’ answers the Pitman, frowning. ‘They’re supposed to be shoving shitloads of coke in through here. All through Europe – and into Russia. Europoort, St Petersburg, Archangel. Anywhere a cargo ship can dock – especially one that’s come out of Gioia Tauro. Word is that a pretty high percentage of the coke they transport out of Gioia Tauro used to come into Amsterdam or Europoort for shipment and distribution through Europe. But now apparently they’re opening up the Russian market. They’re tough guys, the ’Ndrangheta – you don’t want to mess with them. What have they got to do with this?’
    Robin explained in some detail what Pat Toomey told her.
    â€˜Chill, Robin,’ advises Pitman after a while. ‘We’re always packed and ready to hit the road. Like the flashlight batteries –
Ever-ready
…’
    By the time Robin has finished speaking and the Pitman has broken contact, Harry is seated at the computer. Its screen is rapidly filling with flight information far more intimate and detailed than anything Flightbookers, Kayak or Expedia could offer. The Pitman is pulling out pre-packed bags and backpacks.
    â€˜Fastest way out is on a Japan airlines departing Schiphol,’ calls Harry, hacking into Schiphol airport’s system. ‘It’s operated by Finnair. Boeing 747. One stop in Helsinki, then over the Pole to Narita. I’ve no doubt someone can chopper us out from there. Say twenty hours in all to
Sayonara
. Twenty-two tops. Gates close at two-thirty. Lift-off at five-thirty.’
    â€˜It’s fully