Chapter 69

MV Swan Hunter . The Arctic Bridge.

It was the Devil's Hour, 3 a.m. The time of night when ghosts, witches and demons were at their most powerful. For superstitious Russian sailors, 3 a.m. was the wrong time to be out on deck.

But it was the right time for Captain Volkov.

MV Swan Hunter would soon enter Canada's exclusive economic zone and the Royal Canadian Navy regularly patrolled their waters. And although the RCN was more concerned with protecting one of the world's richest fishing resources than boarding a grain ship they'd seen a hundred times before, it was a risk Captain Volkov didn't need to take.

Anyway, Volkov was sick of the Australian. He hadn't seen him since he'd cut off his ear, but he could feel his presence. He knew he'd be in his cabin, wishing ill on everyone on board. It was like having Jonah as a passenger. The Australian was bad news. The sooner he was off his ship, the better for everyone.

Volkov sent a message to the first mate. Told him the crew were in their cabins and that he was ready. The first mate replied immediately. Said he would collect the Australian and lock everyone else inside just in case. It wouldn't be necessary. Volkov had plied the crew with vodka all night. He said it was to celebrate leaving Russian waters after the two-year refit. Really, it was to ensure they were sleeping like the drunks that, given the chance, Volkov knew them to be. By the time they woke, they would be able to see Canada.

Jenkins, the now one-eared Australian, had wrapped a bandage around his head. A crude job made from strips of pillowcase. He glared at Volkov but lowered his eyes when the Russian showed him his clasp knife. Jenkins knew he wouldn't be thrown overboard like the bosun. He was mission critical. He was the only one who could navigate the smuggled cargo around Nova Scotia and on to Maine. But he also knew he still had lots of appendages Captain Volkov could cut off. So, instead of pushing his luck, Jenkins swallowed his pride and thought of what he would do when the job was over, and he had a million bucks in an offshore account and nothing to do but get fat.

Volkov and Jenkins made their way to hold five – the one with the false bottom. The first mate unlocked the controls to the crane. They had rehearsed this once in Murmansk, and that had been once too much. It wasn't rocket science. Volkov pressed the button that opened hold five's cargo hatch. The hatch cover was two large panels. They were on wheels. Hydraulic rams pushed them along their tracks until they hung over the edge of the ship like stubby wings. When the hold was open, the Australian jumped into the false bottom. His feet sank into the animal feed. The first mate lowered the crane's jib. Four chains were fitted to the hook. The Australian fastened a chain to each corner of the false bottom and climbed back out. The first mate raised the jib. The false bottom, animal feed and all, lifted into the frigid air. When it was clear of the hold, the first mate rotated the jib until the load was over the water. He then lowered it into the sea and unhooked it. The false bottom and the chains disappeared into the depths of the Arctic. The Australian leaned over the side, but it was too dark to see anything.

The first mate switched on the hold lights, and Jenkins and Volkov climbed down the hold ladder. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just stared at what it was they were being paid to smuggle.

It was a boat. A four-year-old NorseBoat 21.5 called Lady Sybil to be precise. The open model with a fiberglass hull. The kind of boat you'd expect to see sailing the Miami coast. It had an easy-to-handle sloop rig. Sailed well. Not that the Australian would use the rig. Nor would he use the four-horsepower outboard engine that came standard with the NorseBoat. This one had been fitted with a pair of twenty-fives.

‘What's inside this thing, mate?' Jenkins said.

Volkov didn't answer. He didn't want to know what was hidden in the NorseBoat. He couldn't imagine what was so valuable it warranted such an extraordinary operation. Two years in a dry dock would cost the company tens of millions of dollars. A solid-gold NorseBoat wouldn't cost that much. Instead, he said, ‘Just do your fucking job.'

The NorseBoat was in a padded iron cradle. More air than metal. Sturdy. It served two purposes: to protect the boat in transit, and to lift the boat out of the hold and onto the sea. Volkov and Jenkins fixed chains to each corner of the cradle. The first mate lowered the jib, and Volkov fixed the chains to the crane's hook.

Jenkins climbed on board and fitted the two outboards. He checked every one of the jerry cans to make sure none of them had leaked. There were twenty in total. Every bit of stowage on the NorseBoat was carrying spare fuel. He opened his provisions box. It was full of jerky and nuts and chocolate and other high-energy food. Nothing that needed cooking. He tapped his water container. It was full. He opened his duffel bag and pulled out the clothing he'd have to wear when he was on the open water. He'd asked an Alaskan trawlerman what he would need and written down everything the cranky old man had told him. You didn't get to be an old Alaskan trawlerman without learning how to stay warm and dry. He pulled on a dry suit, face mask and goggles, an alpaca sweater and some padded trousers. Thick gloves. Few more items.

‘Are you ready?' Volkov asked.

‘I'm ready,' Jenkins replied.

Volkov made a circling motion above his head, and the cradle, the NorseBoat and the Australian began to rise out of the hold. It reminded Volkov of an elephant in a sling he'd seen on the Discovery Channel. It was being relocated after a run-in with poachers. Volkov climbed back out and watched the first mate manoeuvre the boat. It wasn't a difficult task. Unloading cargo was what they did. Admittedly, it was the first time they'd done it at sea. Or during the Devil's Hour. Or with someone in the cargo. But they were just details. It was still an unloading job.

The crane's jib pivoted until the NorseBoat was over the Arctic. The first mate then lowered the cradle and boat onto the sea. Volkov held his breath. In his worst nightmares he'd thought that the cradle might drag the boat down. Something would catch. Or some weird salt-air alchemy would fuse the boat and the cradle together during transit and they'd both sink like a stone. But it went as planned. The boat floated; the cradle didn't. The Australian waited until the cradle had cleared the bottom of the NorseBoat's hull, then started one of the outboard motors. He moved the boat until it was clear of the chains. The first mate released the cradle. It silently joined the false bottom on the seabed. In two years, a load of cod and skate and king crabs would call the cradle and the false bottom their home. In ten thousand years, a bunch of archaeologists would ponder its use. Good luck , the first mate thought.

Jenkins chugged a hundred yards from the MV Swan Hunter , then killed the engine. He turned to wave off the captain and the first mate. They hadn't seen eye-to-eye on this trip, but they'd achieved all their objectives.

But the deck was empty.

It was like they'd never been there.

Jenkins was alone.