The harbormaster smiled. “Bit of action at last, eh, Salik?”
“Oh, at best it’ll be contraband cigarettes and booze. But I’ll take what I can get.”
The trawler captain expertly steered the vessel toward the tip of the jetty and slowed the boat to five knots. At the far end of the pier, standing on the harbor wall, was a solitary figure. Though he was too far away to be distinguishable, almost certainly it was the harbormaster, eagerly awaiting his usual gift of liquor.
The captain imagined walking down the pier, holding his gift in two arms, greeting Papik Zeeb with a big smile, strolling alongside the old man to his car, and helping him put the crate into his trunk while Will Cochrane ran down the jetty and vanished before the captain and Zeeb returned to go through the formalities of checking paperwork.
That’s how he’d told Will Cochrane how it would happen. Easy for a man of his talents. But the MI6 officer had said nothing in response, just looked at him while checking the workings of his handgun with an expression that made even the captain feel considerably ill at ease.
Møller stopped his car and said to Johanne, “With me. Fast.”
The two police officers ran to part of the harbor wall that hid them from the sea. Salik Knudsen was only ten yards away from them, still rooted at the base of the jetty.
Møller called out, “Salik! Over here,” beckoned him when the customs officer looked over, and crouched down even though there was no need to do so. Johanne handed Møller a pistol and spare cartridges, which Møller in turn thrust into Knudsen’s hand. “You may need these.”
Knudsen asked what was going on.
Møller told him.
“What’s a black operative?”
Møller answered, “Apparently, someone who can kill everyone in Tasiilaq.”
The captain turned off the boat’s motor, shoved a cigar into the corner of his mouth, and smiled. The trip had earned him two thousand dollars. Cochrane had objected to paying the sum, but the captain had rightly pointed out that their deal was to get Cochrane out of Norway and dump him in adjacent Sweden, Finland, or Russia, but for some reason Cochrane had wanted to head west and enter Greenland. That was above and beyond the captain’s duty. It meant a financial deal needed to be struck.
Two thousand dollars didn’t sound like much, but it was to a fisherman who only occasionally could top up his income with more lucrative and illegal activities. And right now, the fishing catches were poor and the supply and demand for smuggled goods was going through a dry patch. Two thousand dollars would go a long way to keep him and his family alive until the warmer months produced full nets of herring and cod, and the hull of his vessel could once again contain gold, counterfeit fifty-dollar notes, and maybe some white powder.
He exited the cabin, picked up the wooden box of bourbon, stepped onto the jetty, and frowned as he saw three people in the distance walking slowly toward him.
Møller gripped his handgun tight as he cautiously stepped along the pier. He glanced at Johanne, then Knudsen. “You know him?”
The customs officer nodded. “He’s the captain. I boarded his vessel a year ago. Probably he’s got his wife and sons with him.”
The captain stopped. He was approximately one hundred yards away.
Møller whispered, “He might be about to bolt.”
Knudsen looked at the calm sea either side of the jetty. The nearest land and other vessels in the port were at least seventy yards away from the jetty, and the water around it would quickly kill anyone who dived into it without wearing a scuba dry suit. “Where to?”
“Drive his boat out of here; head home.”
Knudsen shook his head as he continued onward with his two colleagues. “He’d easily be picked up at sea. He’s trapped.”
Møller imagined Cochrane waiting inside the boat with a weapon, cornered, with no intention of giving himself up. His voice shook as he said, “Trapped? Oh good.”
They moved closer.
The captain remained motionless.
Forty yards away.
Møller shouted, “Get your crew out here.”
The captain placed his box on the jetty. “What’s this about?”
Knudsen answered, “Just routine. We’re checking all boats coming into Tasiilaq. We can get this done in minutes and be on our way.”
They moved closer to the captain, stopped when they were a few feet away from him, and kept their pistols pointing at the decking so as not to antagonize the burly sailor.
The captain glanced over his shoulder, placed two fingers in his mouth, and emitted a high-pitched whistle. His three sons and wife stepped off the trawler and looked puzzled and anxious as they moved to the captain’s side.
Knudsen smiled, and tried to keep his voice calm and jovial. “You got anything on board we should know about?”
The captain did not smile. Instead the broad man momentarily looked like he was going to step forward and rip Knudsen’s head off. “Like what?”
“Like a man who wants to get into Greenland unnoticed.”
The captain spat on the jetty, his saliva brown from cigar residue. “We’re not a fucking ferry service. We fish.”
“I know.” Knudsen shrugged, hoping the gesture made it look like they were all in this together and that this was a procedural load of nonsense. “Nuuk’s up its own ass. Told us we had to check every vessel. No exceptions.” He laughed. “My bosses have spent too long away from the sea.” His smile receded. “But I got no choice. Need to know if”—he nodded toward the trawler—“there’s a man in there.”
The captain was silent, his eyes darting between the three people in front of him.
Møller felt his sweat slime between his hand and the pistol’s grip. “You looking to cause us trouble?”
“Trouble?” The captain’s voice boomed. He kicked the box, inside which bottles clanged against each other. “I was looking to give you boys a good time, not trouble. You’re the ones with guns.”
Møller glanced at Knudsen. “You keep them here. We’ll go on board.”
As Møller and Johanne walked past the trawler crew, the captain lit the stub of his cigar and shouted out, “Good luck with that.”
It was the last thing Møller wanted to hear. He glanced at his rookie colleague, nodded, gripped his pistol, and moved toward the vessel feeling sick with fear.
Will Cochrane slid the workings of his handgun back and forth, placed the pistol in his lap, flexed his muscular fingers, and arched his back. He could hear seagulls and waves gently lapping against the boat, but he had no care for the tranquillity of his surroundings. He could sense that danger was drawing closer to him.
As she stepped onto the trawler, Johanne thought three things. One, she’d never searched a boat before; two, community policing wasn’t supposed to be like this; and three, perhaps she should go for a drink after work with Daniel Møller — providing of course they weren’t hospitalized or dead.
Daniel seemed nervous. His hands were shaking and his face was covered with perspiration, though she could see that he was making every effort to stay in control. He was a scared man who had no choice but to face up to this situation and act brave, and that appealed to her. Less so his office habits, but guys can be like that, and she knew he meant her no disrespect. He needed a woman to make him better lunches.
Might be too late for that.
She followed him into the hold, recalling a jumped-up firearms instructor yelling at her during police training that she was the worst shot he’d ever had the displeasure of teaching. Officer Møller was in front of her, his upper body hunched, breathing fast as they entered a small cabin with bunk beds. He stopped by a narrow ladder, and pointed at his chest and the ceiling. He was going to somewhere above them, on his own. Oh yes, the place where they sail the boat, or steer it, or drive it, or whatever was the right term. That was good, bad, and bad. Good that she didn’t have to go up there, bad that Daniel might get his throat slit the moment he reached the top of the ladder and stuck his head into the tiny cabin, and bad that she’d be left on her own with a weapon that didn’t deserve to be in her hands.