Murphy patted him on the back. ‘Memories, huh? I got plenty of those. I skippered a Gato-class, the USS Becker, in the last year of the war. Took us right into the islands off Japan. We were a secret unseen escort for the Indianapolis.’
Brandon didn’t need to be told what the Indianapolis was, he had instantly recognised the ship that had delivered the first atomic bomb, as soon as the name had left Murphy’s lips. Murphy went on to explain that his submarine was one of four protecting her all the way to Tinian island. ‘Too bad, we were told to hold station to protect the island, until the Superfortresses had took off. Otherwise, those poor bastards would have not lost so many men, when they got hit on the way back to Pearl.’ They paused for a few moments, remembering the sailors who had perished that day.
Murphy then broke the silence and tapped on a dummy torpedo as he leant on it. He was more than satisfied. ‘Reb, she’ll be perfect for what we need her for. My backers have agreed your price and, I will arrange tug transportation to Hope Island.’
The old man smiled, shaking his head. ‘Sure is a long way to tow an old submarine. Still, she’s as tight as a rabbit sling and should be able to get there okay.’ He climbed up onto the sail platform to join Murphy; they both lit cigarettes as they looked out at the clear blue water.
‘So, what’s the plan when you get her there?’ enquired Brandon. ‘You can see that she’s pretty beat up inside; I guess that’s why she failed the GUPPY upgrade, unlike some of the other boats we converted and then sold off to other countries. As we speak, there could be a goddamn duel out there in the Mediterranean, ʼcos I know both the Greeks and the Turks have these babies.’
Murphy suddenly slumped forward, catching the rail with one hand. ‘You okay buddy?’ Brandon asked.
The ex-captain quickly recovered. ‘Yeah, guess I must have slipped,’ he lied, shielding the real reason for his sudden collapse — the monster that week by week for the last two months, was expanding inside his brain, affecting his co-ordination. His doctor had informed him he only had three months left before the tumour would eventually claim him. He was beginning to feel the pain again, but forced himself to last out until he was finished here.
‘We’ll fit her out okay. She will be dry-docked and used for tours.’ He turned to the old man and smiled. ‘Say what, once she’s been all fixed up, you can then come out and see her as our guest, or if you got nothing left here, maybe move to Bermuda to be a guide for us or something.’
The old man liked the sound of this proposal. After all, he had no-one left to depend on, his wife having succumbed to cancer four years previously and his only daughter now living with her navy pilot husband at the Patuxent River base in Maryland. ‘You know fella, I might just do that.’ They shook hands again. ‘So, you’ll arrange payment by next Monday. How long will it be before the tugs arrive?’
Murphy carried all this in his head, every last detail being rehearsed over the past few weeks. He explained to the old man that the tugs would be at the site first thing Wednesday morning.
Brandon nodded in satisfaction, then turned to walk back onto the quayside.
Murphy knew he had lied to the man about coming out as a guide, and neither was this submarine to become a museum exhibit. He had been checking her out for another purpose, a purpose that would see her transformed. In a way, she would get her missed GUPPY upgrade, and far more importantly, her torpedo tubes would be active for one last time. And this time, they would be used in anger.
Chapter 6
Janet Swan stared at the back of her husband across the SID office as he scribbled on the blackboard. After their wedding, three years previously, she had decided to leave her previous post in MI5, where she had been PA to the deputy head of A section, Dennis Martin, to join Swan at SID as a researcher and general secretary to operations. She watched attentively as Swan scribed the particulars of the Danvers case, while directly behind him sat his colleague, Arthur Gable.
Swan stopped writing and turned to him. ‘We don’t really have a lot to go on at the moment, but EOKA B have never committed an act of terrorism outside Cyprus, and I’m beginning to think this could still be the case. What we do know, is that the room where Danvers’ body was found was in the name of our mysterious female Spanish art dealer. The question is, how did they meet, initially?’
Gable nodded. ‘I believe you have a theory about this mysterious art dealer, Alex?’
Swan looked across at his wife and then down to Gable. ‘Yes, Arthur, and I’m hoping our friends in Portugal come up with a match for our inky fingerprint, then we will know for sure.’
Gable gave him a surprised look. ‘Why Portugal?’
‘Because I think our killer could be a woman called Sapphira Menendez, a professional assassin, otherwise known as the Praying Mantis.’
He turned to his wife. ‘Janet dear, I wonder if you could pull what we have on the killing of Sahid Mahmoud, the executive director of Eloron Oil, assassinated four years ago in Paris. I need to know the details up to his body being found and, I would like to have a look at the witness reports.’
Gable rose from his chair, and moving towards the board, placed his finger on the initials found at the murder scene. ‘So, if it was her, EOKA B hired her services?’
Swan shook his head. ‘It’s the first time this organisation has committed anything like this on the British mainland. All their work has been done in Cyprus.’
Gable suddenly had an idea. ‘Then, could it be the IRA putting the blame on another terrorist group?’ He then second guessed himself. ‘Then again, we know first-hand they like to claim responsibility for what they do.’
‘And it’s hardly likely they would hire someone else to do this,’ Swan added.
Gable walked over to the kitchen and grabbed the kettle. ‘So, Alex, What’s the whole story on our little femme-fatale, then?’
Swan explained to him that Sapphira Menendez was born in Portugal and that her father, Raoul Menendez, was imprisoned as an activist against the Salazar regime. ‘He was sent to a political prison, but during a riot, was killed, and seeing that he gained a lot of followers for his cause against Estado Novo, it was always suspected he had been deliberately murdered by the prison guards on orders from above. Of course, this was never proven. They were accused by many of his followers of having made it look like an accident, suggesting that even the riot had been staged, just to get to him. Anyway, his daughter, Sapphira, used to visit him regularly in the prison up to the time of his death, then suddenly she disappeared.’ Swan continued with his explanation, saying that she was known to have been in a relationship with a man called Ramon Silva, who was known to have strong connection to the Basque terrorist group, ETA.
Gable nodded. ‘So it sounds to me like she joined ETA, learned her trade to kill, then, I suppose, decided it was a profitable business.’
‘Precisely that, Arthur. The first known killing was seven years ago in Berne, Switzerland. A banker called Franz Gurner. He was about to spill the beans on a major corruption scandal involving a Swiss bank and its connections to the mafia and was to testify in the International Criminal Court. They found him in his own flat the night before he was to leave for the Hague — two punctures behind the head and his throat cut.’
‘Exactly the same method as Danvers,’ said Gable.
Swan nodded at the statement, explaining that two years later in Madrid, a general of the Spanish army was found in a hotel and that the same method of killing had been used. ‘This assassin began to leave the same calling card. Then a year after that, in Rome, an Italian politician known to have had links with the Soviets was also a possible victim of this female assassin. After which, Interpol got involved, nicknaming her the Praying Mantis after the insect that kills after making love; this notorious killer was now top of their most wanted list. Then of course, there was Mahmoud in Paris.’