She had been toying with the idea of seeing if they could rent a sea-facing room for the afternoon, but dismissed it. It would have been a good observation point but would probably lead to idle speculation among the staff. And she doubted the Grossman group was the only one interested in current comings and goings at this particular point today.
She pulled a floppy hat from the back seat and grabbed a beach bag. “Come on,” she said, donning her sunglasses. “Time to hit the beach. I think the enemy’s arrived.”
Palmer followed her glance towards the Land Cruiser in front of the Palma hotel. “Right. But which enemy are you talking about?”
He clamped on a baseball cap and got out of the car, dropping the binoculars into a plastic bag. His pale legs stuck out from a pair of tan shorts, and his loose cotton shirt flapped in the breeze.
Riley looked at him and raised her eyebrows. “Palmer — you’re a sight.”
“Don’t knock it,” he murmured cheerfully. “I’ve had my moments.”
“Yes…but when?”
They walked down onto the beach and sat just below road level. From here they had a good view of the sea, the beach and, if they peered over the top, of the hotels and car park as well as the road from both directions. There were few people on the sand, and they guessed many had gone in for lunch. Out at the survey site, the boats were silent and deserted.
They settled back to wait. Occasionally Palmer raised his binoculars to scan the horizon, while Riley applied sun-cream to her arms and legs.
After a few minutes Riley heard a car door slam, and risked a peek back at the Land Cruiser. She was just in time to see a man walking away from the vehicle and entering the Palma. It was too brief a look to see whether it was John Mitcheson or one of his men.
A crunch of tyres on gravel drew her attention to the other end of the car park, as a nondescript white Toyota stopped near the Flores and parked away from the other vehicles. When no one got out, Riley nudged Palmer.
“Fancy some lunch, Frank?” she asked. “My treat.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Lead the way, boss. Throw in a gallon or two of iced water and I’m game.”
They picked up their bags and walked across to the Flores, away from the Land Cruiser. As they neared the Toyota, Riley risked a glance from behind her sunglasses. She could just make out the shape of a driver through the glass, but no detail.
Inside, the Flores was cool and airy. A lounge area ran along the front of the building, with a canopy over the glass to provide shaded viewing of the sea and beach. Riley ordered sandwiches and drinks, and they sat and waited to see what happened.
Six miles out from the coast the Soukia was nearing the end of its run before landing its catch at a small harbour near Almeria. The skipper scanned the horizon, eyes alert for a boat approaching or the sudden arrival of the Spanish coastguard. He also checked the sky for the tell-tale dot of a helicopter; the drugs patrols were using newer and more modern methods to track down boats like the Soukia and the risk was increasing daily.
Yet they had been lucky for a long time. Easy runs with no problems other than having to deal with the drunken Englishman, Bignell. Now, though, things had changed; the Englishman had gone and a woman had taken his place. He hawked and spat over the side. She wouldn’t last, the fat woman. She didn’t sound as though she knew what she was doing. Still, there would always be someone else to take her place, eager to trade for the powdered gold or anything else with a commercial value.
A shout from one of his men made him look ahead. A speck was curving round on an intercept course towards them. He throttled back and shouted for his men to get the package ready.
The speck became a fast, white launch favoured by the pleasure-seekers on the beaches of Spain. A would-be rich man’s toy that would not stand the first big wave that hit it. Ideal for this kind of job, though.
With another glance skywards to check for aircraft, he waved a hand and his men jettisoned the rubber package and scuba-gear over the side, where it sank just below the surface, its position marked by a small coloured buoy.
He saw a similar marker-buoy fall away from the approaching launch, and increased his own speed towards it. The launch growled by a hundred metres away, its twin screws lifting its nose clear of the waves. There were two men on board, both in their middle thirties, looking tanned and fit. The skipper noticed they stood in the launch with a relaxed stance, like men accustomed to the sea. With a faint hint of anxiety he realised these men weren’t amateurs.
As the launch fell back and curved round to pick up the package, the skipper picked up his mobile phone and watched. It was as he thought; the boat had not even stopped and was now powering back towards the mainland. Very smooth.
He slowed the Soukia alongside the marker-buoy and watched his men lean out with a grappling hook to snag the rope. After the other boat’s display of expertise, he hoped they caught it first time and didn’t expect him to come round for a second try. He was about to press the send button on the mobile to confirm all was okay, when he saw that, instead of having a rope and package attached to the buoy, there was nothing but lead weights hanging from it to keep it upright in the water.
He turned to shout at the launch. To his horror, instead of disappearing towards land, it had slowed and crept up alongside and was now reducing speed to match his own. One of the men was standing against the gunwale. He was holding a gleaming black machine pistol and smiling in anticipation.
The skipper desperately slammed the throttle open and felt the engine rumble beneath his feet. With his free hand he stabbed the send button on the mobile, but it was too late. The gun chattered briefly, and he looked back to see both his men knocked overboard as they tried to run.
As he screamed out what was happening into the phone, hoping someone was listening, the launch surged forward until it was alongside the wheelhouse. The man with the gun grinned mirthlessly, his face absurdly young, and changed magazines. Then, as casually as if he was spraying flowers, he pressed the trigger and spewed the contents of the new magazine through the open wheelhouse door.
Chapter 42
The white Toyota was halfway across the car park before it registered on either Riley or Palmer that something had happened. With tyres screaming it skidded on the gravel and out onto the road heading towards Malaga, nearly hitting a local bus coming the other way. In the Flores lounge, tourists craned their necks, muttered disapproval, then returned to their meals.
“Someone forgot an appointment, you reckon?” Riley asked.
“Either that or something much closer to home,” Palmer replied enigmatically.
“Segassa’s men?”
But Palmer was already rising, and Riley grabbed her bag. “You pay — I’ll get the car,” she said, and hurried through the sliding doors out to the car park.
Palmer called the waiter over and settled the bill. As he was about to follow Riley, a figure stepped up alongside him carrying a rolled-up beach towel. He turned and found himself looking at the smiling face of Doug.
“Well, as I live and breathe,” Doug smiled, “if it isn’t Frank Palmer, ace investigator.” He prodded Palmer in the ribs with something hard. It was a large automatic pistol with the safety catch off, wrapped in the towel so nobody would see it.
“I didn’t bring my computer with me today,” Palmer said dryly, “if that’s what you’re after.” He risked a quick glance across the road to where Riley was digging in her bag for her car keys. He guessed the ex-Marine hadn’t spotted her and turned to keep the man’s attention on himself. Very carefully, he put his cigarette lighter down on the table beside his binoculars.
“Good one, Frank,” Doug smiled. “Very funny, considering your position. Come on — we’re going for a ride, you and me.” He bent and picked up the binoculars Palmer had put down and motioned for him to lead the way out of the door. They walked across to the Land Cruiser, where Doug opened the door and shuffled Palmer into the driver’s seat. Then he hopped into the rear, the gun never shifting away from Palmer for an instant, and threw the binoculars into the back. “Okay, Frank. Let’s go to Malaga.”