The doctor finished changing the plastic bag and released a catch, sending more fluids into the unconscious submarine captain. “I’ll organise the nurses. We’ll be ready. But we don’t have any space. We need somewhere to receive these prisoners, if they exist.”
“I’ll talk to Silvia. We’ll sort something out for you.”
• • •
It was her second stakeout in two days. This time Grace Garet was in the Pytheas restaurant. It was a great relief to have found that the Heytons were not assigned to the Colaeus. The head of the much smaller Pytheas, Mr Jade, was a far more agreeable young man who had a healthy respect for the authority of the security team. He had been more than happy not only to show her the ration records for the previous week, but also to help her go through them and find the page she needed.
As she suspected, the records showed that the Heytons had been in and claimed every meal owed to them since they apparently disappeared. Just like the Morans.
When she suggested her plan to check all ration cards during evening service, he had been positively brimming with enthusiasm for the idea. So much so, that Grace began to wonder if he wasn’t perhaps a little taken with her.
She encountered no resistance from the security officer assigned to the restaurant because she had already run her plan by Max. He hadn’t been keen until she pointed out that her shift would be over by the time she was in the restaurant, so she was effectively putting in overtime. He couldn’t really argue with that. In his view, putting more security into a restaurant wasn’t a bad thing, and if one of those officers was going voluntarily and in her own time, so much the better.
And so, once again, Grace found herself politely but firmly asking to see every ration card as the queue moved slowly in front of her.
It took her exactly twenty-three minutes to find her. Mrs Heyton, a severe-looking woman whose grey hair hung at the sides of her face like iron curtains, presented her ration voucher without question or expression.
“Mrs Heyton?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re collecting your husband’s meal as well, are you?”
“That’s why I gave you two vouchers, yes.”
“Do you have any formal identification with you, Mrs Heyton?”
The woman’s expression changed for the first time during the encounter. Her eyes shifted from side to side almost imperceptibly, as if she was wary that someone was watching her. Grace noticed the nearly invisible cue. It was exactly what she’d been hoping for. Suspicion was aroused. Something was up, she just had to find out what.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs Heyton said, “I’m not in the habit of carrying a passport with me. Why would I? Are we expecting an influx of immigration inspectors?”
“What about a driver’s licence?”
“Don’t be absurd. May I collect my meal now?”
Grace glared at her. She couldn’t force her to prove her identity, but at the same time, something was clearly bothering Mrs Heyton, and Grace desperately wanted to know what it was. “How do I know you are who you say you are? That you are the person named on this ration voucher?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed and she fixed Grace with a stare that made the security officer feel like she was a ten-year-old back at school. “That, young lady, is your problem, not mine. If the committee wants people to be able to prove their identity, they’d better issue identity cards and mandate that they are to be carried at all times.”
“Okay, you’re right. Thank you for your cooperation, ma’am. Enjoy your meal, and have a nice day.” She held out the vouchers and they were snatched from her hand.
Grace remained in the queue for another few minutes. She didn’t want to arouse the suspicion of Mrs Heyton by stopping her spot checks immediately. Instead, she waited until there was a natural lull, nobody else waiting in line. She then ducked out of the restaurant and took up position crouched behind a wide display of miniature palm trees opposite the sweeping entrance. From there, she was sure to be able to spot her target as she left with her trays of food.
“’Scuse me, love. Need to get in there.” The voice belonged to a beefy-looking man in his fifties. He had almost no hair, and a neck that was as wide as his head. He wore green trousers and a grey t-shirt smeared with sweat and soil. “I’m digging’ out them trees.”
Grace waved her hands at him, but he ignored her completely. “I quite like ’em to be honest with you. S’gonna be a bit dull round ’ere once all them plants ’ave gone. Need the soil though, see? For the farm.”
Between the fronds of an almost luminous green shrub, she spied the unmistakable hair of Mrs Heyton, who glanced briefly at the gardener, frowned, then turned right and headed towards a bank of lifts.
Grace stood, pushed the man — still talking — to the side, and followed.
Fifteen
SITTING IN THE situation room, Jake was transported back to the time two teams from HMS Ambush had mounted the operation to retake the Spirit of Arcadia from the clutches of Flynn Bakeman and his group of so-called disciples. Back then, he had monitored proceedings from the cramped control room of the submarine.
This time the setup felt more elaborate, and that meant a greater sense of being disconnected from what was about to happen just a kilometre away. Whether or not that was a good thing was something that could be argued extensively, if anyone had the time.
They didn’t.
It was four in the morning. The dead hour, they had called it. The theory was simple enough. At such an early hour, the human body was programmed to be at its least active. It was late, even for those who enjoyed a late night, and it was earlier than most early risers were used to. At 4am, almost everyone was asleep.
They didn’t expect the crew of the Lance to be asleep, not all of them. But in the dead hour, they would be less reactive; off their guard and off their game. The submariners on the other hand, worked in twenty-four-hour shifts, rarely saw daylight, and were therefore immune to the demands of their body clocks.
There were other advantages to launching an attack before dawn. The darkness offered extra cover, for one. And for another, most of the community aboard the Arcadia was tucked up in bed, soundly asleep and blissfully oblivious to the dangerous operation that was now underway.
There had been debate about whether or not to make the plan public. Very few thought it was a good idea. They weren’t organising a spectacle, but that was what it would become.
Jake looked at the big screens mounted on the wall. By day, this television lounge showed DVDs on a loop, and was mostly used by retired folk who had little else to do with their time except reminisce. They would have been shocked by the images now being shown. The middle screen carried a live feed from a shoulder-mounted waterproof high-definition camera, attached to Able Seaman Brian Thomas, who was leading the team. Its encrypted signal was sent to the communications room on the submarine, unscrambled, and relayed up to the makeshift operations room for the benefit of the committee members who were to witness the operation first hand. It was one of the conditions that had been agreed upon when they had voted whether or not to take military intervention.
The left-hand screen showed a digitally enhanced shot of the Lance, beamed directly from HMS Ambush’s photonics mast. The ship was lit up like a football stadium, with floodlights illuminating every inch of her as clear as day. More lights shone outwards, creating a halo of light on the sea around her. A surface attack would stand little chance of success. Fortunately, a surface attack wasn’t on the cards.
The right-hand screen showed another image of the Lance, this one even closer in. It was the thermal scan from the infrared mast. Again, Ralf’s equipment had greatly enhanced the picture, and even a layman like Jake could see the bright red patches that were people inside the ship. Most were in the middle section. Three on the bridge, two more on the deck below, and then others scattered throughout the other decks. More red blotches stood guard around the perimeter of the vessel. Jake was very conscious of the fact that there were still no signs of life shown within the hull itself. He didn’t doubt that someone had been there, banging out Morse code to the divers, but were they still there? And more worryingly, were there more people in there? They’d counted sixteen people on the I.R. scan. The submariners were confident that their team of fifteen could easily take them all; they had the element of surprise, and they were well trained for exactly this kind of thing. But if there were more, hidden out of reach of their scanners…