Up close, I could see that the apartment blocks opposite the entrance to the cargo quay were still under construction. I went left again so that I could circle around the back of the development and climb on to the breakwater via the beach without having to go anywhere near the gates. I’d avoid most of the streetlamps too.

As soon as I was in the shadow of the shell of the third building, I flicked on my torch, unfolded the blueprint of Minerva and fixed the boat’s external and internal layout in my head.

It took me the best part of an hour to reach my target and clamber over the piles of totally randomly spaced and angled cubes. There was enough ambient light to allow me to spot the difference between the concrete platforms and the crevices between them, but it was still slow going.

I stayed as close as possible to the seaward side of the wall until I reached the far end of it, then moved down closer to the water. That way I could use the cubes at the top of the pile as cover. Once I’d rounded the tip I went down on my belly and manoeuvred myself into a vertical space that afforded a view of the quay without the need to raise my head above the parapet.

The overhead lights had been switched off. The mobile crane was now parked about five metres away and the three-tonner had disappeared, so whatever Dijani had taken so much trouble to bring in had obviously been hoisted out of Minerva and gone with it.

The BMW hadn’t moved, and a slightly battered Land Cruiser sat alongside it.

I reckoned that meant Dijani would have at least a four-man back-up. More if there were still crew aboard. I couldn’t see anybody on the quay, the gangway, or on stag on the deck, so I crept along the back wall and took up position in the shadow of the crane. I had a better view of each of the possible areas of compromise now, and they were still all clear. Maybe they were too busy doing sailor stuff to pay any attention to me.

Back in the real world, the odds were strongly against me. But, fuck it, I’d come for Dijani, and this was my best chance of catching him. I couldn’t lurk there all night in the hope that he’d wander down the gangway at some point and introduce himself. I had to go aboard and get stuck in. And the stern hawser seemed like a good place to start. It was further away from me than the pointy end, but lower, and most of the windows on the bridge faced forward.

There were no portholes below the deck rail, so I crossed the quay and pretty much hugged the hull as I went for it. Unless one of the team leant over the thing and looked straight down, or suddenly decided to poke their head over the gangway, I wouldn’t be pinged. That was what I told myself, anyway. If any headlamps approached from the entrance gate, I was in the shit.

The rope was almost the same circumference as my grip. I reached up and closed my fingers around it, then began to haul myself up.

You always feel exposed when you’re suspended six metres above the water. The trick is not to think about it. I zeroed in on the place I was aiming for, three more metres above my head. I clenched the rope between my knees and ankles and pressed on, hand over hand, until I was able to grab the lower rim of the hawsehole.

I raised my head far enough to take a look around the rear deck before easing my shoulders through it. A guy in denim was leaning on the seaward rail. I wouldn’t have been able to tell whether he was Elvis’s mate in the rowing boat even if he’d been looking in my direction.

He had unfolded the bipod of his SAW and placed it at his feet. He must have been told to keep it out of sight. Even in southern Italy, 5.56mm Squad Automatic Weapons tend to attract the wrong kind of attention.

He tapped a cigarette out of its pack and lit up. Unless he was interrupted, or was one of those compulsive smokers who take a couple of puffs, then send the rest cartwheeling into the sea, I reckoned I had three minutes before he was fully functional again.

I wasn’t sure that I could haul myself aboard, cross the deck and drop him before he turned his weapon on me or raised the alarm. But a SAW was definitely more lawful than a stiletto and an UZI pen. And there was really only one way of finding out.

My main enemies were my noise and his peripheral vision. When I saw him glancing anxiously to his left after lighting up, I realized he was more worried about getting a bollocking from his boss than he was about keeping watch in case their diversion hadn’t worked and the GIS rolled on to the quay.

I decided to go for it.

I reached in and grabbed the rope just short of the noose that had been looped over the bollard. My target glanced to his left for the second time in as many drags, and sucked in another lungful. His body language told me he was so wired he was smoking at warp speed.

The sea breeze had kicked in, and got busy rattling whatever hadn’t been tied down. A burst of laughter and chanting carried across the water from one of the streets near the fortress. My target leant further over the rail and scanned that side of the harbour, trying to ID where the noise was coming from. Or maybe he just wished he was having as good a time as they were.

I pulled my upper body through the hole, brought up my knees, then my feet and, keeping in the shadow of the bulwark, got my boots on the deck. Staying beneath the rail, I brought out Elvis’s blade and circled around behind him. The closer I got, the more of his toxic Eastern European tobacco I was sharing.

I focused on the back of his head as I ran the last few metres towards him. Nothing else mattered. I couldn’t even hear my own movement.

I gripped the blade in my right fist, my thumb over the top of the handle to prevent my sweat-covered palm sliding down it once I got the thing working. I wasn’t going to fuck up like I had with Elvis. I was going to get straight in, get it done and move on.

One pace left.

He finally realized someone was behind him, but it was too late. He didn’t have time to turn. I was already climbing aboard him, my legs scissoring, my left hand flying in front of his face and slamming against his mouth.

I pulled him back with my arm, my knees and calves locked around his waist. He struggled to stay upright, but it wasn’t happening. I started to take him down with me, keeping his body on top of mine as I braced my back for a hard landing. Keeping my head up, I clamped his mouth even harder to keep him quiet when it happened.

I hit the deck.

A split second later he landed on top of me.

Fighting for breath, I arched my back to push up and present his chest as I punched the blade into him again and again, wherever I could make contact.

Under my palm, I felt him trying to scream.

He jerked and twisted, desperate to anticipate the next stab and avoid it. But I kept them deliberately erratic.

The point of the stiletto hit a rib and juddered until it found flesh that yielded. I forced it down again, into the side of his chest now, then switched back to the top again, trying to get it into his heart.

I didn’t care where it hit. I just wanted him dead.

He jerked again, less violently. I kept on going, fuck knew how often, until he finally stopped.

I didn’t waste time trying to catch my breath. I heaved him off immediately. I wanted him out of the way before he leaked too heavily.

I dragged him back to where I’d first seen him and checked if he had more ammo for the SAW. He didn’t, so I bundled him over the handrail. If there was a splash, I didn’t hear it.

17

I picked up the SAW and extended its butt. It was a Western infantry weapon, probably lifted from Coalition troops in Afghan or Iraq. You could belt-feed these things, but this one had a regular thirty-round M4 assault rifle mag. I released it and pushed against the rounds. My finger pressed them down a little more than a full mag would have let me. It didn’t really matter: it was full enough.