The Chemical Reaction Read online

  She stopped as his expression darkened. What did she see there? Something new. Was it fear? No; Gio was in his element out here in the storm. Something had changed between them. Gone was the easy intimacy, replaced by a new reserve.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  He put a finger to her lips.

  ‘I need to check something.’ He turned away and dropped through the hatch.

  Jaq stood alone on the deck, fighting the untrammelled forces of nature. No time to think about Gio right now. The yacht was increasingly hard to handle. Even with reduced sail she was struggling to maintain course, to keep the wind in the sails, to stop the boat broaching again.

  Giovanni popped his head up from the hatch, his eyebrows meeting in a frown.

  ‘Water in the cabin,’ he shouted. ‘I’m going down to investigate.’

  Lightning split the dark sky, fingers and tongues of silver all around. The shriek of wind in the rigging vied with the crash of the sea against the hull of the yacht. The waves were getting bigger and stronger, foaming salt water sluicing down the deck.

  The boat vibrated from the aftershock of another thunderclap. And kept on quivering. Jaq stood still. The juddering beneath her feet felt different. Not the familiar tremors of the craft yielding and rebounding. Something less elastic, something tearing and wrenching. Something below the waterline, dampened by the sea and yet violent enough to be sensed on deck.

  A sudden screech, louder than the wind, than the waves, louder than thunder. The boat itself was crying out. Rebelling. Out of control.

  The boom heaved across and then back, the yacht pitched and yawed. She was falling, sliding across the sea-drenched deck, halting her slide by grabbing the jackstay. Jaq lay panting, opening her eyes wide to make sense of the dark shape that rose up in front of her.

  No time for panic, or for despair – the boat was going over.

  ‘Gio!’

  Hand over hand, she hauled herself up the tilting deck away from the water.

  The boat continued to heel as another massive wave caught her broadside.

  Merda! One choice, two options.

  Option one was to use the motion of the boat, dive under the starboard rail as the boat turned upside down, use the swell from the capsize to throw herself clear, facing the full fury of the sea.

  Option two was to stay where she was. Easier for a rescue vessel to find. Remain in the boat. Allow it to roll over her. Swim to an air pocket, pull herself out of the water into a cave protected from the waves. Hope that it would not sink, rely on the inherent buoyancy, trust in a well-maintained compartmentalised design to ensure that the Frankium remained afloat.

  Trust. Could she trust anything connected to Frank Good, the owner of this wretched craft? Given the evidence so far? Was there even a choice?

  Jaq took a deep breath. As the deck thundered overhead, she plunged into the water. The shock of immersion gave her new strength. She swam down, kicking wildly, scooping the water in mad, desperate strokes as the wounded boat completed its death roll. As she emerged a huge wave crashed over her. Tumbling and turning, she surfaced, only to be buffeted by a new wave, at the mercy of the angry sea.

  Something rose beneath her, erupted from the water and arced through the air. The life raft had launched itself and inflated. By the time she reached it, she no longer possessed the strength to haul herself on board, but she caught a tether and clung to the side.

  A flash of lightning lit the upturned hull of the Frankium, bobbing on the waves, a pale sea creature.

  No sign of Giovanni. She had to get the raft to the upturned boat and send him a signal.

  She started to swim back towards the yacht, towing the raft behind her, but the currents were against her, arms aching as the distance only increased.

  How to get out of the water and into the raft? It was no use fighting the waves. Could she use them? She positioned herself between the next wave and the raft, hoping to surf above it. Bad idea. The force of the wave slammed her into the side, knocking her breath away so that she almost lost hold of the rope. Burra! If at first you don’t succeed, try something different.

  Many years ago, she had learned how to right a kayak. Johan, then her instructor, now her best friend, had superb upper body strength, but she always beat him in the timed drills. Brains over brawn. Use the buoyancy as your friend; let physics do the work. Time to apply that here. Once her breathing was almost back to normal, she repositioned the raft between her and the next wave, tipping the side towards her until it was almost perpendicular, grabbing the ropes inside. As the wave passed underneath, the raft scooped her up and she collapsed, like a flapping fish, into the bottom of the vessel.

  She lay on the rubber floor for a few minutes, gathering what was left of her wits, then scrabbled around for the paddles and a waterproof pouch of survival gear: flares, water, energy bars, first aid kit, compass, rope, a handy-billy block and tackle, knife.

  Where were they? She checked the compass. North led back to Crimea, east to Russia, west to Bulgaria, south to Turkey, the direction they had been heading. There was no sign of land – black ocean pitched and heaved in all directions – and no sign of her captain.

  ‘Giovanni!’

  The worst of the storm had passed, the intervals between lightning and thunder extending, the intensity decreasing, the wind dropping, the waves subsiding.

  She let off a flare. If Giovanni was already in the water, then he’d soon find her. She unwrapped an energy bar and washed it down with a swig of fresh water. Then she wrapped herself in a blanket, took up the oar and paddled towards the upturned boat.

  As she drew closer, she could see the rudder and skeg, but where was the keel? The huge underwater fin stuffed with five tonnes of lead had only one job – to keep the boat upright. Nothing remained but a tear in the hull and jagged holes where the keel bolts should be.

  ‘Giovanni Fantucci!’ she yelled as loud as she could. She brought the life raft alongside the stricken, upturned yacht to where the cabin should be, and struck the side with an oar. Was it her imagination, or was there a faint noise in return? She knocked again, twice this time.

  Then listened. Nothing.

  She tried again, smashing harder, scanning the water, expecting him to emerge: his flashing white teeth and dark brown eyes. And then came the reply. Three faint taps, three scratches, then the taps again. Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot. SOS. Giovanni was under the wrecked boat and needed help.

  Heart racing, cold hands fumbling, she threaded the life raft’s painter around the rudder shaft and tied a bowline. She set off another distress flare before diving into the dark water. Her life jacket fought against her, pulling her back. She surfaced and removed it, tossing it back into the life raft before diving again, using her hands to pull herself under the boat, jackknifing under the rail and swimming up through the companionway into the cabin. If she didn’t find air soon, she was not sure she could make it out again. Her lungs were bursting, close to the point of no return. She took a gamble, let go of the rope and kicked upwards.

  A hand came down and caught hers, guiding her into an air pocket. She took a breath. Deus. He was alive. She took another breath. And another. Bolas, it was worse than she thought. There was barely enough room for Giovanni, and the water was up to his shoulders. The air, what little of it there was, was stale. No: worse than stale. Oxygen-depleted.

  ‘Lucia?’ he whispered.

  Who was Lucia? No time for that now.

  ‘It’s Jaq. I’ve got the life raft. Can you swim out with me?’

  ‘Trapped,’ he gasped. ‘Can’t move.’ He was panting hard.

  Merda. Alive, but only just. And her presence was using up his oxygen supply. She felt around his body. One arm was wedged at a strange angle between a loose floorboard and the base of the mast. She tried to yank the fallen board free, but even before he screamed, she knew his arm was trapped and broken.

  ‘I’m going to get you some air. Then I’m going to get you
out of here.’

  No reply.

  ‘Gio. Don’t leave me. Don’t give up. I need you.’

  Silence.

  ‘Lucia needs you.’ Whoever she was.

  ‘Lucia.’ He sighed.

  How could she get air to him? There was nothing in the life raft: no oxygen tank, no scuba mask, no tubing. Even the life rings were foam-filled.

  Could she open an air hole from the top? The knife would never pierce the hull. She had no drill, no saw, no blowtorch.

  A plastic bowl floated past, followed by an empty Tupperware box. Tupperware. Suddenly she knew what to do.

  ‘Gio!’ she whispered. ‘I’m going to get you out of here.’ Jaq kissed his cold cheek. The stubble rasped against her lips. She took a shallow breath and dived down.

  She used the position of the mast to guide her to the locker. She yanked it open and scrabbled around until she found it: the little Tupperware box confiscated from a man who’d tried to kill her. She stuffed the box into the waistband of her shorts. You never knew when a kilo of Semtex might come in handy.

  There was only one way to free him. It might kill Giovanni. Deus perdoa-me. But if she did nothing, he would die anyway. Alone in a cold, dark cave, suffocating in his own exhalations. She was out of other options. Better a bang than a whimper.

  Jaq was going to blast what remained of the Frankium to smithereens.

  And pray that she didn’t kill her lover.

  Melrose, Scotland

  The river crested a weir and cascaded into a dark pool beside the old mill. Sleek trout swam in wide circles, the toffee-coloured water stained by peat and topped by a creamy foam from decaying vegetation: green figwort and sand leek, water mint and forget-me-not, yellow cress and flowering rush.

  An osprey circled the pool before turning west, soaring over the old Cistercian monastery in a parallel wooded valley. Beech trees and sycamore, ash and oak, chestnut and hawthorn, Scots pine and larch formed a dense wood that sheltered and concealed the exclusive clinic operating in the heart of the Scottish Borders.

  Inside the medical wing, a man with a white coat and stethoscope sat at a desk taking notes while his patient, the owner of the yacht Good Ship Frankium, lay on a brocade couch and stared at a plaster rose in the ceiling.

  ‘In conclusion, Mr Good, you think you’re ready to go back to work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Not that he’d needed sick leave at all. The halfwits in Zagrovyl Human Resources had forced him to take time off. Claimed he’d been behaving erratically. Ppffftt! One person’s erratic was another’s proportionate response to events. After all he’d been through, everything he’d done to protect the company, his actions had been wholly reasonable.

  Yes, there was the unfortunate incident during the team-building event. He could see how it might look from the outside. But the fault was with the team. Left alone, he could handle anything, even the flashbacks. It was other people he couldn’t stand. Especially the idiots from the Teesside factory. All fake concern to his face while they stuck knives in his back.

  He wasn’t sick; Zagrovyl wanted to keep him out of the way during the investigation. And it suited him to lie low for a while. Until it was safe again.

  Frank had made a show of resisting, driving a hard bargain, relenting only after his employers agreed to fund this place – a golf retreat. The executive health insurance wouldn’t cover it, but Zagrovyl owed him. Big time. And although he hadn’t needed the time off, he had to admit he felt better for it. Calmer, leaner, fitter, stronger.

  ‘How about the nightmares?’

  A mistake to discuss his subconscious with this overpaid shrink. He’d have to be more careful.

  ‘Manageable.’

  Still waking him up. Always a version of the same dream. Trapped in a silken web, unable to move, he screamed himself awake, drenched in sweat. Nothing a shower couldn’t fix.

  ‘And the tremors?’

  Frank held out one hand and then the other. Steady as a rock. The solo golf practice had improved his muscle control as well as his stroke.

  ‘Fine.’

  Fine, so long as he didn’t think about . . . He stuffed both hands under his buttocks as he tried not to picture her, the woman who had caused all the trouble.

  ‘Excellent.’

  The doctor bent down to check his blood pressure.

  ‘Hmmm. Still high. Let’s give it another few days, shall we? Stay off the stimulants – coffee, tea, alcohol. I’ll adjust the medication, and then we can review next week.’

  ‘I’m ready to leave.’

  ‘I can’t force you to stay, but you’re not ready to go back to work.’

  Arrogant bastard. What did he know about work? Or whether Frank was ready? The pulse in his temple began to throb as he felt the anger rising.

  ‘The weather is fine. Play some more golf. Take time for yourself. Take a trip. Catch up with old friends.’

  Old friends? Ha! The only social event in his calendar was a funeral.

  ‘You can continue as an outpatient at my Newcastle clinic. We can work on relaxation techniques. Discuss what might provoke a stress response. Find strategies to recognise and master the triggers.’

  Triggers. The Spider was in custody; Frank’s lawyer had written with the news from Interpol. The man who had tried to trick Zagrovyl into supplying a chemical weapons factory was going to prison for a very long time. It was safe to come out of hiding. Safe to go back to work. There was only one potential trigger at large. Dr Jaqueline Silver.

  Recognise and master.

  Frank closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer that she wouldn’t make it back.

  Somewhere in the Black Sea

  Jaq didn’t pray. In her experience, praying was a waste of time. Even as a child, before she had completely discounted the notion of an omniscient, omnipresent deity, praying still struck her as futile. It usually made things worse. Praying was passive, waiting for someone else to help you out. Better to face up to the problem, explore options, plan a solution and take action.

  She surfaced to find that the clouds had cleared to reveal a full moon and a rash of stars. The storm had passed, leaving a beautiful night sky and calm water. Gulping great breaths of air, she hauled herself back into the life raft.

  Face up to the problem, explore options, plan a solution and take action.

  Giovanni was suffocating, and she had no way to get fresh air to him. If he couldn’t leave the boat, then the boat was going to have to leave him. And the only way she could think of to make that happen was to blow it up.

  She peeled the lid from the Tupperware box, inhaling the faint scent of almonds.

  But could she detonate the Semtex? The success of plastic explosive is in part its stability. The main components, cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine – RDX and Pentaerythritol tetranitrate – PETN, don’t explode if you drop or heat them; they are waterproof and resistant to minor shocks. PETN is difficult to ignite and burns slowly. RDX burns more easily, producing large volumes of gas. The trick is confinement – leave nowhere for the hot gases to go, build up the pressure and temperature of a deflagration and force a transition to detonation.

  She assembled the things she needed. From the first aid box, Vaseline, crêpe bandages and cotton wool. From the survival box, the flares and an aluminium cylinder with screwed caps on either end, containing nautical charts.

  Her best hope for detonation was the rocket flare, packed with propellants. Would the shock wave have enough energy? If the impact wasn’t enough, then she’d have to rely on a secondary ignition. And even if she succeeded, would it do enough damage to open the hull?

  Setting aside the rockets, she inspected the handheld flares, two each giving orange smoke or white light. Excellent. There was no list of ingredients, but they would be packed full of magnesium, strontium nitrate, charcoal and potassium perchlorate. Just what she needed. She worked quickly, stuffing the aluminium cylinder in layers, giving herself the best possible chance.
/>   Once the improvised bomb was fixed to the weakest point of the hull, as far away from where Giovanni was trapped as she dared, she fashioned a conical funnel with the laminated nautical charts. Satisfied that the target was wide enough to hit, she retreated to the life raft.

  The rocket flare had a plastic base, easily unscrewed to release the ripcord. She crouched down low, resting the flare tube against the side of the raft in line with the opening of her explosive device. Here goes. Now or never. She took a deep breath and pulled.

  Sacana! The recoil knocked her off balance and the flare went wide, missing the opening to the aluminium tube before screaming across the surface of the now-mockingly calm water, flaring briefly before sinking beneath the dark sea.

  No choice; she’d have to get closer. Yes, it was risky. If she was successful, and the Semtex detonated, the blast might kill her. If the energy from the rocket propellant was insufficient, but it started a fire, then she was in with a chance of moving back in time.

  Giovanni’s best hope was if she activated the flare at point-blank range. The highest-risk option.

  And if she lived and he died? What sort of a solution was that?

  In her professional life, Jaq was a meticulous planner. In her personal life, she lived for the moment. Giovanni was exactly the sort of man you needed to skipper a yacht packed with explosives. They’d had a bit of fun to celebrate the successful completion of the mission – so what? Would their relationship last once they got back to shore? And did it even matter? She couldn’t stand back and let him die.

  She climbed back onto the upturned yacht and knelt on the hull, resting the flare tube inside the opening of her pipe bomb. As she pulled the ripcord, she threw herself back into the sea.

  Under the water, she opened her eyes. Nothing but darkness. No bright lights, no vibration, no boom. She’d failed.

  She surfaced with a heavy heart.

  It took her a moment to register the light twinkling from the end of the aluminium tube. A fire. Something had ignited. But would it be enough? The light was burning brighter now. Magnesium to magnesium oxide. Time to get away.