Captives

FORTY-EIGHT

The figures moved furtively in the darkness, glad of the protection of night.

As they worked the sound of water slapping against the canal walls was a ceaseless accompaniment to their labours. The wind whipped down the narrow side-streets and alleys, whistling in the wide estuaries. The breezes seemed to skim off the water like stones. The surface was constantly moving, as if some unseen force were continually hurling large rocks into the water at the quayside.

The small boat moored there rocked with each wave. The men on board looked up towards their companions on the quayside, muttering to them to be quicker.

A pile of wooden boxes as tall as a man stood on the quay. Piles just like it had already been loaded onto the boat, carefully stowed in its hold, covered by heavy sheeting and secured.

The last of the boxes were being transferred from the back of the truck now, carried by men who sweated under the effort despite the chill wind that had come with the onset of the night.

Further up the quay, larger boats were anchored. Most of the crews or owners had gone ashore. Only the odd light burned, a warning to any other craft travelling the canals on the coal-black night. The churning water looked as impenetrably gloomy as the night, as if it were a liquid extension of the umbra. Pieces of rotting, wood drifted past on the flow. The odd tree branch, too. Even a torn jacket.

When a car passed by the men gave it a cursory glance.

The lorry was unloaded. The last two boxes were lifted on to the small boat, the men who strained under their weight cursing as they completed their task.

One of them paused for a moment, inspecting the lid of the last box. It was loose. Several of the nails had come free. The man drew it to the attention of a companion and, together, they lifted the strut of wood clear. He reached inside, pushing his hand through the layers of packing and into something dark and pungent.

Coffee beans.

The aroma was strong in the chill night air but he dug deeper, finally allowing his hand to close on what he really sought.

He pulled the small plastic box free and laid it on top of the crate, fumbling in his jacket pocket for something.

The plastic box was about seven inches long and five across.

He opened it and looked at the video tape cassette inside.

In his pocket he found a screwdriver and inspected the narrow end as if he were a surgeon about to perform a delicate operation. Then, working swiftly, he undid the six screws that held the cassette together and gently eased the back off.

Nestling between the two spools was a tiny plastic packet, smaller than a thumbnail.

He inspected the plastic bag, satisfied that its contents had not been touched.

The cocaine looked like talcum powder, luminescent in the darkness.

The man quickly replaced the back of the cassette, screwed it in place and shoved it back into its box. This he returned to its position beneath the layer of coffee grounds. The grounds acted as a kind of olfactory barrier should the boat be searched and sniffer dogs be brought on. They couldn't detect the smell of cocaine through the more pungent odour of coffee.

The crate was re-sealed and loaded. The boat was ready to leave now and two members of its small crew began casting off, one of them pushing the boat away from the quayside with a long boat-hook. The current gradually took hold. The Captain decided not to switch on his engines until they were further away; he was content to let the vessel be carried by the tide.

The men watching from the quayside waited only a moment. Their duty was done now, their responsibility discharged. The shipment was someone else's concern. Not theirs.

They, at least, had ensured that the cocaine shipment was safely on its way.

The first leg of the operation was underway.