Usual standard declarations about age, ownership etc. apply here.
Welcome back once again as the journey continues, with mysterious figures seeking to become involved in the lives of our boat dwellers as they try to understand their own situation. This chapter took longer to write as ... well Christmas and stuff. Winter and goodwill and so forth, and I have family, friends and even strangers who want to share my stores of liquor at New Year. Oh yeah -- Happy New Year, peoples!
But now, with a gently glowing fire in front of you, and a glass of your favourite in your hand, settle in and listen while I tell you more of my tale...
CHAPTER FOUR
The figure slipped through the deserted car park, keeping to the shadows. The area was dimly lit at that time of night, and a dark leather coat, black jeans and a midnight-blue knitted cap helped the figure to stay out of sight of any casual observer.
At the beach end of the car park, the figure slipped quietly up and over a diamond mesh fence, and dropped down into an area heavily populated with fishing nets, lobster pots, coils of rope and upturned dinghies and rowing boats. Nostrils flaring slightly at the scent that inevitably went with fishing paraphernalia, and moving quietly and slowly, the intruder made its way silently to a viewing point slightly above the small harbour.
This was the fifth night in a row that the figure had made the anonymous journey, familiarity with the route making progress easy and quick. A pair of binoculars was drawn from a pocket and the figure gazed in turn at every one of the boats floating in the harbour.
Most of them had been there for weeks, moored up for the season until warmer days came around again. The only new addition was a nice looking catamaran, its sails furled neatly as it bobbed up against one of the floating wooden piers that would rise and fall with the tide, making ingress to the yachts moored there easy at any time of the day or night. The yacht was lit up like a Christmas tree, and from the sounds of it there were a lot of people partying within the twin hulls. It appeared at regular intervals during the season, hosted a noisy party into the small hours, and then returned to a private mooring alongside a boathouse a little way up the coast the next day.
The watcher dismissed it, gave a sigh and swung the binoculars further around in its sweep, noting that a small fishing boat had disappeared, and a small dinghy had been left moored in its place at one of the buoys that dotted the harbour. At the end of the visual sweep the quay came into view. It was largely empty, as mooring fees were higher there, and only bigger boats ever took up any space alongside its concrete length.
The local pleasure steamer, which offered tourists an hour-long trip around the bay during the day, was the only inhabitant at that moment, and even that was silent and dark, the gloom in that area broken only a single, small security light on a pole illuminating it for the security camera on a neighbouring pole. Kids sometimes tried to get aboard the steamer during the night, but were always picked up by the security guards quartered in the small lighthouse at the end of the quay. They were inevitably ejected with threats of their parents being told, and it had become something of an ongoing game. The pair of night watchmen actually quite looked forward to foiling every renewed effort, as the camera pointed at the steamer actually had movement detection hardware attached which rang an alarm in their office, making their job easy. The kids didn't know about it and the guards felt it made them seem like Batman and Robin when they silently appeared out of the night to haul the kids off the boat. If nothing else, it passed the time.
Another almost silent sigh escaped from the figure as the binoculars were stowed back in a capacious pocket and the route retraced back to the car park and the town beyond. Tomorrow might be more fruitful -- or not. Either way, the watcher would be there.
*****
Seventy two miles from where the watcher was slipping silently into the shadows, a meeting was taking place.
The office was large and luxuriously appointed, dominated by a huge ebony and teak desk that had been polished to a shine that made it seem to glow from within its own darkness. Leather armchairs -- not matched, but each a handmade creation that screamed wealth and taste -- were scattered about, subtle lighting highlighting and isolating each from the others. The carpet was more a subtle blending of Middle Eastern rugs than a single piece, thick enough to ensure that the sound of footsteps was never heard in that room.
In contrast to the rest of the decor, the chair placed precisely in front of the desk was an old-fashioned, high-backed, wooden school-type chair, and despite the pleasantly cool temperature of the office, the thin man who occupied it at that moment was sweating like a pig, drops appearing at his bald temples and running down his pale, stubbled cheeks. His expensive grey suit had dark stains at the arm pits, and he suspected that the backs of his jacket and trouser legs would be dark with moisture as well.
The executive behind the desk leaned forward and placed his elbows on it, his hands clasped together. As he moved, his Westmancott suit seemed to flow around him, moving as if alive to ensure that it fit perfectly to its wearer at all times, allowing no unseemly bulges or creases.
"Mr Smith," the executive said. "Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice."
The voice was rich, a deep baritone with just enough traces of gravel within it to make it commanding. It seemed to perfectly match the handsome, craggy face and thick, well-groomed white hair.
Mr Smith nodded quickly and forced a smile, nerves turning the expression into a horrible mixture of anxiety and subservience. He didn't try to say anything, which was a good thing, as his throat was so dry it felt as if he had a sponge lodged in it.
"How did this problem creep up on us so unexpectedly?" the executive asked, his tone kindly, but puzzled.
Mr Smith tried desperately to stop his right foot from bouncing his knee up and down -- a habit he had formed when nervous at school. "I... er, we... I didn't realise... and then..."
"Mr Smith," the executive interrupted, his rich voice still kindly, but now revealing impatience. "Perhaps I should simply ask questions. We might proceed a little more swiftly that way, yes?"
The executive opened up a folder, which he seemed to magically draw from mid-air. It certainly hadn't been on the desk up until then, Mr Smith thought wildly.
"You are one of our middle management staff, and are in fact second-in-charge of our ports operations in the south east, yes? However, eleven months ago you were seconded to a special project in addition to your other duties, yes?"
Mr Smith nodded hard, still not trusting his voice to make any sense.
"And this project was to ensure the viability of, and maintain the location of, our special assets in that area, yes?"
Mr Smith wished the executive would stop ending every question with the word 'yes'. It was not only annoying, it felt increasingly threatening.
"But that degenerated into a situation where half of the assets were prematurely written off, and the other half stolen or mislaid, yes? Which result would seem to be the very opposite of your mission statement, yes?"
Mr Smith nodded miserably. For a moment he wished he was married so he could beg for the chance to send a final message to a loved one.
