I turned to Sheena Ryder. The gun was still pointing at me.
"It seems I have to be killed. As you will be responsible for my death, you might as well finish the job."
I reached down, caught the hand with the gun in it and placed it against my chest, letting my own hand fall away.
"Please do it quickly."
There was no sound to be heard other than the soft throb of our boat's diesel. Every pair of eyes in that boatshed was on us. My back was to them all, but I knew it beyond question. I wanted every pair of eyes in that boatshed on us.
Tom took a step inside the starboard door and said urgently, "Are you mad, boy? She'll kill you! She's a killer!"
She squeezed the trigger, and the loud click which followed echoed through the boatshed and the tunnels leading off on either side. She looked at the gun. Checked the ammunition in the breech and pulled the trigger again. Another click. She looked stricken. There was no expression in the eyes. They belong to someone who knew her world is coming to an end.
"Where did you get the gun from?"
Her eyes narrowed.
"The wheelhouse."
I took the gun from her.
"This is a Biofire. A . 40 calibre gun that reads the shooter's middle print and can open a gun in 0.5 seconds."
A sudden realisation flooded her face.
"And it belongs to me!"
The reverberating boom filled the boatshed, as Sheena Ryder's head exploded all over the glass behind her.
Tom had dropped to his knees and caught me as I went through the open wheelhouse door like an international rugby three-quarter diving for the line with a dozen hands reaching out for him. Even so the Major beat me to it. The Major had a lively sense of self-preservation. Even as I fell my hand reached out for the loudhailer that had been placed in position on the wheelhouse deck.
"Don't fire!"
The amplified voice boomed cavernously against the rock-faces and the wooden walls of the boatshed.
"If you shoot, you'll die! One shot and you may all die. There's a machine-gun lined up on the back of every man in this boathouse. Just turn round, very slowly, and see for yourselves."
I half rose to my feet, hoisted a wary eye over the lower edge of a wheelhouse window, got the rest of the way to my feet, went outside, and picked up the machine-gun on the deck.
Picking up that machine-gun was the most superfluous and unnecessary action I performed for many a long day. If there was one thing that boathouse was suffering from at the moment it was a plethora of machine-guns.
"Lower your hands to your sides and let your guns fall."
The order came from a figure in the middle of the group, a man indistinguishable from the others.
"Do please be very careful. Slowly down, drop the guns, utter stillness. My men are highly trained commandos. They are qualified to shoot on suspicion. They know only how to kill. They have not been taught to wound or cripple."
They believed him. I believed him. They dropped their guns and stood still.
"Now clasp your hands behind your necks."
Wheatley translated the orders and the crew followed suit. All but one. Grant Tilbury. He wasn't smiling any more and his language had little to recommend it.
That they were highly competent I could believe. No word or signal passed. The commando nearest Tilbury walked towards him in soundless soles, machine-pistol across his chest. The butt seemed to move no more than three inches. When Tilbury picked himself up the lower part of his face was covered in blood, and I could see the hole where some teeth had been. He clasped his hands behind his neck.
"Major McNab?"
"Here, Captain Rice."
"Sorry, sir."
"DEFRA facility, Captain?"
"In our hands, sir."
As he finished speaking the flat rapid-fire clatter of a sub machine-gun came echoing down the long flight of stone steps. Rice shrugged.
"The last small pocket of resistance, sir," Rice said. "Sergeant Storey, line up the crew in two rows against the wall, there, one standing, one sitting."
Sergeant Storey did. Now that there was no danger of being caught in crossfire since we arrived, I introduced Tom to Captain Rice. Rice's salute was something to see. Tom beamed.
"You are so full of surprises, my boy," he said to me. "Ah! Here comes the reason we are here."
She wasn't exactly the reason we went through all this hell, that appeared at the bottom of the steps. But Clarissa Briggs was a sight to behold. She was on a stretcher carried by two commando's with very steady hands that were a hallmark of McNab's men. It was impossible to tell what the black-faced commandos were thinking, but the remainder of the group had the same expression on their faces, dazed and utter bewilderment.
Clarissa held out a hand and I grabbed it, walking beside the stretcher. When we reached the boat I let go, so the men could take her on board.
An explosive crack, curiously muffled, came down the flight of steps. I looked at McNab, who nodded.
"Plastic explosives."
I was joined by Tom.
"I've been meaning to ask," he began. "How did you manage to find Mary?"
"Earlier this year, Wheatley and Tilbury had your wife seized and hidden away to force you to act with them. They knew you would do exactly as they wanted, when and as they wanted. To destroy one of your boats and keep you under surveillance and under control. They reckoned though without the Ukrainian secret service, who put Miss Briggs in one of the houseboats and docked the trawler near your house to keep an eye on you, and liaised with me."
Tom listened to me with his mouth open, Tilbury, blood still flowing from his mouth, and Wheatley looked as if they had been sandbagged.
"What's going to happen to the crew of the submarine?"
"Major McNab and his men will keep an eye on them. They'll be a Royal Navy cruiser off the coast shortly after dawn."
"And the submarine?"
"That'll be for the respective governments to sort out between them."
The Marines herded the crew off into the left-hand cave, ser three powerful lights shining into the prisoners' faces and mounted a four-man guard with machine-pistols at the ready. Our friends would undoubtedly keep until the cruiser came in the morning.
The grey mist was slowly clearing away and the dawn coming up on the quiet dark sea when Tom eased his fishing boat in towards Cape Ore.
There were only three of us on the boat. Tom, myself and Mila Azul, aka Clarissa Briggs. I told her she'd should go to hospital, but she said she would rather go back to her houseboat. Very strong-willed, she was, and I could see that this was going to cause me a lot of trouble in the years to come.