Chapter 33 A Desperate Measure

Both had laid low for a couple of months, to recuperate from Buckingham Palace, and get as far off the radar as possible.

Now under gloomy afternoon sky, Grey steered the lorry down the M271 road as it carried him towards Portsmouth Harbour.

The briny scent of the sea and gusts of wind whipping through the open windows did little to dislodge the shroud of gloom that clung to him.

It was understandable given the distressing tableau he had left behind at his family home. Robinson had remained quiet in the passenger seat for the majority of the journey, his mind absorbed in contemplation.

The whirlwind of recent events had drained them both, leaving them wanting answers - answers they hoped the Bloodies could provide.

As they approached Portsmouth Harbour. The landscape morphed from rolling hills and lush farmland of the English countryside to a panorama of rugged coastline and bustling maritime activity.

Masts of Royal Navy vessels anchored in the harbor, while a steady stream of ferries and cargo ships plied their trade across the Solent, the narrow stretch of water separating Portsmouth from the Isle of Wight.

Grey navigated the maze of cobblestone streets; passing by a few familiar landmarks that held fond memories from his childhood.

The quaint harborside pub, The Dolphin, where he used to spend countless hours with his father, still stood proudly, its red brick facade and wooden sign bearing the marks of countless stories.

"Are you sure about this, Robinson? What about the Coast Guard?" Grey was nervously watching the road ahead.

"It's a Thursday, right? If I recall correctly, a regular shipment goes out today."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Just drive along the harbour I will know if I see it."

"Very well then."

Arriving at the harbor, Grey maneuvered leisurely down the promenade. The docks teemed with activity, industrious workers busily loading and unloading an array of diverse shipments.

Robinson examined the larger vessels, his eyes homing in from one to the next.

He hoped to find something smaller, something less imposing, something moored between the larger ships. A particular vessel that the bribed coast guard let pass unnoticed.

Grey, yawned, his patience wearing thin. It felt like he had been driving for hours, and his stomach was growling.

“Robinson. I'm tired and hungry. Can't you take over driving duties?”

Robinson leaned out the window in concentration. He noticed that they were soon reaching the harbor terminus.

“Not yet,” he said. “I'm still trying to find our ticket out of here. And besides, what are we gonna do?

Walk into a pub and pay for a pie and pint with a 1kg gold bar worth about seventy grand?”

Grey glared at him. “That's not such a bad idea,” he muttered.

He turned back to the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel. He knew Robinson was right, but he couldn't help but feel hacked off that Robinson had contributed to him being here in the first place.

Yet another perilous situation. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

After a minute or two, Robinson finally spoke up. “There!” he said, pointing to a couple of reeder ships. “That's the ones.”

Grey followed Robinson's outstretched finger, his eyes landing on the two feeder ships in question. Both ships were weathered. With squat hulls and stubby masts.

They looked almost diminutive compared to the larger ships crowding the harbor, but they looked sturdy enough.

The first ship, named 'The Princess Isabella', bore its gold lettering proudly on its bow, set against the off white backdrop.

Beside it, the second ship, aptly called 'The Duke'. Its name evoked an air of nobility and authority, resonating with the vessel's sturdy build and regal blue exterior.

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Dockers hustled around the ships, unloading cargo from nearby lorries.

The crane operator was manipulating the hook of the crane, lifting the heavy crates, and placing them gently on the decks.

"Humanitarian aid courtesy of the royal empire, I presume?" Grey drawled with sourness.

"Just because the main branch of the royal family is gone, it doesn't mean that business ever stops," Robinson shrugged.

"There are a lot of connections down the royal pipeline with skin in the game. Just park up and let me do the talking."

Grey drove towards the ships. Upon parking near the gangplank, he and Robinson got out ready to inquire about safe passage.

Robinson approached a scrappy-looking seaman, who looked like he was overseeing the operations.

"Good afternoon. May I have a word?"

"Go on."

"What business have you aboard the Princess Isabella today?" Robinson asked the grizzled sailor.

The seaman was taken aback by the suspicious line of questioning from the two stragglers interrupting his busy workload.

He swept a once over on Grey's IRA ties tattoo and Robinsion's ragged appearance. They looked like a couple of tramps.

"I would say it's none of your business," he retorted.

Robinson opened the door to the lorry cab, producing a couple of bars, lugging them over to the confused seaman.

"We don't care about your illegal operations. What we do care about is private matters concerning us that require a mode of discreet transport?"

Robinson, stuck the gold bars in the seaman's hands, letting them glint enticingly.

"You will be well compensated. A few more of these babies will pass between the hands of you and your crew just for a little detour?"

The sailor's eyes lit up at the sight. His last two wives had divorced him and bled him dry, though his gruff demeanor didn't change.

"Where are you headed?" The sailor asked.

"A rocky refuge in the North Sea."

"What are your coordinates?"

"I will give them to you once we have departed."

"Passage for you and your vehicle," the sailor thought,

"Ok. on one condition!"

"What's that?" asked Robinson.

"That you keep to yourselves while we're underway. Apart from that. We set sail within two hours."

"That sounds agreeable," Robinson noted.

"Get yourself some pub grub and a couple of pints both of you. We will take care of your lorry."

"Don't be snooping inside our vehicle now," Grey said.

"I know you have cocaine on these ships," Robinson threatened.

"You don't want the Navy sniffing around your cargo. Do you now? That's If we made a fuss."

"I know it's a bit of a strange question?" Grey asked.

"Have you got 20 quid? Me and my mate have not eaten in three days?"

Valuable gold bars. Tramps with not a penny to rub between their fingers. Worse of all, they knew what he was smuggling.

Who were these fucking guys? The seaman thought. He thought better of it than to ask about their business. Ask no questions and you get no lies.

"Here you go." said the sailor putting an extra 20 on top, taking pity on them.

With terms agreed. Grey and Robinson walked away to the nearest most inviting boozer. Leaving the crew to finish operations on the Princess Isabella and load the lorry onboard.

**********

After a leisurely lunch. Fortified with a few helpings of liquid courage, Grey and Robinson returned to the Princess Isabella monitoring from the cargo deck, the lorry now secured below.

Waves gently rocked the vessel as its engines motored to life casting off from the docks.

Portsmouth Harbour rapidly retreated into the distance behind them, the colorful buildings and vehicles on the coast shrinking to toy-sized silhouettes.

A sense of uncertainty cloaked Grey, staring at the receding land, wondering what dangers may await them across the treacherous waters.

What would he find? Answers? Revenge? Or death? His outlook was bordering on nihilistic. Fat raindrops began splattering the decks, signaling an approaching storm.

"Ominous signs on our maiden voyage together. Don't you think," remarked Robinson darkly.

"Come on Robinson, let's go below deck. Maybe we can try catch get some sleep?"

"I will second that, Grey."

From a Chinese seafood restaurant on the wharf, dark oval eyes regarded the vanishing Princess Isabella, coasting over the open ocean through a sheet of rainfall.

Raising a burner phone to lips. Lo Chen spoke in Mandarin to Uncle.

"I have Grey in my sights. They leave for the North Sea."

"Finish them both," Uncle Urged. "Make China proud."

Hanging up without a reply, Lo Chen paid his bill and melted away into the downpour, his lean form slipping unseen between shipping crates.

A single objective burned in his mind: locate the elusive Englishman and fulfill the contract, by any means necessary.