Low Profile by Nick Oldham Page A

fuckin’ slow down a bit,’ Costain said, pulling the binos from his eyes and scowling at Flynn.
    So the bastard had noticed.
    Flynn complied, throttled back a notch and put
Faye
about two hundred metres from the cliffs and the dangerous rocks below, maybe half a mile north of the actual beach. Costain joined him in the cockpit, still looking through the binoculars, but forwards this time.
    â€˜There!’ he said triumphantly.
    Flynn frowned. He peered through the windows and in the distance saw a boat he did not recognize, about quarter of a mile away, anchored, or being held steady, quite close to the cliff face and in a fairly precarious spot, Flynn thought. There was activity on board and, even from this distance, Flynn could see that scuba diving equipment was stacked up on deck and someone – a man – was sitting on the side of the boat, kitted up with breathing equipment, two air bottles on his back. He adjusted his face mask, then rolled backwards into the sea.
    Flynn pouted. Diving was a passion for many around the islands and a lot of boats took divers out from Puerto Rico, as did Flynn, although he was no great shakes as a diver. He knew the best and safest places to dive around the coast and this wasn’t one of them. Not least because of the ferocious way the sea ran here and the danger of jagged rock formations just below the surface that could easily pierce the hull of an unwary craft. And mainly because there was nothing to see down here. Divers liked wrecks and reefs and fish – and safe water – and as far as Flynn knew, this section of sea offered none of those.
    Flynn edged
Faye
closer, picking up on Costain’s excitement.
    â€˜Babe, babe … Trish, Trish,’ Costain yelled. ‘Get your sick arse up here, we’ve found them.’ He kicked the stateroom door to attract her attention.
    Flynn’s nostrils dilated with anger. ‘Oi!’ he warned. ‘Don’t you kick my boat.’
    Costain merely scowled at him and fixed the binoculars to his eye sockets.
    The stateroom door slid open and Trish materialized looking no better. Pure white, ill. ‘What?’ she demanded.
    Costain pointed. She turned and looked. He whispered in her ear. She became suddenly tense.
    â€˜Take us in for a closer look,’ Costain ordered Flynn.
    â€˜I’m not going in too close. These are dangerous waters.’
    â€˜That boat’s there, why can’t yours be? You got that echo thingy, haven’t you?’
    â€˜Yes, I have that “echo thingy”, but I’m still not going in close. It doesn’t make rocks disappear.’
    Costain gave him a very pissed off expression. ‘As close as you can, OK?’
    Resigned, Flynn edged towards the boat. Even closer, he still didn’t recognize it.
    From about a quarter of a mile away it became obvious that the people on board this boat had clocked
Faye
’s approach. Two men were on deck, looking in their direction, talking and pointing agitatedly.
    â€˜Keep going,’ Costain said.
    Flynn steered towards the boat, which looked a very nice craft. It wasn’t a sportfisher but a pleasure cruiser. Flynn recognized the lines as that of a Fairline Targa, probably the Forty-eight model, a good half a million pounds’ worth of boat. The name
Destiny
was on her bows.
    Flynn throttled back and
Faye
was just crawling along, getting even closer to the other boat.
    A third male had joined the other two, looking towards
Faye
, binoculars to his eyes. One of the others began signalling, flapping his hands in a ‘go away’ gesture.
    â€˜Keep going,’ Costain said again, his binos clamped to his eyes. Then he pulled them away and whispered something in Trish’s ear and she nodded. ‘Get in as close as you can. I want to see who’s on board,’ Costain told Flynn.
    From the continuing gestures it was more than evident the people aboard the Fairline did not