Chang looked at him curiously. ‘But the pen has been in your pocket ever since you came aboard ship.’
‘Even so,’ said Grant quietly, ‘the ampoule was inside it.’
Chang was breathing rapidly and a flush mounting his pale cheeks. ‘Then why all this talk about the bag? What have you been up to?’
He was rising to his feet when Grant quietly touched his arm. ‘Sit down, man. Relax.’
Chang hesitated for a second, until, reassured by Grant’s indifferent manner he eased himself back on to the deckchair. ‘Well?’
Grant was holding the pen off-handedly across the card-table. ‘Just before you take it I want to mention two small points. Our whole association has been fogged by bluff and lies, but this is the show-down. The ampoule of space-sickness bugs is, and has always been, in my pocket. It was never in either the bag or the pen, but this Parker 61 is the most deadly weapon which has ever been pointed at you. It is, in fact, the latest build-up of a micro-rocket and it will go off as soon as I press this pocket clip. So don’t move unless you want your brains blown out.’
‘And the second point?’ asked Chang softly, his tongue running round lips which had suddenly gone dry.
‘The bag did contain explosive of a rather special sort and in less than two minutes from now it is going to blow a hole in the guts of this ship which will send it to the bottom.’ He turned abruptly to Maya. ‘Get a life-belt on, sweetie, and then stick around until further notice. When the big bang comes this man can take his chance with the rest of us.’
Chang was sitting motionless. ‘No matter what happens you will soon be dead yourself, Doctor, because my captain has orders to destroy you if anything suspicious happens to anything or anybody on board this ship.’
‘Then we know how we stand,’ said Grant, and breathed a sigh of relief as Maya returned to his side wearing her life-belt. Less than a minute to go, he guessed, and motioned her towards the rail. ‘Go over feet first when I tell you. Next stop Turkey.’
A glint of satisfaction had crossed Chang’s face and, too late, Grant saw why. The girl was standing in full view of the bridge. Even a fool would want to know what she was doing with a life-belt round her chest. There as a clatter of feet rushing down the steel companion-way joining bridge to boat deck and then an ear-shattering explosion as the captain rounded a bulk-head and stopped, aghast, as a hole was ripped across the deck and the hissing roar of scalding steam gushed through from the engine room. Chang was already drawing a revolver, its trigger guard stuck on the fold of his pocket as Grant released the clip of his pen. A shushing recoil echoed above the bedlam which had broken out all round and Chang’s face was suddenly blotted out by a gaping hole which showed the greyness of his brains trickling across blood-stained bone.
The ship suddenly listed to starboard as the captain leapt furiously towards Grant, his gold-filled teeth gleaming between parted lips as his fingers fastened around Grant’s throat. Almost automatically Grant gripped him in the crutch and heard the man gasp with pain as sensitive flesh was half-twisted from its roots, then, seizing his split-second advantage he lowered his head and butted the Chinaman full on the nose. There was the crunch of breaking bones and a wail of agony as the man dodged back, half-blinded by spurting blood. Grant could see Maya standing by the rail, ready to jump over and as her lips framed a word he turned to see a steward raising a gun. Hurling himself forward in a low tackle he heard the whine of a bullet creasing his hair and a metallic clang as it ricochetted against a bulk-head, then, gripping the man around the ankles he heaved him sideways and wrenched the gun from his grip. It was an old-fashioned Colt. The steward was kicking like a mad thing and a lashing limb caught Grant flush on the groin. Cursing viciously he lifted the pistol and crashed the butt down on the man’s skull whilst the deck in front of him again seemed to rip open as a second boiler exploded, steam stinging his flesh like fire and half-blinding him as he sprang back towards Maya. The girl was half overboard, clinging to the rail and ready to drop into the water. Already the ship was beginning to go down by the stern and there was a twenty degree angle to the deck. Chang’s body had slipped off the chair and was leaning against a ventilator as the captain suddenly staggered forwards, a kris knife in his right hand and lunging straight for Grant’s neck. He side-stepped at the last moment as the man staggered past and was then flung sideways by a swing of the sinking vessel, but as he groped to keep his balance his fingers sank into something soft and pulpy and he was almost sick when he saw his hand embedded in Chang’s head. Mouthing curses in two languages he struggled to his feet again and staggered towards the rail. ‘Drop, Maya,’ he yelled, and took a header into the sea.
They struck water together but as he looked up the hull of the ship seemed to tower directly above their heads. She was listing worse than ever and already settling down by the stern. Her anchor was below the water-line and they could see the captain struggling along the boat deck towards the bridge. A group of men were trying to lower a lifeboat and clouds of steam surging around them showed that they must be suffering agony. ‘Swim,’ yelled Grant, ‘she’s going down any minute. Mustn’t get caught in suction.’
The ampoule in his hip pocket felt tight against his buttocks as he did a steady crawl beside Maya, lifting into the low waves and cursing the slowness of her breast stroke. And then, quite suddenly, it was over. The vessel lifted up almost on end and slid slowly away. There was a moment when figures jumped from the rising decks and splashes as they hit the water. They could hear the shrieks of angry men and the hiss of steam warming the sea, the throb of an engine and the tearing of wood. For a few last seconds the bow pointed above water, the name Formosa Lily sparkling with the gleam of new white paint before it seemed to hesitate and then plunge out of sight.
Grant began to tread water. Twenty or more figures were bobbing in the distance. And then he spotted a figure swimming strongly towards him. ‘More trouble, sweetie,’ he shouted. The man was holding a knife between his teeth and seemed as much at home in the water as a fish. Grant decided to let him set the pace, and lingered, treading water as the captain closed in. One eye was almost closed and his nose still dripping blood. When he was six feet away he calmly gripped the knife in his right hand and then launched himself into a freak surface dive. Grant was taken by surprise and the point ripped across his upper arm, enough to draw a few flecks of blood but missing the deeper layers of skin. Cursing softly to himself he turned in the water in time to see the man dive like a porpoise and then surge up to the surface, the knife pointing like an evil snout straight towards his chest. He flung himself backwards, somersaulted six feet down and flipped past the captain before the man could change direction. Twisting again Grant glimpsed the hard, splaying feet and grasped a toe, twisting it outwards in a grip which would have bent steel. He felt the bone snap and fought for the surface as the man flexed his leg in a spasm. Spitting sweat and water Grant saw the man’s face contorted with pain, and setting his teeth belly-flapped almost on top of him, his wrists bearing down on the Chinaman’s knife arm and forcing it down by his side as deftly he changed grip, his fingers seeking the trigger spots in neck and elbow which would paralyse the muscles, even if only for a moment. There was a scream of pain and a glint of swirling silver as the curved blade dropped into the greyness below.
The man suddenly relaxed and allowed himself to become a dead weight. Grant felt him slither out of his grip and then gasped as a heavy fist studded into his stomach. They separated and struggled for breath less than a yard apart. For more than two minutes they watched each other circling in a cautious dog paddle until the captain suddenly closed on Grant in a desperate lunge. Taking a deep breath Grant dived below him and came up on top. Before the man could turn he had a lethal handgrip at the root of his neck and a scissor hold round his thighs. Ruthlessly he forced the man’s head under water and struggled to add every ounce of weight as the Chinaman writhed to free himself, his muscles contorting desperately as he gasped for breat
h, and bubbles of air breaking the surface round the bleeding scratches of Grant’s arm.
Only after the figure beneath him had been limp and motionless for a long minute did Grant dare to relax his grip, and as he crawled away towards Maya he saw the burly figure bob just below the surface, an arm extended limply upwards and the head tilted backwards, a shock of black hair trailing against lapping waves.
‘All over,’ he gasped. ‘And about a mile from bed. Can you make it?’
She nodded silently and pointed towards the shore, her strokes ungainly because of the life-belt and partly drifting with an off-shore current which both of them knew might sweep them towards the Bosphorus. Five miles was Grant’s limit and he was starting already tired, but the current was a break of good luck and for over an hour they partly drifted, partly swam almost parallel to the Turkish coast towards a headland near a few houses. ‘Less than half a mile to swim,’ he panted. ‘This time we’ve got to make it. Getting chilled.’
Maya was wearing better than he and as they fought their way clear of the current towards the shore a cramp developed in his thighs. They were still out of depth when it almost doubled him up with pain. Maya seized his hair and neck as he began to sink, and then, easing herself under him, paddled grimly on, until, less than a hundred yards from shore, Grant felt his toes trailing against sand and painfully hoisted himself to his feet. Hand in hand they waded ashore, Maya’s wet jeans clinging to her thighs like a glove, her blouse outlining every line of her long lithe body and her hair plastered against her scalp like a skull-cap.
*
The local Turks were kind. They had come ashore at Kelken, a hamlet a hundred miles from Istanbul and they slept that night in a farmhouse beside a tobacco field.
Their tiny room was warm with the glow of a stove, the floor rich with rugs from Isparta and the bed built into a recess in the gable. As Grant snuggled between the sheets and watched Maya undress and comb her hair he smiled ruefully with disgust. ‘I’ve lost everything, sweetie. Wardrobe, razor, boots, gun, the lot. Only thing I’ve brought from Moscow is one ugly little tube of bugs and a cheap pair of cotton pants.’
Maya patted the last of her curls, wriggled into a borrowed nightdress and padded across to the bed. ‘I’ve brought you more than that, David.’
He looked at her eagerly and then held out his arms. ‘O.K. honey. I’ll buy it. What else have we got?’
She leaned forwards and caressed his cheeks, her fingers running lightly over his hair and forehead. ‘I’ve brought you kisses,’ she whispered, and crushed his lips in a long, deep embrace. ‘Kisses like this,’ she added, burying herself in his arms and wriggling into bed, her long firm limbs clinging to him with quivering passion as Grant enfolded her against his aching body. ‘Kisses from Moscow.’
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[1] The G.R.U. is GLAVNOYE RAZVEDOVATELNOYE UPRAVLENIYE, one of the three major Soviet Intelligence Agencies, and the only one devoted exclusively to Intelligence functions.
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