by Jack Higgins
“Why not?” Sara turned to Dillon. “Do you recall a film called To Have and Have Not?”
“Great novel by Ernest Hemingway,” Dillon said. “Bogart played a sea captain. His girlfriend in the movie, Lauren Bacall, sang a number called ‘How Little We Know.’”
“Would you happen to know it?”
There was a certain skepticism on Rajavi’s face, but Dillon said, “For you, anything. I love that movie.”
He stepped onstage, sat down, raised the lid, and his fingers felt for the beginning. One of the waiters, a boy of sixteen named Javier, dropped his napkin, ran to the stage, and started to play the drums. Slow and sensual, the music had people mesmerized. When Sara started to sing, there was instant applause.
When she finished, there were cries for her to repeat it, so she did. After that, people made requests, calling out titles, and Sara complied, ending up singing by popular demand “As Time Goes By” from the film Casablanca.
But enough was enough. Adano said, “My God, I could fill the place with you two during the season.”
Sara smiled and said, “If it were only possible, Andrew,” and walked out on the terrace.
Abu was still standing at the top of the steps, the duster coat draped over an arm, and Rajavi went after her, followed by the waiter, Javier, who had played the drums. He offered her a glass of champagne on a tray, which she took, and he retreated to the open glass door and watched her, fascinated.
Rajavi said, “You are a remarkably talented young woman.”
Sara said, “I learned to play guitar as a child, and singing came naturally.”
“There’s more to it than that, Captain Gideon. I think you are a woman of many talents.” A foghorn sounded mournfully twice.
She knew instantly what was happening, but in the same moment, he shoved her hard toward Abu, who punched her in the side of the face with such savagery that she was momentarily stunned, then tossed the duster coat over her head. Abu slung her over his left shoulder and went headlong down the steps to the Land Rover, followed by Rajavi.
Javier ran into Adano and the others. “The men from the ship have run off with Miss Gideon.”
Billy and Dillon ran through to the terrace, Adano trailing, reached the head of the steps, to see Rajavi vanishing inside the Land Rover after Abu and Sara. The engine started, and the vehicle roared into life and made for the Kantara, clearly visible in the lights on the pier.
Billy arrived at the bottom of the steps first, swung a leg over the first motorcycle, and a moment later, it roared into life. Dillon just had time to leap on the pillion and they were away in pursuit. In the distance, they saw the Land Rover stop.
The two men pulled Sara out between them and rushed up the gangway onto the ship, which was just casting off. They dragged her across the deck and mounted to the bridge.
As the ship drifted away from the pier, Billy aimed for the gangway, which was inclined upward. He accelerated and they soared over the rails, landing on the deck and sliding sideways. They kicked free and let the machine skid away. In the darkness, the ship seemed to be lit up like a Christmas tree.
At the upper-deck rail above them, two sailors appeared holding automatic shotguns. Both Dillon’s Glock and Billy’s Walther fired instantly. Their silencers on, they knocked the sailors back without a sound, their shotguns flying.
Someone called in English above them, “For Christ’s sake, keep your heads down.”
There was a sudden silence, and Dillon said, “Let’s find Sara, they were taking her up to the bridge. I’ll cover you as you go up that ladder.”
Billy nodded, ran crouching across the deck. Someone glanced over the bridge rail, a porthole to one side. Dillon fired at once, the only sound glass splintering. “If you do that again, I’ll kill you,” he called. “We’ve come for the woman. If you don’t have her, stay out of it.”
* * *
It was Rasoul who had peered over. He and Yousef crouched behind the rail while Rajavi and Abu dragged Sara to where the door to the wheelhouse stood wide, brightly lit in the darkness, showing Chief Engineer Stagg at the wheel. “I’ll need some help if we’re to get out of here,” Rajavi said.
Rajavi’s arm hugged Sara’s neck, who was already regaining her senses as he squeezed and dragged her in to Stagg, followed by Abu, who tied her wrists with twine, and Rasoul and Yousef, out on the rail, heard nothing of the exchange that followed.
“Do I alter to the emergency course, make for Turkish Cyprus, or not?” Stagg asked.
Rajavi nodded to Abu. “We’ll do that. You stay and help the chief engineer, I’ll go round the ship and rally the troops.”
“What about the woman?”
“I’ll get those two fools outside to look after her.” He dragged her out into the captain’s cabin, shoved her into a chair, and called to Rasoul and Yousef, “Get in here!”
They appeared, and he said, “Obviously, this woman is not our friend.” He opened a drawer in the desk and produced a revolver. “It’s nice and simple and loaded. You just pull the trigger.”
“But Dillon and the other man, what happens there?” Rasoul demanded.
“The ship, as you may have noticed, is starting to swing, which means we’ll be pointing out to sea very shortly. Dillon and his young friend won’t last long on their own.” He opened a small door in the corner, which gave entrance to a spiral staircase. “I’ll be back soon,” he said and disappeared.
“So what are we going to do?” Yousef demanded.
Rasoul was examining the pistol. “Suddenly, everything is different,” he said.
Behind them, sitting in the chair Rajavi had thrust her into, Sara reached down with her bound hands to withdraw the flick-knife from the sheath around her right ankle. She pressed the button, and the razor-sharp blade jumped into view, slicing her bonds instantly. She pushed the blade back in and stood, the knife concealed in her hand.
They turned to look at her. “You’re not laughing now, bitch,” Yousef said and snatched the pistol from Rasoul’s hand. “I could put a bullet in you, but then, with a long sea voyage ahead of us, it might be to my taste to put something else into you.” He stroked her cheek with the pistol barrel. “Would you like that, eh?”
“You sick bastard,” Sara said, springing the flick-knife and ramming it under his chin. His eyes rolled as he dropped the weapon, choked on his own blood, and fell to the floor. She picked up the pistol, and Rasoul, terrified, staggered back, hands raised.
“Please, no, this whole affair has been nothing to do with me. I was at my Master’s bidding. I am a simple servant.”
“Just shut up.” Sara opened the small door in the corner. “Get down there and stay out of the way, or I’ll kill you.”
Rasoul did, without a moment’s hesitation, and Sara flung open the door into the wheelhouse and confronted Stagg and Abu. The Somali reached in his pocket.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you. I’ve still got blood on my hands from Yousef. Put your weapon on the floor, kick it over, then slow this tub right down.” They stood there gaping at her, uncertain what to do. “It’s time scum like you learned to take women seriously.”
That was too much for Abu, who said, “Who do you think you are?”
Sara shot the lobe off his left ear instantly.
Abu grabbed it, howling, blood spurting between his fingers, and Dillon said as he walked in behind her, “That’s who she is.”
Billy appeared from the darkness. “There’s a ship’s tender tied to the end of the passenger steps on the port side. Big outboard motor. We can get back with no trouble.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to Abu. “Here, hold that on it and shut up. I say we go.”
“Agreed,” Dillon said. “As there hasn’t been any sign of Captain Rajavi, I can only conclude he’s decided that discretion really is the best part of valor. We’ll vacate the premises, although taking the tender with us.”
“Never mind, Dad,” Billy said to Stagg. “There is one God
and his Prophet is Osama.”
“Don’t give me that kind of crap,” Stagg told him. “I’m just a ship’s engineer, son.”
* * *
Rasoul had sat at the top of the spiral staircase, listening through the door. He was certain only of one thing. He had no intention of remaining on the Kantara. When all was quiet, he went out and discovered that someone had bolted the wheelhouse door, leaving Stagg and Abu inside. He decided to leave them to Rajavi, but sought out the captain’s black bag, remembering that it contained not only a considerable wad of cash and two mobiles, but also his and Yousef’s passports. By now familiar with the ship, he located the tender in spite of the darkness and before the others. He burrowed under a pile of tarpaulins in the prow and waited.
Sara, Dillon, and Billy appeared after fifteen minutes. “Let’s just get out of here,” Sara said. “It’s been fraught, to say the least.”
“Yousef was a despicable human being and no loss,” Dillon told her.
“I wouldn’t try telling that to his father if I were you,” Sara said impatiently. “Let’s get back to some sort of civilization.”
The engine rumbled and they were on their way. Swathed in tarpaulins, Rasoul had heard only the murmur of voices, but the sound of the running engine wiped out all conversation.
“Well, there she goes, the Kantara,” Dillon said. “God knows where she’s bound for after this, but I shan’t be wishing her well.”
“I know where she’s going,” Sara said. “I heard the chief engineer asking if he should change course to Turkish Cyprus.”
“I can see the point of that,” Dillon said. “Easy routes across to Turkey, Lebanon, Syria, perfect if you’re running in guns by night. I should imagine Ferguson would want us to dispose of her when she gets there.”
“Well, he’ll have to wait,” Billy said. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m hoping our friend Adano has got something good for supper.”
“Well, you’ll soon see,” Dillon said as he sat in the stern, grasping the tiller. “There he is now, standing by the Land Rover with what looks like three or four members of his staff and a few curious locals.”
“Do you think there’s likely to be any repercussions from the local police force?” Sara asked.
“Not really,” Dillon told her. “This is Algeria. In a place like this, they’re usually ten miles down the coast dealing with something else, or pretending they are.” They were close in now, and he called, “She’s safe and sound, and guess what? We’ve brought you a present of a ship’s tender.”
* * *
The Land Rover drove them back to the hotel. It was suddenly very quiet on the water, no one around at all. The tarpaulins in the tender heaved, and Rasoul stood up and walked away, vanishing into the shadows beside the pier.
He had money, a passport, and a mobile phone, but the prospect of calling Emza Khan to tell him that his son had been stabbed to death by Captain Sara Gideon was more than he could handle for the moment. Listening to men in the crew on Kantara speaking of Ras Kasar, there had been mention of the coastal railway passing only three miles inland. He would make for that, a ticket for Oran, and then a flight to London. His problem was what to do when he eventually reached there, but he pushed that thought away and continued to walk.
* * *
On the Kantara, Rajavi returned to the captain’s cabin with four armed sailors and was met only with carnage. Yousef lay there in a pool of blood, and it was a badly damaged Abu who unbolted the door to the wheelhouse.
Stagg was smoking his pipe at the wheel, his face remarkably cheerful in the light of the binnacle. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “Trying to do something about Abu. He can’t stop moaning. I’ve changed to the emergency course, so I could do with somebody to spell me.”
Rajavi nodded to one of the men. “Take the wheel, Selim.” He added to Stagg, “Have you seen what’s happened to the son?”
Stagg went into the cabin with him, looked down at Yousef, and shook his head. “The woman will have been responsible for that. She came in here like a raging maniac and shot off part of Abu’s ear.”
“You’ll find what you need to patch him up in the bathroom,” Rajavi told him.
“Right, I’ll see to it,” Stagg said. “But what about young Yousef?”
“We’ve got body bags. These guys can put him in one. We’ll hang on till we’re another few miles farther out, then he gets the deep six.”
“Fine. I’ll take charge of that for you,” Stagg said. “What are you going to tell his father?”
“I don’t know. There’s someone else I need to inform first, and anyway, I’ve got a more immediate problem. The man, Rasoul, doesn’t seem to be around.” Rajavi frowned. “Just a minute.” He quickly searched his desk. “He’s gone, dammit.”
“How do you know?” Stagg asked.
“The bag with the passports and cash isn’t where I left it. Rasoul must have found it and cleared off.”
“The Brits left in the ship’s tender,” Stagg said. “Maybe Rasoul concealed himself on board.”
“What does it matter?” Rajavi said. “This whole trip’s been bad luck for us. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
* * *
He went up on the top deck, breathing in the good salt air to clear his head, then smoked a cigarette for a while. It was a mess, whichever way you looked at it, but there was no point trying to avoid the inevitable any longer. He stepped back into a doorway as it started to rain and called the Master.
As usual, the reply was instant. “Yes?”
“Rajavi. I have nothing but bad news for you.”
“Then tell me.”
Rajavi did.
When he was finished, there was a pause, then the Master said, “Well, Ferguson and his people certainly have been busy. So, Yousef is dead, Emza Khan doesn’t know, and this man, Rasoul, seems to have disappeared.”
“He’s certainly not on this ship, Master.”
“All right. Tell me, to all intents and purposes, is there any reason the Kantara can’t go about her ordinary and legitimate business?”
“None at all.”
“No one has reason to inspect you for illegal arms?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Good. Who else knows about the emergency course for Turkish Cyprus?”
“The chief engineer and the bosun, that’s all. And they’re entirely reliable.”
“All right,” the Master said. “You have my blessing. Keep in touch.”
* * *
Rajavi looked down as a door on the lower deck opened and Abu appeared, his ear heavily bandaged, followed by four seamen carrying Yousef in a black bag on a stretcher. Walking behind them was Conrad Stagg, holding an umbrella.
Abu paused, glanced up, and saw Rajavi. “Permission to carry on, Captain?”
Stagg looked up and Rajavi saw that he held a Bible in his left hand. He called up, “Aren’t you going to join us, Captain?”
Rajavi could have made the point that Yousef was a Muslim and a Christian Bible was not the Koran, but what did it matter in the grand scheme of things? All that was important was to do the decent thing, and he went down the steps and joined them on the lower deck.
* * *
Rasoul sat in a first-class apartment of the night train to Oran, brooding. He was going to have to speak to Emza Khan at some point but simply couldn’t face it. A waiter entered, a tray around his neck, with cups, holding a pot with one hand.
“Coffee, effendi?”
“Have you anything stronger?” Rasoul asked.
“It’s against regulations.”
The lies flowed easily. “I go to Oran to comfort my brother and his wife. Their son has died of cancer, only fourteen years old.” He took out a twenty-dollar bill.
The waiter produced half a bottle of vodka with a Russian label and the transaction took place.
“Allah will reward you for this,” Rasoul said. “My relatives will thank you.”
“No
need for that,” the waiter said. “I believe in your money, not the story.”
The vodka caught the back of Rasoul’s throat and he coughed harshly. When it subsided, he started drinking again, quickly disposing of half the bottle. He felt as if he was floating but so clearheaded. It had been wrong to think as he had done. Emza Khan needed to be told of Yousef’s death. It was only right. He found his mobile and punched in the number.
* * *
It was midnight. Dr. Aziz was just about to administer an injection when Khan’s mobile rang. “Get that for me,” he said.
Aziz did, listened, then handed it to him. “Rasoul.”
Khan was stunned — neither Yousef nor Rasoul was supposed to call — then prepared his face and held out his hand. “News at last. Allah is merciful!”
Aziz retreated to the sitting room. He was closing the old-fashioned Gladstone bag containing his medical equipment when he heard a howl of agony, and Emza Khan appeared in the bedroom door, clutching the mobile.
“Yousef is dead!” He was holding out the mobile.
Shocked, the Indian took it from him and said, “This is Aziz. Are you sure?”
“Oh yes, murdered by a bitch from hell on the Kantara. It was the British Army officer from Paris.”
“Where are you now?”
“Algeria on a night train to Oran. I’ll be there tomorrow if everything goes smoothly. I’ll have more information then. Understand, the whole business must stay confidential, especially the fact that I am alive.”
“Of course.”
Aziz had never experienced the raw pain that poured out of Khan as the doctor led him back to bed. “My son is dead,” he croaked, and appeared to be choking. “What am I going to do?”
Aziz pushed him back onto the bed, primed a syringe with a knockout drug from his bag, and injected it into Khan’s left wrist. Khan tried to sit up, and Aziz eased him back. “For several hours, the pain will cease to exist. Your problem and mine, as your doctor, is what to do when you are awake.”
Khan gazed at him blankly, then his eyes closed. Aziz left him, let himself out, and went down in the lift to the basement garage. George Hagen, the night porter, was just cleaning the windows of the doctor’s Mini Cooper with a chamois leather.
