by Jay Garnet
In principle, it seemed childishly simple. The Edinburgh lay in international waters. Gaddafi could spare a submarine. The sub could lie undetected within easy reach of the diver’s supply ship and when the gold had been collected, the sub would simply move in and take it. The diving vessel could be blasted out of the water and the divers and crew killed. The submarine, devoid of markings, would never be identified.
For an investment of $4 million, Gaddafi would receive more than $50 million worth of gold to do with as he liked. Krassnik would take twenty per cent. The gold would be transported direct from Tripoli to Zurich by a Libyan airline, sold, and the cash paid directly into Gaddafi’s and Krassnik’s separate accounts.
In April 1980 Mike and Johannsen undertook a preliminary survey of the area of ocean in which the Edinburgh had gone down. Backed by Krassnik’s cash, Mike could afford a ten-day research voyage, and anyway he needed the information in order to make his arrangements. Johannsen’s vessel, the Fridtjof Nansen, was perfect for the job – one thousand tons, with space for twenty crew and twenty-five diving personnel, a diving-bell to accommodate three divers and isolated, pressurized cabins in which they could work for several weeks before undergoing their ten days of decompression. The only piece of equipment lacking was a remote-controlled TV camera.
They were lucky with the weather. With a skeleton crew of six, it took them five days to cover the thirteen hundred miles to the bleak stretch of sea in which the Edinburgh had sunk thirty-eight years before. Once Johannsen had locked on to the coordinates Mike had given him, the Fridtjof Nansen’s sonar picked up the wreck almost at once. Even from the shadowy outline on the sonar screen, Mike could identify her.
‘Oh, God,’ he breathed in, staring at the shielded screen. ‘Oh, God. You beauty. You bloody beauty.’
‘It is her?’ asked Johannsen.
‘It’s ’er, right enough. Can’t see much detail, but she’s the right length, and that stern – you see – all twisted about? Seems to be something a bit odd about the bridge . . . but she’s all in one piece . . . and on ’er port side by the look of things, which means the torpedo ’ole will be uppermost. Looks good, Bjørn. Looks really good.’
‘But she may be full of silt. Maybe all the bulkheads collapsed.’
‘Maybe lots of things, mate. But it looks good enough to dive on to. Then if we need to we can blast ’er. But we can’t tell that until we do it for real.’
It was soon after Mike’s return to Aberdeen that his plan came apart at the seams. First there were the phone calls: two of them. The first was from Johannsen in Norway informing him that the Fridtjof Nansen would not after all be available.
‘But, Bjørn. We ’ad a deal!’
‘We are old friends, you and I, Mike, but . . . there is no written agreement. I remember how it was in April. I think the whole thing is crazy. I am happy to blow the ship apart, but not to have my divers work their way inside through that torpedo hole . . .’
‘That’s not what you said a couple of months ago, Bjørn.’
‘Certain things have become clear. Mike, as a friend I say do not do this thing . . . I am sorry.’
Then the manager of the gas supply company called. Helium was going to be tricky this year. Demand from other companies in the North Sea was heavy. Touch-and-go to fulfil commitments. Nothing left over. He was afraid Mike would have to look elsewhere. Sorry.
The calls were two of a kind. There had never been any hint, when the project was first proposed, that the money wasn’t right, that Mike was distrusted, that the ship and the gas might be committed elsewhere. There was enough advance warning – damn it, the North Sea was one long crisis, and any company involved was used to responding to a few hours’ or days’ warning, let alone a month or two.
With something like desperation, Mike began the tedious process of contacting other sources. There were few possibilities in the UK. He began to list companies in the USA, the Netherlands, West Germany.
Shortly after these conversations he learnt why his original partners had backed out. Early one morning as he leafed through the latest batch of technical pamphlets, sipping at a mug of coffee, there was a knock at the door. He opened it and saw a staid figure wearing a grey overcoat, unbuttoned to reveal a smart pinstripe suit. The man carried an umbrella over one arm, but had no briefcase. He was a little older than Mike, in his late fifties, and by the neat cut of his grey hair and his direct, blue-eyed gaze, Mike guessed he was probably a former army officer.
‘Mr Cox? I wonder if I might talk to you for a few moments? My name is McBride. Ministry of Defence.’
Christ. Mike paused for a moment, shrugged, then stood aside. McBride nodded in thanks and took a seat in an armchair. He wasted no time with small talk.
‘It has come to our notice that you have been showing a considerable interest in HMS Edinburgh. You are well known for your expertise in diving. We have also become aware that you have been contacting a number of companies with the clear intention of undertaking a diving venture of some kind. We know that you have visited the area. Clearly, given your background, you have more than an academic interest in the gold that went down with the Edinburgh.
‘What I have to tell you is this: HMG would take it very amiss if the Edinburgh were touched in any way. As I am sure you are aware, she was declared a war grave in 1954. Some fifty men died in her. A war grave is not only officially sacrosanct, but it is also considered to be sacrosanct by the families of the men concerned. To desecrate a war grave would cause a pronounced sense of outrage among members of the public and among those whose job it is to protect the memory of those who died in defence of their country.’
Mike sat and stared. His secret was blown.
‘If this is an official visit, you better tell me where I can reach you.’
‘There’s nothing official about this, Mr Cox. It cannot be an official visit, for – as you are well aware – you have not broken any law. At present, it is purely an informal request that you do not persist in your attempt to violate a war grave.’ He paused, staring at Mike, feeling his resistance. ‘There are, however, certain pressures that can be brought to bear.’
‘For instance?’
‘Come now, Mr Cox, use your imagination. Very well. HMG has a deep involvement in North Sea oil. A number of companies are absolutely dependent on sales to the government. HMG might easily look with disfavour on any company, whether British or foreign, that connected itself with the type of operation you have been planning.’
‘That explains quite a bit. You’ve been putting the screws on already.’
‘In a couple of instances we have been able to make our feelings known, yes.’
‘Feelings be buggered! I suppose you’ll tell me next it’s got absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you and the Russians stand to lose a pile if somebody else gets in there first.’
‘My dear Mr Cox, that is very much a secondary issue. The amount of gold involved would hardly be of a great national significance. No, I repeat: our major concern is a moral one. And I must tell you’ – McBride raised his eyebrows and gave a wry smile – ‘that if you persist, every effort will be made to stop you.’
‘You threatening me?’
‘Threaten, Mr Cox? I’m sure there is no need, because I can assure you that, should you persist, HMG will do all in its power to ensure that no one works with you again. And one further thought: as you know, the Edinburgh lies in international waters. But the Russians do not subscribe to the twelve-mile territorial limit. They claim a two-hundred-mile limit, which would place the wreck well within their area of interest. Should you pursue your venture, we may not be able to guarantee that the Soviet Union would exercise restraint.’
‘Let me understand you: if we go, you’ll tell the Russkies to blow us out of the water?’
‘Nothing so dramatic, I hope.’ McBride frowned as if pained by Mike’s suggestion. ‘I have no doubt they would seek to protect what they consider to be their interests in rat
her more subtle ways. Anyway, let me leave you to think through the implications of what I have said. I am sure you will make the right decision.’
After McBride had gone, Mike sat and thought for more than an hour. Two things were plain. The government were all out to stop him. But if he could work in secret – really in secret – there was nothing they could do directly. As McBride had said, he wouldn’t be breaking any laws. If he kept tight security, HM-bloody-G wouldn’t know, and wouldn’t be able to tell the Russians.
OK. Just start again.
With some trepidation he reported back to Krassnik.
‘Jesus,’ Krassnik growled. ‘The speed you’re moving, we’ll all be dead before we see that gold. Move your ass or I’ll burn it for you.’
‘I’m every bit as keen as you are, Krassnik. But I can’t do anything this year. We’ve gotta find a boat, equipment, do another research trip – and all without anyone knowing what I’m really up to. Next May. OK?’
But he never got that far.
His efforts had been well monitored. In February 1981 he had another visit from the all-seeing McBride. This time the official was more explicit.
‘Mr Cox, as I think I made clear last time we spoke, we are determined that there should be no pirate operation conducted by a British citizen on HMS Edinburgh. It is immoral and dangerous, and might be politically disastrous. Yet you have persisted in your efforts.
‘We have therefore been forced to take action on our own account, action I doubt you could ever have predicted. As you know, the Ministry of Defence and Secretary of State have been approached by a number of treasure seekers eager to salvage the Edinburgh’s gold. Each has been discouraged, as you have been. In fact, until recently, we were not concerned. She was well protected by eight hundred feet of icy water. But as you yourself have shown, that is no longer protection enough.
‘We have therefore decided that the best defence is to ensure we exercise as much control as possible. We could not hope to control you; hence our opposition.
‘But, at the time we had our last conversation, we were approached by a man whose understanding of the problem was impressive. He had done his homework over many years. He knew where the Edinburgh was and convinced us that by using saturation divers it would be possible to gain entry into the wreck without disturbing her. In brief, he created enough confidence in us – and somewhat to our surprise, in the Russians – to have himself awarded the contract to raise the gold. I can be quite frank, you see, for the contract is as good as signed. It is already an open secret. The company proposes to put its plan into effect this coming summer. When the time comes we shall be quite happy to cooperate, and to allow the venture full publicity.
‘So you see, Mr Cox, there is absolutely no point in your continuing your little scheme. Not only would you encounter formal British and Russian opposition, but by the time you arrive the gold will no longer be there.’
Throughout this speech, Mike sat in stunned silence. At the end, he said: ‘Tell me who these guys are.’
‘I can’t do that. Of course, you can find out easily enough, because they have contracted some of the very people who might have worked with you. I don’t wish to be vindictive, Mr Cox, but you’re finished. Washed up.’
‘Bastards.’
‘Hardly, Mr Cox,’ said McBride mildly. ‘You did rather ask for it, didn’t you?’
Mike spent a couple of hours being angry, bitter and frightened, mainly at the thought of what Krassnik might do when he found out he’d spent $250,000 for nothing. Perhaps he ought just to vanish. But then his instinct for survival imposed more rational thinking. He drank coffee and prowled his flat. He couldn’t just kiss the whole thing off, after all these years. No. First he needed to know what he was up against. Then he could respond.
McBride was right: it wouldn’t take long to find out who was involved. A British company. Someone quite new, up-and-coming, aggressive, willing to take a risk. Someone like he himself might have been, if he’d had more luck.
It took a dozen calls to eliminate a few of the most obvious possibilities and track down the interloper. Ocean Pioneers. Run by a latter-day pirate, Derek Mackinsen. A tough blighter who had cut his teeth in North Sea oil operations, then branched out into treasure-hunting, and done very well for himself, filling his Aberdeen mansion with a museum of artefacts hauled up from wrecks all over the world.
Mike called him.
There was just the briefest of pauses when he put the question, and then: ‘I can say quite categorically that we have not proposed any such scheme to the government.’
There was something about the formality of the denial that made him suspicious. He phoned one of the Ocean Pioneers divers and told him of his own scheme and of McBride’s visit.
‘You see, Dick,’ he concluded, ‘it’s practically in the open anyway. Otherwise I wouldn’t ’ave been warned off. You won’t be giving much away. My guess is it’s Ocean Pioneers. True?’
Then he had it. The outline of the consortium – a young businessman named as the originator of the idea and the consortium; Ocean Pioneers to handle diving; the Bremen-based Offshore Supply Association to provide the diving support ship, Stephaniturm; Racal Decca Survey Ltd supplying hydrographic equipment. The survey, of course, already tied up. The operation timed for August.
Huh. If that lot were all in on a profit-sharing basis, it was no more than a good business deal. No one party was going to get away with the lot.
Britain and Russia would want their cut. That wasn’t the way to do it.
He’d have to move fast. Stateside. Match the Ocean Pioneers consortium, using Krassnik’s money.
He called Krassnik.
After warning him of bad news to come, he went on: ‘There’s another bunch of people going for the gold with full government backing. We guessed it might happen. Now it has. I’ve been warned off by an MoD stooge. Word of what I was up to must have got out. As far as I’m concerned, our plan’s dead. But I . . .’
‘If it’s dead, so are you. Think again.’
‘Jesus, I’ve thought. I’m thinking. I . . .’
‘No choice, Michael,’ Krassnik interrupted. ‘I’m up to my neck in this thing. I can’t afford to let it go, either financially or politically.’
‘Well, I’m sorry. I really am. I’ve been trying to pull this stunt together for years, and then the ground is cut away from under my feet. It’s fuckin’ ironic really, because I know some of the blokes going.’
This remark seemed to spark off something in Krassnik’s mind.
‘You do, huh?’ He paused meditatively. ‘Answer me this. Any chance you could get on that boat?’
‘The Stephaniturm? Dunno. Look pretty funny, suddenly coming out of retirement like that.’
‘But you have a good deal to offer, no? Perhaps you could get yourself a job on board?’
The idea appealed to Mike. ‘Yeah, that’d be pretty bloody amazing, to be on the boat and watch the gold being raised. But where do you come in?’
‘My plans are no concern of yours. Your job is to help retrieve the gold.’
‘You planning an ’ijack? Christ, you crazy? You know the conditions up there? Even in summer it’s freezing. And there’s bound to be some protection, what with the . . .’
Krassnik’s voice hardened. ‘I said my plans need not concern you. What I’ll need from you is action, and information. Stay on the end of a phone. I’ll call later.’
The call came in the early hours.
‘OK. Between us, we can get this gold, Michael. We’ll get to the details later, but at present there’s only one question I have to ask. Assuming you can get on that boat, could you send a message – any message – from on board?’
Mike thought, and then explained. Normally there wouldn’t be a problem. Communication is a matter of life and death aboard a vessel like that. She would have a radio that could speak direct to the home base, be patched into the telephone network, or print out the communication as a t
elex. ‘But I’ve been over this ground already, time after time,’ he insisted. ‘It’s not a question of whether she’s got the equipment or not. It’s a question of whether she’ll be handling information in clear rather than coded. I imagine that even with British and Russian approval, they’ll be pretty keen to keep things secret.’
‘But they’ll be in contact with their home base?’
‘For sure.’
‘In that case it will be up to you to devise a way of getting a message through.’
‘Wait a minute. I’m not even on the bloody ship yet.’
‘Get to work. It’s in your own interests, Michael, because this is your last chance to get a share of that gold. I know where it is. I will get it, with or without your help. So move.’
On his return Mike contacted Ocean Pioneers. They told him to send in a job application. He reviewed his background, said he wanted work as a diving supervisor, pointed out his qualifications and also wrote of his own personal involvement with the Edinburgh. ‘I’m the only man in the country,’ he explained, ‘who is both an Edinburgh survivor and a diver.’
He delivered the letter by hand.
Later the same day he received a phone call. There was no post on the Stephaniturm to match his qualifications. The only unfilled job was as a deck supervisor, looking after the raising of any finds. He’d get nothing more than a living wage – £80 per day, no bonuses – but if he wanted the job, he was welcome to it.
For the sake of his dignity, he said he’d call back. But he had already made his decision. He’d go.
13
He phoned Krassnik.
‘I thought you’d find a way,’ said the American. ‘This is the plan . . .’
He needed two, and only two, pieces of information. He would want to know when the boat departed from base and when enough gold had been raised to make a snatch worthwhile. At the present price of gold it wouldn’t need so many bars.
‘To be safe,’ he added, ‘let’s say I want that signal as soon as you’ve lifted twenty bars.’
