Against the Tide

by John Hanley

  There was nothing about its destination or port of origin so I assumed it was for identification only. Its owners were listed as Mermaid Trading of Cork, Eire. Same as Lorelei’s registered port. Probably not a coincidence.

  I scanned the letters but they were all in German though one had a letterhead proclaiming the Reichsbank. Fred would love these. Should I steal them? I’d promised Caroline, but this was important. Hayden-Brown would miss them, suspect his daughter, perhaps get the truth out of her. I faltered. Somehow sabotaging his boat seemed less serious than invading his privacy and filching a few documents. I decided to extract what information I could and make notes on a writing pad which was nestled next to the telephone.

  The receipts were in a mixture of languages. Some French but mainly what I assumed were Dutch and German. But there was no damning evidence of smuggling that I could see. No maps, no cargo manifests or even lists that I could pick out. If only I’d had Fred’s small Riga Minox camera. I closed the file and replaced it in the drawer then picked up a pen and thought about what I could note down.

  The top edge of the pad was ragged, as though a page had been ripped off. I felt the surface and was sure there were indentations. I knew how firm pen strokes could leave a mark on pages underneath so looked around for a pencil. In a history class we’d once carried out some rubbings over headstones to reveal the words which had worn down over the years. Once I’d shaded the page with pencil strokes, I examined it under the desk lamp. The borders seemed to be covered in little boxes. I counted twenty-two. In the centre were the letters “RM” followed by “50”, which seemed to have been crossed through. Underneath was the number “20” also crossed through and followed by exclamation marks. Finally, in the centre of a large thick circle was the number “37.5” underlined several times.

  Beneath this was a word which was difficult to decipher but which started with “des” and ended in “ate”. Along with chess, I’d always enjoyed crossword puzzles so I scrutinised it again. There were probably nine letters. I doodled some alternatives and came up with desecrate, designate, dessicate and desperate. Of course the word might be German or even French. I removed the shaded page and my own notes. Caroline liked puzzles.

  She was practising again so I followed the sound of the piano. She paused as I entered the room.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘If I could read German, I would be.’

  ‘Don’t fret. It wouldn’t help if you did. They’re all in code.’

  ‘Have you heard your father shouting in his study recently?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Having a conversation about money perhaps?’

  ‘That’s all his conversations are about, but now you mention it, he did sound angry this morning when he was in there with Rudi’s uncle and that Englishman. I think they were arguing about a price. He kept saying it wasn’t enough. This went on for a while, with the price going up. I think it stopped at thirty-seven Reichsmarks, which is hardly worth shouting about. Anyway, he came out with a big cigar and an even bigger smile.’

  ‘What’s that in pounds sterling?’

  ‘Don’t know for certain but not much. Ask Saul, he’ll probably give the price in whatever it is the Russians use as well.’

  I showed her my notes. ‘Nine-letter word, first three letters, d - e - s – last three a - t - e. What do you think?

  She examined my writing. ‘I think you need some lessons in spelling. It should be d-e-s-i-c-c-a-t-e not d-e-s-s-i-c-a-t-e – double c, not double s. As in dehydrate or perhaps lifeless, as in desiccated romance – you’d know about that.’ Before I could respond, she continued, ‘Anyway, not the sort of words my father would use, though he does have an air of desperation about him at times. That’s probably it. In fact, I’m sure I overheard him say, “They’re desperate.” to the Englishman.’

  That made sense. Hayden-Brown and Sir Edward trying to get the best price out of the Germans. I’d show this to Saul. He’d make sense of it.

  ‘Tell me. How much is Kohler involved with these diamonds.’

  ‘I’ve told you before. It’s nothing to do with him. He is just helping his uncle.’ She sighed. ‘He doesn’t have any choice. He controls his allowance. Rudi’s just a harmless student.’ She considered me. ‘There’s something else you should know about –’

  ‘Caroline!’ Her father’s voice boomed into the room.

  How the hell had he got back so quickly?

  ‘Go. Disappear. I’ll divert him.’

  She leapt up and hurried into the corridor.

  I crept out and, crouching down, slipped around the house and into the field where I’d left Bessy. A taxi was just leaving. I hadn’t thought of that but then I could hardly sabotage all the island’s taxis, could I?

  34

  ‘Kaffir, mind the paintwork!’ Saul was playing the white man today. In fact, in his white shorts, white shirt and white captain’s cap it was difficult to see where white ended and man began.

  ‘What the hell is he up to, Saul? Shouldn’t we be moving on?’

  Alan twisted round from his position hanging over the stern of Jacob’s Star. ‘I’m fishing. What does it look like?’

  ‘Fishing? With a boat hook?’

  ‘I’m snagging pots, stupid.’

  ‘I’m surprised Saul didn’t push you overboard on the way here.’

  ‘I didn’t need pushing. If he’d got any closer to that rust bucket tramp ship, I’d have jumped. I thought he was going to ram her.’

  Saul tugged my arm. ‘See, I was right.’

  ‘So it appears. Tell me, was it called the Espírito Livre, registered in Lisboa?’

  His mouth hung open. ‘How the hell did you know that?’

  I tapped my nose. ‘Tell you later.’

  Clambering out of the wheelhouse, I walked along the port side and plonked myself down next to Malita.

  I called out, ‘Saul, press on. Let the bugger fall overboard.’

  ‘There’s no hurry, Jack. Not now we’ve missed the tide. It’s too late to get into the lagoon so we’ll have to moor in the channel anyway. Let him play. If he damages the paintwork, he’s fish bait.’

  ‘Got it!’ Alan yelled, making Malita jump.

  Fred peered out of the cabin and Rachel, who’d been keeping a lonely vigil in the prow, walked cautiously towards us.

  Whatever Alan had snagged was masked from the shore by the cruiser’s hull. The sea was glassy and there was no wind, just an overpowering heat now that we’d stopped.

  Malita and I leant over the side to inspect Alan’s catch as he dragged it in. Conscious of Saul’s scrutiny, he draped an old sack over the transom to protect the teak varnish before he hauled a willow crab pot over the side. It was attached to a buoy from which sprung a slender cane topped by a quartered yellow and red flag.

  Releasing the trap, Fred reached into the pot and extracted a decent-sized lobster, five large male spider crabs and a lonely, curled-up female full of eggs. He tossed her back and dropped the others onto the planking. Malita jerked her bare legs up with a squeal of undoubtedly very rude Spanish. Fred laughed, picked up the black lobster and teased her with its grasping claws.

  ‘Hang on. You can’t just raid other people’s pots.’ I sounded like my father.

  ‘It’s Surcouf ’s pot. Does that make a difference?’ Alan asked.

  The altercation in the prefects’ room had quickly spread around the college. I was now greeted with quips of “howzat?” as well as “ground belts.” I looked around. There were no other boats and we couldn’t be seen from the shore.

  Saul hurried aft. ‘Isn’t there something we can dump in the bastard’s pot as payment?’ Ducking into the cabin, he reappeared clutching a string of sausages. ‘Surcouf will like these – they’re kosher.’ He dropped them into the pot and shoved it overboard.

  Rachel surveyed the large orange and white crabs, which had now assumed fighting positions on the deck. ‘How are we going to cook those?’
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br />   ‘Not in my bloody galley, you’re not. They’ll stink it out.’

  ‘Ignore him, it’s not a problem – there’s a propane stove in the cottage,’ I said.

  Alan dropped a galvanised bucket over the side and hauled it back full of water. He ignored the crabs’ massive claws, grabbed their bodies, turned them over and dumped them into the bucket.

  Fred dropped the lobster in with them. ‘They’ll probably eat each other if we leave them too long.’

  ‘What, they’re cannibals?’ Rachel clutched her hand to her mouth. We all laughed.

  Miko stuck his head out of the cabin. ‘Why you all laugh?’

  Fred picked up the bucket, now full of wriggling crustaceans, and held it out to him. ‘Keep it in the galley, please, chef.’

  Miko held it at arms length and retreated. A sudden gust of wind picked up the exhaust from the idling diesels smothering us with foul gases. Our laughter briefly turned to choking.

  I felt more relaxed than I had for ages. Rachel looked stunning in her shorts and halter-top. The sun seemed to bleach the greyness out of Malita’s hair and she looked radiant. Even Fred looked more sanguine than usual. The gearbox clanked as Saul engaged the twin propellers and we resumed our journey.

  I could see the Écréhous clearly now, about four miles to the north. Fred, Malita and, to my very pleasant surprise, Rachel and Miko had been onboard and were anxiously waiting for me. I hadn’t told anyone about my visit to Caroline, though Saul had guessed after I told him about the ship. Rachel had kept her distance, almost clinging on to Miko to avoid having to speak privately with me. We had exchanged smiles though and I felt that warmth of companionship I always felt when she was near. I just hoped we could find some time alone once we reached the reef.

  I’d shared my news with Fred but hadn’t mentioned our attempted sabotage or my latest visit to Caroline. He promised to raise the question with Hélène and told me to stop fretting. I lolled on the seat next to Malita, feeling the comforting throb of the engines, and surreptitiously eyed Rachel, who was chatting to Saul in the wheelhouse.

  ‘How fast will this tub go, Saul?’ Alan asked as he lowered the binoculars.

  ‘We’re running at eight knots at present but, in this calm, I could squeeze twelve out of her.’

  ‘Would that be enough to outrun that cruiser behind us then?’ Alan queried.

  I looked over my shoulder. I could just make out the sharp prow of a motorboat thrusting towards us about 300 yards behind. It looked purposeful, almost as though it was pursuing us. It couldn’t be Lorelei, could it?

  I stood up and took the glasses from Alan. Even with the modest vibration from the engines, it was difficult to focus so I steadied my arms on the roof of the wheelhouse. These were Zeiss glasses and their optics were excellent. I blinked in surprise but the image remained, burned into my brain – Alf and Carl, the little bastard who had coshed me. What the buggeration were they doing here? Were they connected with Hayden-Brown and his shipment? My mouth was sandpaper as I lowered the binoculars and handed them to Fred.

  ‘It’s them. The pair from the lane.’

  ‘What lane? What are you talking about?’ Alan asked.

  I called out to Saul. ‘Can you outrun them?’

  ‘Not a chance. They’ll be alongside in minutes. Do you know them?’

  ‘Blue hull, white upper decks, single mast. A bit smaller than us and less tubby.’

  Saul handed the wheel over to Miko and joined us in the cockpit. He took the glasses and examined the closing boat. ‘About forty-five foot, big petrol engines, probably twenty knots flat out.’ He lowered them and looked closely at me. ‘Why do I feel there’s something you’re not telling us, Jack?’

  ‘Two of the men on board ambushed me yesterday, beat me up and left me under Boadicea.’ I stopped and looked at Fred. He nodded.

  I pulled my shirt out of my shorts and showed them my side. Rachel gasped. Alan touched the livid bruise, which made me gasp even louder.

  ‘We don’t know who they are but they’re obviously following us,’ I said.

  Alan hurried below, emerging moments later with his long canvas fishing rod case.

  I looked at him in amazement. ‘What are you going to do with that? Try to hook them?’

  He grunted as he unfastened the buttons. Dropping the case, he revealed Smellie. The oil glistened on her bolt and the sun reflected off the scope as he raised her stock to his shoulder.

  Fred was the first to recover from his surprise. ‘What the hell are you doing? Who told you to bring a gun on board?’

  ‘No one. I was going to shoot at some floats once we got there.’

  I reached out and pulled the barrel down. ‘And now you’re going to shoot at some people?’

  ‘Only over their heads.’

  I grabbed the binoculars again. The boat was less than 250 yards away, overhauling us on our port side. I could see two other men on deck now. One was looking at us through a large pair of binoculars. He couldn’t fail to see the rifle.

  I lowered the glasses, handed them to Fred and tugged the rifle out of my brother’s hands. I stood in the open in full view of our pursuers, brought the rifle up to my shoulder and sighted it on the man with the binoculars.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Fred’s breath was hot in my ear.

  ‘Their dinghy. Alan, what’s in the magazine? Your matched specials?’

  ‘Yeah, ten beauties.’

  ‘How much powder?’

  ‘Enough. Nearly 3,000 feet per second so allow for the drop.’

  I worked the bolt and chambered a round. The bullet sitting on top of Alan’s reloaded cartridge would be supersonic for over half a mile. The dingy was only clinker-built.

  Fred voice was urgent now. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Blast the stern off their dinghy – that should shake it loose from the davits. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re on a platform moving at ten knots aiming at a target moving at twenty knots. I think you’d be lucky to hit any part of their boat. Your shots would penetrate alright but their calibre is too small to blast the wood apart.’

  ‘We need to give them a demonstration – make them back off.’

  ‘Demonstration, yes – laugh, no. You’d need to hit the stern post several times to dislodge the ring bolt, unless you think you’re good enough to shoot through the davit line.’

  I dropped to one knee and braced the stock against the port stanchion, trying to focus on the dinghy’s transom. Fred was right – it was like trying to thread a needle while running. ‘If Saul cuts our speed, it will be steadier.’

  ‘Won’t make much difference. We could hit a small wave at any moment and throw your aim off by fifty feet.’

  ‘We can’t do nothing, Uncle.’

  ‘Here.’ He handed me the binoculars. With their much wider field of vision, I could focus on the dinghy but it was still blurred by our relative movements. He was right. I tracked the glasses along the hull to the wheelhouse.

  ‘Merde!’

  The little man’s sneering face snapped into focus. Then the bastard raised a black object and rested it on the cabin, pointing it towards me. I handed the glasses back. ‘What’s he got in his hand?’

  Fred adjusted the binoculars. ‘Looks like a small automatic – probably a nine millimetre Beretta. No danger at this range but if he gets alongside we could be in trouble.’ Fred touched my shoulder gently. ‘Perhaps we should wait – see what they want? Shooting now could start a war.’

  I called to Saul, ‘Throttle back – take us down to five knots. Let’s see if they get any closer.’

  Saul didn’t argue. The revs dropped and we could now hear the gentle swish of the displaced water as the boat settled into almost a walking pace. The other boat continued to close until they were about one hundred yards away then slowed to match our speed. A much easier target now.

  ‘I think they just want to follow us, Uncle. How important is this meeting?’
/>   His voice was dry. ‘Not enough for a life, Jack. I think they’ve got the point. If you stand down, I think they’ll back off.’

  I felt like John Mills in the film Brown on Resolution. He’d held a German battle cruiser and its entire crew captive with a stolen Mauser rifle. But this wasn’t a film. I hated the bastard for what he’d done to me. The pain of the blow was beyond my experience but the match over my petrol-soaked body had been an act of terror. Would he hesitate to shoot?

  I clambered onto the wheelhouse roof then took up a prone shooting position. This was much better. The relative movement was greatly reduced. I was sure I could hit something as large as their dinghy but hitting a metal tube or even a mast was far too ambitious.

  ‘Where’s their petrol tank, Saul?’

  ‘Below the waterline aft I would guess. No, Jack. Don’t even think of it. They’d blow up – literally.’

  It was tempting. My kidney still ached and the bastard had been right – I had pissed blood. A shot into their engine would absorb the bullet but Saul was right – it might cause an explosion. I removed the scope and placed it by my side.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Alan seemed surprised.

  ‘Field of vision is too narrow. I need to see the whole of the target. Iron sights are fine at this range.’

  I was confident now that I could hit the dinghy. Fred was worried about starting a war? Yet he kept telling me it had been going on for years. My throat was dry but I managed to croak. ‘Distance?’

  ‘One hundred and holding.’

  ‘Are we still alone?’

  Alan answered. ‘Not even a bloody seagull.’

  Sweat trickled down my forehead. I blinked it away. The transom of their dinghy gyrated in my sights. We couldn’t stay like this all afternoon. We had the advantage. We mustn’t let it slip away.

  ‘Saul, when I shoot, go to full speed and get us away from them.’ I hesitated, running Fred’s worries through my mind. Of course he was right. This would be foolish and dangerous. You couldn’t recall a bullet. Bugger it. Too much thinking. I was paralysed with indecision again. Pain slapped my kidney.