I sighed, and lifted the gun. ‘You don’t have much of a choice, do you?’ I was getting mad at him. ‘If ever I saw a man looking a gift horse in the mouth it’s you. I haven’t followed you from Ireland to…’
He cut in. ‘Ireland?’
‘That’s where we were held together.’
‘Lynch is Irish,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘Seaman Lynch? He works for Wheeler—he’s an IRA thug with a dislike of the English.’
‘He looks after me here,’ said Slade. ‘He’s my guard.’ He looked up and I saw that the strain of uncertainty was beginning to tell. ‘Where are we now—exactly?’
‘Anchored in Marsamxett Harbour.’
He made up his mind. ‘All right, but if I get on deck and I don’t recognize it then you might be in big trouble. You’ll be wanting silence and I might take my chances on the gun in the darkness. Remember that.’
‘How long is it since you’ve been in Malta?’
‘Five years.’
I smiled humourlessly, ‘Then I hope to God you have a good memory.’
Slade threw back the bedclothes and then paused, looking at me questioningly. There had been a creak which was not one of the usual shipboard noises. I listened and it came again.
Slade whipped the covers back over his chest. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he whispered.
I held up the gun before his eyes. ‘Remember this!’ I backed off and opened the door of the lavatory and even as I did so I heard a key snap metallically at the cabin door. I closed the lavatory door gently and used my pen-light in a quick flash to see what I’d got into. As usual in lavatories there was no back door, just the usual paraphernalia of toilet, wash basin, medicine cabinet and shower. The shower was screened off by a semi-transparent plastic curtain.
I switched off the light, held my breath, and listened. Lynch’s voice was unmistakable. ‘I heard voices—who the devil were you talking to?’
This was the crunch. If Slade was going to give me away he’d do it now, so I listened with care to what was arguably the most important conversation I was ever likely to hear.
‘I must have been talking in my sleep,’ said Slade, and my heartbeat slowed down to a mere gallop. ‘I’ve been having bad dreams and I’ve got the makings of a headache.’
‘Ach, it’s no wonder, and you being cooped up in here all this while,’ said Lynch. ‘But rest easy, you’ll soon be home.’
‘Why have we been stopped all this time?’
‘Something’s gone wrong with the propellers,’ said Lynch. ‘But I didn’t get the exact hang of it.’
‘Where are we?’
‘Now you know better than to ask that, Mr Slade. That’s top secret.’
‘Well, when will we be moving again and when do I get my feet on dry land?’
‘As to the first,’ said Lynch, ‘maybe it’ll be tomorrow. As to the last, I couldn’t rightly tell you. I’m not one of the bosses, you know; they don’t tell me everything.’ He paused. ‘But you’re looking so white and peaky, Mr Slade. Could I get you the aspirin?’
The hairs on the nape of my neck stood up and did a fandango as Slade answered. ‘No, don’t worry; I’ll be all right.’ It was borne heavily upon me that although I could hear Slade’s voice I couldn’t see what he was doing with his hands. He might be saying one thing and pointing out to Lynch that he had an unwanted visitor.
Lynch said solicitously, ‘Ach, it’s no trouble at all. We promise to get you home in good condition; that’s part of the deal. I’ll get the aspirin for you.’
I ducked into the shower stall and drew the plastic curtain just as Lynch opened the lavatory door. He switched on the light and I saw his outline quite clearly through the curtain as he stepped forward to open the medicine cabinet. I had the gun trained on him all the time and I thought that I could dispose of him and Slade, too, if it came to the push. Getting out would be another matter.
I heard the rattle of pills in a bottle and then the rush of water as a tap was turned on. It was a relief to know that Lynch actually was getting aspirin and that Slade had not sold me out. Lynch filled the glass and turned to leave—he was so close that I could have touched him by only half-extending my arm and only the curtain was between us. Fortunately he was back-lit and I wasn’t or he would have seen me had he glanced my way.
He went out, switching off the light and closing the door. ‘Here, you are,’ he said. ‘This should clear up your headache.’
‘Thanks,’ said Slade, and I heard the clink of the glass.
‘Man, but you’re sweating,’ said Lynch. ‘Are you sure it’s not the fever you’ve got?’
‘I’ll be all right,’ said Slade. ‘You can leave the light on. I think I’ll read for a while.’
‘Surely,’ said Lynch. ‘Have a quiet night, mind.’ I heard the cabin door open and close, and then the snap of the lock as the key was turned.
I was doing a fair amount of sweating myself as I waited for the trembling of my hands to stop. My stomach felt all churned up as the adrenalin sped on its appointed rounds gingering up my muscle tone and twanging my nerves like harp strings. At last I stepped out of the shower and gently opened the lavatory door.
Whether his sweating was due to a fright or fever Slade had used his wits when he had asked Lynch to leave on the main cabin light. It meant that I could see at a glance if the place was safe. Slade certainly didn’t want to be shot by accident.
He lay in bed with a book held between slack fingers and his face was the yellow colour of old newsprint. ‘Why didn’t he see you?’ he whispered.
I flapped a hand at him to keep him quiet and went to the door, still keeping the gun pointing in his general direction. I heard nothing so presently I turned and strode over to Slade. ‘Where does Lynch live? Do you know?’
He shook his head and tugged at my sleeve. ‘How the hell did he miss you?’
He found it difficult to believe that in a narrow space the size of two telephone booths one man could miss seeing another. I found it hard to believe myself. ‘I was taking a shower,’ I said. ‘How was Lynch dressed?’
‘Dressing-gown.’
That meant he hadn’t come far and he probably had been allocated one of the cabins next door to be conveniently close to his charge. ‘Have you any clothes?’ Slade nodded. ‘All right; get dressed—quietly.’
I watched Slade carefully while he dressed, principally to make sure he didn’t slip a blunt instrument into his pocket. When he had finished I said, ‘Now get back into bed.’ He was about to expostulate but I shut him up fast with a jab of the gun. ‘I want to give Lynch time to get back to sleep.’
Slade got back into bed and I retreated into the lavatory, leaving the door ajar. Slade had pulled the sheet up high and was lying on his side apparently reading his book. Everything would appear normal if Lynch took it into his head to come back. I gave him half an hour by my watch and during that time heard nothing out of the ordinary.
I stepped into the cabin and signalled Slade to rise. While he was disentangling himself from the bedclothes—it’s really surprising how difficult it is to get out of bed when fully dressed because the sheet wraps itself round one’s shoes—I jimmied the lock on the door. I had to turn my back on Slade at this point but it couldn’t be helped.
I turned and found him walking towards me slowly. When he approached he put his mouth to my ear and whispered, ‘When I get on deck I’d better see Valletta.’
I nodded my head impatiently, switched off the light, and opened the door on to the darkness of the passage. The staircase was immediately to the left and I prodded Slade up it with the gun in his back, holding his right arm. I stopped him before we got to the top and cautiously surveyed the deck lounge. All was quiet so I urged him on his way and we went out on to the after deck.
I shone the light to give Slade some idea of the obstacle race he must run to get the twenty feet to the stern rail, and off we went again. Half-way across the afterdeck he stopped and looked
around. ‘You are right,’ he whispered. ‘It is Valletta.’
‘Quit chattering.’ I was edgy as I always am on the last lap. Once ashore I could turn Slade in to the Maltese Constabulary and the job was done, apart from wrapping up Wheeler and his mob, but we still had to get ashore.
We got as far as the stern rail and no further. I groped for the grapnel alongside the ensign-staff and couldn’t find it. Then shockingly a blaze of light split the darkness as the beam of a powerful lamp shone vertically down on us from the boat deck above, and a voice said, ‘That’s far enough.’
I dug my elbow into Slade’s ribs. ‘Jump!’ I yelled, but neither of us was quick enough. There was a rapid tattoo of feet on the deck as a small army of men rushed us and we were both grabbed and held. There wasn’t a damned thing I could do—two of the three men who tackled me were trying to tear my arms off so they could use them as clubs to beat me over the head, and the other was using my stomach as a bass drum and his fists weren’t padded as drumsticks are.
As I sagged and gasped for breath I was vaguely aware of Slade being dragged forward, hauled by two seamen with his feet trailing along the deck. Someone shouted and I was also hustled forward and thrust headlong through the doorway of the deck lounge. A burly black-bearded man whom I recognized as the skipper issued orders in a language whose flavour I couldn’t catch. I was unceremoniously dropped to the deck and my assailants began to draw the curtains to the windows.
Before the last of them was drawn I saw a searchlight from the bridge forward begin to search the water around Artina and I hoped Alison had got clear. Someone handed my pistol to the skipper; he looked at it with interest, made sure it was cocked, and pointed it at me. ‘Who are you?’ His English was accented, but with what I didn’t know.
I pushed myself up with wobbly arms. ‘Does it matter?’ I asked wearily.
The skipper swung his eyes to Slade who sagged against a chair, and then beyond him to the staircase which led below. ‘Ah, Lynch!’ he said, rumbling like a volcano about to explode. ‘What kind of a guard are you?’
I turned my head. Lynch was looking at Slade with shocked amazement. ‘How did he get here? I was with him not half an hour ago, and I made sure the door was locked.’
‘The door was locked,’ mimicked the skipper. ‘Te keni kujdes; how could the door be locked?’ He pointed to me. ‘And this man—he brought Slade out of the cabin.’
Lynch looked at me. ‘By God, it’s Rearden. But he couldn’t have been in the cabin,’ he said stubbornly. ‘I’d have seen him.’
‘I was in the shower, standing right next to you, you silly bastard.’ I turned to the skipper. ‘He nearly got himself killed. Not much of a guard, is he?’
Lynch made for me with blood in his eye, but the skipper got to me first, warding off Lynch with an arm like an iron bar. He dragged my head up by my hair and stuck the gun in my face. ‘So you are Rearden,’ he said, caressing my cheek with the barrel. ‘We’re very interested in you, Rearden.’
A cool voice said, ‘He’s not Rearden, of course.’
The skipper swung away and I saw the Chinese, Chang Pi-wu, who looked at me expressionlessly. Next to him stood a tall man with ash-blond hair, who, at that moment, was fitting a cigarette into a long holder. He dipped his hand into the pocket of his elegant dressing-gown, produced a lighter and flicked it into flame.
‘Stannard is the name, I believe,’ said Wheeler. ‘Owen Stannard.’ He lit his cigarette. ‘So thoughtful of you to join us, Mr Stannard. It saves me the trouble of looking for you.’
TEN
‘How did you get hold of him?’ Wheeler asked the skipper.
‘Mehmet found a hook on the stern rail and a rope leading to the water. He removed it and told me. I set up a watch.’
Wheeler nodded. ‘You didn’t know whether someone was going to come on board or leave,’ he commented.
The skipper waved his hand at me and Slade. ‘We caught these two leaving. This idiot…’ He stabbed his finger at Lynch.…let them go.’
Wheeler regarded Lynch frostily. ‘I’ll talk to you later. Now get below.’
Lynch looked as though he was about to expostulate but he caught the cold glare from Wheeler’s eye and promptly turned on his heel and went away, giving me a look of dislike as he went. I was beginning to improve physically; my shoulders no longer felt totally dislocated and although my belly was one massive ache I could now breathe more or less normally.
Wheeler said, ‘Well, Mr Stannard; how did you expect to take Slade ashore? By boat? Where is it?’
‘I swam out,’ I said.
‘And you were going to swim back,’ he said incredulously. With Slade a cripple? I don’t believe you.’ He swung around to the skipper. ‘Make a search for the boat.’
The skipper didn’t move. ‘It’s being done.’
Wheeler nodded approvingly and crossed to Slade who had now sagged into a chair. ‘My dear chap,’ he said anxiously. ‘What possessed you to leave with this man? Do you know who he is? If you had left the ship he would have put you in the hands of the police. And you know what that would mean—forty years in a British gaol. What sort of tale could he have told you?’
Slade wearily lifted up his head. ‘I know you,’ he said, ‘we’ve met before.’
‘Yes—in happier circumstances,’ said Wheeler. ‘Once at an EFTA conference and again, if my memory is correct, at a dinner given by some industrial organization or other—I forget which.’
‘Your name is Wheeler, you’re a member of Parliament. Why should you want to help me?‘
‘A good question,’ I said. ‘Answer him, Wheeler. Tell Slade why you are willing to commit treason.’ I rubbed my sore stomach tentatively. ‘As far as I know treason still carries the death penalty—it isn’t covered by the Act of Parliament which abolished hanging for murder.’ I grinned at him. ‘But who should know that better than you?’
Wheeler didn’t rile easily. He smiled, and said coolly, ‘I am helping you because I don’t recognize British law; because, like you, I’m fighting for a better world.’ He put his hand on Slade’s shoulder. ‘Because, also like you, I’m a good communist.’
‘Then why didn’t I know about you?’ asked Slade. ‘I should have known.’
‘Why should you have known? You didn’t need to know, and therefore you weren’t told. It was safer that way.’ Wheeler smiled. ‘You might have been important, Slade, but you were never as important as I am.’
I corrected him. ‘As important as you were. You’re finished, Wheeler.’
Apart from gently shaking his head he ignored me. With his eyes fixed on Slade, he said, ‘What nonsense has Stannard been filling you up with? You’re a fool if you believe the enemy.’
Slade said, ‘What are we doing here in Malta?’
Wheeler straightened and laughed. ‘So that’s the maggot he’s put in your mind. I’m taking you home, of course. I spend my annual holiday in the Mediterranean; it would have looked damned suspicious if I’d gone to the Baltic this year. Even for you I wouldn’t risk that.’
I said to Slade, ‘Ask him if he’s read any good thoughts lately—from the Little Red Book.’
‘You’re an Albanian,’ said Slade flatly. ‘I don’t trust you.’
‘So that’s it,’ said Wheeler softly. ‘Does it make any difference?’
Slade nodded towards the silent Chinese who stood behind Wheeler. ‘He does.’
I chipped in again. ‘He makes a hell of a difference. Wheeler says he’s taking you home. Home is where the heart is, and his heart is in Peking.’
That got to Wheeler. He said venomously, ‘I think I’ll have to shut you up—permanently.’ He relaxed again and struck his hands lightly together. ‘Not that it makes much difference whether you know or not, Slade. It made things easier as long as you believed you were going to Moscow—a willing prisoner is easier to handle. But we’ve got you and you’ll still get to your destination intact.’
From the look in Slade
’s eyes I doubted it. It wouldn’t be beyond his capabilities to commit suicide somewhere along the way, and death would be far preferable to the information-extracting process awaiting him in China. Besides, under the circumstances it was his duty to commit suicide. Any man in his position knew that when it came to this sort of crunch he was expendable.
But Wheeler was ahead of us on that one. ‘Your confinement will be more rigorous, of course. We can’t have you hanging yourself by your braces.’
‘Do I get to go along?’ I asked.
Wheeler looked at me reflectively. ‘You?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think my friends would be interested in you. You’ve been out of the game too long to know much about recent developments in British Intelligence. A South African sleeper is of no consequence.’ He half turned his head and said over his shoulder. ‘What do you think?’
The Chinese spoke for the first time. ‘He is of no use, but he is dangerous because of what he knows,’ he said dispassionately. ‘Kill him.’
I said something indescribably rude in Mandarin, and he opened his mouth in surprise. Orientals aren’t all that inscrutable.
‘Yes, Stannard; we must kill you. But how to do it?’ Wheeler asked himself pensively. ‘I have it. We discover a stowaway on board—an armed stowaway. There is a scuffle on his discovery and a shot is fired—the stowaway is killed with his own gun. We notify the police here and he turns out to be none other than Rearden, the British gaol-breaker.’ He smiled. ‘That would do a lot for my image; think of the headlines in the British press. What do you think of it?’
‘Not much,’ I said. ‘If you turn me in to the police they’ll want to know about Slade, too. He’s a hell of a sight more important than I am. They’ll want to search this ship, and they’ll take it apart. You wouldn’t want them to do that with Slade still aboard.’
Wheeler nodded. ‘True. I’m afraid I must forgo that charming theatricality; my image must do without it. Besides, before you die there are some questions to be answered, such as what accomplices you have. That reminds me.’ He turned to the skipper. ‘What result of the search for his boat?’
Running Blind / The Freedom Trap Page 47
