Running Blind / The Freedom Trap

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘I’ll find out,’ said the skipper, and left the lounge.

  I sighed. ‘I came aboard alone.’

  Wheeler nodded. ‘You were alone at the beginning—I know that. But you might have picked up someone along the way. You realize that I must be certain.’ He indicated the Chinese. ‘My friend has ways of making sure, but you won’t want to hear about that.’

  I looked about the lounge casually. The departure of the skipper had reduced the odds against me, but not by much. There were two seamen behind me, one covering me with my own gun, and Wheeler and the Chinese were in front. The Chinese held his hand in his pocket and I was certain he also had a gun. I looked at Slade and wondered if he’d join me if it came to putting up a fight.

  I said, ‘I’d like to know how you got on to Mackintosh and me so fast. You seem to know all about me—including my South African history.’

  Wheeler chuckled. ‘You British are a nation of amateurs—and that goes for your intelligence services. I was told about you, of course.’

  I was genuinely bewildered. ‘Who could have told you? There was only Mackintosh and me.’

  ‘Precisely. And you didn’t tell me.’

  My jaw dropped and I stared at Wheeler incredulously. ‘Mackintosh?’

  ‘Who else could—as you point out. He was a little drunk and very indiscreet. I had no difficulty in flattering the fool. Towards the end he realized he was saying too much and shut up, but I got enough out of him.’ He laughed. ‘We were having a discussion on prison reform at the time.’

  I was bewildered. Wheeler’s description didn’t fit the Mackintosh I knew, who was not a fool and certainly not susceptible to flattery. What in hell had Mackintosh been doing to blow things like that?

  ‘He’s dead, of course,’ said Wheeler casually. ‘I saw to that immediately as soon as I was certain we had you safe in Ireland. But we didn’t have you safe, did we? Those IRA clowns are also amateurs. Never mind; here you are and all is well, after all.’

  I felt chilled to my bones. Whether Mackintosh was dead or not—and that was a moot point because I had told Alison to spread the word of his impending demise—I felt betrayed and utterly alone. Like a man who treads on a stair that isn’t there. I felt jolted. I had to believe Wheeler because nothing else made sense, and yet Mackintosh’s betrayal didn’t make sense, either. Unless…

  The skipper returned, breaking my chain of thought. ‘No boat found,’ he said.

  Wheeler was fitting another cigarette into his holder. ‘You may have been telling the truth, after all,’ he said. He turned his head to the skipper. ‘I want safe places for these two separately. What do you suggest?’

  ‘Slade can go back to the cabin,’ said the skipper.

  ‘After what has just happened?’ Wheeler lifted his eyebrows.

  The Chinese said, ‘He must be manacled to the bed, and a man must stay in the cabin all the time. He must not be permitted to make noise.’

  Wheeler thought about it. ‘All right; what about Stannard?’

  ‘The forepeak; there’s a steel bulkhead with a watertight door. He won’t get out of there.’

  Wheeler nodded curtly, then said to me, ‘I’m afraid your interrogation will have to be postponed until we’re away from land. The sound of a man screaming travels a long way.’ He waved his hand and I found my arm held. ‘By the way, were you responsible for what happened to our screws?’

  ‘What’s happened to your screws?’ I managed to grin. ‘Are they loose?’

  ‘Very stiff-upper-lipped,’ commented Wheeler. ‘A quip in the face of death—very British. Take him away.’

  I was hustled out of the lounge, a man on each side of me. I passed Slade whose face was yellowy-grey and who looked absolutely defeated and then I was thrust out on to the stern deck. There were now lights aboard Artina and, as we went forward along the side-deck, I saw that the man on my right still carried my gun. I didn’t like the sound of that forepeak; from what I had seen of it on the plans of Artina’s sister ship it was only four feet high—a hermetically-sealed steel box. The odds were I’d die of heat-stroke or suffocation.

  But relish the prospect or not, the man next to me had a gun. The fact that he wasn’t pointing it directly at me made not a ha’porth of difference—not while he gripped my arm and the man on the other side held me in a hammer-lock.

  They pushed me along the deck until we were amidships and then there was a noise like a dud firecracker and the man with a gun gave a yelp and dropped it on to the deck. He stopped and looked at the blood oozing from the hole in the back of his hand, and let go of me. I’d heard that dud firecracker go off before.

  I heard it go off again and saw a brief flash of light from the top of the deckhouse. The seaman who had me in the hammer-lock stumbled slightly and his grip loosened. He went down in apparent slow motion and I saw there was a dark red spot in the middle of his forehead.

  ‘Jump, you damned fool,’ yelled Alison, and I went over the side in an inelegant dive, arms and legs going every which way. I landed in the water with a hell of a splash and heard, two seconds later, another neater and more ladylike splash as Alison joined me.

  I wasted no time in getting under the surface and swam in a circle searching for her. My hand touched her leg and she twisted in the water and grabbed my wrist. I pulled, leading her, and we swam deep and under Artina. It would be natural for anyone to look for us from the side of the ship from which we had jumped and I wanted to get away from there.

  Matters were complicated by the fact that I was running out of air. Things had happened so fast that I hadn’t had time to prepare myself by taking a good lungful of air, and that wasn’t so good. I didn’t want to come up within shooting distance of the ship. I compromised by coming up for air under Artina’s stern, hanging on to her rudder with just my nose and mouth above water. Alison joined me.

  I took a few deep breaths and then allowed an ear out of the water. Things were going pop on deck; men ran along the deck in a seemingly confused way and the deep rumble of the skipper’s voice held a note of menace. I prodded Alison under the chin so that her head came out of the water and whispered into her ear. ‘Swim to Ta’Xbiex—under water as far as possible. I’ll meet you at the place we left.’

  She wasted no time in answering but sank under water and vanished. I took a last breath and followed her. Normally I like swimming but this was getting to be a bit too much; I like to swim in water I know to be clean. I took it easy, letting the air dribble from my mouth as the strain grew intolerable. When it finally became impossible to stay under any longer I surfaced face upwards, letting only my nose and mouth break the surface.

  I cleared my lungs in four breaths and then risked a glance back at Artina. A searchlight was probing the water again but not in my direction. As I was about to go under again I heard a roar and ducked under just in time as a fast launch came hurtling in my direction. I struck out strongly to gain depth and the launch passed directly overhead, the disturbance of the wake buffeting me in the water.

  Three times I had to surface before I came to the shore or, rather to the long line of yachts moored stern on to the wharf of the Lazzaretto Creek Marina. I came up under the bows of a floating gin palace, puffing and panting in an attempt to get my breath back, but I soon stopped that when I heard the pad of naked feet on the deck above.

  Whoever it was seemed irritable. ‘More uproar—everyone rushin’ about in the middle of the night. What the hell do they think they’re doin’?’

  A woman said, ‘I thought I heard fireworks earlier.’

  ‘Fireworks be damned—they’re tomorrow night. And who the hell lets off fireworks at this time in the mornin’?’

  The launch came by again, going at a hell of a clip, and the boat I was holding on to rocked heavily in the swell of its passage. This provoked an outburst of rage from above. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doin’?’ the man screamed, and I pictured him as a peppery, curry-voiced retired colonel.


  His wife said, ‘You’re making more noise than anyone else, George. Come back to bed!’

  There was the slap of bare feet on the deck as they padded away. ‘All right; but a fat lot of sleep I’ll get,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ll see the manager tomorrow. We can’t have this happenin’ at night.’

  I grinned and swam a couple of boats down the line before climbing ashore. Then I dog-trotted towards the place I’d assigned to meet Alison, hoping that she’d made it. I was worried about Alison for a number of reasons. Back in Ireland she had been distrustful of me and had wondered out loud if I hadn’t sold out to the Scarperers. Now I was distrustful of her.

  If what Wheeler had said was true—that Mackintosh had blown the gaff—then I was really in trouble because Mackintosh wouldn’t do a thing like that unheedingly. But why should I believe Wheeler? What incentive did he have to tell me the truth? In that case there was only one other person who could have sold out—Alison!

  What brought that line of thought up short with a jerk was the recent episode on Artina. If Alison had sold out then why did she rescue me? Why did she pop off with that natty pistol of hers to wound one man, kill another, and get Stannard off the hot spot? That made even less sense. But I determined to keep a careful eye on Mrs Alison Smith in the future—providing she hadn’t been run down by that launch.

  II

  I waited for fifteen minutes before she arrived. She was exhausted—so weary she couldn’t pull herself from the water. I hauled her out and waited for a while until she recovered sufficiently to speak. Her first words were, ‘That damned boat—nearly ran me down twice.’

  ‘Did they see you?’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t think so—they were just lucky.’

  ‘They nearly got me,’ I said. ‘What happened to our boat?’

  ‘I saw a man find the grapnel,’ she said. ‘And I knew you’d be in trouble. I went to the bows and climbed the anchor cable, and just let the boat drift.’

  ‘Lucky for me you did. You’re pretty handy with that popgun.’

  ‘Six yards—no more. Anyone could do that.’

  ‘Anyone wasn’t there,’ I said. ‘You were.’

  She looked about her. ‘We’d better move. We could be picked up if we stay here.’

  I shook my head. ‘We’re pretty safe. This harbour has so many inlets and creeks that Wheeler and his boys would have to search ten miles of coastline. But you’re right—we’d better move on. It’s a long walk back to the hotel and I want to get there before it’s light. Do you feel fit?’

  Alison got to her feet. ‘I’m ready.’

  It would take us, I estimated, a good hour to walk back to the hotel. We walked silently; I don’t know what Alison was thinking but I was busy wondering what the hell to do next. At last I said, ‘Well, I’ve fallen down on this one—my instructions were to bring Slade back or to kill him. I’ve done neither.’

  ‘I can’t see that you could have done differently,’ said Alison.

  ‘Yes, I could—I could have killed Slade on that yacht but I tried to bring him out.’

  ‘It isn’t easy to kill a sleeping man,’ she said, and shivered. ‘It isn’t easy to kill anyone.’

  I gave her a sideways glance and wondered about her. All that training must have produced something. ‘How many men have you killed?’

  ‘One,’ she said, and her voice caught. ‘To…night.’ She started to shake violently.

  I put my arm around her. ‘Take it easy. It’s a bad reaction, but it wears off in time. I know.’ I damned Mackintosh for what he had done to his daughter. Yet at least he had made her into a professional and she would respond to the right stimulus just like one of Pavlov’s dogs. To take her mind off what she had just done I said, ‘We must leave the hotel.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But what then?’

  ‘I’m damned if I know,’ I admitted. ‘It all depends on how much damage we’ve done to Wheeler’s yacht. If she moves we’re finished.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t?’

  ‘We have another chance.’

  ‘You can’t go on board again—that won’t work twice.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I must think of something else.’ We fell into a dispirited silence as we trudged along. We were both wet and it was cold in the early hours of the morning. We were also tired, and none of this helped us to think straight.

  The sun was rising as we came into Floriana and there were a few people stirring in the streets. During our long walk our clothes had pretty well dried out and we didn’t attract undue attention. Presently we passed workmen with ladders who were stringing up rows of gay bunting across the street. ‘Those boys have started early,’ I said. ‘What’s the celebration?’

  ‘There’s a festa today,’ said Alison. ‘They’re always having them here.’

  I remembered the disgruntled man who had complained about noise in the harbour. ‘They’ll be having fireworks tonight, then.’

  ‘Inevitably. The two go together in Malta.’

  Something prickled at the back of my mind—the first stirrings of an idea. I left it alone to grow in its own good time. ‘How much money have we got?’

  ‘About three thousand pounds—including the five hundred I gave you.’

  At least we were well equipped with the sinews of war. The idea burgeoned a little more, but I’d have to study the plans of Artina’s sister ship a little more closely before I could bring it into the open.

  A sleepy porter gave us our keys at the hotel and we went up to our rooms. At my door, I said, ‘Come in here for a minute.’ When we were inside I poured a big lump of scotch into a tooth-glass and gave it to Alison. ‘Put that inside you and you’ll feel better. Get yourself a hot shower and a change of clothing, but make it fast. We’re evacuating—I want us to be out of here within a half-hour.’

  She gave a wan smile. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘We’re going to ground—just where I don’t know. But Wheeler will have his men checking the hotels; he might have started already. Just bring essentials—the money, passport and aircraft documents.’

  When she had gone I followed my own advice. I knocked back a fast scotch and took a three-minute hot shower which chased away some of the aches and put some warmth in my bones again. My stomach was black with bruises. I dressed quickly and began to assemble the things I needed, not that there was much.

  Then I sat down and began to study the ship plan. Fortunately it was scaled and I was able to measure distances fairly accurately. Not only was the idea burgeoning but blossoms were appearing. It all depended on whether Wheeler was immobilized in Marsamxett Harbour for another night.

  Alison came back carrying one of those big bags which magically hold about six times more than they appear to. We left the hotel by a rear entrance and five minutes later we were at Kingsgate boarding a bus for Senglea.

  Alison seemed brighter and said, ‘Where are we going—and why?’

  I paid the fare. ‘I’ll tell you when we get there.’ The bus was crowded and I didn’t want to talk about how I was going to kill Slade and Wheeler in public. The driver of the bus laboured under the misapprehension that his name was Jack Brabham, or perhaps he thought that the little shrine to the Virgin, so gaily decked in flowers, was a reasonable substitute for brakes. We got to Senglea in a remarkably short time.

  Senglea is a peninsula jutting out into the Grand Harbour between Dockyard Creek and French Creek. Since the rundown of the Royal Navy and the demilitarization of the Naval Dockyard in Malta it seemed to be a reasonable place to find what I wanted—a boatshed, preferably with its own slipway.

  It was still too early to do anything about that but the cafĂs were already open so we had breakfast, and very welcome it was. Over the bacon and eggs I said, ‘Were you seen last night—seen to be recognized again?’

  Alison shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Wheeler appeared to be uncertain about whether I had assistance,’ I said
. ‘Of course, he knows now—but he doesn’t know who. I think you’re elected to do the shopping; it might not be safe for me on the streets.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked concisely.

  ‘I want a boatshed. I only want it for twelve hours but we can’t say so—we’ll probably have to take it on three months’ lease. I’m a boat designer and I’m working on a new type of…er…hydrofoil. I don’t want anyone—my rivals, for instance—looking over my shoulder while I’m doing it, so I want discretion and security. That’s the story.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then you push off and buy us a boat. Something about twenty feet overall and hellish fast, with big engines.’

  ‘Outboard or inboard?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Outboards will be cheaper, but they must be powerful. You bring the boat round to the shed.’ I looked through the window of the cafe. ‘Over there is a scrap metal yard; I should be able to get most of what I want over there, including the hire of a welding outfit.’

  Alison’s brow wrinkled. ‘So you have a fast boat and a welding outfit.’ She waited patiently.

  ‘Then you hire a truck. Can you drive a truck?’ She gave me a look of silent contempt, and I grinned. She had probably passed her driving test with flying colours—in a Chieftain tank. I said, ‘You take the truck and you buy enough fireworks to fill the boat.’

  Now I had got her attention. ‘Fireworks!’

  ‘Big ones—especially the ones that go bang and throw out a shower of pretty lights. None of your paltry penny bangers; I want the big professional stuff. If they’re so keen on fireworks here there should be quite a stock somewhere in this island. Think you can do that?’

  ‘I can do it,’ she said. ‘Now tell me why the hell I should.’

  I pulled out the ship plan and laid it on the table. ‘I’ve been on board Artina and everything I saw fitted in with this plan, so I think we can trust it.’ I tapped with my finger. ‘The engine room, containing two 350 hp Rolls-Royce diesels which gulp a hell of a lot of fuel. Under the engine room a supply of fresh water and the ready use fuel tank which holds 1,200 gallons.’