Rip Tide

by Stella Rimington

  ‘Does anyone at UCSO know I’ll be on board?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Even their head man in London hasn’t any idea we’re putting someone on the Aristides. And we didn’t want this chap Berger to know either, since it looks like the leaks have been coming out of his office.’

  For communications, Technical Ted had handed over a laptop containing gizmos which he’d assured Dave would be completely invisible to anyone looking at his machine except the most sophisticated technician. They would enable encrypted messages to be sent directly to and from Thames House. Bruno’s office in the Athens Embassy was to act as fallback communications in case the system failed.

  All that sorted out, Bruno ordered another bottle of wine and said, to Dave’s surprise, ‘You’ve worked a lot with Liz Carlyle – tell me about her.’ And for the rest of the dinner Dave had ducked his probing questions about Liz as best he could, saying nothing revealing, and unsuccessfully trying to change the subject. By the end of the evening, he was left with the distinct impression that Bruno’s interest in Liz was not on his own account; he was trying to find out whether she was involved with his boss, Geoffrey Fane.

  The ship had already reached the Red Sea and Dave had as yet made very little headway in getting to know the Pakistani crewmen. In the Mediterranean, two small storms had blown up and the Aristides, with no stabilisers, had been tossed about like a yo-yo. All the Pakistani crew members had been seasick for almost two days and Dave himself had had to retire to bed at one point. Even when they were well, the four men did not mingle with the other crew, and at meals occupied a table of their own. When he’d encountered them on deck and had tried to make conversation – about cricket, or the floods in Pakistan that had been on the news – they had just nodded and moved away.

  But then one of them, a crewman called Fazal, had gashed his hand lashing down some containers on the deck. Dave had noticed Fazal at the beginning of the voyage, and had thought that he looked much younger and more vulnerable than the other Pakistanis. And, interestingly, when he had first come into the surgery to have his hand treated after the accident, he had answered Dr Macintyre’s questions about it in fluent English, with a definite trace of a Birmingham accent.

  Now Fazal was due to come in and have his dressing changed, and Dave was hoping that he could use the opportunity to get him talking. When he suggested that Dr Macintyre might like to go and play cards, leaving Dave in sole charge for the hour the surgery was open, the Scotsman had understood at once, and made himself scarce.

  Fazal turned up on time and sat down while Dave changed his dressing. ‘Tell me how it feels now,’ said Dave, assuming a medical manner. ‘Has it stopped hurting?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s all right.’

  ‘I hope you’re not putting any pressure on it.’

  ‘No. I’m on light duties.’

  ‘You don’t sound like a Pakistani.’ Dave looked up from his bandaging and smiled. ‘That sounds like a Brummie accent to me. My mum came from Birmingham; grew up near Springfield Park.’

  Fazal’s eyes widened. ‘That’s where I come from.’

  ‘Really?’ said Dave. ‘It was all Irish back then.’

  ‘Not any more,’ said Fazal, with a hint of a grin.

  ‘What brings you here then? We’re a long way from home.’

  Fazal hesitated, then said, ‘I wanted to see the world. My mum had family in Pakistan; one of them put me on to this.’

  Dave pointed through the porthole, where the sandy shoreline of Saudi was still visible. ‘Didn’t you want to go there? To Saudi, I mean. Mecca and all that.’

  Fazal thought about this. ‘Some day,’ he said at last. ‘But they’re not true followers of the faith. The ruling family’s corrupt.’

  Dave shrugged. ‘Can’t be worse than Africa. Wait till you see Mombasa. We’ll have to bribe the harbour master before we can put the gangplank down.’ He finished off the dressing and laughed. ‘Not many followers of the true faith there, I think.’

  Fazal shook his head. ‘You’re wrong.’

  Dave raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’ He was about to ask Fazal if he would be meeting any of these ‘true believers’ when he saw the boy’s face freeze. Someone was standing in the doorway of the consulting room and when Dave looked round he saw it was another of the Pakistani group – an older man called Perjev, who seemed to be in charge of the others. He barked something in Urdu and Fazal looked briefly at Dave, then got up and quickly left.

  It was disappointing, but at least he’d made contact with the boy and confirmed not only that he was from Birmingham, but also that he came from the Sparkhill area. At last he had something to report. And Fazal seemed vulnerable – that could be useful if things got heavy.

  At the end of the hour, Dave locked up the surgery and went back to his cabin. He checked the slightly primitive security measures he set every time he left his room: a single strand of hair balanced across the handle of the top drawer in his desk; and the items in his shaving kit, seemingly a random jumble of toothpaste, razors and shaving cream, which were in fact carefully arranged.

  The hair was missing, and he found it only when he got down on his hands and knees and inspected the linoleum floor. It didn’t necessarily mean anything – the draft when he opened the door could easily have blown it off. The contents of the drawer seemed fine; his laptop was where he’d left it, apparently untouched. He went across to the washbasin to look at his shaving bag. Everything was there, he saw to his relief, but then he realised something was wrong. The tube of toothpaste was the wrong way round.

  Someone had been in his room.

  Chapter 47

  They were putting up a stage at the bottom end of Springfield Park. From the bench where Tahira sat, she could see scaffolding and two workmen fitting stairs at one end of the platform. Beside a van, parked on the grass, an electrician was sorting out a spaghetti-like tangle of wires.

  Tahira was waiting for Malik. He’d rung her on her mobile the day after their first conversation in the café, and she had agreed to meet him here. Other ears were listening when he rang – Liz’s colleagues were tracing all calls going to and from Malik’s mobile phone.

  He had suggested they meet in the park, specifying this particular bench on the hill, where large chestnut trees offered shade and privacy. Tahira sensed he was torn between a wish to see her, and an unwillingness to be seen talking to an unmarried young woman who was known more for her forthright character than for her Islamic piety.

  Turning round, she spotted him coming through a rear entrance to the park. He was wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt, and carried a mobile phone in his hand. As he sat down beside her on the bench he looked round anxiously, though there was no one within a hundred yards of them.

  ‘Hello, Malik, it is nice to see you again.’

  ‘Likewise. You look lovely today.’

  ‘Do you see what’s going on down there?’ asked Tahira brightly, pointing to the stage at the bottom of the hill. ‘There’s going to be a pop concert here on Saturday.’

  ‘I know.’ Malik sounded unimpressed.

  ‘I’ve got tickets. My cousin and I are going.’

  ‘What do you want to do that for?’

  ‘It’s the Chick Peas. I love their music.’ Which was true. The all-girl Asian group had recently become famous with their single ‘Biryani for Two’. Their lead singer, Banditti Kahab, had been on Celebrity Big Brother, wearing lots of make-up and an ever-skimpier succession of miniskirts. Tahira knew the girls were vulgar, but their songs were catchy, and in any case she admired them for their gutsiness. She liked the way they defied the conventions they’d grown up with and still managed to remain as much Asian as English.

  Malik groaned. ‘Oh, Tahira, you’ve got so much to learn. The way you talk, you sound as though you’ve been brainwashed.’

  ‘Brainwashed. Who by?’

  ‘The so-called culture of the West, what else? Can’t you see? The girls in that band stand for the very wors
t things in this country – sexy clothes, flashy jewellery, lots of make-up. Flaunting their bodies. All the things they have been seduced into thinking are glamorous. And what has seduced them? The TV and the tabloids and adverts – especially the ads. You see them everywhere. For short skirts and bare skin and all the things our own religion condemns.’

  ‘They’re just a girl band, Malik.’

  ‘That makes it even worse – their only aim is to be famous. They’ve sold out in the worst possible way.’

  He sounded angry now, and Tahira didn’t argue. Liz had told her to play him along, whatever she really felt about the things he said. He went on, ‘When will we ever learn? The way ahead is not through aping the West. We should be getting the West to accept our standards, not the other way around.’

  ‘But is that possible?’ asked Tahira hesitantly.

  ‘It may take time,’ Malik conceded. ‘But it will happen some day. You watch. I have seen for myself Westerners who have embraced Islam.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ He gave a patronising laugh. ‘One of them was even a woman. A blue-eyed devil,’ he added, laughing at the cliché.

  ‘Where did you meet her?’ she asked.

  Malik hesitated. ‘It had to do with the mission I told you about. I hope you have kept that secret.’

  ‘Of course.’ She paused then ventured, ‘I’m sorry you’re going away.’ She hoped the words didn’t sound as ridiculous to him as they did to her, but she was gambling on his ego being big enough for him to accept them without question.

  To her surprise, he said, ‘I’m not going to Pakistan after all.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No. Plans have changed.’

  ‘But what about the others?’

  ‘They’ve already gone.’

  ‘Gone without you?’ She was surprised but didn’t dare ask why he had stayed behind. So she just said, ‘Well, that’s nice for me.’

  But Malik looked uncomfortable. She wondered why – if he was keen on her, he ought to be glad he wasn’t going away. She looked at him. ‘What’s the matter, Malik? Are you upset that you aren’t going?’

  He shrugged and said nothing, but Tahira knew there was something wrong.

  ‘Perhaps you are more interested in this blonde blue-eyed devil than in me,’ she teased.

  ‘I didn’t say she was blonde,’ Malik snapped. He looked around, suddenly tense again. ‘I’ve got to be going.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, as if her feelings were hurt. ‘Do you want to meet again, Malik?’

  He hesitated, and she could see his conflict reflected in his face. He was obviously attracted to her, but there was another side to him – the side that had him looking around tensely, the side that had no place for her or any woman.

  Eventually Malik smiled at her. ‘Of course we’ll meet again. It is the one good thing about my change of plans.’ He reached out and put a hand on her arm. ‘Let’s see each other on Saturday, before you go to the concert. We could meet at the café.’ He wasn’t looking at her as he spoke; his mind was on something else, and she had no idea what that was.

  Chapter 48

  They came under cover of darkness and mist just before sunrise. Captain Guthrie had sent for Dave Armstrong, and when he arrived in the pilot’s house on the top deck of the accommodation block, the Captain pointed silently at the newly installed radar screen. It showed four tiny blips making straight for the Aristides.

  Like the crew and the officers, Dave was unarmed. No weapons were allowed on board: the owners of ships sailing through the pirate-infested waters off the Horn had long ago decided that resisting the pirates would only lead to violence. It had turned out to be the right decision – not one hostage had been killed during the spate of hijackings in recent years. But just at that moment, Dave would have liked to have a weapon in his hands to defend himself.

  He watched as the blips drew closer to the centre of the screen, then began to fade. He looked questioningly at Guthrie, who said, ‘The radar starts to dissolve at five hundred yards. That means they’re very close. Look.’ He pointed to the monitor where a larger blip had appeared in its upper corner. ‘That must be the French corvette. Our chaps should be in view any moment now.’

  CCTV cameras had been positioned at the stern and bow of the Aristides, tilted down to show the waterline. Daybreak had come, but the fog had not yet lifted. Dave stared at an overhead monitor as a skiff came murkily into view at the stern. He could just make out three men in it, one of whom was manhandling the lower section of a ladder, holding it upright until its upper rungs were perched against the side of the Aristides. The man began pushing the bottom rungs of the second section, which slid upwards towards the rail of the stern deck.

  Dave felt a tap on his shoulder and Guthrie pointed to the other monitor, which showed a skiff nestling up to the bow of the ship. There were also three men in this boat, and one of them, bare-chested and of Arab appearance, was standing up, holding a harpoon gun. He took careful aim then fired. A steel grappling hook shot up into the air, trailing an unravelling length of rope. Dave couldn’t see where the hook had landed but the line tautened sharply, almost pulling the harpoonist out of the skiff. One of his associates quickly cut the rope free of the harpoon gun, then lashed it around the low gunwale. Now the Arab who had fired the harpoon gun swung himself up on the rope and began climbing, hand over hand, towards the bow of the Aristides, which loomed above him. It would have been easy to go along the deck to the bow and cut the rope, thought Dave, but both men still in the skiff held AK-47s, trained upwards to cover the climbing man.

  ‘Time to go,’ said Guthrie; the other monitor was showing one of the pirates halfway up the ladder at the stern. Guthrie reached down and flicked a switch. The noise of a klaxon horn filled the air, and within seconds crew members were running along the deck towards the accommodation block.

  Dave followed the Captain to the companionway, where they quickly descended two flights of steel stairs down to the ship’s staff room, which was level with the main cargo-laden deck of the tanker. The crew members, about twenty of them, were gathering there, looking uneasy. They formed a rough semi-circle as Guthrie stepped forward to address them. Dave noticed the Pakistanis weren’t there.

  Guthrie clapped his hands together and the room went silent. He was not a big man but he looked tough, with square shoulders and an air of grizzled authority. Just what you needed in a crisis, thought Dave. Guthrie said, ‘Listen, men. Pirates will soon be on board this vessel. We expect them to head down here without much delay. You may have noticed that some of your fellow crewmen are missing . . . we think they may be helping the pirates.’ The men started to talk among themselves, and Guthrie held up his hand for silence. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ve locked the steel doors over there, though eventually the pirates will be able to open them and get in. But by then we’ll all be safely on the lower deck.’

  There was more murmuring and one of the crew raised a hand – the Cypriot, who spoke very good English. ‘If they have control of the ship, they can just wait for us to come out.’

  Guthrie shook his head. ‘Help’s on the way. With any luck we won’t be down below for long. Now get going!’

  The men moved towards the rear door of the room, which led to the interior companionway that ran up and down the accommodation block. Dave lingered, waiting for Guthrie, who was checking the bolts on the door that led to the deck. Finished, he said, ‘That should hold them off for a while. And once we close the steel door to Level Two we’ll be safe until the cavalry rides to the rescue.’

  The two of them started for the companionway, where they could hear the crew clanking their way down. Suddenly a figure appeared in the rear doorway. It was Fazal, who must have been waiting in the stairwell. He held a 9 mm handgun in his hand – the same one Dave had recently bandaged.

  ‘Drop the weapon!’ Guthrie barked. ‘That’s an order, sailor.’

  Fazal shook his he
ad, and tightened his grip on the handgun as he stepped into the room. He looked so nervous that Dave was scared he’d fire the gun by mistake. ‘Fazal, listen to me,’ he said, taking a small step forward. ‘If you hand over the gun, I promise nothing bad will happen to you. But if you hold us here with that, I can’t make any guarantees.’

  From outside the accommodation block they heard the sound of a loud hailer, though the words were unintelligible. That’s the cavalry, thought Dave, and just in time. He pointed towards the bolted door leading to the main deck. ‘There’s a French patrol boat full of commandos out there. They’re heavily armed, and they won’t hesitate to shoot you if they see the gun. Make the smart move, Fazal, and give me the pistol.’

  The boy hesitated, and for a brief moment Dave thought he was about to relent. But suddenly, from behind him, Perjev came rushing through the doorway, holding an AK-47. Seeing Fazal, he shouted at him in Urdu, and the boy swung his pistol up to cover Dave. As he did so, Perjev went over to the door leading to the deck and undid the bolts. Using both hands, he swung the steel handle to vertical and heaved the heavy door open.

  A man stepped in from the deck, a tall Arab with hard eyes. He looked agitated. Waving his gun, he motioned Dave and Captain Guthrie out of the open door. ‘Go!’ he shouted, following closely behind as they stepped through on to the deck. Perjev came too then stopped and gestured back inside. ‘Our two mates are down below. We’ll get them.’

  The Arab hesitated then said sharply, ‘Quick! The French are here.’

  Turning to Dave and Guthrie, he pointed down the long central corridor on the deck with twenty-foot containers lined up on either side. It stretched to the bow of the ship almost two hundred feet away. ‘Move – to the bow – fast,’ the Arab said, waving his gun.