Testament

by David Gibbins

  Landor held up the file. “Once again, you can assure me that nobody else knows about this?”

  The ship lurched, and Collingwood gripped the table again, looking pale. He shook his head. “Listen, I’m not doing too well here. Maybe I will have that drink. Water.”

  Landor opened a drawer behind him, put the file inside and locked it, then turned back to Collingwood, relaxing in his chair and smiling pleasantly. “Water won’t help. What you need is to get off this ship.”

  “Jack Howard sends his greetings, by the way. Said you were old friends.”

  Landor’s demeanor suddenly changed. “Jack Howard? How? You’ve been talking to him?”

  “I met him at the National Archives yesterday.”

  Landor glared at him. “What do you mean, you met him?”

  “Quite by chance. I’m always meeting people there. He and I had ordered the same box of convoy files to look at, and had to work out between us who was going to see them first. He was looking at a file on Clan Macpherson.”

  “What the hell for?” Landor exclaimed. “Clan Macpherson is a done deal. He and his sidekick Kazantzakis saw to that by doing whatever it was they did to sabotage the wreck during their dive. I never bought the story they spun about unstable munition cooking off. It’s too much of a coincidence that the wreck should blow up and slide into the abyss just after they happen to be there. I should never have agreed to that inspection. Howard has let me down once too often, and now he owes me big time.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Collingwood said. “But remember, Jack’s an archaeologist and historian, not a treasure hunter. If he was trying to get to the bottom of something in the archives, it’s not because he’s after gold.”

  “I know full well what Howard is. He’s someone who has cost me far too much. Not recovering any gold from Clan Macpherson has put the whole Deep Explorer operation in jeopardy. We’re out here now on a wing and a prayer because of him.”

  “All he was doing was tying up loose ends. He’s going to have to make a report to the British government and the new UN committee regarding the identification of the wreck as a war grave. That’s what he and Kazantzakis were out there with you to ascertain, and he’ll finish the job properly. In fact, he asked me to come on board, to contribute anything I’d found on the convoy attack to help flesh out the report. We were graduate students together at Cambridge, and he knows the quality of my work. I agreed to go down to the IMU campus to collaborate with one of their researchers.”

  “You agreed what?”

  Collingwood looked nonplussed. “I thought it would look good. To have my name on the report would make it look as if we’d had a productive collaboration, as if Deep Explorer had done everything it could to facilitate IMU. It would give you a clean bill of health and make it less likely that you’d be interfered with next time.”

  “I don’t need a clean bill of health. Not at the risk of Howard having insider knowledge of where I might be going next. I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s playing you.” Landor slammed one hand on the table, staring angrily at the chart, and then got up and limped over to Collingwood, glaring at him. “Did you tell him anything about our new operation? That you were coming out to visit us?”

  Collingwood looked uncertain, and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so. What does that mean?”

  “He didn’t ask.”

  “He wouldn’t, would he? Did you tell him you’d just been to the U-boat archive?”

  Collingwood brightened. “That’s when he asked me to contribute to the report. We were both lamenting the fact that the National Archives contain little on the U-boats, and he asked me whether I’d been to the Deutsches archive. I told him I was there several months ago to research U-515 and the West Africa convoy, in the lead-up to Deep Explorer finding Clan Macpherson.”

  “And did you also tell him that you were there again a few days ago, after he and Kazantzakis had done their dive?”

  Collingwood looked nonplussed again. “Why not? I’d just flown in from Dusseldorf that morning, gone straight from Heathrow to Kew. Jack saw my Deutsches Archiv pass and said he was wondering whether to visit himself. I gave him the contact details of the guy there who looked after me. They’re incredibly helpful, and I knew they’d be flattered to hear from Jack Howard.”

  Landor raised his arms in the air in vexation, and then let them fall. “So. Jack now knows that I sent you to the U-boat archive after we knew that Clan Macpherson was a write-off. That’d be just enough for him to wonder where we were going next, to keep an eye on us via Landsat. He has an American who does that for him, the geek with long hair who looks such an idiot in those IMU films. So by now Jack will know we’ve come up this coast, and he’ll be putting two and two together. He’ll have guessed that you found something new as a result of your visit to the U-boat archive that has led us here.”

  The captain turned to him. “We’ve probably got nothing to worry about. We’re in international waters, and there’s nothing he can do to us with the resources he has to hand. The nearest IMU vessel, Seaquest, is at least four days away in the Palk Strait off Sri Lanka. And even if Howard has friends in Somalia, I don’t think that should concern us. The few patrol boats that comprise the Somali navy hardly ever leave port and they don’t seem to have the guts to confront anyone. And with things heating up with Iran, the anti-piracy Combined Task Force 150 is going to be looking elsewhere. We should have a free hand.”

  Collingwood looked at Landor. “All I’ve done is what you wanted. I’ve found you a prize far more valuable than Clan Macpherson. You’ll be able to recoup your losses easily and sail out of here rich men.”

  Landor stared at him coldly. “You’re right. You’ve told me everything I need to know.” He turned to the captain. “Dr. Collingwood has a flight to catch. Can you slow the ship for a helo launch?”

  The captain nodded and went through to the bridge. Landor looked at the Boss, jerking his head toward the door, and the two men followed the captain, shutting the door behind them. After a few moments, Landor opened the door again and gestured for Collingwood to follow. “All right. The helo’s revved up, ready to fly you off. Our pirate friend is going with you because he needs to get back to his village and get ready for the next phase of our operation.”

  “He’s a pirate. You didn’t tell me that.”

  “The Kalashnikov is as good as a skull and crossbones. But we’re paying him more than he’d ever get from kidnapping and ransoming any of us. Just don’t provoke him.”

  Collingwood shut his briefcase, then hesitated. “About my payment. Fifty percent on contract, fifty on coming up with the goods. That was our agreement. I think this counts as the goods.”

  Landor paused for a moment, and then took Collingwood by the shoulder, steering him out onto the bridge. “I’m going to do one better than that. I’m going to cut you in on a percentage of the gold, ten percent, the same proportion as the captain and the operations director, Macinnes. Does that seem fair? It’ll make you a millionaire. Our banker will be in touch once you’re back in England. Have a good flight.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Collingwood sat beside the Boss in the rear passenger seat of the Lynx as it clattered away at low level from Deep Explorer, the downdraft from the rotor kicking up spray from the sea. The helicopter gained altitude, tilted forward and roared off, soon leaving the ship far behind. There had not been enough intercom helmets, so the two passengers were just wearing ear defenders. As Collingwood looked out, clutching his briefcase, he saw that they were still heading east, into the Indian Ocean. He turned to the Boss, tapping on his ear defender. The Boss raised it, and Collingwood shouted into his ear, “We’re going in the wrong direction. The African coast is west, and we’re going east.”

  The Boss, who had been listening to music, rocking with the beat, took out his earbud headphones. “Eh?” he said. “No, this is the right direction.”
He pointed down to the waves. “Very dangerous, English. Very dangerous.”

  Collingwood lifted his defenders, struggling to hear against the roar of the rotor. “What do you mean?”

  “Very dangerous, lots of sharks. No fishermen come out here, no navy, no Americans, no Obama, no English, no nobody.”

  “I get it,” Collingwood shouted. “A very dangerous place. So a good time for the pilot to turn around.”

  “Hey, English.” The Boss prodded him with the muzzle of his Kalashnikov. “You know how to swim?”

  “Not very well, actually. Time I learned.”

  “Yes, English, you learn. You learn now.” The Boss reached over, unclipped Collingwood’s harness and prodded him hard. “Now get up.”

  Collingwood looked at him in alarm. “What do you mean? What are you doing?”

  The Boss curled his finger round the trigger and aimed at Collingwood’s chest. “I mean, get up.”

  Collingwood did as he was told, dropping his briefcase and grasping for handholds as he swayed in the confined space. His briefcase slid toward the door and he lunged for it, nearly following it out. He turned back to the Boss, enraged. “What did you do that for? That had everything in it, all of my notes, now lost in the sea.”

  “Yes, the sea,” the Boss said, spitting a jet of green at him and wagging a finger. “Very dangerous. Too many sharks.”

  Collingwood banged hard on the glass partition between the passenger compartment and the cockpit, but the pilot remained unperturbed, staring forward. He turned back to the Boss, holding on to the rail above the door, the downdraft ruffling his clothes. “Okay, let’s end this game. We’ve come far enough.”

  “Yes, English. Far enough.” The pirate raised the rifle and fired a single round into Collingwood’s chest, the blood spraying out behind and whipping away in the wind. Collingwood seemed frozen in shock, unable to breathe, and then his legs collapsed and he fell away, tumbling round and round into darkness.

  13

  Herefordshire, England

  Jack followed Costas and Jeremy toward the main entrance of the nursing home, a red-brick Georgian mansion set in beautiful grounds in the rolling Herefordshire countryside, the Malvern Hills visible on the skyline to the east. It had taken them a full two hours to drive here from the Institute of Palaeography in Oxford, but it had been a chance to go over the Periplus of Hanno again and to scrutinize Jeremy’s translation of the golden plaque from the wreck. Jack’s excitement had been mounting during the drive, knowing that they were now on the trail of a story more remarkable than he could ever have imagined when he and Costas had glimpsed those symbols underwater less than a week before. The new evidence they had discovered for the voyages of Hanno and Himilco would rewrite the history of early exploration, and he could hardly hope for more. And yet they now knew from the pictogram and the two words beneath it that an even more extraordinary story lay behind those voyages, one that opened up the possibility of discovering what had really happened to one of the greatest lost treasures of antiquity.

  For Jack, the biggest mystery now lay not in the ancient past, but in the darkest days of the Second World War. He had crossed his fingers as they had turned into the lane, hoping against hope that what they heard here today would provide the key to unlocking that mystery, an explanation for what he and Costas had found on the wreck of the Clan Macpherson and its link with the voyage of a Phoenician mariner and his astonishing cargo more than two and a half thousand years ago. He took a deep breath, remembering his phone conversation with the woman they were about to meet, and stepped through the entrance.

  The receptionist took their names and pointed up the grand staircase to the first landing. “She’s expecting you. She’s been looking you up on the internet. You should expect a grilling from her. Jenny will take you up.”

  They followed the nurse up the stairs and along the first-floor corridor, past doors on either side surrounded by food trolleys and medical gurneys. “Lunchtime,” the girl explained. “Louise has already had hers. She’s quite excited by this. Her family come over a lot, children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but when you get to her age, there aren’t many old friends left.”

  “How is she?” Jack asked. “I mean, her health?”

  “Up and down. She’s in her wheelchair today, with an IV. It’s important not to tire her. But her mind’s sharp as a tack. And you should be prepared,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She really likes men.”

  She led them through the open door of what had once been a grand bedroom, its wide windows looking out toward the Malverns. On one side was a bed, on the other a desk with a computer; the space in between was crammed with bookcases covered with artifacts and framed photographs. An old woman sat in a wheelchair looking out of the window, wearing a gaily colored skirt and a Norwegian sweater, an IV drip extending into her left wrist. The nurse stood aside and gestured toward the three men. “Louise, your guests are here. I’ll pop back in five minutes to see that everything’s all right.”

  She left, and Louise turned. She had silver hair done in a 1940s fashion, and was still a beauty. She pressed a button on her armrest and the wheelchair advanced to the low coffee table in the center of the room. “You know, I’m nearly a hundred,” she said, flashing a smile. “All my old friends from boarding school have gone, and there can’t be that many left from my time at Cambridge either. There are still a few of us from the war, of course, old crocks like me by now. And yet sometimes,” she said, eyeing the three men, “I don’t feel a day over twenty-three.”

  She spoke with the crisp accent of her era and background. Jack smiled, holding out his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Jack Howard, and this is Dr. Costas Kazantzakis and Dr. Jeremy Haverstock, both Americans. They’re colleagues of mine.”

  “Ah, Americans,” she said, shaking their hands in turn. “We had Americans at Bletchley, you know. They were so much more civilized than our chaps, at least to begin with, less desperate to get under our skirts. Not that I minded that, but so many of our chaps had been in the war before being assigned to Bletchley and were haunted by it, still expecting to be knocked off any minute. Those first Americans had a bit more time for romance. Are any of you gentlemen married?”

  She looked inquiringly at Costas, who coughed. “Um, not yet, ma’am.”

  “I’m Louise, not ma’am. And why not? You’d be a good catch for the right sort. I’ve looked you all up on the IMU website, you know. Some girl out there’s bound to go for that Hawaiian look. It happened for the German chap, despite his shorts, with his delightful Egyptian wife, and even for the one who looks as if he’s out of Star Trek … what’s his name?”

  “That would be Lanowski, Dr. Jacob Lanowski,” Costas said.

  “I think he’s lovely. Well?”

  Costas looked rueful. “Never seems to last beyond the beach. Where I have my holidays, that is. Romance and the engineering lab don’t mix too well, I find. Too much grease and oil.”

  “Never stopped me at Bletchley. I was covered in it from operating the wretched bombe. You should try harder.”

  Costas coughed again, glancing at Jack. “Yes, ma’am. I mean Louise.”

  “And you, young man?” She turned to Jeremy.

  “Not yet either,” he said. “Well, I’ve got a girlfriend. Actually, it’s Jack’s daughter Rebecca. We might be engaged.”

  “Engaged,” Jack exclaimed. “First I’ve heard of it.”

  Costas turned to him. “Might be engaged?”

  Jeremy pushed up his glasses, looking uncomfortable. “Well, it’s a little tricky. It’s kind of hard pinning her down.”

  “That’s because nobody pins my daughter down,” Jack said. “She’s a Howard.”

  “Nobody pins you down either, it seems,” said Louise, looking at Jack. “I’ve read two of your books on your underwater adventures. They’re over there, on the table. Costas is in them a lot, and so is Jeremy, and Maurice and Aysha and that lovely S
tar Trek man. But in one book there are quite a few pictures with one woman, and in the other book another woman. One looks central Asian, the other Spanish. Katya and Maria.”

  Jack scratched his chin. “That’s a bit tricky to explain, too.”

  “No, it’s not. You’re dithering. You need to make your mind up. A girl likes to be chosen.”

  Jack nodded. “Yes, she does. Damn right.”

  “Okay.” Her eyes twinkled with amusement, and she gestured at the three chairs that had been placed on the other side of the table. “Now that we’ve got that sorted out, let’s get down to business. How can I help you?”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Jack sat back, having told Louise about their dive off Sierra Leone. On the coffee table were two large photographs of the wreck, one showing the ship’s name painted below the bow, the other the gaping hole caused by the torpedo explosion. He had not yet shown her the intact British torpedo that had been resting inside the hull, or the gold. He was still feeling for what she might know, and did not want to press her too far.

  She had been mesmerized by the images. “Fascinating. You know, I’m glad my friend Fan won’t be seeing these. She felt personally responsible for the men lost in that convoy.”

  Jack looked up from the pictures. This was what he had wanted to hear. “Was she also at Bletchley?”

  “We called it the special operations hut. Commander Ian Bermonsey.”

  “You worked together?” Jack said cautiously.

  Louise shook her head. “Not exactly. We were in digs together, though. Fan always thought I did something frightfully mysterious, but really all I did was what I told her, supervising the Wrens operating one of the bombes. It was stinking, dirty, noisy work. Computers then were not like they are now. Not the obvious thing for a cosseted girl like me, but we all got on with what we were told to do. There was a war on.”