Medusa

by Hammond Innes

  Noon. And nothing happened. The sun blazed down, everything very still, the frigate’s anchor chain hanging slack, the water flat like polished brass. Fearing the worst it was almost an anti-climax. Away to the south a plane rose from the airport. It looked like a military plane, but it flew west towards Ciudadela.

  I stayed there, watching, and shortly after twelve-thirty a launch moved out from the commercial quay heading straight for Bloody Island. It was the same launch that had brought the new harbour master out to Medusa. I turned the glasses on to the naval quay. Still the same three ships there – a fast patrol boat, one of the big fishery protection launches and the old minesweeper that had escorted Medusa in. The launch came through the narrows, making for the frigate, and as it passed I could see a little group of three men in the stern of it. One was Romacho. He was now wearing an official cap and beside him was a man in uniform, an Army officer by the look of it. The third man was in civilian clothes and I wondered who it was. He had his back to me and it wasn’t until he turned to speak to Romacho that I realised it was Fuxá himself.

  So the RN presence was that important. The launch swung alongside the frigate’s accommodation ladder where they were met by one of the officers, Mault I think, certainly not Gareth, and all three of them went on board.

  I stayed there by the beacon, watching through the glasses, waiting to see what would happen now. They were on board exactly seventeen and a half minutes by my watch and it was Gareth himself who escorted Fuxá and his two companions to the head of the ladder, saluting perfunctorily, then turning away. The Army officer did not salute and there were no handshakes, the three of them hurrying down the ladder to the waiting launch without looking back.

  I watched them all the time through the glasses, and all the way through the narrows they stood silent and grim-faced, none of them saying a word.

  Nothing happened after the launch had returned to the inner harbour. Nobody else came out to the frigate, so I presumed the deadline had been extended. It was siesta time anyway. The day dragged on, no sign of Petra or Lennie, with the result that I was marooned in the midst of what now seemed something of a non-event, everything so quiet, so peaceful it was almost unbelievable, and only the absence of any movement in or out of the harbour to convince me of the reality of it.

  I had time then to think about myself – my own life and how sailing, and a fascination for the precision of target shooting, had given me the means to live by my wits in a world that seemed to be getting everlastingly richer as more and more successful businessmen decided to make the Mediterranean their playpen. It had seemed so easy. Exciting too. Then I had met Soo and the urge to build something solid, a business of my own, a family, had brought me here.

  And now?

  I went over it all in my mind, sitting in the blazing sun beside the half-cleared outline of that fallen taula – the night of that Red Cross barbecue in the Quarries, the cave and the loss of the child, the murder of Jorge Martinez, that big beautiful catamaran and the blind stupidity of my desire to own it.

  And Soo. My mind kept coming back to Soo. The only sheet anchor I had ever had. And I had lost her. Give my love to Soo, he had said with that funny little smile. And he was there, on that frigate, and she could see the ship from her bedroom window. Pray for me, he had said.

  Hell! It was I who needed praying for, sitting alone beside a religious monument fashioned by Bronze Age men some three thousand years ago, and wanted by the police.

  Shortly after four, with Mahon active again after the three-hour break, a convoy of over half a dozen yachts left. There was activity in the port area now. But still no sign of either Petra or Lennie, and no means of crossing the water to Mahon. The narrows on the north side of Bloody Island are barely three hundred metres wide and I was greatly tempted to swim across, but it would undoubtedly be under observation, and apart from the Naval Base, I was certain the whole peninsula that formed the northern arm of the harbour was in the hands of the new regime. How much of Menorca they held, outside of the Mahon area, I had no means of knowing. Not all of it probably. Several times I thought I heard firing away to the south-west, in the direction of the airport. Then suddenly there was the sound of engines, a distant rumble from the far end of the port, by the new cargo quay.

  It was the Libyan freighter getting under way, the harbour tug pulling her bows clear and swinging them round, so that they were pointed straight towards me. At the same time, the harbour master’s launch left the Estacion Maritima, accompanied by two other launches. I was standing by the red-flashing beacon again when they passed through the narrows, but I couldn’t see who was on board the harbour launch. It was flanked by what looked like a harbour police launch and a customs launch. Only the harbour master’s launch went alongside Medusa’s ladder, and though somebody attempted to go on board, his way was blocked by a burly petty officer standing immovably halfway up it.

  The little tableau remained motionless for some time, the man on the grating gesticulating very energetically and an officer, Sykes probably, on the deck above. I watched them arguing through the glasses until my attention was distracted by the increasing rumble of ships’ engines. The freighter, with the tug leading it, was approaching the narrows. It was low in the water, not yet unloaded, so it could hardly be intending to leave port. And behind me, just visible beyond the rocks above Petra’s landing place, I could see the bows of the small oil tanker lying in Cala Figuera beginning to swing as she fetched her anchor.

  The tug was through the narrows by then and headed direct for Medusa. The beat of the freighter’s engines slowed as she passed so close to me I could see that the Arabic letters of her name had been painted over some earlier name, the outline of which suggested that she had originally been Greek, possibly Russian, for the faint lettering appeared to be Cyrillic. The rusty plates slid by, the bridge housing at the stern seeming to tower over me.

  In the distance I could just hear the tug exchanging words with the harbour launch over loudhailers, and at the same time Gareth appeared on the frigate’s bridge wing. He had his hand to his mouth, holding a mike I think, because even at that distance I could hear his voice quite clearly, it was so powerfully amplified. He spoke in English, very simply: ‘I have to warn you that any ship coming within two hundred metres of my anchorage will be regarded as having committed a hostile act.’

  He turned then and I think he must have given an order, for as Lieutenant Sykes hurried to his side and began repeating what he had said in Spanish, the turret of the two 4.5-inch guns slowly swivelled, the barrels no longer aimed at the heights above Cala Llonga, but being lowered, slowly and menacingly, to point directly at the freighter.

  It flashed through my mind then what a chance he was taking – or was he bluffing? For a British warship to open fire on the ship of a country we were not at war with, however unfriendly that country might be, and to do it while anchored in the harbour of a Nato ally … It didn’t bear thinking about and I almost held my breath as I waited to see what the freighter would do, wondering whether Gareth was acting on his own initiative or whether he was covered by explicit orders. I hoped, for his sake, that it was the latter.

  Everything now was in slow motion. The launch had pulled away from Medusa’s side to join the others, the three of them in a close huddle as though the vessels themselves were discussing the situation. The frigate’s guns stayed implacably levelled at the approaching superstructure of the freighter, which was now barely moving. A sudden swirl of water at her stern and she was stationary, everything held motionless as in a still picture.

  The sun had begun to set, a lovely golden glow lighting up the grey slab-plated side of the frigate. Time passed, nothing happening, but the tension seeming steadily to increase as the sunset glow deepened to red so that the villas above Cala Llonga and Cala Lladró were all aflame, the bare scrubland above taking fire.

  The police launch was the first to break away, ploughing back through the narrows at full speed. At the same
time the harbour launch went alongside the tug. It was there for several minutes, then it made across to the freighter, going alongside on the port hand where I couldn’t see it. Meanwhile, the customs launch had passed astern of Medusa and disappeared in the direction of Cala Llonga, or perhaps further along the peninsula, by Lazareto Island. I couldn’t follow its movements because it was hidden from me by the frigate.

  By now lights had begun to appear along the Mahon waterfront and in the town above. The clouds had thickened, darkness closing in early. I could still just see the harbour launch. It paused briefly to turn and run parallel with the tanker, which was already approaching the narrows. Then, when it had resumed course for the Estación Maritima, the tanker changed direction to pass out of my sight to the south of Bloody Island. At that moment Medusa leapt suddenly into fairy-like outline, her deck, upperworks and mast all picked out by strings of light bulbs – Gareth Lloyd Jones cocking a snook at the waiting ships and the shore. It was as if he was saying, ‘Here I am, still anchored here and my guns ready. What are you going to do about it?’

  After that I didn’t stay much longer by the beacon. There was no point. It was already too dark to see what was going on ashore. The tug and the freighter had been joined by the tanker, all three of them anchored astern of the frigate and well beyond the two-hundred-metre protection zone Gareth had declared for himself. Stiff and tired, I went back to the camp, where I lit the pressure lamp, raided Petra’s drink cupboard for a glass of brandy, and got the paraffin stove going to heat up one of her packets of instant food.

  The sound of an engine sent me tumbling back to my lookout point by the red-flashing beacon. It was the harbour launch, back again, and I watched as the dim shape of it passed through the narrows, making straight for Medusa. The frigate had swung with the slight movement of the tide, so that through the glasses I had an even clearer view of the launch as it went alongside the ladder. One man only got off and was escorted to the bridge. It wasn’t Romacho, and it certainly wasn’t Fuxa. This was a much taller man wearing a seaman’s cap and dark jersey.

  A stone clinked behind me and I swung round as a voice spoke out of the darkness – ‘Your grub’s boiling over, mate.’

  It was Lennie. He had rowed across in a borrowed dinghy from the little gut in the cliffs below Villa Carlos known as Cala Corb. ‘I turned the stove off. Better eat it now, then if you wanter go ashore I’ll take yer.’ He was staggering off towards the dark bulk of the hospital ruins. ‘They’ve kicked most of the prisoners out of the jail and locked up half a dozen senior officers of the Guardia and the national police instead, including your friends Menendez and Molina. You’ll be safe enough.’ His voice was slurred and he moved with care for he had spent most of the day in the waterfront cafe-bars. No, he didn’t know where Petra was, and he hadn’t been near the chandlery nor seen anything of Soo. ‘Wouldn’t go near ‘er, mate. I told yer. She fired me. Just like that. She can go to hell.’ He was very drunk, holding himself stiff and erect.

  His news, gathered at second hand in the waterfront cafe-bars, was that as yet the new regime controlled barely half the island. But they had the key points – La Mola and Punta de Santo Carlos to the south of the Mahon entrance, both airports, the radio and radar station on El Toro, also the town of Alayor. But in the country south and west of Alayor there were rumours of fighting between local factions. ‘They say the Russians are coming.’ But he admitted that was just bar talk. ‘They’re full of talk over in the port, wild talk.’

  He waved away my suggestion that he joined me and get some food into himself. ‘Don’t wan’ food – ‘nuther drink.’ He had found the cupboard with the Soberano in it. ‘Their own bloody fault, yer know. Didn’t think it through.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  But his mind had switched to something else. ‘Pinched my boat.’ He slopped the brandy into the glass, the bottle clinking on the rim, then slumped into a chair. ‘Left it at the Club pontoon, only gone an hour – well, mebbe two. Bloody bastards!’ His eyes focused on me with difficulty. ‘What was that you asked? Oh yes. Didn’t cotton on, the fools – all that bombing. Two nights ago. An’ next day, orders of the Military Governor over in Palma they say, all them raw young conscripts spread around the island to protect the urbanizacións and foreign property. Clever! Did the job, yer see. One night’s bombing and it got them La Mola. Hardly any military left in the barracks there.’ And he added after a moment’s thought, ‘But there’s talk of some regulars over to Ciudadela that could act as a rally – a rallying point. Talk, talk, talk … In one bar – yer know, the one by the commercial quay – there was a trucker came in said he’d seen military vehicles moving towards Alayor, told us Fuxá wouldn’t be able to hold the airport for long. Then some silly bastard starts talking about the Russians. Snow on their boots!’ He snickered. ‘That was a long time ago.’ His voice trailed away, the hiss of the pressure lamp making him sleepy. ‘Didn’t think it through,’ he said again. ‘All part of the plan an’ they fell for it. Clever!’ His head was lolling. ‘An’ now that Navy ship, boxed in with a Libby bloody freighter sitting on ‘er tail.’

  He didn’t seem to have anything more to tell me, so I asked him why he had slipped away from the petty officers’ mess that morning. ‘You left me stranded.’

  He nodded, mumbling something about, ‘It’s all right for you’.

  ‘You should have checked the chandlery, had a word with my wife and made certain Petra was all right.’ His head was sinking into his arms. I reached out across the table and shook him. ‘It wasn’t the Australian Navy you deserted from, was it? It was the Royal Navy.’

  ‘Wot if it was?’

  ‘And that’s why you got pissed.’

  ‘Well, wouldn’t you, mate?’ There was a note of belligerence in his voice now. ‘I do’n want ter think back to them days. And those petty officers – Chris’sakes! They could’ve picked me up jus’ like that.’

  I told him he was a bloody fool. All those years ago … But he was fast asleep, his head fallen sideways on to his arm. I finished my meal, then put what clothes I had on, turned the pressure lamp off and went down to the landing point. It was a plastic dinghy, and though he had been drunk, he had still hauled it out on to the rocks, stowed the oars neatly and made fast the painter.

  The water looked inky black as I floated it off and stepped in, Mahon a blaze of light as though nothing had happened and it was just a normal evening. Fortunately there was no wind, for the boat was no better than a plastic skimming dish. Clear of Bloody Island the brightly lit shape of the frigate blazed like a jewel, the tug and the freighter in black silhouette, the tanker barely visible and no sign of the launches. I made straight for Cala Figuera and our own quay. My car was there, but nothing else, no sign of Petra’s Beetle. No lights on in the windows of the house either and when I crossed the road I found the door to the chandlery standing half-open.

  I think I knew by then there was nobody there. I called, but there was no answer, the only sound a sort of scratching as though a net curtain was flapping in the breeze from an open window. It came from above and as I climbed the stairs I had an unpleasant feeling there was something in the house, something alive.

  I reached the landing and stopped. The scratching sound came from the bedroom, and suddenly I knew. The dog! ‘All right, Benjie.’ The poor little beast couldn’t bark and as I pushed open the door I could smell it, a mixture of urine and excreta. He flung himself at me, making that extraordinary singing noise in the head. I switched on the light. He was shivering uncontrollably. Apart from the messes and the smell, the bedroom looked much as usual. I got a bowl of water from the kitchen and he drank it straight off, lapping with desperate urgency. Clearly he had been shut in that room for some considerable time and Soo would never have done that. She doted on the animal.

  I went through into the front room then, and as soon as I switched on the light my heart sank – a chair tipped over, Soo’s typewriter on the floor, its cable ripped
out as though somebody had tripped over it, a jug of flowers lying in a litter of papers, a damp patch on the Bokhara rug and an occasional table on its side with one leg smashed. There had been a struggle and I stood, staring helplessly at the evidence of it, asking myself why – why for God’s sake should anybody want to attack Soo, and what had they done with her?

  Anger, a feeling of desperation, of inadequacy almost, came over me, not knowing where she was or what to do. I got some food for the dog. He was hungry as well as thirsty. The fact that he hadn’t been able to contain himself might be partly nerves, but clearly he’d been shut up for some time, so whatever had happened to Soo had happened quite a few hours back. I cleared up the mess in the bedroom, moving about in a daze, wondering all the time where she was, what had happened. I found myself back in the front room, in the office, staring out at the dark glimmer of the water. The dog was pawing at my trousers.

  I took it down the stairs and out into the road, where it did what it had to while I stared across the water to the lit outline of the frigate. A bell sounded above the cliffs in Villa Carlos. I glanced at my watch, scooped up the dog and ran back up the stairs. The news was already being read as I switched on the radio, the announcer in the middle of saying that the self-styled President of Menorca had called upon Moscow to recognise the new island republic and provide immediate assistance in dealing with dissident elements endeavouring to impose what was described as ‘a reactionary fascist regime centred on the old capital, Ciudadela’.

  I switched to the World Service where it was now the lead story, the announcer listing a whole series of countries who had been asked to recognise the island republic. So far only Libya and Albania had complied. Madrid had still not taken any positive action, but there was clearly intense activity on the political front. The Spanish ambassador had been to the Kremlin and it was reported that the Government had called upon all EEC countries to assist in maintaining Spanish sovereignty over the Balearic Islands. More practically, Spanish Navy ships in Barcelona had been put on alert and parachutists were standing by.