by Peter Tonkin
The real investigation would not start until tomorrow.
Anyone left active in Demetrios's murderous plot would therefore have to act tonight. So if he and his crew were going to get their just deserts and lay to rest the vengeful spirits of the innocent dead so far, they had only tonight to bring their lethal foes to justice.
After Bodmin left, Richard remained on the bridge and Martyr remained in the engine room, each one of them at full alert.
And the hours began to pass.
Martyr appreciated what the Captain was doing for him - and would have appreciated it more had he not been so vividly aware that, by keeping him aboard, Mariner could well still be using him as a blind. As a stalking-horse. He knew too that whoever had tried to kill him in the darkness after the bomb had to act tonight. He also knew that unless the man was caught - and caught by Martyr himself - the American would always be tainted with guilt. And, perhaps more importantly, he would feel guilty. His weary acceptance of the Greek's proposal so long ago had seemed such a little thing - the money such a godsend for Christine in the detox clinic - but that was before the murders started. Before the whole thing had been revealed as the lethal foulness it really was.
Perhaps Watson's tape might furnish a clue.
Martyr had not yet had time to listen to the tape. In the confusion after Watson's death he had managed to smuggle it to his cabin and hide it there, but he had been required to give a statement to Bodmin with the others and had been in their company ever since.
He stayed in the engine room almost until midnight before he decided it was time to act.
The younger officers nodded as he exited - a grand old man coming to the edge of his strength in their estimation. They did not see the new, youthful urgency in his stride as he hastened up to his berth out of their sight.
He tore open his door and all but ran in, only to freeze on the threshold of his sleeping quarters. The room was a wreck. The state of his hiding place was more than enough to tell him that Watson's tape recorder was gone. He went on in slowly and closed the door silently, his mind working fast.
Ten minutes later, at a quarter past midnight, Robin found herself in the same spot as usual, outside Richard's door in the C deck corridor. She had come down here straight off watch - again as usual - as though driven by some Pavlovian reflex.
The situation and the time were so familiar that she paused, though she knew Richard was up on the bridge keeping the first part of Ben's watch while the Mate tried to fix the computers in the Cargo Control Room for the morning. She paused for a moment, then, almost ready to turn left towards her lover's empty berth, turned right after all and knocked quietly on the door opposite.
The Owner's suite was occupied again. Oddly - or perhaps not so oddly at that - without a word being said on either side, Sir William Heritage had joined the team. In what capacity it was not quite clear, but when the other interlopers left by helicopter and Pilot's launch, he was still aboard. And he had no intention of being anywhere else. Though no great sailor himself for many years past, he fitted into Prometheus's routine as he fitted everywhere - quietly and without fuss.
The battered but sizeable expanding briefcase he habitually carried held as much as he needed - a few office things in one side and a few overnight things in the other; and a small two-way radio which could transmit as far as Exeter but receive from very much further afield.
He was speaking quietly into this as Robin entered. He glanced up, grinned and waved her to a seat. 'Please wait,' he said into the same microphone and took his thumb off Transmit.
'New toy,' he announced, pleased. 'It can transmit as far as Exeter and I arranged a relay there on the way down. The people at Exeter are rebroadcasting my messages to the twenty-four-hour secretary at my office in London. Very efficient.' He depressed the button once more and began to speak.
It was from another, half-forgotten world. Robin watched, bemused; amazed anew at her father's grasp of his business. He would have settled everything important before leaving town and yet here he was, still tying up loose ends with no reports or memoranda - with nothing to help but a few crisp notes from his personal tape recorder. Abruptly a tidal wave of warmth swept over her. In the weeks she had been aboard Prometheus she had forgotten how much she loved this man.
Finishing, he leaned back and massaged his eyes gently, fingers and thumb almost lost beneath his shaggy brows, in a gesture she remembered with poignant affection from childhood. Unaware of her scrutiny, he leaned forward and flicked a switch on the radio. At once the quiet voice of a BBC newsreader filled the room.
At last he turned, the routine complete. 'Well now, lass, you're looking gradely,' he rumbled. 'Seems I wasn't working you hard enough.'
She had come down to see that he was all right. She had no intention of staying for long but a chat and maybe a drink wouldn't go amiss. Smiling wryly, she crossed to his small bar-fridge. 'You're looking better yourself, Dad,' she said.
'Mebbe I am at that.'
'Whisky?'
'Grand.'
As she poured them a whisky each and turned back towards him, the news bulletin on his radio finished.
'You want water with this?'
'Has it been that long, lass?'
'No; it's ice-cold.'
'Ah well. No help for it.'
She turned back and opened the fridge. There were some small bottles of Perrier in the door. 'And it's fizzy ...'
'Gah! The privations of ship board life, eh?'
'Pity poor sailors ...' she said.
'And here is the shipping forecast issued by the Meteorological Office at midnight tonight ...'
She crossed to her father and handed him his glass. Then she sat comfortably on his bunk. He sipped the amber liquid. 'So,' he said through a grimace of mock distaste, 'what exactly have you been up to then?'
'German Bight, Humber: six to seven, south-westerly, strengthening. Showers. Moderate to poor ...'
'Well, it's a long story ...' She was suddenly a little defensive, unsure how much she wanted to share.
'We've got time now, lass ...' He spread his hands wide, holding the whisky firmly in the left.
'Thames, Dover: seven to gale eight, south-southwesterly, strengthening. Intermittent rain. Poor ...'
'Not too long. I'm going back up on to the bridge in a minute or two.' Already she sounded distracted. She sipped her whisky.
'Nay, Robin. What good can you do? And you're worn out. Look at you.'
'I'm Third Officer here, dammit, Dad. I can do my duty …’
'Wight, Portland, Plymouth: gale eight to severe gale nine, strengthening. Heavy rain. Poor ...'
'Don't you swear at me, my girl! You're mixed up in something pretty dirty here. Dirty, and, by the look of it, dangerous. I'm your dad. I want you safe out. It's only natural ...'
Erect now, she put her glass on his bedside table and turned. 'Don't you patronise me, Father. As I have already said, I am Third Officer here and I ...'
It hit her then: the weather forecast.
'Biscay: severe gale force nine gusting to storm ten, southerly, strengthening. Heavy rain. Visibility poor and worsening ...'
'My God! Did you hear that?'
'What ...'
'South Finisterre ...'
'That! There's a southerly storm coming and we're anchored on a lee shore. Jesus!' She crossed to the door.
'Robin,' he called.
She turned in the doorway. A vibrant, controlled, competent person he had never seen before. 'Make it quick, Dad,' she snapped, 'or we'll all be sitting aground on Exmouth Prom long before the dawn.'
The VDU screen flickered. A column of figures appeared then vanished in the twinkling of an eye. 'Nearly there,' exulted Ben. 'McTavish, is that circuit going to hold up?'
'Aye. There's nothing complex about it, Mr Strong. It's just been blown tae Hell and gone. That's all.'
'Well, if we pull this one off, my bonny boy, we'll be able to hand in our papers here and get a job
with IBM.'
'And give up the sea, Number One?'
'And give up the sea indeed.'
They worked for a while in silence, then McTavish ventured, 'But what'd there be tae catch the lassies af I'd no ma uniform tae wear?'
They were working in the Cargo Control Room as they had been since the anchor went down. The two of them, with occasional help from Quine, had been at it for nearly eight hours solidly and were quite prepared for eight more. But there would be no need: if this last circuit held up without shorting out, the end was in sight at last.
Fortunately, the computer's memory banks did not seem to have been damaged by the explosion. Richard had sealed the room against wind and weather once it had been cleared of debris and now Ben and McTavish were hoping to get it ready for the inspection later this morning.
'That's it!' called McTavish from under the console.
'Right. I'll try it again. Come out ...'
McTavish needed no second warning. His face was a rash of bum-spots from their last such experiment which had shorted like a Roman Candle an inch above his nose. But Ben didn't even see him move. Even as he spoke, he pressed ENTER and now the whole screen lit up again. And stayed alight.
'Good ...'
Ben's nimble fingers moved across the keys rattling off the entry codes that would bring up the memory index. He would check that, then the File Headings. And if they were all still there, the Files themselves.
But the machine was already answering perfectly:
FILE ONE: LADING:
LADING SCHEDULES 1-10 ...
By 02.30 he knew for certain that the bulk of the memory was intact. He sat back and cracked his knuckles, satisfied for the moment. 'I've finished the first part of this, McTavish. You all tidied?'
'Just about, Number One. Screwing down the last panel now.'
'I know someone I'd like to screw down: the SOB who did all this in the first place.'
'Aye.' McTavish picked himself up and dusted off his knees punctiliously. 'It's nothing short of criminal ruining all this expensive equipment.'
'Still, it's working now.'
'That it is, Mr Strong. I'll tell the Chief so too. Do you want tae tell the Captain?'
'I'll clean up first. You run along.'
'Aye. It's been a dirty job.' The young Scot paused at Ben's shoulder, looking across the room. 'But it's done now. And well done.'
Then he was gone.
Ben's hands hovered over the keyboard an instant longer. Then he, too, left.
He did not go to the bridge at once but to his own quarters. It was time: he had waited - been forced to wait - long enough. It was time to listen to the tape.
He had been close enough to the hole in the deck to see Watson's body below. Near enough to see the Chief wrap a handkerchief round something in the dead man's hand. Finding it in the Chief's quarters had been easy. Finding time to play it back had not. But now he had five minutes, and that should be enough to be sure.
He almost ran across his cabin. The recorder had been small enough to fit inside a roll of socks. He paused for a moment, looking into his open sock drawer. Had it gone? No. There it was ...
He sat on his bunk with the thing unwrapped in his hand, looking at it a little warily for a moment. Then he pressed REWIND. The cassette whined back. He pressed PLAY.
'NGAAAAAAAA,' it screamed. Shocked, he dropped it to the floor. Its landing coincided with the end of Watson's fall recorded on the tape so it sounded eerily as though something other than the recorder itself had fallen. Something larger and softer. Something infinitely more breakable, falling from a great height.
Ben clutched at his mouth and ran for his small toilet. As he heaved into it, Martyr's ghostly footsteps echoed closer and closer behind him until, with a click, the recording stopped.
A moment or two later he was ready to try again. This time he let the tape run right back to the beginning before he pressed PLAY.
A jumble of background noise, making no sense but located at sea by the keening of gulls.
Then: 'You lot! Get the bell off my ship!' The Captain's unmistakable growl, distant but clear.
'Now ...oo ...loo ...'
'No! You ...'Mariner again. Cut off.
Then ... Very close. Very clear. Very fast. 'Jesus! Demetrios! I didn't recognize you in that get-up. Is this safe?'
'Is any of it?' American accent. Tense. Bitter. Angry.
'What's the panic? Why are you here?'
'To bring you this!'
'What? ...Oh for Christ's sake! Not another ...'
'They gave it to me. It's an incendiary. Get it near the tanks and ...'
'Look! In God's name! Don't you people understand? Your first bomb failed. You don't need another one. Take it away with you! I've got it all sorted out. It's finished! Done! I've rigged the computers. The minute they start trying to move the cargo she'll break up and go down like ...'
'Jesus! Is that possible? I didn't know ...'
'Possible? You ass! We need all this high-tech stuff and years of training to stop it happening!'
'But when ...'
'In Durban, of course! I was recalibrating anyway ...'
'Look out! There ...'
'What the ...'
'Ngaaaa -'
He cut it off. Jesus wept, he thought. Watson had recorded the lot. The whole thing. And even on a tiny little recorder like this, both the voices were perfectly recognisable.
Christ on a crutch! What the hell to do?
Bang Bang Bang! The hammering at his door was so unexpected that he nearly fainted. He answered as quickly as he could, still pale from the shock.
'Lord!' said Robin. 'You look terrible!'
'I'm OK. What is it?'
'Where've you been for the last few hours, Number One?' She demanded, taking a leaf out of his own book. 'It's a bloody great southerly storm is what it is. Got us trapped against a lee shore. In an hour or so, we'll either be fast aground on Exmouth Prom or afloat the Seine Bay - so we're off to France, says our less-than-happy Captain. Off to France. Right now!'
'Can't you get anyone on that thing, Mr Quine?' snapped Richard.
'No, sir. It wasn't really designed for this sort of thing.'
'Nothing on this ship was. What's our bearing, John?'
'120.'
'Steady at that. What are we?'
'Slow ahead. Making five knots.'
'OK. But I want more speed as soon as possible.'
It was the earliest part of John's watch, and he stood by Salah Malik's left shoulder while Ben stood at his right, both peering through the fogged glass. Robin was guarding the Collision Alarm Radar, which, though set at its lowest calibration, was mercifully quiet. The first big seas thundered into her, beam-on, black and hard as a coal cliff. She lurched a little, not liking this at all. Richard remembered the last time he had put her through anything like it, sitting confidently in his Captain's chair. Before bombs; before anyone had mentioned anything about sister ships breaking their backs on the long seas of the Roaring Forties.
Another big sea hit her. She moved only infinitesimally, but Richard knew all her ways now, and that one felt as though it had come more from head-on than beam-on. Richard went forward and pressed himself close to the glass, wishing he had a clear view in front of him. He could hardly see the deck. He couldn't see the sea at all.
'Quine?'
'Yes, sir?'
'It's getting increasingly important ...'
Just as Richard spoke, Quine at last got something on the radio. The World Service News. '... And the hurricane-force winds which have devastated southern France today turned north, against all predictions, and are currently blowing over the Channel. Coastguard fear considerable danger to shipping. And now, sport ...'
Richard exploded. 'Hurricane force! That's no bloody use at all, Mr Quine, I need facts, not journalistic horror stories. I want reports from weather ships and coastal stations. I want accurate wind velocities. I want exact atmospheric pressure readin
gs. I want state of sea and sky, and I do not need the blasted news and sport.'
'N ...No, sir!' stuttered Quine, unnerved by the injustice of the attack. But Richard had slammed out on to the port bridge wing where he could vent his frustration on the elements, and not on innocent bystanders.
The wind out here was thunderous, breathtaking. It buffeted him with a cold fury, numbing him almost at once. He strode forward and gripped the handrail. Only that unrelenting grasp kept him upright as the wind tore at him, pushing icy fingers through the apparently impenetrable cold-weather gear he was now wearing. This was the last thing on earth he wanted to be putting Prometheus through, but he had no choice. The storm, approaching from this direction, simply turned Lyme Bay into a lee shore and threatened to blow him aground off Exmouth. He had to run for the shelter of the Seine Bay, off the north coast of France opposite. It was required Channel procedure in these conditions and the only wise thing to do. While the storm was blowing from the south, the coast of England threatened danger - the coast of France offered shelter from the wind and sea.
It was a matter of mere miles - little more than a hundred - before the Cherbourg Peninsula would start giving a measure of protection. In these conditions, perhaps ten hours' sailing time. So little and so short a time after their voyage so far. But there was something which made his resumption of command turn to ashes in his mouth. Perhaps he thought the old girl had had enough. Perhaps he felt that this was one test too many.
Certainly, it was the one final test he now most dreaded facing with her. Even as he stood there, lost in thought, the first great column of lightning striking the wave tops far ahead showed him the worst.
As it sometimes does, the Channel, under the storm conditions, had pulled in the great Atlantic rollers from the Western Approaches; it had steepened their sides and lengthened the distance between their crests. It had swung them round and was hurling them head-on at Prometheus: a perfect facsimile of the seas of the Roaring Forties. It didn't happen often but it had happened now. To get to the safety of northern France, Prometheus must sail through a flawless replica of the seas off Valparaiso. The seas which had broken her sister's back. On a clear day. In a calm.
