Operation Manhunt

by Christopher Nicole

He sat up, and the rolling seemed to gather pace, separately inside the cabin, which also began to rotate round and round, as if it were operating on a gyroscopic principle all its own. He gritted his teeth and made himself sit still, and with his eyes opened, until the movement returned to normal. He wiped sweat from his forehead and looked around him.

  He was in one of the single cabins, sitting on the bed against the outside bulkhead, beneath the porthole. To his right was a wardrobe, to his left a dressing table, and beyond, a jalousied door. Another jalousied door occupied the center of the bulkhead opposite, and on either side were bookshelves, filled with a selection of light novels. He pushed himself to his feet, held on to the dressing table while he gazed at himself in the mirror. A wad of cotton wool soaked in liniment was attached to the bump on his forehead by a strip of plaster, otherwise he looked the same as usual, his fresh sunburn hiding the paleness of his cheeks. His clothes were crushed and dirty.

  He turned slowly, holding on all the way, and knelt on the bed to look out of the porthole. He was on the port side of the ship, and there was nothing to be seen but the sea, although he could tell, both from the color of the water and the motion, that they were still close to land. This suggested that they were making north in search of the launch.

  He looked at his watch, found it was just two-fifteen, a time confirmed by the rumblings of his empty stomach, and by the position of the sun, drooping toward the distant horizon. Suddenly he was afraid for Geraldine O’Connor. Far from helping her in any way, he had probably made her position immeasurably worse.

  He tried the cabin door, but as he had expected, it was locked. The door leading forward into the bathroom was open, but both exit doors from the bathroom, either to the corridor or to the other cabin, were also locked. On the other hand, it was reassuring that Harman, as yet, did not mean to make his confinement unnecessarily unpleasant.

  He returned to the cabin, sat on the bed. This made Geraldine’s position more acceptable. They would hardly have any additional reason for harming her. Her fate had been decided some weeks ago, however oblivious she might be to that fact. Her lack of fear was the most disturbing aspect of his morning’s adventure. Because at the same time she had shown absolutely no hostility toward him.

  Now think, he told himself. Analyze exactly what you have learned. Well, to begin with, Malthus and not Pobrenski was the boss of this peculiar outfit. Malthus, then, was a wealthy man who no doubt possessed an ultra-respectable front, and probably had extensive overseas connections, among them some behind the Iron Curtain. Thus he had been able to organize the escape of Pobrenski. How? That remained to be discovered. Why? Almost certainly, in the first instance, because Pobrenski had wanted to leave. You don’t kidnap a Polish general out of Warsaw, whatever might happen once he is across the border. But the reasons which had led Malthus to play the Good Samaritan were not difficult to understand; to almost any Western power, and to the United States most of all, Pobrenski was worth a great deal.

  Only, somewhere along the line, the general had suffered an amnesiac attack, and Malthus had been left with a white elephant, unless he could effect a cure. So he had contacted a retired psychiatrist, who also happened to be his own doctor, and asked him to come on a long, private Caribbean cruise, to cure an old friend of his. Item: Malthus must be a very confident character, since he had raised no objection when O’Connor had proposed bringing his daughter. And for two weeks things had gone exactly according to plan, except that even Brian O’Connor had been able to make no impression at all upon the steward. And then Geraldine had become inquisitive, and had taken that photograph.

  He wished he knew just how Malthus had handled that one. Whatever line he had taken, it must have been pretty good to have fooled a man like Brian O’Connor. Even more disturbing was the man’s coolness. But after all, from Malthus’ point of view, what had actually happened? Geraldine O’Connor had taken a not very good snapshot of his steward, and had given the picture to an old friend who had flunked university and was now a not very successful photographer. Malthus had been able to convince himself that there was an end to the matter, and so had continued his cruise, and had suffered another stroke of bad luck when his schooner had struck a floating log. And yet again, there had been no panic, no alteration in his plans. Obviously he believed himself and his steward to be entirely in the clear.

  But things would be different when he got back on board and heard what Harman had to tell him. Unless he could be made to believe that Jonathan was simply a friend of Tom Crater’s, and that their interest was entirely in Geraldine. But even so, he was now in public deep water; Jonathan had been hit on the head and kidnaped, and Crater had no doubt watched the schooner raise her anchor and motor out of the anchorage. Jonathan wondered what Crater would do about that. He wondered what Crater could do about that, save carry out the original plan and go to the police. Which, he decided, could well be as embarrassing for him as for his captors.

  The engine pitch changed, the Sidewinder lost way. Jonathan returned to the porthole, still could see nothing but sea and sky and sun, and underneath the sun, heavy black clouds. Red sky at night was reputedly a sailor’s delight; but there would be more clouds tomorrow morning, he thought, and these might well be in the east. This ship could probably survive a hurricane quite comfortably, given room, but no one in his right mind would willingly sit out a hurricane at sea if it could be avoided. Malthus would seek shelter, somewhere he could find a secure anchorage, and preferably beyond the reach of the Vincentian police.

  The schooner had all but stopped now, rolling less vigorously than before, the engines maintaining just enough way to keep her bows to the slight sea. Jonathan could hear distant voices, and thumps on the far side of the hull.

  Feet crashed on the deck above his head, and he heard the creaking of blocks and the grind of winches. Some of the noise would come from the launch being hoisted on board, but some also was from halyard winches and sheet blocks; Malthus was wasting no time in putting sail on his ship.

  Now the Sidewinder heeled, very gently, and in the same instant the engines stopped. The sudden silence was almost loud. It was not really silence, of course; they had entered a world of lapping water and thrumming ropes and creaking wood, a world in which almost every footstep, from stem to stern, was audible, but a world of muted sounds, in which the swish of the sea dominated. Soon the sun disappeared, and from his porthole Jonathan could just make out land, some distance away and to the north. That had to be St. Lucia, on the beam. The Sidewinder was sailing east, between St. Vincent and her nearest neighbor.

  Time passed, and the afternoon began to draw in. Feet thumped on the deck above Jonathan’s head, on the corridor outside his door, but always passed on. The Sidewinder altered course, from east to northeast, he figured; that meant they were coasting past St. Lucia. It was nearly dusk when the key turned in the lock.

  The steward carried a tray in one hand, closed the door behind him with the other. “Mr. Malthus says you must be hungry,” he said, speaking carefully and with a pronounced foreign accent. He placed the tray on the table.

  He looked exactly as he had done in the photograph, fairly tall, well built, with dark hair receding from the forehead and cut very short, a prominent nose and chin, and surprisingly gentle brown eyes. In the flesh it was much easier to imagine him in uniform, wearing those rimless glasses and with his hair longer than it now was. But that his quest should have come to so sudden a termination left Jonathan speechless.

  The steward smiled at him. “Your head hurts, eh?”

  Malthus knew this was the quickest way to discover what he was really after. Therefore the thing to do was keep his mouth shut. But his instincts were clamoring for him to take his opportunity, whatever the consequences. He had been sent to the West Indies specifically to make contact with Vladimir Pobrenski, and here they were, face to face. Craufurd would be delighted.

  “You must eat,” the steward said. “It will do you good. And when yo
u are finished, perhaps you will let me change the dressing on your forehead, eh?”

  “I have to talk with you,” Jonathan said.

  The steward frowned. “You must not think of causing us any more trouble,” he said. “Oh, no, that would be very wrong. Mr. Malthus has decided not to prosecute you, and he will set you ashore at our next port of call. But he says you must remain in your cabin until then. It would not do for you to meet Miss O’Connor again, after assaulting her like that. She is very upset. The doctor has given her a sedative.”

  Jonathan moved to stand in front of the door.

  The steward shook his head. “It will do no good. You must speak with Mr. Malthus.”

  “I know who you really are,” Jonathan said. “It was that photograph Miss O’Connor took, you see. Her friend Crater published it in a magazine, and my people spotted it. Your name is Vladimir Pobrenski, and until last Christmas you were a general in the Polish army. Then you had to flee Poland, but they want you back, General, very badly. I am here as a representative of the British Government, and I have come to offer you political asylum in Great Britain. You have very little choice left, now. If we could identify you from that photograph, then so can anybody else. Your old compatriots in Poland. The Russians. There’s a man named Brown on your trail now. He followed the ship here from Barbados, and yesterday morning he was perched up on Fort Charlotte, watching the schooner through binoculars. He has a high-powered rifle, as well. My guess is he doesn’t mean to offer you anything except a bullet.”

  “I will complain to Mr. Malthus about Jonas,” Benny said. “Obviously he hit you twice as hard as was necessary. He could easily have damaged your brain. Now, please, young man, eat something. And then take my advice and lie down and try to rest. Nobody is going to harm you any more, but you must admit that it was you who came on board this ship, assaulting poor Mr. Harman, and causing trouble.” He came toward the door. “Now please step aside.”

  “General Pobrenski,” Jonathan said. “I am trying to help you. If you’ll come with me the next time we touch land, you and I can be on a plane to London in three hours. You’ll be safe, General. We’ll see to that. We’ll give you a home and a pension. All we want in exchange is a little information.”

  “Help!” Benny shouted. He had a surprisingly loud voice. “Help me! The man’s mad!”

  The door burst open, and Jonas and Pete came in together, each grabbing one of Jonathan’s arms and carrying him across the cabin and on to the bed. Behind them came a very small man, short and thin, with pinched features and hollow cheeks, and a complexion the color of very old paper. He wore white duck trousers and a blue blazer, with a red and black cravat at his throat, and a white peaked cap, and at first glance suggested nothing so much as a caricature of a typical wealthy yachtsman. But there was nothing amusing about the eyes, which glowed from the dried parchment of his face almost as if there were a fire burning inside his brain.

  “All right, Jonas,” he said softly. “There is no necessity to hurt him.”

  The two sailors released Jonathan reluctantly, and returned to stand by the door like a pair of outsize watchdogs. Jonathan sat up and rubbed the back of his head.

  “Like I said, Mr. Malthus,” the steward explained. “He suddenly started carrying on about, well, you know what.”

  “Indeed I do know what, Benny,” Malthus said. “And as I’ve told you myself, every word he said is true.”

  The steward glanced from Malthus to Jonathan, and back again. A hunted look came into his eyes. “But it can’t be, Mr. Malthus. Me a general? Do I look like a general to you?”

  “Don’t worry about it just now, Benny,” Malthus said soothingly. “Maybe this gentleman will be able to give us information which will help us to solve your problem.”

  “I think he’s crazy.” Benny glanced at Jonathan again, and remained by the door.

  “We shall see.” Malthus sat in the chair. “Close the door, Jonas, but remain outside. I never caught your name,” he said to Jonathan.

  “Jonathan Anders.”

  “Ah, yes. Now why don’t you have a sandwich while we talk? I know you must be hungry.”

  Jonathan hesitated, but the ham sandwiches did look good. He sat on the bed and began to eat.

  “That’s better,” Malthus said. “Now, you understand I was listening in to your conversation with General Pobrenski?”

  Jonathan nodded, watched Benny. The steward wore a tired expression. Clearly he had been through this dozens of times before.

  “So therefore,” Malthus said, “there is no necessity for us to dissemble with one another. I find the knowledge that you are a British agent at once disturbing and relieving, remarkably enough. It is relieving to me because at first I was afraid that you were merely a friend of that photographer’s, in which case Harman’s action in confining you might have been a little precipitate. But if you are indeed an agent of the British Government, then I have nothing to worry about in that direction, have I? You were sent here in secret to discover Pobrenski’s whereabouts, and if possible to lure him to London. That is fair enough. You accomplished the first half of your mission with commendable promptness. I’m sure Whitehall will be very interested in your eventual fate, but I am equally sure that they are unlikely to turn the Caribbean upside down, with all the attendant publicity, in order to find you. Would you say that I have summed up their attitude correctly?”

  “Oh, quite,” Jonathan said.

  “On the other hand, it is disturbing that you are here at all. And you mentioned something about a man named Brown, in St. Vincent.”

  “He is operating under the name of Conrad Brown,” Jonathan said. “The vultures are gathering, Mr. Malthus. I don’t know what your original intentions were, but in the present circumstances I’d say your best plan would be to make a deal with us.”

  Malthus smiled. It reminded Jonathan of a piece of parchment tearing in two. “To what end, Mr. Anders? You have had a chat with Benny here. You have even tried your arts upon him. Believe me, I have been trying mine for two months. He had a fall, you see, down a flight of steps, and cracked his skull. He was unconscious for days. Tell Mr. Anders where your memory begins, Benny.”

  Benny frowned. “It was on a boat, Mr. Malthus. Not this boat. Another boat. And then there was a plane. And then there was this boat.” He grinned. “I must have been traveling all my life, eh?”

  “You see what I mean?” Malthus asked, as if the steward were not even in the room. “The fall itself did not appear hard enough to have induced such a total breakdown in memory, but of course, the general had been living under an intolerable strain, never knowing when the secret police would come knocking on his door, never knowing who were his friends and who his enemies, never sure whom he could trust. I would say he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown when he finally escaped, and the fall made something snap. I might add that this is also Dr. O’Connor’s theory, and he has stated quite bluntly that the general is incurable.”

  “I do not wish to be a general,” Benny said. “I enjoy mixing drinks.”

  “And you have no doubt that he is the general?” Jonathan asked.

  “Oh, come now, Mr. Anders. My organization got him out of Eastern Europe.”

  “How?”

  The parchment ripped once again. “That would be telling, Mr. Anders. As Benny said, a boat, and a plane, and a few other things besides. But you have not answered my question. Whichever government gets Benny will have to pay for the privilege. Now will your government, bankrupt as it invariably is, pay for an amnesiac?”

  “They’ll hardly pay as much as they might for General Pobrenski in full possession of his faculties, certainly,” Jonathan said. “But, stuck as you are with a loss, what else are you going to do?”

  The parchment rippled. This time it was an utterly revolting sight. “Not a loss, Mr. Anders. Oh, dear me, no. I had hoped that the general might have been of some use to the West. I am, after all, a capitalist, and thus my instincts
lead me to wish to further our society, as opposed to that of the Communists. But on the other hand, being a businessman above all else, I will find my profit where I may. If none of the Western governments will meet my price for a slightly shop-soiled general, I can think of more than one Red government who would pay extremely well to have him back.”

  “You couldn’t do that, Mr. Malthus,” Benny said. “If the Communists happened to mistake me for the general, too, they’d lock me up. They might even shoot me.”

  “Indeed they might, Benny. So I would think about that very carefully, if I were you. Because I will confess that I have had a growing feeling over the past few weeks that the main reason Dr. O’Connor has not been able to get through to you is that you have not been prepared to try very hard. Why should you? What better life could you have than sailing around the Caribbean on a beautiful ship, enjoying the sun and the sea and the good company, mixing cocktails? Did you know that General Pobrenski was very fond of cocktails? He used to invent his own.”

  “But Mr. Malthus.…”

  “Now get out of here. Go and prepare dinner,” Malthus said. “And think, Benny. Due to the antics of that silly little girl we are likely to become the focus of quite a manhunt. And I can’t afford that. Now be off with you.”

  Benny opened the door, sidled out.

  “And what are your immediate plans for me?” Jonathan asked.

  “Let us first of all discover if my wife likes you, Mr. Anders. I couldn’t possibly have a guest on board my ship who didn’t get on with Phyllis. Do you feel strong enough to walk?”

  “I feel fine,” Jonathan said, not quite truthfully.

  “I’m very glad to hear it. Then let us join the others. You may go off now, Jonas.” Malthus stepped into the corridor, waited for Jonathan, bracing himself against the handrail as the Sidewinder heeled to the freshening breeze. “I should point out to you that any ideas of violence would be totally futile, unless being beaten up actually provides you with pleasure.”