Bourne played it dumb. "You guessed, eh?" he said, and smiled at the waiter, a guy no older than himself. "I'm due on the pool deck, and I missed going to the canteen."
"Come on," the waiter said, "I'll give you something in the staff room." He took Bourne through the kitchen door, and then sharp right, and through another door, into a room which contained chairs and a couple of plastic topped tables. "Will a bacon sarnie be okay, and a cup of coffee?"
"Fine," said Bourne. "Black coffee, please." The waiter left, and he sat down at the nearest table. The top was littered with empty plates, and mugs, crumbs and scraps of food on the plastic surface. Almost immediately the waiter was back, a bun containing an amazing quantity of bacon on a plate, and a steaming mug, both of which the waiter carried in one hand, leaving the other free to open the door.
Bourne ate leisurely, being in no hurry this morning. There was plenty of time for what he had to do. On his way out of the restaurant he waved his hand at the waiter in thanks, and made his way to the pool deck.
Outside, the sun shone, and it was hard to believe the weather of the day before.
The area next to the pool was crowded, people getting a tan, even this early. He made his way to the rails, looking ahead in the direction of the bows. On the horizon, he could see a smudge of green and brown. It was hard for him to judge the distance, not having the experience. Even so, he reckoned he could not have less than four hours, so he might as well spend it in the open air.
He turned round from the view, and immediately saw someone waving at him. It was not anyone he recognized, the guy was mouthing something, but he was too far away to be heard. And then he realized. He was dressed as a waiter, of course people would expect some service.
He made his way to the waving man, who said: "You're taking your time this morning. Get me two beers, buds if you have them."
"Yes, Sir," said Bourne, and made for the bar, and leaned on the counter.
"Guy wants two Buds."
"Coming up," said the barman, and while he picked two bottles, and flipped the crown tops said: "You're new here, is the boss expecting a lot of business this morning?"
Bourne picked up a tray, from a small pile on the end of the counter. "Yeah," he said.
When he got back with the beers, the man thrust a five pound note at him, and said, "Thanks, that was quick." Bourne pocketed the money.
He served a few more customers, and then found a corner of the deck where he was not in view. He watched the sea, calm now. The land was nearer, and a helicopter approached, banking overhead, then hovering. It was so low that Bourne could read the wording painted on its fuselage: SKY NEWS. He had found fame. Or was it notoriety?
It was time to go and find the captain. He would be on the bridge by now, he guessed. He could make out the wake of a small boat heading in their direction that could only be the pilot boat.
He entered the corridor to the bridge (strictly no admittance) without being stopped, and the door to the bridge was unlocked.
Chapter 47
McBride lounged against the back wall of the bridge, the captain over at the front windows, watching the pilot boat approaching, speaking to him on the radio phone.
"We've had some damage on the forward doors, you will have to climb the rope ladder we've dropped from deck five. Sorry about that."
The pilot didn't sound enthusiastic about the climb, and when he arrived at the bridge, he was breathing heavily. He was considerately overweight, and the captain hoped he wouldn't collapse on his watch. The pilot went over to the helmsman.
McBride sensed that the door next to him was opening again. It was hinged at McBride's side, so that he couldn't see who was entering, until the person was fully inside the bridge. It was Bourne, walking towards the captain with a pistol in his hand. He hadn't noticed McBride, who wasn't going to alert him.
He stopped about four feet from the captain, and said, "You haven't come up with the ransom, so you are going to die." Nobody else seemed to be taking notice, the pilot speaking to the helmsman, a second officer at the far side of the bridge looking straight ahead.
McBride said nothing, watching and looking for a chance to tackle Bourne, the moment he took his eyes off the captain. The captain himself looking at Bourne, and then glancing around the bridge, not stopping his eyes on McBride, but aware he was there.
The moments ticked by, every one increasing the danger that the captain would be murdered. Out of the blue, the second officer shouted across to the captain:
"Permission to leave the bridge, Sir."
Attention distracted, Bourne glanced over in the officer's direction, and McBride rugby dived across just above the floor at Bourne's legs grabbing his ankles, and sending tumbling towards the floor. His gun went off, but the bullet hit the ceiling, and the pistol flew out of his hand, as he tried to save himself.
The captain put out his hand and caught the pistol as it came past him, and with barely a pause shot Bourne in the chest as he landed on the floor.
The pilot, looked over, as though this was normal shipboard behaviour, and turned his attention back to pilotage. McBride scrambled up off the floor, dusted himself down and said, "That was a nifty piece of shooting, Captain, and I'm very pleased you missed me."
'I surprised myself," said the captain. "Is he dead, do you think?" McBride bent down to examine Bourne. "No, but I think he will be soon," and he knelt beside Bourne, holding his arm lightly. No person deserved to die alone. The hijacker's breath was ragged, and there was blood trickling out of his mouth. For several minutes, McBride stayed with him, until with a large sigh, Bourne died. Meantime, the captain had notified the medics, and they came up behind McBride, just as he stood up. "He's just died," he said. "Perhaps we should get him down to the morgue, and swill down the floor here, because I think we will have a lot of people coming aboard, once we dock."
As they reached the dock entrance, Morton came on to the bridge, having heard of the captain's daring do, and said, "Congratulations on avoiding assassination. But I also came to tell you captain, that I will not be available for interview, and I insist that I am not mentioned. I am a member of the secret service, you understand. I have been phoned on my mobile, would you believe, by my superior, who is waiting on the quay as we speak. I think, though that you are in for a press conference or two."
They were met, when they docked by about twenty Italian police officers, together with a platoon of soldiers. Also on the quayside were the British Ambassador, and three members of his staff.
For a couple of hours, no passengers were allowed to disembark, until the Italian officials had heard the full story from the captain, assisted by two deck officers. Meanwhile, Morton was being debriefed in his cabin.
Although he didn't show it outwardly, Morton was a very worried man.
He vividly recalled the conversation in Baxter's office before he joined the ship. He had given his word that he could prevent the hijack, and yet it had taken place, and lives had been lost. He was very afraid that the best outcome was being asked to tender his resignation when they got back to London.
Morton said, "Good to be in the sunshine, I'm pleased you were able to wangle some time out of the office. You're checking up in case I got myself a rich widow? "
"You perhaps won't believe it, but the Prime Minister himself told me to meet the ship. I am to debrief you." Baxter stood a small recorder on the table between them, and switched it on.
"The time is twelve thirty five central European time, and I am speaking to Michael Morton MI5 operative, on board the cruise ship Helena, which was the subject of a hijack attempt. " He gave the date, and waved for Morton to speak.
He gave a concise report on what had happened during the past five days, omitting any mention of his sea-sickness. He was then questioned by Baxter, so that he elucidated further on points which were lacking in his story. Eventually Baxter was happy with the interview and switched the machine off.
"How about a spot of lunch?" he ask
ed. And they left the ship together, after arranging for the Embassy to book them flights for the UK that evening.
The captain, together with two crew members, held a press briefing in the observation lounge, which was attended by over twenty media people. After the meeting, the press roamed the ship trying to get quotes from the passengers, until they were herded off by crew the captain had detailed for that purpose.
As for John McBride, who had avoided any hassle, he contacted his art class, and they were soon out painting in the streets of Palermo. The mafia men had merged with the rest of the passengers, and left the ship undetected.
Back in London, Cecil had attended the final press conference, and was back at his desk, considering that perhaps he deserved a week's holiday, though perhaps his wife wouldn't be very pleased if it was a golfing holiday. Perhaps a few days in the sun, now the English weather was getting chilly, with high winds.
The press conference had been fraught with nervousness by the company officials. That morning prior to the press arriving, they had discussed what they would say about the assistance of the mafia force. Nothing, insisted the chairman, because of the possible consequences. First the reputation of the company, which Jon agreed, would have severe repercussions on future passenger numbers. Then there was the possibility of an in-depth tax inquiry by the HMRC. Paul had said that although they would be found innocent, the costs might amount to two million pounds, with all the expert financial people they would need to employ.
The chairman opened the press conference. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the final press conference. I am pleased to announce that the hijackers were all captured and locked up yesterday evening, and that Bourne, who had evaded capture, appeared on the bridge of the vessel this morning, and threatened to shoot the captain. He was not successful, and in the ensuing struggle, the captain shot Bourne dead.
"Last night, whilst Bourne was loose, he murdered two passengers, an elderly couple from Leeds. The ship docked at ten o'clock this morning in Palermo, Sicily. It will remain there for twenty four hours, whilst some repair work is carried out to superficial damage incurred during the storm. I will now ask Jon to answer any questions you may have."
The usual forest of hands went up, and Jon pointed to the first person.
"Daily Mail: you captured most of the hijackers last night?"
Jon answered. "There were only six left, plus Bourne. One had died of a heart attack, three were injured yesterday, and handcuffed in the sick bay, and one captured yesterday morning, and was in the brig."
"How did you capture the rest, when they still had weapons?"
"They didn't get chance to use them, we had stun grenades."
"You didn't mention those weapons before. Why weren't they used before? It would have saved lives."
"In retrospect, yes."
"I have spoken to a passenger this morning, on a mobile phone. He tells me that a helicopter landed on the ship last night, and a number of troops, with weapons that looked like machine guns, and wearing Kevlar vests, followed McBride, the artist at a run down to deck 5. Several loud explosions were heard, although no gunfire. Can you enlarge on this account?"
Jon glanced at the chairman. He raised his eyes to the ceiling as though asking for divine guidance. "Can I answer that? There was some help given by the Italian forces, being the nearest country to the ship's location, and in view of our membership of the European Union. You can ascertain that by asking the Italian Embassy in London."
The Daily Mail man sat down without asking further questions. That worried the chairman. He feared that there would be worse to come, when they published tomorrow. It was obvious that he didn't want to alert any of the others to a scoop. The rest of the press meeting went remarkably easily. On the way out, Jon slapped the chairman on the back, and said: "See, no problem."
"I wish I was as confident as you."
The chairman was back in his office, still mulling the possible holiday over, when the phone rang. His secretary said that she had Mike Steed at the Mail for him. She put him through before Cecil had time to ask her to divert the call to Jon.
"I think you've got the wrong person," he said, "You really need to speak to Jon, he's been handling the hijack affair."
Steed chuckled. "I think you will find it is you I need to speak to. Earlier today I was at the press conference, and I distinctly heard you mention that the Italian Army had landed by helicopter, and helped your men capture the hijackers."
"So," said the chairman, his heart doing a leap.
"Well, even with us all being Europeans, I thought that was odd, so I've just made enquiries with our man in Rome, and they confirm that no request was made, and none of their army deployed. I discovered that a large Puma helicopter was hired from an Italian Company, to transport ten heavily armed men. Guess which organization supplied them?"
"Carry on,"
"Would it surprise you to know that it was one of the Mafia organisations? And Mr Benvento, who is a Mafia boss is on the passenger list that you supplied? And then I had your own booking staff search the records, and Mr Benvento, has been on this cruise every year for at least the last ten."
"He likes the English luxury cruising," said Cecil weakly.
"I think there is a good story here. Is your company run by the Mafia? Are they laundering money through you?"
At last Cecil lost his temper: "If you publish this muck-raking story, we will sue you for millions." He slammed the phone down
"Oh, shit," he said.
About the Author
Currently a watercolour artist, specialising in landscapes and townscapes, David Chilcott's paintings currently appear in two lifestyle magazines and in several galleries. He also gives tuition in painting.
This might be why the subject of painting does appear from time to time in his first novel!
Preview: Find My Brother
Chapter One
John McBride parked his car in front of the Wellington Arms. He leaned into the back of the car, and pulled out his case. His art equipment he left locked in the boot.
The front bar was old, the building a timber frame structure dating back to the middle ages. The small windows let in very little daylight, and the electric lights were on, despite the sunny evening; wall-lights round the room, and spots behind the bar, light gleaming and reflecting on the horse brasses. He noticed pictures on the walls, old sepia photographs of village cricket teams, long gone. The main door had activated a chime, and a man bustled through behind the bar. He was dressed in a smart suit.
"Good evening, Sir."
"I have a room booked. The name's McBride."
The man turned to a computer on a shelf at the back of the bar. He opened a screen, perused it, and took a key from a row above the shelf.
McBride signed the booking form that the man presented him with, filled in the registration number of his car.
"Busy?" said McBride, to make conversation.
"Well, it's the end of the season. After this week there will be very few holidaymakers, though some business people, of course. But we're always busy in the restaurant. That draws the locals.
" You probably saw the protest camp on your way into the village? They spend a lot of money in here, but they put off the regulars. A rough lot, by and large. We only let them in the public bar, of course. I wouldn't even let them in there, but I'm afraid they might decide to blockade the pub." He looked down at the registration form. "Mr McBride? Are you the artist?"
McBride nodded and smiled.
"Are you painting round here?"
"Hoping to, if the weather holds, and it might. Beautiful countryside."
"I hope you will enjoy your stay. Can I book you in for dinner tonight?"
McBride agreed he could. He said he would eat at eight thirty, which would give him time to preview painting opportunities. No point in trying to paint so late in the afternoon, the colours are all wrong as the sun descends. He dumped his case in the room, and set off.
; There was a footpath directly opposite the pub, across the road, and up a gentle rise. It ran through a stand of trees. McBride strode out at a fair pace, glad of the exercise after a few hours driving. As he got to the top of the hill he looked down and could see the protest camp below.
A string of tents of varying colours pitched along the edge of the field, on the other side of the hedge was the road out of the village. Two people stood in the entrance to the field holding placards. A rough hardcore track led across the field to a fenced off area with trucks and equipment surrounding a drilling rig.
There was a lot of activity in front of the tents, a camp fire with cooking utensils scattered about and people sitting in groups on folding canvas chairs. A caravan was parked a little way from the tents. A couple of old cars completed the scene.
McBride was on the edge of the national park here, so the drilling rig was about perhaps a couple of miles from National Trust land. McBride, in the course of the next couple of hours found three views that he could do justice to with his watercolours. One of the views was back towards the pub and the village from the top of the hill. He determined that he would paint that scene early in the morning when the sun was just in the right place.
By the time he got back to the Wellington Arms, he could hear the sound of revelry coming from the bar, and he had to push his way through the drill rig protesters, maybe twenty of them. It was only a small bar. A young man was behind the bar, and his size and build proclaimed that he would stand no nonsense from the customers.
McBride's room was in a wing built in the nineteen nineties behind the pub. The rooms were on the first and second floors, and the restaurant on the ground floor. The pub actually had a four star rating, and two rosettes for the quality of its food.
McBride couldn't disagree with that.
He was up early, as he intended and after breakfast picked up his easel and board from the car and set off the way he had gone the previous evening. As he was topping the rise, he spotted a figure away to the right, deep in the trees. It looked like a woman, dressed in dark jeans, and with a lightweight jacket, dark brown. She had a pair of binoculars up to her eyes, leaning forward against a small tree, looking round the bole. She wasn't bird-watching, the glasses were trained downwards, at the protesters' camp.
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