The Wrecking Crew (Janac's Games)

by Mark Chisnell

  ‘I’ll get back to my reading. Would you mind just logging me on, as I’m up to the software section now and I think it would be easier if I could look at it as well as read about it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Hamnet watched her type the password carefully. This time he had an idea what he was looking for. Again the key strokes were fast, but he thought he got it. He flipped forward a couple of sections in the documentation and cruised slowly through the screens on berthing schedules. People started to leave for home and the numbers in the office began to thin out. By seven thirty he was almost alone. One woman remained, head down over a sheet of figures on the other side of the room. The light was still on in Toby’s office, but apart from that the place was empty. It was as safe as it would ever be. Hamnet clicked his way through the software, using his notes to guide him, until he found the cargo manifests. With the manual open at the right place on his desk, he even had the perfect excuse should someone query him.

  It took half an hour to find what he wanted — a medium-sized container ship carrying a small fortune in computer-memory chips out of Singapore. They were in a forty-foot container, near the top of the stack, on the outside. He jotted down the name of the ship and its departure details. Then he paged back to see if there was any routing information. A rustle from the other side of the room alerted him. He watched as the woman collected the papers she was reading into a pile before placing them in a filing cabinet. She glanced up, caught his eye as she stood and said, ‘You’re working late.’

  ‘A lot to learn,’ Hamnet replied.

  The woman smiled, nodded and left. As the door closed behind her, he went back to the screen. He found the route and checked it against the coordinates Janac had given him. Everything tallied — he could give Janac the departure date, the route, details of the cargo and the ship’s name and vital statistics. There was one last thing. He logged out, then tried to get back in as Joan. Sure enough, the password was ‘Shashi’. He felt a surge of satisfaction at this small accomplishment. He was ready. When he left, Toby was still working.

  Back at the Bullens’, Hamnet learned that Jasmine had phoned and would try again at nine thirty. He ate a quick supper, showered, then set up Anna’s computer. He was fortunate that the bedroom had a telephone — he had the machine and a connection to the Internet up and running in half an hour. He disconnected and had just begun composing his message to Janac when the phone rang. He let Margaret pick it up in the sitting room, and a moment later there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Jasmine for you,’ she said, poking her head into the room.

  ‘Can I take it here?’

  ‘Just pick it up.’ Margaret shut the door behind her.

  ‘Jasmine?’

  ‘Hi! I tried earlier . . .’

  ‘Yeah, they told me. Thanks for calling back. So look, I was wondering. As you know, I’ve started work now and I’m moving back into our flat at the weekend. I’m going to need some help with Ben. Would you be interested? I can’t pay you much, but there’s a room there if you want it. So it would be full board and maybe three hundred Singapore dollars a week? A month or two and you could save enough to get to Indonesia, and it would give me a chance to find someone more permanent.’ He hesitated. ‘What do you think?’

  She replied immediately. ‘I’d love the job and the room. It’s just what I need.’

  Hamnet hadn’t realised quite how badly he’d wanted her to say yes until he’d heard her say it. ‘Fantastic. That’s great. I get the apartment back at the weekend, so you can move in any time after that.’

  ‘As soon as possible. I’m going slowly crazy in this hostel.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there at ten, say, on Saturday morning. Or do you need a lift with your stuff?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve only got a backpack.’

  Hamnet gave her the address, wished her a good week and put the phone down. That was one thing settled.

  He turned back to the computer, took a deep breath and started to type before he had too much time for reflection. He kept it simple — the bare details, with one line for each piece of information, as he’d been instructed. He pulled the encryption disc out of his bag and slid it into the floppy disk drive. The software loaded onto the computer and he ran it on the text file he had just created. Finally, he reconnected to the Internet and sent the encrypted file to the email address.

  It was done. He looked up to where Robbie Williams was grinning down at him from the poster and rubbed his cheek. He’d forgotten to shave after his shower.

  Ben, installed by Margaret in the room next door three weeks previously, didn’t wake Hamnet that night. Hamnet didn’t sleep at all. The second time he got up for Ben it was just after three o’clock in the morning. He was wide awake on returning to his own room and thought it might help quiet a turbulent mind if he checked the email. He logged back on, not expecting to find anything, but there was a reply. He ran the encrypted file through the decoding software, and then opened the resulting text file in a word-processing programme. The process took four anxious minutes. The message read simply: ‘Require position reports at four-hour intervals after departure time.’ Hamnet switched the computer off, thinking hard.

  It was not a simple request to comply with. The Konsan computer system was bespoke — custom designed and packaged. It ran on a secure local network and couldn’t be accessed from outside the office. A single, daily position report would be easy to do: he could check the data before he left the office and email it to Janac as soon as he got home. A position report every four hours was a lot harder. He could hardly risk emailing encrypted files from Konsan’s server. By sunrise he realised there was only one way to do it, and the following evening he went home via the Funan IT Mall. He found a tiny, full-specification PC notebook and the cabling to hook it up to a mobile phone the size of a cigarette lighter. He bought the whole lot on his credit card. Now he could send the email from anywhere, at any time.

  He spent the rest of that evening loading software onto the new machine and setting up routines to make the whole process as quick as possible. When it was ready, he tested the system by sending a message to Janac. Hamnet told him that it was impossible to provide position information outside office hours, and that during that period he could only report every six hours without attracting attention. By morning, he had confirmation that this was acceptable. The ship — the Collingson — steamed out of the Keppel Channel early that afternoon, and by coincidence Hamnet found himself in Toby’s office at the time. He watched her go, and steeled his heart to the risk he was taking.

  With everything in place, the final acts of his betrayal were easy. He arrived at work just after seven in the morning. There was rarely anybody else around at that time. He logged in as himself, with his new password, and checked the status of the fleet, including the Collingson. He would use Joan’s password only to research the targets. When he had the data he needed, he took the elevator down to the ground floor, found a restaurant and ordered breakfast. With the laptop set up on the table, he quickly entered the position, speed and course information into a prepared message, encrypted the file and sent it. It took no more than five minutes from the time he sat down. He followed the same routine at lunch time, and in the evening he repeated it again back at the Bullens’. By late Friday the Collingson, blithely unaware of its fate, was sailing through the South China Sea, closing on the Philippines. Hamnet reported her position at 1800, went home and tried to forget about it. He had other worries for the weekend.

  He got up early on the Saturday morning and packed his few belongings. When he emerged from his bedroom for breakfast, Margaret was already up. They shared an almost silent meal, then loaded his stuff into the Rover and Anthony drove them down to the flat. Between the three of them they carried everything up in the lift, Anthony helping with the bags, Margaret with the baby. It felt like a real goodbye as he took Ben in his arms.

  ‘You’ll bring him to see us, I hope?’ Margaret asked as
they walked slowly back to the car.

  ‘Of course. Often.’ He kissed her on the cheek, and she climbed into the front passenger seat. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough or repay you for what you’ve done,’ he said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  Margaret smiled. ‘Anyone would have done the same. Come and see us next week.’

  He nodded, his face serious, and Anthony pulled away.

  It wasn’t until he was inside the flat with Ben, with the door shut behind them, that he really appreciated the enormity of the change. The Bullens had propped him up through the most difficult time of his life, and now he was on his own. He switched the television on for company, and put on the kettle.

  There was a knock at the door just after ten o’clock. He opened it to find Jasmine, rucksack on her back, sweat staining the front of her T-shirt and trickling down her face. She smiled broadly, muttering, ‘Those steps are a killer in this heat.’ Hamnet pointed out the lift as he ushered her into the hall.

  ‘You can put your bag in your room, through here.’ He led the way into the box room, which just about held a single bed. ‘God, I’d forgotten how small it was,’ he said.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ said Jasmine, dumping the backpack on the only bit of empty floor space.

  ‘At least there are some drawers and a fan,’ he added.

  ‘It’s fine, really. You should see where I’ve just come from. Eight to a room, no fans.’

  He smiled. ‘Let me show you the rest of the flat.’

  There wasn’t a great deal to show. Through to the kitchen and bathroom, then the other bedroom, where Ben lay sleeping in a cot at the foot of the big double bed. Finally, into the flat’s only real glory — the enormous living room, with a balcony that ran its length. The television was still playing quietly in a corner as they walked in. It was the picture that caught his attention — a still photograph of a container ship.

  ‘Wow, this is beautiful,’ said Jasmine.

  ‘Shhh!’ Hamnet was diving for the set. He cranked up the volume.

  The newsreader’s tone was sombre. ‘The Collingson is the second ship to disappear in these waters in less than a week. Authorities are treating the matter as suspicious and have again requested help with a search of the area from the US navy. Elsewhere . . .’

  The voice droned on. Hamnet heard nothing but the pounding in his head.

  Chapter 22

  ‘Phil?’

  Jasmine leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching as her words went unheeded. She sighed softly and rested her head gently on the jamb. The coloured light from the screen played on his face in the dark room. Hamnet was completely absorbed in the television, as he had been all weekend. She knew that it was going to be difficult: a recent widower, a young child. Distracted, distant, self-absorbed, even a little teary — she’d expected all those things. None of that bothered her; she felt he was a good man and was pleased to be able to help. And, frankly, she needed the money. But having him sit glued to the television was not on the list of anticipated behaviour.

  ‘Phil!’ She said it much more sharply this time — too sharply. She winced after the word had come out.

  But Hamnet had only just heard. ‘One moment,’ he said.

  Jasmine glanced at the screen. The credits on the late-evening news were just rolling.

  Hamnet looked up. ‘I’m sorry. I was miles away.’

  ‘I’m going to bed now. I’ve just checked on Ben — he’s fast asleep. I’ve made up a bottle for him if you need it overnight. It’s in the fridge. Remember to warm it in the microwave.’

  ‘Of course. We’ll be fine. Thanks for your help, Jasmine.’

  She nodded, pushed herself off the doorframe and turned into the hall.

  ‘Jasmine.’

  ‘Uh-uh?’

  ‘I’m sorry. For this weekend.’

  ‘If you ever want to talk . . ’

  Hamnet nodded and looked away. Said nothing.

  Ben got him up three times that night, and all came as a relief. A relief from lying and staring at the ceiling fan, counting the revolutions. At least with the routine he had carefully devised he could leave for work early. He knocked on Jasmine’s door at six to tell her he was off.

  The office was inhabited only by ghosts when he got there. He stared at his blank computer monitor in silence before taking a deep breath and switching it on. While it went through the start-up routine, he flipped open one of the ring binders to the page on ship schedules and positions — his unused and still valid pretext. When the computer was ready to give him control of the mouse and keyboard he worked quickly down through the menus. And there it was. Or rather, there it wasn’t. There were no position reports for the Collingson after midnight on Friday. Janac had hit her a few hundred miles off the Philippines, that much was clear.

  He clicked his way up to the main menu and from there went to an Internet marine-news page. The disappearance was the title story, and he scanned the lines quickly. The Collingson had failed to report or respond on any communications system since Friday evening. The limited Philippine coastguard search was giving way to a more extensive US navy search later that morning. Beyond that, there was little more detail than he had gleaned from the various television and radio news bulletins over the weekend. He stared at the monitor in silence — wanting to know more, not wanting to know.

  ‘Morning,’ Joan chimed brightly as the door clicked shut behind her. Then, ‘Are you all right?’

  Hamnet looked up. ‘I feel a little queasy. Something I ate, perhaps. Not much sleep because of the baby, either.’ He rubbed his temples, then his cheeks, so he stared wide-eyed like Munch’s The Scream.

  ‘You have a baby?’ asked Joan.

  ‘Yes. Excuse me.’ He bolted for the men’s room. Where it took little effort to substantiate his story of food poisoning by throwing up. He flushed the toilet, turned, and sat on the seat. The dark images from the Shawould swam through his head — they weren’t so easily expelled. Ten minutes later, he washed his face, rinsed out his mouth and cleared his nose. He stared at himself in the mirror. Pale through the tan. Eyes darkly underlined, blank and accusing. He returned to his desk, where Joan looked at him anxiously.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked again.

  He nodded slowly. ‘I think it’s just something I ate. I feel better now. I’ll be OK.’ He wasn’t going to go home and leave the supply of information available in the office.

  Joan watched him for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, then you can tell me all about the baby.’

  An hour later, when Toby hauled him out of the office for a new arrival, there was still no more news. Hamnet consoled himself with the thought that once on board the ship he would hear of any developments as soon as in the office. But the minutes crawled by in the car on the way to the docks. It was almost eleven before they were on the bridge of the Konsan Endeavour, sharing a cup of coffee and some chat with the master, a burly, convivial Norwegian. Toby was just starting to champ at the bit over the enforced inactivity when the radio operator emerged onto the bridge, nose glowing from too much sun.

  ‘Just got a FleetNet message,’ he reported. ‘The Americans have found the missing boat. She’s still steaming at ten knots into the Pacific, apparently. No sign of life, but it looks as though the lifeboats are on board. The Americans will put people on her in the next half an hour.’

  Hamnet’s hand tightened round his cup in a spasm. Hot coffee splashed onto his hand, but he barely noticed.

  The master was looking at Toby. ‘Sounds like a bad business, that. Will you have to deal with it?’

  ‘No, they’ll manage it from head office. Thank God they found her. Steaming into the Pacific at ten knots with no one on the bridge? That’s a disaster waiting to happen. Hard to see what the hell’s going on. Could be something crazy like food poisoning, but I’ve never heard of an entire crew going down with it. She was too far offshore for a small-boat attack
, though. As you say, a bad business — especially after Hamnet’s experience.’

  The master turned to Hamnet. ‘You were the master of the Shawould?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He could hear the crack in his own voice.

  The older man nodded. ‘Terrible business.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hamnet. ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘Let’s hope these men are luckier,’ said Toby. ‘We’ll know soon enough. Right, Phil. Finish that coffee up and we’ll go and check the deck logs. We’ll pop back up in half an hour or so and see if there’s any more news — if that’s all right with you, sir?’

  ‘Be my guests. Mauso will take you to the deck officer.’

  ‘No need. We know the way.’

  The next thirty minutes were the longest of Hamnet’s life — not least because they lasted nearly an hour. That was how long it took Toby to satisfy himself that everything in the logs had either been attended to on this stop or was in preparation for the next. Somehow Hamnet kept a grip on the desire to shout and scream that they knew enough, that they could return to the bridge.

  Finally Toby was done. They climbed back up through the ship, Hamnet’s knuckles white on the rails with frustration and worry. When they reached the bridge, only the radio officer was there, checking through a sheaf of papers.

  ‘Anything on the Collingson?’ asked Toby.

  The young man looked up. ‘Yeah, amazing. The crew are fine. They were locked below decks, all the comms equipment smashed. That’s all they’ve released so far. It’ll probably take a few days before we hear the rest of the story. Main thing is the crew are OK.’

  ‘Excellent. Thanks for that,’ said Toby. ‘Don’t forget your sun block today.’

  Hamnet floated off the bridge and down the stairs to the dockside, a helium balloon of happiness bobbling along on a string behind Toby. No casualties. Just a few containers. He had won the first stage — a proper nurse for his son.