‘Do you mind if I get dressed first? Then I’ll tell you.’
Steven summoned up a mental inventory of the clean part of his wardrobe. The weather was warm enough for her to wear shorts. He had some fairly new ones that had not been repeatedly washed in salt water, and he had some new tee shirts and some sweaters of various degrees of cleanliness. He could punch some extra holes in one of his belts. ‘Come on I’ll show you what you can borrow.’
He waited on the deck while she got changed in the main cabin. The sky had largely cleared and he looked around at the familiar constellations and glanced at the navigation system. He felt the lump on his head where she had hit him. The swelling was painful, but the associated headache had eased off, so presumably there was no underlying injury. The time was coming up to 0200 hours GMT, approaching local midnight in the western Atlantic. The cabin door opened. ‘I’m ready,’ she called through the gap. He climbed through and fastened the storm latches, and when he turned round he saw her studying her reflection in the mirror above the bookcase. He saw her feeling around her missing tooth with her tongue.
‘I’ve got some painkillers if you like; paracetamol, ibuprofen, or something stronger from the emergency kit,’ he offered.
She fingered her bruises. ‘No the pain has eased off. No permanent damage, though, I think.’
‘What about your front tooth? Doesn’t that hurt?’
‘Oh that. That was knocked out years ago. The cap’s just fallen off.’
‘Would you like a drink,’ he asked.
‘What? Alcohol, you mean?’
‘Yes, I’ve got some gin, or scotch.’
‘Hell, yes; a scotch would be great, thanks.’ She sat down carefully, clearly in some pain and watched him retrieve a bottle of Glenfiddich from its stowage and pour out a couple of glasses.
‘Cheers,’ he said as she took a glass from him.
He sat down on the opposite side of the cabin and took a sip. ‘So, you were going to tell me what happened to you,’ he said.
‘Yes. I was on a yachting trip across the Atlantic with a friend called Joe Johnson. He’s an American who comes from Dover. Our boat sank in a storm and you found me in a life raft. You took me to Bermuda and we checked into a hotel. You paid for my room. The next day when you came to find me, you found that I’d checked out of my room. You’d no idea where I’d gone.’ She drank some of her scotch. ‘There; that’s the bare bones of the story. We might flesh it out a bit later.’
He stared at her for a moment. ‘But that’s all crap!’
‘Of course it is. It’s for the best. I’m grateful you pulled me out of the water, so to speak, but believe me, you don’t want to be involved any more than you are already.’
‘So who was this Joe Johnson?’ he asked.
‘No idea. Johnson’s one of the most common surnames in the States, Anglo surname anyway, and I believe there are more than twenty places called Dover in North America. I learned that from Mash, the novel. Hawkeye and Trapper called themselves the pros from Dover.’
He frowned into his glass of Scotch, not having a clue what she was talking about. ‘So is your name actually Emily?’ he asked after a while.
‘Yeah, Emily Smith.’
‘Not Brown?’
She set her glass down with a sharp rap on the table. ‘Look Steven, it might seem a bit of a bloody joke to you now, but there might come a time when you’re grateful for it.’
‘Ok Miss Smith; I’ll remember that. I’ll also try and forget the joke of you knocking me out, trussing me up and threatening me with a gun!’
The yacht heaved over at the crest of a wave and she had to grab the table to steady herself. The glass began to slide towards the edge but she seized it and took another drink. ‘Yeah I’m sorry about that, but when you’ve been floating about in the middle of the Atlantic for days, you might get a little paranoid yourself. It was your gun,’ she finished.
‘Does that make it alright then?’
‘No, it was sort of a way of asking you why you have one on board.’
‘To deal with any nutters I might come across during my voyage.’
They stared at each other in silence for a while.
‘How long before we reach Bermuda?’ she asked.
He gazed up at the wind read out on the navigation display on the bulkhead. ‘Hard to say. It’s still over five hundred miles, nautical miles away. Could be five days with a favourable wind, but it might take twice as long.’
‘What do you do at night?’ she asked.
‘How do you mean?’ he said, somewhat taken aback.
‘Well you can’t stop the boat while you’re asleep, can you?’
‘Oh I see. Well, there’s an automatic steering system. I set an alarm to wake me every hour and I have a look around. Also if the weather forecast is poor, I shorten sail and my navigation system alerts me if there is a sudden change in the wind, or if the course alters for any reason. There’s also a radar scanner which will alert me if there are any other boats or ships around.’
She nodded. ‘Sound’s tiring.’
‘Well there’s plenty of time to nap during the day.’
‘I could do with some sleep now. Have you got a spare bed somewhere?’
‘Through there’s the aft cabin. You can sleep in there. Sorry if it smells of unwashed male. I’ll sleep in here. Let’s at least find you a clean sleeping bag.’
‘Thanks. Maybe you can teach me something about sailing, on the way to Bermuda, as part of my cover.’
‘More than Joe Johnson did, perhaps.’
To his surprise, she gave a brief chuckle. ‘Yeah, he turned out to be a useless bastard.’
‘I’m going to cast off the raft now. I retrieved your shoes; they might dry out after a few days in the sun. Do you want to bid it a fond farewell?’
Her expression darkened. ‘I never want to see it again,’ she replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Gerry stared up at the cabin roof enjoying the miracle of being alive and safe. She had slept deeply despite occasional nightmares about her abduction, the plane journey and the fear she had felt as the raft was tossed about in the storm.
She remembered the joyous relief when she saw the flare burst overhead and heard the chugging of the engine as the yacht approached. She wondered why she had been so paranoid. How could they possibly have known that she had survived the crash, realise that she had been drifting in a raft for five days and then arrange for a yacht to pick her up just before she died of thirst when her death was what they had desired? But then she had a sudden anxiety that perhaps they had secretly been tracking her and arranged her rescue as part of the conspiracy and she had decided not to take any chances.
Her treatment of Steven Morris had been unnecessarily harsh, but in fact it was partly a weird over-reaction to her impulse to hug him. His obvious distaste for her appearance was understandable considering that she looked and smelt awful and had violently assaulted him on his own yacht. Despite his apparent lack of any deeply felt resentment she had locked the cabin door from the inside, although they had been bolts designed merely for privacy rather than security, and she had slept with one of his kitchen knives under her pillow.
Bright sunlight now cast patterns around the cabin that swooped and circled as the yacht pitched and heaved with each successive wave.
She heard Steven clambering about in the cockpit, occasionally muttering to himself, sometimes humming in a rather tuneless fashion. She thought over what she had found out about him from the internet. He was aged forty-seven; he had completed a short military career, achieving the rank of Major in the Royal Marines. He had served creditably in the Gulf war, but resigned a few years afterwards. His subsequent career in the property trading business had been successful and his ownership of this yacht and the free time to sail it across the Atlantic suggested that he had ample means. She had also found a two year gap between his departure from military service and his property business which had
been spent on some lucrative but clandestine overseas mercenary adventure, which perhaps she should investigate further. Apart from that, she knew that he was widowed five months ago and had one daughter aged twenty two.
She needed to pee. She unbolted the door and peered out. Across the way was the door with the brass letters WC affixed. Not bothering to cover her nakedness, she stepped quickly and quietly inside. She managed to supress a gasp of pain and was washing her hands when she heard Steven jumping down the steps and into the saloon. Damn.
‘I’m in here,’ she called out.
A silent pause. ‘Er...right,’ he replied.
‘I’m not wearing anything,’ she said only too aware of how her naked vulnerability of today was in stark contrast to her naked aggression of yesterday.
‘Ok, I’ll go back up while you get dressed, then,’ he said, and shortly after she heard his tread on the steps and the door close.
She stepped back into her borrowed cabin and quickly pulled on her borrowed clothes. She spied an elastic band around some rolled up papers. She remembered the simple pleasure of combing out her newly washed hair yesterday as she now swept it up into a pony tail and secured it with the band. There was a mirror on the back of the door and she gazed at her reflection. God, she looked a sight; hollow eyes, one surrounded by greeny yellow bruising and her lip still swollen. She carefully pushed up her lip and inspected the peg where her cap had fallen off. She shook her head in disgust at her appearance and clambered up into the cockpit.
Steven was out on the front deck doing something to the rigging. She saw that he had kept himself in shape since leaving the army, with just a slight thickening around the waist. She waited until it seemed he had finished and called out ‘Hi.’
He gave a quick wave. She watched him unclip a short blue rope that was harnessed around his waist from one of the wires that ran along the side and then walked along beside the raised cabin leaning against the heel of the yacht with the ease of practice but nevertheless he kept one hand on top of the wooden rail on the cabin roof until he jumped in beside her.
‘I see you’re careful not to fall overboard,’ she said.
‘Yeah that’s right.’ He fingered the blue rope. ‘I clip on this safety tether whenever I’m using both hands out on the deck; I also tow a hundred fathom floating rope behind the boat.’
‘So if you fall off how long does that give you to find it?’
‘Well it depends how fast I’m going of course. At one knot, about six minutes until the end goes by; at five knots, just over a minute. Any faster and I doubt I’d have any chance.’
She nodded. She had already experienced the terror of being lost in the middle of the ocean, so she did not feel the desire to discuss it further.
‘What’s the time?’ she asked. ‘I feel I’ve been asleep for ages.’
‘Well I don’t keep a clock on local time when I’m running. Its 0815 GMT, or UTC as they like to call it now, but it’s about an hour and a half before local noon.’ He pointed up to the sky as he said this, and following his finger she could just make out a point of brightness where the sun had nearly pierced the layer of cloud that hung all over the sky.
‘So nearly eleven hours, then,’ she remarked She suddenly caught sight of some clothes attached to one of the wires that ran up from the side of the boat to the mast, and amongst his shirts and underwear drying in the breeze she saw the polo shirt and bra she had left dumped in the shower along with the rest of her clothing. He caught the direction of her gaze.
‘I dumped the rest of your stuff; I hope you don’t mind.’
Her other clothes had been filthy through sea sickness and other personal hygiene issues and she quickly thought of something to say to hide her embarrassment.
‘I’m starving. Sorry to be cadging your supplies, but maybe I can at least learn how to use your cooking facilities and help out there.’
‘You’re feeling ok then? You know you shouldn’t eat too much after a long fast?’
‘Yes, I know, but I’m fine really...thanks.’
‘Ok, well I keep to a routine, so I start cooking lunch after my noon sighting. There’s some more of those cereal bars if you can’t wait.’
‘Thanks. Sighting of what?’
‘The sun. I practice my solar and celestial navigation.’ He pointed to the array of sophisticated equipment at the front of the compartment. ‘In case the satnav system craps out on me.’
‘Sounds like a good idea.’ She stepped over to the display panel. ‘I’ve used satnav on field trips and in cars. Why don’t you show me how this works?’
Steven came over and stood next to her and she felt a sudden need to make some kind of physical contact with another human being. She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around him while he talked her through the operating system and then showed her how the automatic helm system was clutched into the satnav. This led to him demonstrating how a shift of the wind resulted in the boat heeling over further, and then how the steering system compensating for the drift. They fell into a discussion of leeway and how it varied with speed through the water. He was gratified that she seemed eager to learn and he spent the next hour showing her the basics of seamanship and how it particularly applied to sailing a sixteen metre yacht single-handed. ‘You’re a keen student. I should be able to teach you quite a bit over the next few days.’ For the first time since they had met he smiled at her. Gerry responded by beginning her own smile, but it turned into a grimace of pain as her cut lip stretched.
In the afternoon while Steven was up on the deck she logged in to the MI6 web site. She looked up her own profile and found that a security wrap had been placed on it that denied her access. She stared at the screen for a moment and then put in the operation code Sandstar. Fifteen minutes reading left her burning with anger.
The report stated that Geraldine Tate had suffered a psychological breakdown in prison following the death of her mother and her decision to give up her child for adoption. She was now suffering from acute paranoia. She was still determined to find further scapegoats for the murder of Dean Furness, the man responsible for the death of her partner Philip Barrett. She still remained in denial that she was responsible in any way for Furness’ murder.
When returning to the UK with Ali Hamsin it was assumed that Tate had managed to break free and had run amok, attacking the crew. It was suspected that Daniel Hall had furnished her with the means to break free and he was now on the run, location unknown. Investigation by air traffic services suggested that the aircraft had turned towards Bermuda and it was assumed that the aircraft had crashed into the ocean. A ship had reported seeing an aircraft at low level heading towards the islands, but a search based on this position report had found no debris. It was assumed that Tate had carried out her threat as there was no sign of the aircraft. It was probably not in the interests of the USA or the UK that any further search should be carried out as to the exact circumstances. It was considered unlikely that news of the accident would be released into the public domain on any future occasion, but a joint approach to a covering statement was now a high priority. The only records of the flight described a military charter carrying miscellaneous dangerous cargo and the only reported losses would be the two pilots.
Gerry logged off and stared at the screen which now showed a painting of a nineteenth century ship with the name “Bellona” on the stern, probably part of Steven’s enthusiasm for Patrick O’Brian’s work.
After a few minutes thought she tried logging on to her Santander bank account and found her access denied. She tried her Barclays account and could not gain entry to that either. In some desperation she tried the Lloyds account that she had created fifteen years ago under the name of Emily Stevens, and she was relieved to find £9723 pounds was still available, with an overdraft facility of an additional £3000. Unfortunately her illegally retained Emily Stevens passport was concealed under the floor of the shed in her late mother’s garden. She wondered if she would ever be abl
e to retrieve it and she gazed up at the cabin roof making tentative plans to get from Bermuda to England without being picked up by either her own people or the Americans.
To what extent would Steven Morris be prepared to help her? That rather depended on how much he liked and trusted her. His was a strong character and she doubted that she would get far by trying to threaten or coerce him. She heard him treading overhead and decided to go on deck and learn more about yacht sailing. Fortunately his desire to teach her and her burgeoning interest in the subject chimed in nicely with that objective. Maybe if she devoted enough time to learning how to sail she could get out of the cooking job she had volunteered to do. Then of course there was another thing that a woman could offer a man, especially a man who had been alone on a yacht for many weeks. And she hadn’t had sex, hetero sex, for years. She hoped she did not appear too repellent.
Next day dawned with clear skies and a strong breeze. Under Steven’s watchful eye Gerry disengaged the automatic helm and steered the boat using the traditional wooden spoked wheel and the magnetic compass in the adjacent binnacle. She adjusted the tension on the main sheet and checked the leech of the mainsail and was pleased to have his approving nod. She found it exhilarating to be in control of the big yacht as it swooped up to the top of a wave and then down into the next trough, sending a rainbow coloured sheet of spray out to leeward. Before she realised how much time had passed it was noon and Steven pointed his sextant high south and sighted the midday sun. Then he said ‘I’ll make lunch’ and disappeared below leaving her on watch.
After they had eaten, he remained at the helm while she cleared up. She climbed out onto the deck carrying two cups of coffee. She had quickly become used to drinking it without milk as the alternative was to have milk powder which she detested.
‘Hi there,’ Steven called out, but looking around the deck she could not see him. ‘Up here!’ She shaded her eyes and saw him halfway up the mast.
The Gilgamesh Conspiracy Page 29