by Paul Gallico
The warrant officer looked out on the ludicrous scene. It was beyond all rational explanation. Three rescued men were returning to their highly probable deaths. He tried addressing them calmly. “Listen to me, please, gentlemen. I have not the slightest idea why you are doing this madness. I will help you in any way I can. But if you refuse to come back there is nothing I can do. I am not prepared to be shot trying to save you. I beg you to come now, or we must leave without you. There are the other passengers to consider.”
Rogo’s face appeared at the hole. It was a gargoyle of rage. “You stupid little jerk! Beat it or I’ll put your ass in a sling. You too, Manny. Get out. This has nothing to do with you two!”
Manny did not seem to hear. Martin looked pleadingly at Rogo. “Don’t be that way, Mr. Rogo. We were together before. You might need me now.”
The crew were talking quickly in French. The warrant officer called for the last time, “We are taking off. Are you coming? Very well.” He shook his head, and the door closed. The pilot threw his big blades into gear and the machine lifted and curved off into the distance.
Manny and Martin stood like two schoolboys up before their headmaster. Rogo ran through every obscenity in his considerable vocabulary until at last even his flaming anger burned down. They were here. There was nothing else to be done.
“Okay,” he said, stuffing the gun in his pocket and beckoning them on. “You gotta be outta your minds, the two of you, but if that’s the way you want, okay. Let’s go.”
He dropped down again inside the hold, and the others hastened after him.
Other times, other customs. Crime has to be the most modern of industries, and there is no one who takes quicker advantage of the progress of technology than the criminal. So the highwayman has given way to the man with a hand grenade in an airplane, the bank robber has pocketed his gun for the most sophisticated of cutting equipment, and the once furtive cat burglar can now walk in through the front door with his own cut keys.
So the pirate vessel which lay a mile off the wreck of the Poseidon that bright morning flew no skull and crossbones, and its crew were far more likely to celebrate a triumph with dry martinis than with rum. The Naiad, based at Port Gallice between Cannes and Antibes, was one of the most magnificent private yachts on the Mediterranean. She flew the French flag at her taffrail. She was the property of a handsome playboy by the name of Roland Pascal, in the sense that she was certainly registered in his name. But he, like each of the five young men now so earnestly preparing their scuba-diving equipment on the deck, was helplessly under the sweetly sexual thrall of one silver-haired girl. Heloise, or Hely, as they knew her, was in every sense the captain of that vessel.
Whether a court would have judged them pirates, it would have been hard to know. They harmed no living thing. But in those waters, where fire, explosion, or a mistral was not uncommon, they had no need to trouble the living. They were simply grave robbers, despoilers of the dead. With depth-sounding equipment, underwater metal detectors, the finest diving gear, a decompression chamber, and the most advanced radio equipment, they could follow up any Mayday call or news of disaster at sea.
If this troubled some of the young men, it never worried Hely. Morals, ethics, and scruples did not touch her. They were principles she had jettisoned early in life. Indeed, if she had been born in a state of innocence, it was a condition she had shed almost before leaving the cradle. The smile with which she illuminated some of the smartest parties on the Riviera was the one she had assiduously practiced as a child begging on the streets of Paris, and it earned her an audience now as surely as it had won tourists’ pennies twenty years before. The air of innocence had been acquired early too, only now it concealed a past that would make a sailor shudder. As a child she had swiftly digested the cruel lesson that only she could lift herself from the slums to the broad sweet avenues, and that blue eyes and blond hair, properly employed, were potent weapons in that war. By the time she was fifteen she had the skills of the paramour, to which she added the simple but vital insight that has lifted many women to power, that the prince is as easily deceived as his chauffeur, and that all men are equal before a beautiful woman. Via more bedrooms than she could count, Hely had graduated to a luxury yacht on the warm, soft waters of the Mediterranean, and it was here that she held her crew of tough young men so inescapably under her spell that she hardly bothered to conceal the contempt with which she viewed them or, for that matter, any man she had ever met. Hely had come a long way, but she still had a long way to go.
“I wish you wouldn’t wear that, Hely.” Roland’s hesitant request had the faint whine that she had heard so often; sprawled face down on the deck, she did not trouble to turn her head to reply. Instead, she continued to admire the ring on her finger with the diamond the size of an almond. She splayed her fingers and bent her wrist so that the sun caught each shining facet in turn.
“And where do you suggest I should wear it, my love? Outside the headquarters of the Sûreté perhaps? In Cartier’s? This is the only place I can wear it.”
Roland dropped to his haunches beside her. It was his yacht, she was his girl, but still he could not strike the pleading tone from his voice. “I can still see them, those poor people in that boat.” He shuddered. “Doesn’t it bother you at all, the thought of that foolish-looking woman floating in front of her dressing-table mirror and the husband still at the wheel?”
Hely lowered her sparkling hand and looked at him. “Was it my fault they were dead? The yacht was listed as missing. We were just lucky to run across it, that’s all.”
Roland went on, “Her other jewels, the ones we sent to Marseilles, could have finished us. That inquiry came much too close.”
Hely ignored him. “I love it!” she cried, raising the diamond to her lips. “I love it, I love it!” A smile sliced across her fine-boned face. “But my poor little Roland? Is he frightened of being a naughty boy then? Is he frightened of being caught playing with the big girls?”
She ceased the mocking irony of the nursery. “Or perhaps it’s simply that you no longer find me exciting. Tell me, my lord and master, is that it?” She stirred gently, like a waking cat, and her half-amused eyes saw Roland watching. He would see the ash-blond drape of her hair across the deck, the clean planes of her face, the easy curve of her coppered limbs, and he would crawl. They always did.
“Well, is that it, Roland? Have you found someone else, someone who doesn’t make you be a naughty boy?”
No more than two yards away, the five young men busily sorting out scuba equipment had followed every word, and they mutely acknowledged the nuances of the conversation with winks and grimaces. Roland, acutely aware of their chiding presence, looked anxious as he tried to whisper his reply, “You know better than that, Hely. But please listen to me this time. This one is too dangerous. Half the world will be watching soon. We can sail now, and I’ll buy you the finest dinner in Athens.”
Hely jackknifed to her feet. “There was a time when a good meal could have bought me, but that was long before you, my love. The price is higher now. Today, that’s it over there.”
She pointed to the dark, lifeless shape of the Poseidon clearly defined against the sunlight about a mile distant. Businesslike, she brushed past Roland and addressed herself to the young men scattered around the deck. Each one was in some stage of heaving on diving gear.
“Ready, boys?”
Johnny, the most experienced diver, said, “Yep,” cheerfully accepting her authority. He was, he reckoned, running Roland close second in Hely’s estimation. She was getting sick of Roland. Soon he would go, and Johnny was all too ready to move in. If that cost him his job, there were plenty more seas for a good scuba man. He shot her his winner’s grin.
“Ready for anything with you, Hely.” He was gratified to see that his impudent ambiguity was recognized with a slight smile. Any day now, Johnny, he told himself. His confidence and Roland’s unease registered with each of the men, and to each it carried
the same message: everyone is in with a chance. For Hely, it was a game she had played many times, encouraging, discouraging, a pat here, a slap down there.
She thought, God, but aren’t they like little puppies, each one pushing to the front to be the favorite.
She addressed them again. “Okay, check your equipment.” Two other men, Pierre Duval, the archaeologist, and the captain, Yves, came up from the cabin to watch the final preparations, and Hely gave them their instructions. “Pierre, we won’t be needing you. There’ll be no pretty statues this time. This one will be for jewelry, and on that wreck there should be enough to . . .”
Johnny picked up her unfinished sentence. “To sink a ship.”
Hely’s clear, clean laugh would have charmed a country club. “That’s right, Johnny, that’s right. This is the big one. What extraordinary luck. Think of it. A few minutes after midnight on New Year’s Eve. They would all be together in the main dining room, wearing their silly hats, rattling noisemakers, and throwing streamers and confetti at each other, joining arms and singing ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ ” Her voice drifted off and arms again wandered to the distant hulk. “Gala night. Black ties, long dresses. And fat old bags wearing their once-a-year finest, rings, necklaces, bracelets, all the prizes their dull little husbands paid for in ulcers. All we have to do is go and collect.”
Roland’s protesting hand fell feebly from her arm as she took three quick steps towards the neatly stacked wet suits and equipment. She flipped off her bikini top and, palms on thighs, slid her shorts to the deck as though she were the only person on the entire ocean. Every man there watched in silence, and noticed the slim scarf of untanned white between the oak-brown back and legs. If she sensed the silence, she gave no indication of it, and continued her briefing.
“We will approach the ship from the opposite side of that freighter and descend to the level of the dining room. Inside, we must all work quickly.”
One of the divers asked, “Will we need spear guns?”
Hely curtly replied, “No. And don’t waste time on junk. You all know decent pieces when you see them. Necklaces first, then brooches, bracelets, and rings.” She stooped to pick up her wet suit.
The excitement she had engendered amongst the divers was almost an audible hum. A boy of eighteen who only six months earlier had been expelled from his English public school exchanged winks with a young Frenchman, who then mimed a silent whistle. Johnny, arrested in some discomfort with his arms halfway through the straps of his oxygen kit, contemplated a delightful future. The already discomfited Roland had been rendered speechless by her display of nonchalant sexuality, and it was only the whispered reactions of the men beside him that jolted him, so that he interrupted her with hissing urgency, “For God’s sake, Hely, can’t you change in the cabin?”
He regretted it the moment she turned her head and he saw the coolly amused eyes through the thistledown hair. “Roland thinks I’m upsetting you boys. Are there any complaints?” For Roland’s benefit, she indicated their whooped denials and half cheers with a tilt of her head, and stepped into her wet suit. She rolled it up without hurry and was zipping up the front when she faced Roland and resumed. “Roland, darling, I’m worried. I’m beginning to think there’s just the faintest aroma of chicken about you, mon amour. And now you seem ashamed to let people see me.”
Roland tried for a cheery grin that emerged more as a wince. Johnny thought, He’s cracking.
Roland said, “Hasn’t it occurred to you that you are corrupting these more or less decent young men?”
Hely picked up her oxygen cylinders and looped the first strap over her arm. She replied, “Oh yes, I know that, Roland. But isn’t it fun? Well, isn’t it, boys?”
Johnny led the cheering that greeted her question as Hely went on, “But don’t come if you don’t want to, Roland. Perhaps little Bobby here will hold my hand if I get nervous.”
The young Englishman started at the sound of his name. He promised, “There and back, Hely,” and Hely noted with satisfaction the brief scowl that touched Johnny’s lips at the encouragement of another contender.
Hely resumed her instructions. “Oh, and another thing. Those bodies have been in there eight hours or so and their fingers might be swollen. Don’t waste time wrestling.” She slipped her diver’s knife from the sheath she was strapping to her leg and made a small dropping motion with the blade that required no explanation. Grins gone, the diving crew agreed with somber nods.
“I’ll come.” Roland’s statement was flat and his face pale and grim, but Hely rewarded him with a birthday smile that seemed to belie all her earlier goading. “I didn’t like this from the start, when we heard the Mayday call. But I’ll come.”
It’s so easy, she thought. The lessons of the slums operated with the same efficacy here or anywhere. She had administered the scare that Roland needed. She had teasingly half-promised Johnny, and then, when he became a little too confident, pushed him down a couple of rungs and warmed up the English boy. If they all died tomorrow, she thought, she would not waste a second’s grief on them. They were men, just men, easily found, easily fooled, easily dropped, and there was a whole world full of them. Then the old thought, the one that sometimes troubled her, swam into her mind. Was there one man in the whole world who was worthy of her respect? Even more, was there one man who could inspire in her the pathetic combination of adoration and lust which she saw in the faces around her? She provided herself with the answer, as she always did. No. Never. Even if there was, Hely’s ascent from the gutter to the stars could not be slowed for so intangible and profitless a business as love. It was an emotion that was best left to shopgirls in their blind dash to the miseries of motherhood that always ended in ugly, corseted middle age and anxiety over paying the rent. For Hely, the supreme emotion was power.
She twisted the heavy ring off her finger and handed it to Yves. “Look after this for me, will you, Yves? Pierre will stay with you. We have an hour and a half of air. I don’t expect any complications. We will return before the time is up. If we do not, we have encountered something unexpected. Give us an extra ten minutes, and after that you are under orders to up anchor and get out.” She looked at Roland sweetly and added, “Where do you suggest, darling? Morocco? Tunis? Algeria? I should think they wouldn’t ask too many questions in Algeria.”
Gratefully Roland grabbed the chance to exert at least half his authority, and agreed, “Algeria, I would think. Sell the yacht and split what you can get.”
Hely’s beam of warm approbation swept the semicircle of men as they rose to their feet, oxygen cylinders in place, flippers on feet. “Good. Allons! Hely’s Heroes swim at five meters below the surface.”
It was Hely who was the first to drop her face mask and slip over the side, and as the six other divers in their impersonal black uniforms followed, their thoughts shared a highly personal but also uniform vision. Glittering jewels dancing in the light, and a silky ribbon wrapped round a brown body.
Klaas himself took the wheel to bring the Magt up under the lee of the wreck. It was eight-thirty in the morning. Then he handed it over to Piet, and climbed down to join Jason and Coby on the deck.
“Did you send the wire?” Jason asked.
Klaas nodded. He produced the sheet of paper from his pocket and read out loud: “Today, January first at eight twenty-seven, I, Captain Klaas van Zeevogel, master of the fifteen-hundred-ton freighter Magt van Leiden registered in Amsterdam, have made fast a line to the wreck of the Poseidon. I hereby claim rights of prime salvor.”
“Great,” Jason grinned. “That’s a smart move, Klaas. If you can’t help anyone here, you might as well have the benefit of salvage rights.”
“Possibly.” Klaas was not too enthusiastic. “It is a precaution, I suppose. But what really concerns me, Jason, is why that helicopter returned and those men got out. I think there were three.”
A frown also crossed Jason’s face, “I made it three too. I don’t get it. What makes survivors com
e back to a sinking ship? And one of them, that guy in the undershirt, looked like a cop to me.”
“You can tell a cop at that distance in the middle of the ocean?” Klaas looked even more worried.
“I could recognize a cop on a dark night in China,” Jason said. He saw the older man’s concern and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Klaas. If he is a cop he’ll keep an eye on me for you.”
The Dutchman looked up at the tall young man. “Frankly, Jason, I am not happy about the whole thing. I think it is about time you told us of your business on board this vessel too.”
The American’s face tightened as Coby echoed her father’s request. “Please tell us,” she said.
Jason moved to the deck rail, weighing in his hand a grappling iron on a length of nylon line. With a steady overarm swing he sent the iron lobbing through the air and over the hoisting bracket above the propeller.
“First time!” he called over his shoulder. He tugged the rope sharply, several times. It was secure.
Then he faced them again and said, “I told you. I have business on the Poseidon. One small part of that cargo belongs to me, and I’m going to have it. That may be enough for you, it may not, but it’s all I can tell you. Beyond that you’ve got to trust me.”
Almost too quickly, Coby came back, “We do, don’t we, papa?”
After a lifetime at sea, Klaas was not a man who made decisions based on flimsy facts. He liked the man. He liked the look of him, the set of him, and the way he handled himself around a boat. But he was still only a stranger they had plucked off the sea’s surface. He pushed back the cap on his graying, springy hair and the bewilderment was there, plainly registered on his face.
“I shall wait and see, Captain Jason. I hope I shall not be disappointed.”
Jason was leaning back on the line, testing its hold by bracing one leg against the side of the Poseidon. “It’s a fairly straight walk up to the top where those other guys got in. Let’s go see what gives in there.”