The Killing Ship

by Simon Beaufort

  The room was tiny, with two sets of bunks, a metal table and two chairs, all bolted down against rough weather. The blankets were threadbare and the lino on the floor was old and peppered with cigarette burns. Even so, the cabin was cleaner than Mortimer would have expected for such a vessel, and the covers on the bed seemed to be freshly laundered: someone still cared about standards, even though Lena was a miserable old tub.

  Joshi was doing his best not to show his fear, but his voice still cracked when he spoke. ‘What do they want with us?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Mortimer. ‘But when they come, let me do the talking. Look at the door and the porthole – see if they can be forced open.’

  Glad to have something to do, Joshi went to the door, tapping it to test its thickness and strength. Graham was intelligent enough to know it was a waste of time, and only slumped on one of the beds. His hands shook and his face was grey, and Mortimer knew he would easily be intimidated into telling their captors that Sarah was still free – which was something he aimed to prevent at all costs. He knew the three of them were doomed, but he was determined that Sarah would live to see their killers prosecuted.

  Moments later, the door opened to admit two men. One was unmistakably Russian – big, bearlike and clad in cheap trousers and an old blue sweater. A gold tooth glinted in his mouth when he spoke, and his English was hesitant, as if he used it rarely. The other was smaller, neatly dressed and had a large black moustache. He appeared to be Middle Eastern, and spoke with a French accent.

  ‘Welcome to our ship, gentlemen,’ he said politely. ‘I trust the ride was not too uncomfortable?’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Mortimer curtly.

  ‘Imad Hasim, the captain’s adviser. And this is the first mate, Evgeny Yablokov.’

  Mortimer introduced himself, Graham and Joshi, then added, ‘We’re scientists with promising careers and families who love us. I hope you bear this in mind when you consider our fate.’

  Hasim made a reassuring gesture, although Yablokov stared at his feet. The Russian had not expected the prisoners to be so young – the one called Joshi was little more than a boy, with downy cheeks and tousled hair. Yet again, he wished he had never left the north. He should have known that the pay was high for a damn good reason.

  ‘You’re our guests, so we’ll make your stay here as pleasant as possible,’ said Hasim smoothly. ‘Some food will arrive shortly, and Mr Yablokov has found you a few books in English.’

  Mortimer glanced at them – a dog-eared dictionary, a first aid manual, several issues of National Geographic and a lurid-looking paperback entitled Olga’s Lovers.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mortimer. ‘But what we really want is to contact our base. They’ll be preparing a rescue mission as we speak, so we should tell them where we are.’

  Hasim and Yablokov exchanged a quick glance.

  ‘Later,’ said Hasim. ‘But in the meantime, another storm is brewing and it looks bad – falling temperatures, snow, high winds. You must see that your friends will be better off here than on shore. Tell us where to find them, so we can send out a search party.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mortimer. ‘They’re at the bottom of crevasses, buried under ice falls or shot by your men. We were eight, but Andrew Berrister, Sarah Henshaw, Dan Wells, Freddy Fredericks and Lisa White are dead. We’re all that’s left.’

  ‘If that were the case,’ said Hasim coldly, ‘we’d have found their bodies. You’re lying.’

  ‘It was my fault,’ whispered Graham. Mortimer glared at him, willing him to silence, but the Scot mumbled on. ‘I left Andrew. When you started shooting, I just ran, and when I looked back he was gone. He’s dead – and it was my fault.’

  ‘It was not,’ countered Mortimer sharply. ‘You weren’t chasing him, were you? Nor did you push poor Lisa to her death.’

  ‘That was an accident,’ put in Yablokov quickly. ‘I spoke to the crew – they didn’t push her.’

  Hasim ignored him, and glared at the prisoners. ‘Please don’t lie. It will be better for everyone if you tell me where your friends are hiding.’

  ‘Freddy and Dan are under an ice fall and have been since yesterday,’ replied Mortimer coolly. ‘We were going to dig their bodies out today, but you came and … we had to revise our plans. Lisa and Sarah are in the Big Crevasse. I don’t know which fissure Andrew was hounded down, but it was one close to where we were found.’

  Hasim made an irritable sound at the back of his throat. ‘Very well – play games if you must. Tell the guard outside the door when you come to your senses and decide to cooperate.’

  ‘Guard?’ pounced Mortimer. ‘Why do you need one of those for “guests”?’

  Hasim smiled thinly. ‘We’re just simple sailors, and my colleagues are foolishly shy of strangers. It’s for your own safety.’

  ‘Right,’ said Mortimer. ‘Incidentally, how many whales have you slaughtered so far?’

  ‘Just the one,’ replied Hasim. ‘It’s a small, but lucrative, sideline for us.’

  He smiled at Yablokov, who did not smile back.

  Mortimer frowned. ‘So why else are you down here?’

  ‘We’ll answer your questions when you answer ours,’ said Hasim. ‘But it’s getting late and we could all do with a good night’s sleep. Rest well, gentlemen. We’ll talk again in the morning.’

  He gave a neat bow and left. The first mate followed, his face impassive but his eyes anxious.

  ‘I could break the lock with a single kick, and there are two armed guards outside,’ reported Joshi, the moment they had gone.

  ‘Good lad,’ said Mortimer approvingly, although he doubted the information would be of any use. ‘Now, help me off with these boots. It’s warm in here.’

  While Joshi obliged, Graham went to one of the beds and flung himself down, turning his face to the wall. Mortimer watched him uneasily – he never imagined Graham would be the first to crack under pressure. He only hoped the Scot would rally in the morning.

  SIX

  The night was the longest Berrister could ever remember, and with no watch, it was impossible to keep track of the time. It was bitterly cold in the crevasse, and he dared not sleep lest he moved and sent himself spinning down into oblivion. His arms and legs grew cramped; his ears, nose, toes and fingers throbbed from the chill; and he could not recall when he had last eaten. He took a bite of the sausage, but it was oily and rank, and he felt his gorge rise. He pushed it away, unwilling to risk throwing up.

  But eventually tendrils of early-morning light filtered down to his ledge. When they did, and he could see clearly for the first time, it made his predicament seem worse than ever. Moving slowly and stiffly, he began to make preparations for his escape.

  He repacked his canvas bundle so it included both daypacks. He attached one end of the thin rope to it, then tied the other around his waist, looping the excess over his shoulder. He ate another bite of sausage, although fear blunted his appetite again, and he tried to flex some of the stiffness out of his fingers. And then he was ready. It was now fully light, and he could see as well as he was going to.

  He took three steps back, and made a running leap towards the second ledge. It was almost too far, and he had to grab at the wall to stop himself sliding off the other side. The new ice was also not as stable, and he felt it flex under his feet. He tried to get closer to the wall, where it was less likely to snap off, but something was in his way. He kicked at it impatiently, then gaped in horror. Under a frosting of snow was a body.

  Reluctantly, he touched it. It was frozen solid and undeniably dead. Was it one of the whalers? He tried to scour away some of the ice, although he dared not turn the body over, lest the movement cause the ledge to collapse. Then he spotted something red, and he caught his breath when he recognised Freddy’s distinctive bandanna. Stomach churning, he swept away more snow, but the face was a mask of frozen blood. Berrister had lost colleagues down crevasses before, and knew the damage ice could do. There was mo
re blood on the body’s arm, which had oozed from a dark, round hole, slightly charred at the edges. He had been shot.

  Berrister felt rage burn inside him. Freddy had been cut down in his prime, just so a few criminals could kill whales. He wanted to kill them – see how they liked being shot and terrorized over money. What he actually did was touch the body in a brief gesture of farewell, and murmur a promise that he would do all in his power to see the killers brought to justice, even if it meant spending the next eight days hiding inside the glacier. Resolve filled him, and he determined to escape.

  The canvas bundle was still on the first ledge, so he tugged until he had taken up the rope’s slack, then eased it towards him. The bundle slid over the edge and all but took him with it as it fell. His arms cracked with the tension as it swung back and forth. Swearing under his breath, he hauled it up, then considered his next move. The third ledge was further than the second, and not as big. There was a very real possibility that it was not strong enough to bear his weight.

  Then he took one last look at his dead friend, and launched himself into the abyss.

  He judged the distance well, but as his feet touched, the ledge began to collapse underneath him. He scrabbled desperately as chunks of it started to fall away, trying to throw himself forward. A large piece hurtled away into the darkness, then he, too, began to fall. He snatched at the walls in a futile effort to save himself, and then was dropping in earnest.

  With a sickening jolt he was jerked to a halt. At first he thought he had hit the bottom, and the pain in his side was stoved-in ribs. Then he realised that the rope had snagged, and that he was suspended mid-air. He clawed at the wall, trying to gain a handhold, but it was too slick.

  He looked around wildly, knowing the rope would not hold him for long. It was tight around his chest, making it difficult to breathe, and dizziness already nagged at the edges of his brain. Then he saw that the wall underneath the third ledge was rough, and should be possible to climb. The only problem was that he could not reach it.

  The rope felt as though it would sever him in two. He reached up to grab it with one hand, feeling some of the pressure ease, and pushed against the wall with the other. He began to swing back and forth, higher with each new shove. Ice shards clattered around him. How long would it be before he spiralled after them? Then his fumbling fingers managed to lock into a fissure in the wall. He stopped swinging, and scrabbled with his feet until they encountered a shallow rim. Once he was standing, the pressure on his chest disappeared and he could breathe easily again.

  He pressed his face against the wall, feeling its chill against his cheek. For a while, he could do nothing but cling there, waiting for his breathing to return to normal and the pain in his ribs to subside.

  Eventually, he started to climb, inching upward until his head was level with the second ledge. He looked across at it, wondering what had arrested his fall. It was the body – the rope had caught on one of its legs, and as it was frozen into the wall, it provided an anchor. The ledge now tilted at a precarious angle, and Berrister saw that a few more moments of swinging would have brought the whole thing down, taking rope, Freddy and him with it. The notion turned his limbs to jelly again, and for several minutes he was unable to move.

  He took a deep breath, and through a massive effort of will, forced himself to start climbing again. Then he heard voices and saw a silhouette peering down. The gunmen had found him.

  Yablokov also slept badly that night, and when he woke from an uneasy drowse the following morning, the first thing he did was splash cold water over his face, trying to wash Joshi’s frightened face from his mind. There was a rap on his door, but he ignored it. The handle turned as someone tried it, and Yablokov was glad it was locked. He heard Hasim calling softly, secretively, but he was not interested in what the man had to say. He stood stock-still, waiting for him to leave.

  But he could not skulk forever. After a slug of vodka, taken straight from the bottle, he went to the bridge. His watch was due to start, and he didn’t want to emulate the captain by being late. He felt in his pocket for his cigarettes – he didn’t want to imitate him by reeking of alcohol first thing in the morning either.

  Zurin was there, gazing sullenly across the grey sea, while Nikos leaned on the charts chest.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Zurin. Yablokov blinked, startled to hear the taciturn helmsman speak. ‘I want no further part in it. That girl …’ He looked away.

  ‘She fell,’ said Yablokov. ‘You already told us it was an accident.’

  ‘Or she jumped,’ countered Zurin, ‘because she was so scared. I’m done with Hasim – I’m not hunting any more scientists.’

  Silently, Yablokov agreed: he would have given his right arm to be home, warming his feet by the fire while his wife made cod and onions, his favourite dish. But there would be nothing for her to cook if he didn’t earn some money. He rubbed his eyes wearily. What was a man to do when the fish stocks continued to dwindle year after year? He had to provide for his family somehow.

  ‘How’s our cargo?’

  Yablokov started in shock: Hasim was so close that he could feel the man’s breath on the back of his neck. How he hated his sneaky ways! Hasim looked smart and chipper in clean clothes, and he smelled of expensive aftershave. He made Yablokov feel grubby and inferior.

  ‘Fine,’ he answered shortly. ‘We’re still behind schedule, but making progress.’

  ‘Well we can’t afford to be behind schedule,’ Hasim snapped irritably. ‘Our timetable isn’t flexible, you know.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’ flashed Yablokov, irked enough to respond, although he knew he should hold his tongue. ‘We lost hours while you sent the crew after the scientists. Speaking of which, when can I have my people back?’

  ‘As soon as all the witnesses are accounted for – or you may as well step into a prison cell right now. Or can I assume that you’d rather go home to your family with a fat pay packet?’

  Yablokov was spared from replying by Garik, who reeled onto the bridge. His eyes were glazed, his sweater was inside out, and he was wearing his shoes on the wrong feet. When the ship rolled a little, he had to clutch at Zurin to steady himself. Then he walked to the captain’s chair with the calculated care of the very drunk and slumped into it. Hasim immediately went to murmur in his ear. Moments later, Garik’s eyes closed. The Arab whispered on, blithely unaware that Garik was asleep. A snore eventually gave the game away, and Hasim left in disgust.

  ‘Can you make the door creak?’ Yablokov asked Nikos. ‘Or he’s going to catch me bad-mouthing him soon.’

  The Greek smiled grimly. ‘Consider it done. You don’t want him as an enemy, Evgeny – a powerful man with powerful friends. We should all watch ourselves around him.’

  It was good advice, although not necessarily easy to follow.

  ‘You did well yesterday, Nikos,’ said Yablokov. ‘Hasim’s team spent hours hunting the scientists, but you caught them in a few minutes.’

  Nikos winced. ‘I’m not proud of it – and I was scared shitless. Did you hear that they killed two of Hasim’s people, then stripped their bodies? I kept thinking that they’d do the same to us if we fell into their hands.’

  ‘Well, we started it,’ shrugged Yablokov. ‘They lost five to our two. Of course, Hasim thinks there are more of them out there, although I believe they were telling the truth when they said there aren’t. Christ! What a nightmare! If we come out of this in one piece, I’ll never do anything like it ever again.’

  ‘No? You’d turn down a year’s pay for six weeks’ work?’

  Yablokov nodded vehemently. ‘At least eight people are going to die for this business – ten if you include Hasim’s pair, plus one who is touch and go. I never signed on for that.’

  Shouts echoed in Berrister’s ears as he hung on the icy wall. He closed his eyes in despair. Why did he have to be caught now, after all his efforts and one of the most miserable nights of his life? It was several mome
nts before he realised that the voice was female and was calling his name. He squinted up and gaped in disbelief as he recognised the distinctive profile of Sarah’s furred hood.

  ‘Come on,’ she was urging. ‘You can make it – just don’t look down.’

  Taking a deep breath, Berrister began to climb. It was not a difficult ascent, but he was exhausted, and his fingers and feet were numb with cold. All the while, Sarah clamoured encouragement at him.

  ‘Not that way – keep right. No, my right. That’s it. Now, grab that piece of ice by your left hand. Not much further now.’

  Inch by inch, he scaled the wall, trying not to think about what lay below, while above Sarah clenched her fists so hard that they hurt. As he came nearer, she reached down and grabbed his hood, pulling so hard she risked making him lose his balance. He found another two footholds, and heaved himself over the lip of the crevasse, where he lay gazing up at the pale grey sky. Sarah hauled up his canvas bundle, then sat next to him, hugging her knees.

  The wind had dropped, and for a while the only sounds were Berrister’s ragged breathing and the cry of a gull. She was about to ask him what had happened when there was a groan, followed by the sound of falling ice: the fragile ledge had finally collapsed.

  ‘I heard you climbing,’ said Sarah in the silence that followed. ‘To be honest, I assumed it was one of them, and I was going to make sure he didn’t make it to the top. I can’t tell you how glad I was when I saw it was you.’

  ‘Freddy’s dead,’ said Berrister in a low voice. ‘They shot him, and he’s down the crevasse.’ He didn’t say the field hand was frozen to the ice wall by his own blood – it was too grisly and not something she needed to hear. Then he added, somewhat irrelevantly, ‘He was wearing his red bandanna, but not his lucky brown hat. Obviously.’