The Killing Ship

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘But meat fetches the highest price,’ argued Hasim, ‘so why bother with the rest of it? How is the cargo coming along, by the way?’

  Yablokov shrugged. ‘The weather isn’t helping. But we’re doing alright.’

  ‘We have a rendezvous tomorrow,’ said Hasim, dabbing fastidiously at his moustache with a napkin. ‘So you had better up your game.’

  ‘A rendezvous?’ Yablokov frowned. ‘You haven’t mentioned this before. With whom? And where?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when you need to know,’ replied Hasim. ‘Until then, Nikos must return to the island. One of the scientists is still at large.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Yablokov suspiciously. ‘Did his friends tell you?’

  Hasim smiled enigmatically and did not reply, while Yablokov fought down the temptation to punch the smirk off his arrogant face. With each passing day, he felt more like a puppet – things happened over which he had no control, and information wasn’t being shared. Hasim had spent an hour in the radio room that morning with the door locked. Despite Yablokov later cajoling, pleading and finally threatening, the communications officer refused to say what he had been doing – Hasim was clearly a greater source of terror than Yablokov could ever hope to be.

  Nikos gestured to the window. ‘No point going now. We won’t see a thing.’

  ‘And I’m going to bring the crew in if it gets any worse,’ warned Yablokov, looking at Hasim. ‘It’s already too dangerous out there.’

  ‘They’ll stay out until I say so,’ said Hasim quietly.

  ‘It’s Garik’s decision, not yours,’ retorted Yablokov.

  ‘Is it now?’ said Hasim flatly, and stood to leave.

  Yablokov fumed. Garik was now worse than a drunk on the bridge – he had let himself slide completely under Hasim’s thumb, and Hasim neither knew nor cared what was safe. Yablokov wondered what would happen if he declared Garik unfit for duty. Would the crew agree to a mutiny? The Norwegians would not, and nor would the communications officer. And there was Hasim’s team to consider – there was little he could do against men with guns.

  Garik entered the mess as Hasim left. He flopped into a chair and called for the cook to bring him food. He reeked of vodka, and his hands shook as he picked up a fork.

  ‘The snow,’ said Yablokov, watching him with growing disdain. ‘It’s making the whale too slippery. We need to bring the crew in until it stops.’

  ‘What does Hasim say?’ asked Garik.

  ‘Why should that matter?’ demanded Nikos belligerently. ‘He’s not a sailor, so why is his opinion important? Personally, I think he has too much say in what goes on—’

  ‘You dare tell me how to run my ship?’ roared Garik, surging unsteadily to his feet, his eyes hot with anger. ‘Yablokov? Place this man under arrest.’

  Yablokov gaped at him. ‘I hardly think—’

  ‘Do it, or you’ll be in the brig with him,’ yelled Garik furiously.

  Bright, challenging eyes held Yablokov’s until he stood and put his hand on Nikos’ shoulder. Without a word, Nikos rose and stalked out. Yablokov followed.

  ‘What are you going to do, Evgeny?’ asked the Greek tightly. ‘Obey him? Or trust your instincts and toss Hasim over the side?’

  ‘I’m going to join you in your cabin for a Scotch,’ replied Yablokov calmly. ‘And I’ll talk to Garik about the situation when he’s cooled off.’

  ‘When he’s sober, you mean,’ retorted Nikos. ‘But you’ll be waiting a while. I can’t recall the last time he didn’t reek of booze. We must be mad, taking orders from him.’

  ‘Well, we’ll be home in three weeks. Then you can collect your pay and never set foot on Lena again.’

  ‘And that would be too bloody soon!’ Nikos opened his cabin door. ‘How does Hasim know a scientist is still at large? And what’s all this about a rendezvous? It isn’t in our itinerary – which was to come here, deliver the cargo, grab a couple of whales and go home. No one was to see us, and certainly no one was to meet us. This whole affair stinks.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Yablokov worriedly. ‘It does.’

  ‘It works!’ cried Sarah, as the lights glowed and the radio hissed softly. ‘Start talking, quick.’

  Berrister shook his head, feeling disappointment bite. ‘I can’t – there’s not enough power to transmit, only to receive.’

  ‘Just do it,’ begged Sarah. ‘It’s worth a try.’

  Berrister obliged, but the button that should have lit when he spoke remained dark. Nothing was happening, but Sarah was fiercely hopeful, and he did not have the heart to disillusion her.

  ‘We can listen,’ he said, not meeting her eyes. ‘See if we can hear anything about Worsley. And Rothera might be worried now that it’s been two nights since our last check-in.’

  ‘I’m more inclined to put my faith in Noddy Taylor. When he doesn’t get his krill data, he’ll go apeshit. Rothera will request a search plane just to calm him down.’

  Berrister began to search the short-wave frequencies that were most often used by shipping, although not with much hope of success – the chances of anyone transmitting at that precise moment were slim, to say the least. There was nothing, so he moved to the less popular ones, feeling hope fade with every push of the button. Then suddenly, distant voices hissed through the receiver.

  ‘What are they saying?’ demanded Sarah. ‘I can’t understand. Is it Russian? Is it them?’

  ‘It’s Polish – a geological team at Villard Point. That’s on the Byers Peninsula, Sarah – just along the coast. One is telling his ship – Jacek – that he’s finished his work, and he’s ready to be picked up.’

  ‘You speak Polish?’

  ‘I spent a couple of seasons at Arctowski – the Polish base – and picked up enough to get by.’ Berrister put his ear to the radio again, struggling to understand. ‘Jacek can’t launch a Zodiac – it’s too windy.’

  There was a pause in the transmission.

  ‘The Byers Peninsula is a Specially Protected Area,’ said Sarah. ‘Permits sure as hell aren’t going to be issued to geologists. Are you sure you’ve got it right?’

  Berrister nodded. ‘Which is why they’re transmitting on this particular frequency – they’ve landed illegally and don’t want anyone else to know.’

  The radio crackled again.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Sarah after a brief flurry of messages.

  ‘Jacek’s dragging her anchor, so the captain wants to move somewhere safer. The geologist and his assistant have agreed to hole up in an old sealer’s hut, and wait until Jacek can come back. He says it’s worth it for the Coniopteris.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘A fossil fern from the Triassic. I think … shit!’

  The voices had started up again, but then faded. He jabbed at the scan button, then gave the radio a hefty thump. There was a brief crackle, then nothing. The battery was finally dead. He sat back on his heels.

  ‘What’s the time?’ he asked.

  ‘Two o’clock. You think Jacek might come this way?’

  He shook his head. ‘The captain will just move further out into Barclay Bay. He says he’ll ride out the storm and pick up the geologists at four o’clock tomorrow morning – fourteen hours’ time. I’m going to walk across the island and be there when he does.’

  ‘Walk across … but you can’t, not in fourteen hours! When Freddy was planning his hike, he said it would take us four days. And that was to the south coast of Byers – Villard Point is in the north.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’

  ‘Waiting here and signalling Jacek when she sails past.’

  ‘But she won’t sail past – she’s going to Arctowski next, and that’s on King George. She won’t come anywhere near us.’

  ‘But we can’t go,’ Sarah protested, appalled. ‘It must be thirty kilometres, almost all of it across ice. We’ll never make it – not in fourteen hours.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to come with me. In fact, it’s b
etter that you stay here. Then, if I fail, at least someone will be able to tell everyone what happened to us.’

  ‘But that’s even more stupid,’ shouted Sarah, suddenly afraid. ‘You can’t go alone! What if you fall down a crevasse? And, even if you do make it over there, the chances are that you’ll arrive too late.’

  ‘Then, I’ll come back.’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It can’t be done. Look at the snow – it’s coming down harder than ever, and it’s windier now than an hour ago. The captain’s right: another storm is coming. You wouldn’t let poor Freddy take us on a hike because you said it was too dangerous, and you were right.’

  ‘There’s a big difference between a jaunt taken for fun and a trek that might save our friends’ lives. I have to try, Sarah.’

  ‘But you’ll die out there, and where will that leave me? We have to stick together. It’s our best chance.’

  ‘Ours, perhaps, but what about the others? We have to do something to help them – we’ll never live with ourselves if we don’t.’

  Sarah could see that arguing further was futile. ‘Then what do you need? You can take the bread and sausage. What else? A sleeping bag in case you get stuck?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’ll slow me down. I’ve got a compass and a torch, so the only other thing I need is a watch. Mine broke yesterday.’

  Sarah fumbled with her wrist strap. ‘I want that back in one piece, Berrister. It was a gift from someone very important to me.’

  He took it, and she trailed him up to the glacier. They walked in silence, she wondering if she should jab him with ketamine to stop him from undertaking such a suicidal mission, while he began mapping out his route in his mind, mentally sketching the geography of the island. He needed to avoid the heavily crevassed Verila Glacier near the coast of Walker Bay, so he would head more or less straight north, inland towards the island’s higher peaks. Then he would strike off west, crossing a smooth cap of ice that rose to about 360 metres, but staying north of its highest point, Rotch Dome. That way, he would reach the sea near Ivanov Beach, and he could then follow the coast past Robbery Beaches to Villard Point.

  When they reached the glacier, he turned and gave Sarah a hug. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again, and they parted without a word.

  He set his boot on the first of the ice so full of misgivings that he almost turned back. Every objection Sarah had raised was justified. Even if he were at the peak of physical fitness – which he wasn’t – hiking thirty kilometres over such inhospitable terrain in fourteen hours would pose a challenge, and if he didn’t fall down a crevasse, he might well die of exposure. And the weather was deteriorating by the minute. He glanced behind him, wanting one last look at the burned camp, to give him the incentive to continue, but there was nothing to see but swirling snow.

  SEVEN

  Joshi paced back and forth, restless, frightened and agitated. Mortimer watched him from one of the bunk beds, while Graham slumped in a chair near the porthole. The radio was on, because Joshi thought the cabin was bugged, and he was determined that their conversations would not be overheard. For some inexplicable reason, the only station available was one that played nothing but Latin American dance music.

  ‘There must be something we can do,’ said Joshi, going to the door and rattling the handle yet again. ‘I’ll go mad in here.’

  ‘Stop,’ warned Mortimer. ‘Or you’ll have the guards in here, irked because you’re annoying them. And look on the bright side – at least we’re warm, dry and fed.’

  ‘Can we open the porthole?’ asked Joshi. ‘Then we might be able to slip out.’

  ‘Slip out to what? If you think you can swim from here to the shore before you freeze to death, then be my guest.’

  ‘The porthole’s rusted shut,’ said Graham gloomily. ‘That doesn’t surprise me on this tub – I’ve seen better maintained wrecks.’

  ‘Is she very old, then?’ asked Mortimer, more to initiate a conversation than to elicit information. Ever since their capture, the Scot had settled into a mood of black despair, and Mortimer didn’t know how to jolt him out of it.

  ‘Not very old,’ replied Graham with a shrug. ‘Just poorly built. I wouldn’t want to be in a storm in her.’

  ‘You think she might sink?’ asked Joshi worriedly.

  ‘She might. Rivets are missing, the steel on the hull looks sub-standard, and she hasn’t been painted in years. The crew have done their best to keep her tidy, but poor old Lena is a dog – she should have been scrapped yonks ago.’

  ‘Call me a bigot if you will,’ said Mortimer, ‘but there’s something about this dingy decor that just screams ex-Soviet Union. I’ve been in hotel rooms this colour in Russia.’

  ‘Probably part of the Barents Sea fishing fleet,’ said Graham. ‘Hired to come south while the north is closed by ice.’

  They fell silent when the door opened and a crewman entered with a tray. Outside, Mortimer glimpsed the two guards, both armed and wary. Wordlessly, the sailor set the tray on the table and left, locking the door behind him.

  ‘Two o’clock on the dot,’ said Mortimer, consulting his watch. ‘And breakfast was precisely at eight. At least they do something efficiently.’

  When the first meal had been brought the previous day, Mortimer’s inclination had been to wolf it down at once, but then it had occurred to him that it might be poisoned. He knew Hasim was going to kill them in the end, and administering a toxin was a lot less messy than shooting. Thus he had inspected each item carefully before deciding what was safe and what was not.

  The bread had probably been baked as a batch for the whole crew, so he decided that was alright, as was the fruit – wrinkled apples and wizened oranges. But the potato and meat stew went down a gap between the floor and the wall. The three bottles of beer had all been opened, and a single, careful sip had revealed a suspicious metallic aftertaste that Mortimer had not trusted at all, so they were poured down the sink.

  At lunch that day, he went through a similar ritual. Again, there was an unpleasant tang to the beer, and he was not about to trust the fish soup. They were left with black bread, fruit and three bars of chocolate. He directed Joshi to throw the rest away, while he rubbed his hands gluttonously above the remainder.

  ‘Do you think Sarah will try to help us?’ asked Joshi, speaking in a low voice, although the music was blaring. He ate a piece of chocolate without enthusiasm.

  ‘What can she do?’ asked Graham. ‘She doesn’t even have a way of getting to the ship, let alone dealing single-handedly with however many crew there are.’

  ‘She might not have to do it alone,’ whispered Joshi. ‘Andrew might be with her. We don’t know he’s dead – not for certain.’

  Graham immediately assumed the miserable expression he adopted whenever Berrister’s name was mentioned. He set down the apple he had been eating.

  ‘No one blames you for what happened,’ said Mortimer, not for the first time since they had been caught. ‘It was just—’

  ‘But I left him! I ran away and left him.’

  ‘Not so,’ countered Mortimer briskly, wondering if guilt or self-pity raged more strongly in the morose Scot. Either way, his gloom was hardly healthy, and was beginning to be taxing. ‘He just happened to be behind you.’

  ‘I was so scared,’ whispered Graham, almost to himself. ‘These people … they’re so dangerous.’

  Mortimer nodded. ‘Quite. Besides, he may be with Sarah as we speak, feasting on water biscuits and stock cubes.’

  Joshi looked hopeful, Graham disbelieving. Personally, Mortimer was quite sure Berrister was dead – it seemed perfectly clear to him from Graham’s account that he had either been shot or had fallen down a crevasse – but he refused to spend his last few hours on Earth wallowing in grief and anger. He decided he would rather fill Graham and Joshi with false hope than leave them with no hope at all.

  Graham put his head in his hands. ‘He didn’t know the glacier as well as
the rest of us, because he never went up there for fun. He didn’t have a clue what he was doing.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate him,’ argued Mortimer. ‘He used to be a good mountaineer.’

  ‘Andrew did?’ asked Joshi in astonishment. Even Graham lifted his head to look at Mortimer askance. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’d put money on him surviving a crevasse over either of you two,’ said Mortimer. ‘Now, eat this lovely food. If there’s an opportunity to escape, I don’t want you spoiling our chances by fainting from hunger.’

  He made sure Graham ate, finished his own meal and went to stare out the porthole. Livingston was invisible, lost behind a waving curtain of snow. It was too windy to launch a boat, or he was sure the gunmen would be out looking for Sarah. All he could do was pray that the blizzard would last as long as possible, as every hour that passed would help her to dig herself into a place where the whalers wouldn’t find her.

  ‘I’m going to get this open,’ said Joshi, prodding the porthole with a fork. ‘I need something to do, and if they notice, I’ll just say I wanted some fresh air.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll believe that,’ said Graham scathingly. ‘The notion of escape won’t cross their minds.’

  ‘Do it,’ countered Mortimer. ‘What harm can it do?’

  Sarah watched Berrister disappear into the snow, still considering running after him and injecting him with ketamine before he realised what was happening. At least then he might survive. She knew he was walking to his death, and she could not help but think that she should have done more to stop him. She firmly believed that waiting for rescue was the best thing to do, although it would not be easy to sit tight and do nothing, especially now she was alone. She shoved her hands in her pockets and felt the syringe.

  ‘Stupid man!’ she muttered, becoming angrier the more she thought about it. ‘Who does he think he is? Scott of the Antarctic?’

  She ran a few steps through the snow, but Berrister had moved quickly and was already lost from sight. She shouted his name, but all she could hear was her own laboured breathing.