The Killing Ship

by Simon Beaufort

  Damn! The whalers were there. A couple were shoving the burned remains of tents into refuse sacks, while others were loading the empty food boxes onto a Zodiac. She frowned. Surely they couldn’t imagine that eradicating every trace of the camp would mean that no questions would be asked? It would only serve to deepen the mystery of the eight missing scientists.

  Then she heard a sound behind her. She spun round in alarm, only to find herself staring down the barrel of a gun.

  ‘You haven’t been honest with me,’ said Hasim, eyeing Mortimer reproachfully. ‘You claimed that all your colleagues were dead.’

  ‘They are,’ said Mortimer. ‘You were horribly thorough.’

  It was just after six in the morning, and none of the prisoners had slept well. Joshi complained of stomach cramps, while Graham refused to speak at all. Mortimer had a vicious headache, which he attributed to strain.

  ‘You say two died before our ship arrived, two fell down crevasses, and we have you three. But that leaves one: the penguin woman.’

  Mortimer tried to keep the dismay from his face. Had Hasim overheard them talking, despite the blaring music? But that did not explain how he knew Sarah was an expert on penguins. There was no toilet in the cabin, so they had to ask to use the one at the end of the corridor. Had Graham or Joshi betrayed Sarah to the guards once they were out of earshot? Surely not. Hasim must’ve found out some other way.

  ‘The last time I saw her was at the Big Crevasse,’ he replied truthfully. ‘We separated to escape from you lot. But even if she didn’t fall down it, do you think she could have survived last night’s storm with no shelter?’

  ‘What are you going to do with us?’ blurted Joshi before Hasim could reply. He looked frightened, and his fingers were bleeding from his efforts to open the porthole. Graham sat beneath it, to hide the rust and paint chippings that were scattered on the floor. He was pretending to read, but held the first aid manual upside-down.

  Hasim gave a pained smile. ‘You’ll be put ashore near one of the bases on King George Island. You might have a little walk, to allow us time to put some distance between us, but nothing too arduous.’

  Mortimer knew he was lying, and wished he understood why they were being kept alive. If the plan was to dump their bodies at sea, why not kill them now, rather than go to the trouble of keeping them under guard? And why were they being poisoned? To see if his theory was right, Mortimer pressed a hand to his stomach, as if it hurt, and had his proof in the gleam of triumph that flared in Hasim’s eyes. Of course, it didn’t tell him why the whalers preferred one mode of execution over another.

  ‘Tell me about your research,’ said Hasim, perching on a chair and indicating that Mortimer should sit too. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by biology.’

  ‘Our biologists are dead,’ replied Mortimer flatly. ‘I’m just a glaciologist. Young Joshi had notions of a career in polar botany, but the season’s finale has put him off.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Hasim smoothly. ‘But I’m more interested in krill. Tell me about that.’

  ‘Krill?’ blurted Mortimer, startled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they fascinate me. Don’t you find it remarkable that so many of them live in this near-freezing ocean? What a resource! It could end world hunger at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘It couldn’t,’ countered Mortimer. ‘They aren’t limitless, and if we start hoovering them up, then the stocks will go the same way as the Atlantic cod. And without food, the seabirds will die and so will the seals. Not to mention what’s left of the whales.’ He gave Hasim a look of disgust.

  ‘How many krill live here, around Livingston?’

  ‘Don’t have a clue,’ replied Mortimer, racking his brain for a reason as to why Hasim should want to know. ‘Enough to feed a few penguins and a rapidly dwindling pod of whales.’

  Hasim stood abruptly. ‘Think about it, Dr Mortimer. It’s in your interests to cooperate.’

  ‘Why?’ pounced Mortimer. ‘You said you meant us no harm.’

  Hasim gave a tight smile. ‘And nor do we. Incidentally, we have plenty of beer, so ask if you want more. And now you must excuse me – we leave soon, and I have a lot to do.’

  ‘Really?’ Mortimer was astonished and uneasy to hear it. ‘But your whale can only be half-flensed.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but it’s easier to catch another than scrape about with this one.’

  ‘But you could spend days looking for a second animal,’ said Mortimer, bemused. ‘These things don’t grow on trees.’

  Hasim’s smile was unpleasant. ‘We took the precaution of attaching a tracking device to one of its friends, so we know exactly where they went. They’re a couple of hours away, near the Byers Peninsula.’

  Disgusted, Mortimer struggled for a way to dissuade him. ‘If you’re boarded on your way north – and lots of countries have ships that do nothing but hunt illegal fishing boats – you’ll have trouble explaining why your holds are full of whale meat.’

  ‘They all turn a blind eye to the odd minke – for a price.’

  ‘But you don’t have “the odd minke”. You have a blue – and those are protected.’

  Hasim laughed. ‘Can you tell that from a lump of flesh? In a hold that stinks of fish, and in which the lights don’t work very well?’

  ‘No, but they might. Besides, these aren’t easily corruptible officials – they’re dedicated men and women who want the Antarctic to be safe from criminals like you.’

  Hasim sneered. ‘Everyone has his price. But we’ll never be boarded – our radar is the best money can buy, and we’ll see them coming long before they spot us. We’ll never be caught – too much is at stake.’

  ‘If that’s true, why come down here? Your chances of getting away with slaughtering endangered species are much better further north.’

  Hasim smiled slyly. ‘You assume that whaling is our prime objective. Well, it isn’t. We needed to be in the Antarctic regardless, and as we were here, we decided to see what the captain could snag with his harpoon.’

  ‘So, what is your “prime objective”?’ asked Mortimer, wondering what could be worse than whaling.

  Hasim opened his mouth to reply, but a crewman entered the room and whispered in his ear. He nodded in satisfaction, then turned to Mortimer.

  ‘My men have found your biologist. You’ll have company, gentlemen.’

  Berrister watched in horror as the rogue ship launched an inflatable to nose about in the debris from the sunken Jacek. The ship dropped an anchor, and he saw a smear of red down her starboard side as the wind turned her towards him – at some point, she had been involved in butchering some hapless whale.

  Although her identifying markings had been painted over, her name had not, so he could just make it out on her side – Galtieri. He was no expert, but she looked like a warship – there were turrets where more big guns could be mounted, and she had the sleek, predatory appearance of a medium-sized naval vessel. He wondered where the crew were going to store the meat, given that military vessels tended not to be equipped for carrying bulky cargo.

  So how many ships did these criminals have? Just the two, or had an entire fleet been dispatched to pillage what should have been a safe haven for cetaceans? He supposed a fleet made sense. Then, if one ship was caught, the profits from the others would pay for any losses. Of course, if they blew witnesses out of the water with heavy artillery and hunted down others with guns, the chances of getting caught weren’t going to be very high …

  As he watched, the men on the inflatable pulled individual pieces of wreckage from the water and examined them. Some they kept and some they tossed back into the sea. He understood at once what they were doing: removing anything that was suggestive of foul play. Clearly, they wanted any investigators to believe that the hapless Jacek had suffered a catastrophic accident, rather than an attack by a warship.

  Berrister watched for a while, then stood on unsteady legs. Glaring at the vile ship was doing no good – he needed to find som
ewhere to rest before attempting the return journey. He could see the hut that the Poles had used, so he began to stumble towards it. At the very least, he could sit out of the wind for a few hours, and it might even contain something to help him – blankets, perhaps, or emergency supplies.

  He was almost there, when he heard voices. He ducked behind it quickly, angry with himself for not being more cautious. When he peered around the corner, he saw four people there – three with their hands raised and another with a gun. Near the surf – visible now he was closer to it – two more men were busy with a pair of boats. One was Jacek’s, and the other was newer, with a larger engine. It did not take Berrister long to grasp what was happening: Jacek had been destroyed while the two geologists and their driver were still ashore. Galtieri’s crew were now tinkering with Jacek’s Zodiac, and Berrister could only suppose that they aimed to make that look as though it had had an accident as well.

  The geologists and the driver – two men and one woman – were white with shock and confusion, and Berrister knew they were about to be executed. Without considering the consequences, he picked up a stone and leapt towards the guard, hitting him from behind as hard as he could. The man crumpled, and the three Poles blinked their astonishment.

  ‘The gun,’ Berrister croaked, aware of the two men by the water’s edge beginning to turn towards them. ‘Get his gun.’

  He had spoken English, but the woman understood. She darted forward, grabbed the weapon and promptly shot the two Galtieri men, even as they were reaching for their weapons. Then she aimed at him.

  ‘Put your hands up,’ she ordered sharply in heavily accented English. ‘Or I’ll kill you.’

  Berrister did not doubt it, given that she had not hesitated to dispatch the whalers. He did as he was told, trying to explain at the same time. He did not blame her for being suspicious, but he had just saved her life, so he thought she could afford to be a little less hostile.

  ‘I’ve come from Hannah Point,’ he began hoarsely. ‘There’s another—’

  ‘Hannah Point?’ interrupted an elderly man with a neat white beard. ‘But that’s more than thirty kilometres away. You can’t have done.’

  ‘Please!’ said Berrister exhaustedly. ‘We can’t stay here. The gunfire will have been heard on that ship and—’

  He stopped when the woman took a firmer hold on her weapon. ‘You’re one of them.’

  ‘No! I’ll explain everything later. First, we should go—’

  ‘You’ll explain now,’ said the woman. ‘Or die.’

  Without a choice, he told his story, aware even as he spoke that it was a fantastic one. Indeed, had not Jacek just been obliterated before their eyes, he wouldn’t have blamed them for thinking him a lunatic. Much to his agitation – he was sure Galtieri was preparing to send more killers – they kept interrupting with questions that underlined their own shocked incredulity. They argued with each other, too, so he learned that the white-haired man was Professor Drecki – the person ultimately responsible for the tragedy, as he was the geologist who had insisted on making an unofficial and illegitimate stop. His assistant was Maria, and the driver Tadek.

  ‘I know Freddy Fredericks,’ said Maria sharply. ‘He’s the Australian who worked at our base for the last three years. He’s a cook.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Berrister, hopes rising.

  She regarded him in icy triumph. ‘You say he was killed on Wednesday, but I heard him on the radio yesterday – Friday. He was telling Rothera that all was well. And that means your tale is an elaborate and unconvincing lie.’

  ‘I saw his body,’ said Berrister desperately, glancing at Galtieri and alert for the sound of trouble on the way. Why couldn’t they argue about it later? ‘What you heard was someone impersonating him. Australian accents aren’t difficult to mimic.’

  ‘Shoot him,’ hissed Tadek in Polish. ‘He invented this wild story to keep us busy until they rescue him. Kill the bastard – for what he did to Jacek, if nothing else.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with—’ began Berrister.

  ‘And now he speaks Polish all of a sudden?’ interrupted Maria. ‘Hah!’

  Berrister hadn’t realised that he had changed languages. He rubbed his head and glanced towards Galtieri again. ‘It doesn’t make me one of them. Please. You have to believe me.’

  ‘I do,’ said Drecki softly, and inserted himself between Maria and Berrister. ‘He brained that guard to save us. Therefore, he can’t be with them. He—’

  ‘A sly ploy to gain our trust,’ said Maria, and took aim again. ‘I’ve had enough of this crap. Get out of my way, Professor. It’s time for him to die.’

  EIGHT

  ‘Get your filthy hands off me!’

  Mortimer exchanged a wry smile with Joshi as Sarah’s furious voice echoed down the corridor. There was a series of thumps and a man howled with pain before the door was opened and Sarah stalked in, contemptuously throwing off her captors’ grip. The door closed behind her, leaving them alone. Before she could speak, Mortimer put his finger to his lips and switched on the radio.

  Sarah looked at each of the three in turn. All were pale and hollow-eyed, but Graham was by far the worst. His hair was matted and dirty, and his skin was sallow. She wondered if remorse was responsible for his decline – that he regretted throwing in his lot with criminals, and had come to the realisation that whatever he had gained from the agreement was not worth it. She considered confronting him with his betrayal there and then, but decided that keeping the knowledge to herself was the only advantage she had over him.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said to Mortimer. ‘I did my best, but it wasn’t good enough.’

  ‘You did better than I would’ve done,’ he replied consolingly.

  ‘Who are these people? Russians?’

  Mortimer raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Russians, Greeks, Scandinavians, Arabs – and those are just the ones we’ve met. I think some are Lena’s regular crew, while others have been brought on board for … whatever it is that they’re doing down here.’

  She hauled off her coat. ‘Well, at least it’s warm. Do they feed you?’ She pounded on the door. ‘Bring me something to eat, you pigs!’

  ‘Easy,’ said Mortimer mildly. ‘Let’s not antagonise them needlessly. Now tell me what you’ve been up to since we last met.’

  ‘I hid in the crevasse, but they caught me,’ she replied tersely, and because she was loath to say more in front of Graham, she indicated that the two younger men were to move away. ‘I want a word with Geoff – privately. Go over to the window and talk about tyres or whatever it is that boys chat about when they’re together.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Graham immediately. ‘We have a right to hear anything you’ve managed to learn.’

  Sarah forced a smile. ‘I haven’t learned anything – I just want to talk to Geoff for a moment. It’s personal. Do you mind?’

  Graham clearly did, but Joshi pulled him away to work on the porthole, leaving her and Mortimer to sit on the bed. In low voices, they exchanged news.

  ‘Don’t tell them Andrew’s alive, Geoff,’ she whispered when she had finished. ‘What they don’t know, they can’t blurt out. Besides, he probably is dead. It was a stupid thing to have attempted.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate him. He was very good at that sort of thing before his accident, and it’s not something you forget – especially when it’s important.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, I really do. But even if he did make it, he probably missed Jacek. He only had fourteen hours to get there.’

  ‘Fourteen hours – that would be tough. And that’s our only hope?’

  ‘Well, there’s a tourist ship at Deception – Akademic Solzhenitsyn. Perhaps they’ll stop at Hannah Point. Of course, they won’t find much if they do – when I left, this lot were clearing up the mess they made.’

  ‘There’s Rothera – they must be worried about us, given that three days have passed without contact.’

  ‘I’ve been
thinking about that – they should be concerned, but nothing was mentioned on the radio. I suspect someone’s been making the transmissions in our stead, telling Rothera that everything’s fine.’

  ‘Well, obviously it’s none of us,’ said Mortimer. ‘So if you’re right, it must be someone pretending to be us.’

  ‘Do they keep you in here all the time?’ Sarah asked carefully. ‘Or do they let you out on occasion?’

  Mortimer gave her a hard look, understanding exactly what she was asking. ‘They let us use the bathroom, obviously, but I assure you, none of us three has been helping these people.’

  Sarah changed the subject, sensing that now was not the time to voice her suspicions about Graham. Perhaps she would confide them later, after she’d watched how the Scot behaved for a while. ‘So why are we still alive? Surely it would be easier – safer – to kill us?’

  ‘I think they aim to use our corpses to “prove” some kind of accident,’ explained Mortimer. He had thought of little else since his last encounter with Hasim. ‘They don’t want the attention that eight murders would generate, so they plan to make everyone think we died in some sort of mishap instead. They claim they’ll leave us on King George, but I don’t believe it. Joshi does, so please don’t disillusion him.’

  ‘Poor Joshi.’

  ‘I’m fairly sure they’re poisoning our food,’ Mortimer continued. ‘Or rather, the beer. It has a nasty metallic flavour that I don’t like at all, and Hasim said we can have as much of it as we like. We pour it away, but let him think we’re drinking it, lest he takes it into his head to tamper with something else.’

  Sarah raised her eyebrows. ‘Do they seriously expect anyone to believe that eight people can be fatally poisoned by accident? It’ll be obvious that foul play is involved.’

  Mortimer shrugged again. ‘I could be wrong – it’s only a guess.’

  ‘So what are we going to do? I’m not sitting here in this filthy tub, waiting to be murdered on the sly.’

  ‘Joshi’s been trying to get the porthole open with a fork. He has a fanciful notion of escaping through it.’