The Killing Ship

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘If we survive another three days,’ countered Romanov pointedly.

  Drecki dozed and Berrister kept watch while they waited for the mist to thicken and the darkness to deepen. He untied the rope and eased the boat forward, to see if Lena and the other ship – Volga – were still visible. Lights gleamed dully through the fog, and distant voices suggested that work was continuing apace, despite the plummeting temperatures and poor visibility.

  He also heard a splash as more rubbish was dropped from the open cargo door. For small ships, the whalers seemed to be generating rather a lot of it. He picked up the binoculars and swept them over Lena, trying to memorise every last detail of her, just in case he was ever in a position to report her to the relevant authorities. The faulty light was still flickering – it stopped briefly before starting up again. Berrister frowned. Was it tapping out a specific pattern? But it vanished at that point, and did not start again.

  Time passed slowly, although he was distracted for a while by the spectacle of a large leopard seal hunting a few late-fledging penguins not far from the shore.

  He yawned and looked back at Lena. She was little more than a grey silhouette now, although the light was flickering again. Absently, he watched it … three short, three long, three short, stop. Three short, three long, three short, stop. He struggled to his knees. Shaking with excitement, he woke Drecki.

  ‘But why would your friends be signalling to the other whaler?’ the Pole asked, watching it through his binoculars. ‘Although it’s definitely spelling out SOS.’

  ‘They wouldn’t – Geoff must be trying to contact Sarah.’

  ‘But you said she planned to stay at Hannah Point until she was rescued. We’re many kilometres away from there – she’s not going to see it.’

  ‘Yes, but Geoff and the others don’t know that. It’s got to be them. Who else could it be?’

  ‘Someone else who’s fallen foul of these people? Someone who’s bored and is messing about? Regardless, there’s not much we can do about it – unless you plan to drive over there and rescue them.’

  Berrister opened his mouth to reply, but then could think of nothing to say. Drecki was right – there was nothing they could do. Then Drecki raised his hands in the air, palms up.

  ‘But why not? The mist is thickening nicely and it’s dark. Why not sneak across and have a look? It’s not on the side where the men are cutting up the whale, so we should be able to reach it undetected. We’ll decide what to do when we get there. No point in making plans when we don’t know what we’ll find.’

  Berrister regarded him in astonishment. ‘For an old man, you live very dangerously.’

  Drecki laughed softly. ‘We’ll give it another hour – it will be eleven o’clock by then – late enough that most of the crew should be asleep. You sleep and I’ll wake you when it’s time.’

  But Berrister was far too fraught to close his eyes. The light continued to wink on and off, increasingly difficult to see as the fog closed in. Then it disappeared completely. Soon, they could not see the rocks behind which they hid, and Berrister estimated that visibility was less than ten metres. Even so, Drecki refused to leave until the allotted hour.

  ‘No point in taking needless risks,’ he said.

  Berrister fretted at every passing minute, but eventually Drecki indicated that it was time to go. Berrister put the oars in the rowlocks, hoping he would have the strength to do what was needed – his hands were full of blisters and his arms ached horribly. Drecki took the compass, and began whispering directions.

  The sea was millpond calm, and the fog encased them in a bubble of silent grey-white. It took less time to reach Lena than they anticipated – rowing across flat water was faster than doing it on choppy seas – and they almost collided with her before Drecki frantically gestured for Berrister to stop. All but spent, Berrister slumped forward, struggling to catch his breath without making a noise. The sweat that coursed down his back and drenched his clothes would chill him later.

  ‘Which porthole had the flashing light?’ whispered Drecki.

  ‘Sixth along from the stern, bottom row.’

  Drecki began to propel them along the side with his hands. The water was tinged red with blood, and the voices of the men who still worked on the carcass, despite the lateness of the hour, seemed uncannily loud in the still air. Why couldn’t they have been in bed, like normal people? All it needed was for one to look over the side, and the game would be up.

  Then Drecki froze in alarm. A man stood right above them, smoking. He could not miss them, lit as they were by the light that spilled from the portholes above. Silently, Berrister cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid as to come out to the ship? Now, not only had he squandered his own life, but Drecki’s as well. He braced himself, waiting for the shout of alarm that would herald their capture.

  Yablokov failed to understand why Hasim was laughing. What was funny about four frightened people desperately signalling for help?

  ‘Because they think Volga will save them,’ Hasim explained as he chuckled. ‘I’d go down there and tell them that she’s our sister ship, but it’s too hilarious. I thought they were supposed to be intelligent people.’

  ‘They are,’ said Yablokov coldly. ‘Which is why they know you’ve no intention of letting them go. They’re trying anything they can think of to save themselves, because they don’t trust you.’

  ‘I know they don’t trust us,’ said Hasim. ‘If they did, they wouldn’t keep that awful music on so loud. They’re doing it to prevent us from listening in on them.’

  Yablokov didn’t admit that he and Nikos had been doing the same. Hasim’s nasty habit of eavesdropping on other people’s conversations was not confined to sneaking up behind them or installing bugs in their cabins: Yablokov had twice caught him with his ear to the captain’s door and once to his own.

  ‘Your spy would’ve told you what they were doing anyway,’ he said, unable to keep the disapproval from his voice. ‘Even if Volga hadn’t sent you an email.’

  ‘My spy?’ asked Hasim mildly.

  ‘Did he tell you about the blue whales being here, too?’

  ‘I have my ways,’ replied Hasim loftily. ‘But they’re not for discussing with the likes of you. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’

  He left abruptly, so Yablokov knew his growing suspicions were right – there was indeed a snake in the scientists’ camp. Hasim would not have killed someone who was useful to him, which left the four in the cabin. Of those Joshi was too young, Sarah too angry and Mortimer too honourable – Yablokov’s dealings with the portly glaciologist had made him revise his initial reservations, and now he rather liked him. In another life they might have been friends. Graham was the only one of the quartet who was left – a sly, shifty-eyed man who spoke to Hasim with an ingratiating eagerness that made Yablokov want to punch him.

  Ever since his discussion with Nikos, Yablokov had been desperately trying to think of ways to help the other three scientists escape – Graham, he assumed, would prefer to stay on board. They would need a boat, supplies to last until they were rescued and enough time to get well away. He knew what helping them would mean for him, but he was beginning to realise that it was not just the prisoners who would be executed to keep the Southern Exploring Company’s business quiet. As soon as Lena’s work was done, Hasim’s team would ensure that no one lived to reveal what had happened – so giving Mortimer, Sarah and Joshi a chance to tell their story to the world was revenge of sorts.

  Outside, the mist swirled around the ship in dense, milky folds. He was tempted to bring the crew inside, but knew that Hasim would only countermand him, and it was not worth the confrontation that would follow. He glanced at Garik. The captain dozed fitfully in his chair, so he ordered the Norwegians to take him to rest in his quarters instead. Hasim went to help. As soon as they had gone, Zurin approached. The helmsman’s normally impassive face was full of disgust.

  ‘Garik ordered repairs,
’ he muttered. ‘In fog!’

  ‘What repairs?’ Yablokov looked in the logbook, but there was nothing written about them. And Zurin was right – it was ridiculous to carry out that sort of task when visibility was poor.

  ‘Two men inspecting the hull – saw them when I went for a smoke.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Yablokov, suspecting that Hasim would be irked when he found out what Garik had done. Six of the crew were now claiming to be ill, which meant fewer hands to work. No one could be spared for non-essential duties.

  Zurin shrugged. ‘Couldn’t tell. Too misty.’

  Yablokov was bemused. ‘Well, let me know if he does it again – discreetly, though. We don’t want trouble. Are they still out there?’

  Zurin shook his head. ‘Gone.’

  Yablokov closed his eyes as a sudden wave of nausea drifted over him. The six crewmen were not the only ones beginning to suffer from Hasim’s killing pace. Yablokov himself felt sick with exhaustion, but could not afford an early night, not with the captain unfit to command a rowboat and Hasim issuing asinine orders at every turn.

  He glanced at the clock. Past midnight, and Nikos was late for his turn on the bridge. Chief engineers did not usually stand watch, but Hasim had decided to flout that particular rule, on the grounds that every man should pull his weight and more. Yablokov left Zurin in charge of the bridge, and went to find Nikos. He was so tired that he could barely walk, and every bone in his body ached. Friend or no friend, Nikos had some explaining to do.

  The Greek was not in his cabin and not in the mess. Irked, Yablokov went to the engine room, where he learned that Nikos had failed to appear for the usual evening briefing, leaving his team uncertain what to do. They all looked exhausted, so Yablokov told them to go to bed. No one argued.

  When they had gone, he leaned against the door, fighting off a wave of dizziness. Lena was not very big, and there were a limited number of places Nikos could be. Yablokov went to the scientists’ cabin first, wondering if Nikos had taken it into his head to visit them, but the guards assured him that the engineer had been nowhere near it.

  There was only one place left: the afterdeck hold. Nikos had never been happy with the way the phosphorus had been loaded, and had been appalled by the dents and broken seals caused by the stormy weather – the vapour was poisonous, he said. So it made sense that he had gone to inspect them before taking his turn on the bridge. Yablokov rubbed his throbbing temples. Were the fumes the reason why the crewmen were ill and he was developing the mother of all headaches? If so, then the faster they got rid of the stuff, the better.

  He climbed down to the hold and looked around. Only about a third of the canisters remained, the rest having been ‘delivered’. The purser was there, listlessly watching two teams of men struggle with the heavy canisters. No one was working very hard.

  ‘I was about to come and see you,’ Romanov said. His face was pale and sweaty. ‘Steve Deng – he needs a doctor. You need to get the one from Galtieri to come over.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He’s pissing blood. I feel like crap, too – I’ll give this another hour, then I’m off to bed. I had to send Jusef and Rainier off early, as well – they were spewing all over the place. Nikos told me that phosphorus is dangerous, and nearly all the seals are faulty. The bloody stuff must be leaking out and poisoning us all.’

  ‘We shouldn’t be surprised,’ said Yablokov. ‘It’s why the pay’s so good – danger money.’

  ‘Then let’s hope we live to enjoy it,’ said Romanov grimly.

  ‘Have you seen Nikos? He’s due on watch.’

  ‘He probably overslept – Hasim is working us all too hard.’

  Too weary to explain that he’d already checked Nikos’ cabin, Yablokov headed for the forward hold. No one was in it. All the phosphorus had been dumped, and slabs of whale meat had taken its place. He gagged at the stench, and had to leave quickly to avoid throwing up. After a few moments in the cold air, the nausea passed, and he climbed back down the stairs, calling Nikos’ name.

  He skidded on the slick floor, and only saved himself from a tumble by bracing himself against the nearest pile of meat. It was soft and moist, and he drew his hand away in revulsion. There was something sinister and rotten about it: a dirty cargo for a dirty business.

  He was about to give up when he saw a boot caught under one of the piles. Puzzled, he went to investigate. The boot was attached to a leg. In growing alarm, he began to haul lumps of slippery flesh away from the body that was buried beneath them. It was Nikos, as dead as the whale that had hidden him.

  ELEVEN

  In the cabin, Sarah fought an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Although Mortimer had sworn that the distant thumps they had heard were the other ship catching a whale, she refused to believe it. She had insisted on signalling until the fog became so thick that they could barely see the water under their window, let alone the other vessel across the bay. But the real blow came when they had finally undone all the screws from the porthole, only to find that it had rusted shut.

  ‘No, don’t give up,’ said Mortimer, hating to see her despair. If she cracked, so would the other two, and he did not want to spend his last few days – or hours – in a pit of gloom. Anything they did would be a waste of time, he knew, but it was better than sitting around feeling sorry for themselves.

  ‘But it’s stuck fast,’ said Joshi tearfully. ‘It won’t budge.’

  ‘Just keep sawing at the edges,’ urged Mortimer. ‘Graham and I have almost finished the banner.’

  But Sarah had had enough. Her fingers were blistered, and she knew she could do no more. She went to lie on the bed, one arm across her eyes to hide the hot tears of anger and frustration. Joshi continued to scrape and rasp alone.

  ‘There’s a boat in the water, right beneath us,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘So?’ asked Mortimer. ‘They’ve been around the ship all day.’

  ‘Not since the mist came down,’ said Joshi, standing on a chair for a better view. ‘My God! It’s Andrew!’

  Sarah shot off the bed and elbowed him out of the way. ‘It is him,’ she breathed, a slow smile spreading over her face. ‘He’s come to rescue us.’

  ‘It can’t be him,’ whispered Graham, stunned. ‘He’s dead … the crevasse.’

  ‘He must’ve climbed out again,’ crowed Joshi, and lowered his voice when Mortimer made an urgent gesture with his hand, reminding him that they might not be alone.

  ‘He saw our signal and waited for night before coming to get us,’ said Sarah excitedly. ‘He’s waving for us to come out.’

  ‘And how does he expect us to do that?’ asked Mortimer bleakly. ‘Jump through the porthole?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Joshi. ‘He doesn’t know it’s rusted shut.’

  Sarah felt determination seize her. ‘Get sawing, Joshi. Geoff, make a rope out of the bed sheets. Graham, start bundling up our outside clothes – we’ll need them on the water, but we won’t fit through the window if we put them on.’

  ‘You mean I won’t,’ said Mortimer, not sure he’d make it through stark naked. It wasn’t very big and he was a large man.

  Joshi and Graham leapt to do as they were told, while Sarah grabbed a fork herself, making so much noise with her frantic scraping that Mortimer felt compelled to sing, to drown her out.

  Berrister gazed at the porthole, wondering what was taking them so long. Then he glanced at the rail, expecting at any moment for the smoker to reappear and challenge them. He had been sure the game was up when they had been spotted, but with cool aplomb Drecki had given him a cheery wave and pretended to inspect the ship’s side. The man had nodded back, finished his cigarette and moved away.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered, as time ticked by and nothing happened.

  ‘They can’t open the porthole,’ whispered Drecki. ‘The salt has probably corroded the metal and rusted it shut.’

  ‘We can’t sit here while they mess around with it
,’ muttered Berrister. ‘Someone will see us.’

  ‘Then we’ll row away and come back in half an hour. We don’t need to go far – not in this fog.’

  It seemed the only practical solution, so Berrister stood and pointed behind him, following that by holding up both gloved hands, fingers apart. He clenched them into fists, and then spread his fingers again, and again. Sarah made the thumbs up sign, so Berrister took the oars and rowed into the mist. As he had no watch, he began counting off seconds and minutes in his mind.

  ‘We’ve got half an hour,’ said Sarah, glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘We must be ready when he gets back, because we can’t rely on the fog to last forever and we’ll need it if we want to make a clean escape.’

  She levered at the window with a strength born of desperation. Something cracked. Encouraged, she did it again, this time with Joshi helping. There was another crack, and a broken fork cartwheeled across the room. Undeterred, Joshi snatched up a spoon, while Sarah stepped back to give him room.

  She glanced at Graham. He had gnawed his lower lip so much that it was raw, and she wondered if he would choose to leave or stay when push came to shove. One thing was certain, though: he would not be leaving the cabin to natter secretly to Hasim again – which he’d done twice more since claiming he’d provided the man with duff krill data. She was not about to let him sabotage their one chance of freedom.

  ‘Pack food,’ she instructed Mortimer, careful not to let Graham hear. ‘Just in case we have to return to the crevasses.’

  Mortimer had already done it, sure they were not about to be transferred from one warm ship to another. Then he kicked his sheet rope under the bed, out of sight, along with the bundles of clothing, in case Hasim made one of his annoyingly unannounced visits.

  ‘Five minutes left,’ grunted Joshi, glancing at his watch in agitation. ‘Damn this thing! It won’t budge!’

  Mortimer went to try, but the porthole remained resolutely sealed.

  ‘We’re levering from the wrong angle,’ he said, after stepping back to inspect it. ‘It’s most firmly jammed at the bottom, so let’s try from the sides and top simultaneously.’