The Killing Ship

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Two minutes,’ announced Graham.

  Sarah glanced at him sharply. He had spoken rather loudly. Was he trying to warn the guards? Suddenly Mortimer wheeled around and grabbed her by the waist. Confused, she tried to wriggle free, but his grip was firm.

  ‘Then you move like this,’ he said, swinging her away from him, but keeping a hold on her hand. She stumbled, and he hauled her back again. The door opened to reveal Hasim standing there.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.

  ‘Teaching her to tango,’ explained Mortimer. ‘I’ve always enjoyed dancing. And music.’

  Joshi glanced covertly at his watch. Berrister would be outside now, waiting on his boat. Hasim strolled casually towards the window, while Mortimer and Sarah exchanged an agonised glance. What would he notice first? The scratches around the porthole or Berrister?

  Hasim noticed the scratches. He reached out to touch one with his finger, then roared with laughter.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked, once he had his mirth under control. ‘Swim back to your camp? Or do you think your flashing signal will save you?’ He smirked at their dismay. ‘Oh, yes, I know all about that. But open the window by all means – it’s probably against some maritime law for it to be rusted shut anyway. In the meantime, I want another word with Mr Graham.’

  ‘No,’ said Sarah, stepping forward to prevent it, but the guards were inside in a trice. She was shoved back, Graham was whisked out, and she was powerless to do anything about it.

  ‘He’ll blab,’ she whispered tearfully to Mortimer, barely able to contain her bitter disappointment. ‘Joshi – signal Andrew to leave without us. Do it now!’

  ‘I can’t,’ replied Joshi, bewilderment creasing his face. ‘He’s not there. D’you think he’s already been caught?’

  Mortimer pressed his ear to the door – their captors were not the only ones who could eavesdrop – but he could make out nothing of what was being said outside. However, whatever it was did not take long, because he only just had time to jerk back before it opened and Graham was ushered back inside. The Scot was pale, while Hasim looked pleased with himself.

  ‘Jump out of the window, if you like,’ he taunted. ‘But bear in mind that you’ll freeze to death long before you reach the shore. And even if you do manage it, then what? You’d be soaking wet on an uninhabited island with no food and no shelter. I assure you, you’re much better off here.’

  He turned on his heel before they could reply, shutting the door behind him. As the guards locked it, Joshi rushed to the porthole and peered out, while Sarah and Mortimer looked at Graham.

  ‘He’s not there,’ whispered Joshi, distraught. ‘And it’s been forty minutes.’

  ‘What did he want?’ asked Sarah, ignoring Joshi to glare at Graham. ‘And more importantly, what did you tell him?’

  ‘Krill,’ replied Graham in a low voice. ‘He wanted more information about krill.’ He swallowed hard. ‘And he said he’d kill me if I told him any more lies. I was scared … I didn’t dare make up another wild number … I told him what Noddy would expect to hear.’

  Sarah regarded him with contempt. ‘And what did you tell him about Andrew? Because there must be some reason why he hasn’t come back.’

  Graham gaped at her. ‘You think I’d … No! Hasim never asked about him, and I never mentioned it. What do you take me for?’

  Sarah thought it best not to answer. She turned away abruptly and peered out at the empty sea herself.

  ‘We’ll work on the assumption that he’s staying back because some of the crew are on deck,’ she said briskly, not looking at Graham. ‘And he’s waiting for them to go back inside. Which means he could be here at any moment, so we need to be ready.’

  Gamely, Mortimer picked up a spoon. ‘I’ll lever from the top, while you three take the sides. Ready?’

  ‘An accident?’ echoed Yablokov, regarding Hasim incredulously. ‘His skull is smashed in!’

  ‘Yes – because he slipped and fell.’ Hasim was infuriatingly cool. ‘You know how slick the steps can be. You should have detailed someone to hose them off.’

  ‘But Nikos was under the meat.’

  Yablokov knew he was shouting, and that half the ship was listening to the conversation, but he no longer cared. Nearby, Garik wept for his lost engineer, but Yablokov was unsympathetic. The captain was a disgrace, and should never have let his adviser seize so much control.

  ‘Then it collapsed on him when he skidded into it,’ insisted Hasim, all smooth reason. ‘Get a grip, Yablokov. Ranting in front of the crew is scarcely setting a good example.’

  If Yablokov had been himself, Hasim would have died right then. He would have grabbed him by the throat and squeezed the life out of him with pleasure. But Yablokov’s head throbbed, his vision was blurred and his legs were like jelly, which meant he was far from certain he would win such a battle. He willed the weakness to recede, silently seething at the reprimand.

  ‘If it’ll make you happy, I’ll order an investigation when we get home,’ Hasim continued. ‘We can question everyone then, see if anyone saw Nikos go down to the hold.’

  Yablokov turned away in disgust. Yeah, right! Question them at a point when all they would be thinking about was getting their money and seeing their families; and when enough time had passed that memories would blur and witnesses had been cajoled – or worse. But Yablokov had never been more certain of anything in his life: Nikos had been murdered. The location and shape of the wound were wholly inconsistent with a fall, and meat did not hide a body of its own accord.

  Hasim would not have killed Nikos himself, of course, but Yablokov knew he had given the order – the Greek shouldn’t have been so vocal in his criticism. He made a silent vow that Hasim would not get away with it, and would pay with his own life. But not yet. First, he had to contact Galtieri’s doctor, because it was obvious that the crew weren’t malingering, but were genuinely unwell. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too long for the powerful warship to sail to them from the Byers Peninsula.

  On the bridge, he picked up the handset and asked to speak to the medic while Hasim listened with brazen interest. The doctor came on air and asked Yablokov to describe the symptoms. Then there was such a long pause that he thought the connection had been lost.

  ‘No, I heard you,’ said the doctor shortly. ‘But there’s not a lot I can do, other than suggest giving them milk – it reduces the acidity in the gut.’

  ‘They need more than milk,’ snapped Yablokov, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘They’re bleeding inside, for God’s sake! Our medical officer thinks they’ve been contaminated by the cargo.’

  ‘Unlikely.’ There was another pause. ‘Your medical officer’s the purser, isn’t he? Has a certificate in first aid?’

  ‘The seals were broken on most of the barrels,’ continued Yablokov, ignoring the implication that Romanov was an amateur who didn’t know what he was talking about. ‘Clearly, the phosphorus has leaked and poisoned the crew.’

  ‘Phosphorus?’ came the doctor’s cautious voice after yet another pause.

  Yablokov wondered if the man had been drinking, because he seemed remarkably slow on the uptake. ‘It can cause symptoms similar to the ones experienced by our men – he looked it up online. So we need an antidote – now.’

  The radio hissed to itself as the doctor considered the problem. Or, thought Yablokov acidly, while he looked up what Wikipedia had to say about it. Eventually, the man spoke.

  ‘It’s not the phosphorus – it’s more likely to be the food. Perhaps bad meat—’

  ‘If it were bad meat, everyone would be sick,’ interrupted Yablokov, ‘but it’s only the men who handle the cargo. Hasim’s team is symptom free.’

  ‘If you really think your diagnosis is right, then you need to dose them with calcium gluconate,’ said the doctor. ‘There should be some in your dispensary. Give each man two tablets every three hours, mixed with as much water as he can swallow. And the
y’ll need to wash with warm, soapy water. Once it’s off their skin, you should start to see an improvement. How much more of the cargo is still on board?’

  ‘About fifteen per cent,’ said Yablokov, thinking the remedy sounded worryingly mild for what seemed to be such a serious problem. He hoped it would work.

  ‘Good. Mr Orlando is here with me. He wants me to assure you that there will be no long-term effects, but that you should direct the crew to wear gloves and masks from now on. And the faster you get the stuff off the ship, the faster they’ll recover.’

  Personally, Yablokov suspected there might be a good reason why the doctor had not offered to visit in person – he doubtless knew a good deal more about phosphorus than he was willing to admit, and was not about to expose himself just to tend the sick.

  ‘Mr Orlando knows what he’s doing,’ said Hasim, when Yablokov broke the connection and dropped the microphone back in its cradle. ‘Trust him.’

  ‘Right.’ Yablokov leaned back in the chair, fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. The last thing he needed was to collapse – then no one would stand between the ship and disaster, what with Garik drunk and Nikos dead.

  Hasim chuckled suddenly. ‘Did I tell you that the scientists are trying to climb through their window? First the Morse code, and now an attempt to swim to shore. Fools!’

  ‘I’d rather drown than drink your poisoned beer,’ retorted Yablokov. ‘And I see nothing funny in their terror.’

  ‘Poisoned beer?’ echoed Hasim, laughing again. ‘Whatever are you talking about?’

  Yablokov did not bother to argue. Black spots were niggling at the edges of his vision, and he no longer had the energy to spar with Hasim.

  ‘I need to dig out some gloves and masks,’ he said shortly. ‘Zurin, come with me.’

  He left the bridge, hearing the door screech on its hinges as he pulled it open. Nikos had done that, to prevent Hasim from sneaking up on them. Fat lot of good it had done, he thought sourly.

  ‘Hasim killed Nikos,’ growled Zurin, once they were out of earshot.

  ‘I know,’ said Yablokov. ‘But he’ll regret it – Nikos was the only man who could coax fifteen knots out of Lena, so the rest of the fleet will leave us standing on the way home. He won’t make it back by the date he wanted, and it serves the bastard right.’

  ‘He killed him because Nikos searched his cabin,’ said Zurin.

  Yablokov stared at him, and then bundled the helmsman inside the storeroom, so they would not be overheard. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I saw him in there.’

  ‘And?’ demanded Yablokov. It was like drawing blood.

  ‘Hasim caught him.’

  ‘Clearly,’ said Yablokov. ‘But what did Nikos find? It must’ve been something important or Hasim wouldn’t have felt the need to silence him.’

  ‘Some papers regarding the cargo. Nikos threatened to tell you what they said. Then I heard the captain coming, so I hid.’

  ‘What about the cargo?’ asked Yablokov urgently.

  Zurin shrugged. ‘Nikos didn’t say – just shook the papers at Hasim.’

  ‘When did all this happen?’

  ‘Few hours ago.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ demanded Yablokov, exasperated.

  ‘Thought Nikos would.’

  Yablokov rubbed his head. Would Nikos still be alive if Zurin had come to him at once? And would it have made a difference if Nikos had managed to tell him whatever it was he had discovered? Or would it just have meant two bodies in the hold? He tried to think.

  ‘I need to know what Nikos found,’ he said. ‘Will you help me?’

  ‘It’ll be dangerous.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Yablokov. ‘But less so, if you keep watch while I go in.’

  Zurin thought for a moment, then nodded, and together they crept to Hasim’s quarters. The door was locked, but Yablokov’s master key opened it. While Zurin hovered at the end of the corridor, Yablokov stepped inside.

  Hasim liked his creature comforts. Ship-issue blankets had been replaced by a duvet, and the worn leather chairs were enlivened with pretty batiks. Japanese prints hung on the wall, while under the table were several crates of vodka. As Hasim did not touch alcohol, Yablokov could only assume it was for Garik. There was something else, too – phials of sedative and evidence that Hasim had been adding it to the bottles. No wonder Garik was asleep half the time and drunk the rest.

  Nikos’ supply of elemental mercury was there, too, along with several bottle tops, suggesting that Hasim had indeed been poisoning the scientists’ beer.

  There was a desk with two drawers by the window. They were also locked, but Yablokov had a key for them as well. Inside were printouts of emails from Galtieri and Volga, urging Hasim to speed up the dumping of the cargo. There was also an inventory of the cargo itself. When Yablokov read what was in the barrels in his holds, he thought he was mistaken. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then his jaw dropped in horror.

  Berrister had finished counting thirty minutes and looked at Drecki. The Pole consulted his watch, nodded briefly and pulled out the compass. Berrister began to row, trying not to let the oars splash in the water. As time ticked by, he glanced questioningly at Drecki. Surely they should be there by now?

  ‘Skull to the left a bit,’ directed Drecki tersely.

  Berrister did, glancing over his shoulder for the looming shape of the ship, but there was nothing but fog. With a pang of dismay, he realised what had happened.

  ‘We must have drifted while we were waiting, which means we’ve overshot the thing.’

  ‘Yes, but drifted which way?’ asked Drecki worriedly. ‘How can we compensate?’

  Berrister felt wretched when he realised the answer to that. ‘We can’t – not unless we know how far we’ve gone and in which direction. Which we don’t.’

  Drecki consulted the compass. ‘There seems to be a current moving west. Let’s try going east for a while. We might be lucky.’

  With no better idea, Berrister rowed in the direction of the geologist’s pointing finger, listening intently for a sound that might guide them, but there was only silence. After a while, Drecki indicated that he was to change course again. And then again. Eventually, Berrister stopped and glanced up at the sky. It was still dark, but for how much longer?

  ‘What’s the time?’ he whispered.

  ‘Nearly three o’clock.’

  Berrister was horrified. ‘We should have been there two hours ago – they’ll think we’re not coming.’

  ‘Perhaps, but they’re not going anywhere, are they? They have no choice but to wait. Now row in that direction. I think I heard voices.’

  Berrister began to pull again, watching as Drecki listened intently, but after another fifteen minutes, he lifted the oars from the water and let the boat drift. ‘We’re totally lost, aren’t we?’

  Drecki nodded dejectedly. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Berrister hated to imagine how the others were feeling, and his head ached from the tension, a dull throb that pulsed in his temples.

  ‘The only thing we can,’ replied Drecki with a shrug. ‘Keep looking until we find them. It can’t be far.’

  ‘I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up.’ Berrister flexed his cramped, aching shoulders, aware that the blisters on his hands had burst and were sticky inside his gloves.

  ‘Then let me row for a bit.’

  But Drecki was hopeless – not only did he splash too much, but his strokes squeaked in the rowlocks. Someone on Lena would hear him coming a mile away. Tiredly, Berrister indicated that they were to change places again. His muscles burned with exhaustion, but at the same time, he was cold. The moisture on his clothes had frozen, and his feet were so numb he was not even sure they were still attached to his legs.

  After what seemed like an age, Drecki gave a soft hiss. Something loomed in the mist ahead of them. The sea was pink – they were near the half
-flensed whale. Berrister reversed quickly, catching a glimpse of a dark mound in the sea with its purple-red gashes. A dull yellow light oozed through the fog.

  ‘It’s the calf,’ he whispered, ‘which means it’s not Lena, but the other one. I think we need to go that way.’

  He nodded with his head. Drecki shrugged agreement and they were off again.

  The mist was patchy now and the sky was definitely lighter in the east. And then they saw Lena. With relief, they eased along her until they reached Mortimer’s porthole. He glanced up, but was too exhausted to answer Joshi’s excited wave.

  ‘He’s here!’ hissed Joshi.

  ‘Good,’ said Sarah. ‘Now just one more heave and we’re out of here. Ready? Push!’

  With a protesting squeal, the porthole swung free and frozen air flooded into the cabin. Joshi shivered, partly from the chill, but mainly from exhilaration. Sarah quickly tied the rope to one of the beds, while Mortimer tossed the bundles of clothes out through the window for Berrister to catch. Graham stood and watched, his hands at his sides.

  ‘Joshi – go,’ ordered Sarah. ‘Hurry!’

  The student needed no second bidding. He went feet first through the hole, and shinned agilely down the knotted sheets. The bunk creaked and one knot tightened, but the rope held. When it went slack, Sarah turned to Mortimer.

  ‘You next.’

  Mortimer was just climbing onto a chair, when the door opened, and Hasim entered.

  Yablokov had been in a state of shock ever since he had discovered that Lena was not carrying phosphorus, but something far more sinister. No wonder men like Hasim had been assigned to each of the six ships, he thought – to keep their crews from knowing the truth. All he could hope was that Hasim was contaminated too. Of course, Hasim had never been anywhere near the holds, so that was unlikely. Bitterly, Yablokov realised he should have guessed far sooner what was going on.

  So now what? Nothing would be gained by confronting Hasim – indeed, Yablokov would likely end up with his brains bashed out. No, it was best to let Hasim remain in ignorance of their discovery – for now, at least. However, that didn’t mean doing nothing, and Yablokov was resolved to help the scientists escape that day. Let them tell their story – and let the Southern Exploring Company pay for what it had done. He would recruit a few trusty crewmen to overpower the guards, then put the prisoners on a boat before Hasim and his team knew what was happening. The scientists could race back to the island and hide in the ice again until Worsley came to collect them.