Bernard Cornwell

by Wildtrack

Who was the friend? No one who mattered.

  Would I go to the police station and give a statement? No, I would not.

  I refused because it would be so utterly hopeless to explain. I was to accuse one of the world's richest men of threatening economic blackmail against Britain? I felt suddenly tired. And scared. Mulder, if he had the tape, would already be on his way back to Bannister. I needed to reach the river and stop Terry Farebrother murdering Mulder, because Mulder, as likely as not, would look for me on Sycorax. The last thing I needed to do now was sit in a police station and spin a tale that would most likely land me in the nearest mental hospital. "Mister Harding's just an old friend," I told the policeman. "We went to the moor for a walk, nothing more."

  "In the rain?"

  "In the rain."

  The policeman, professionally suspicious, looked at me with distaste. "Very close friends, you and him?"

  "Fuck off, sonny boy."

  He closed his notebook. "I think you're coming to the station whether you want to or not."

  "No," I said. "I'm going home. And what you're going to do is telephone Inspector Harry Abbott. You know him? Tell him I need a lift home bloody fast. Tell him the Boer War has broken out. So open your book and write down my name. Captain Nicholas Sandman. And remember the bit about the Boer War. Do it!" I snapped the last two words as if I was back in the battalion.

  The policeman had read too many thrillers. "Is this special business, sir?" He stressed the word 'special'.

  "It isn't your business. Phone him. Now."

  I knew Abbott would give me hell when he got the chance, but he came through like a trooper on the night. I got my lift home. I told the copper to stop the car at the top of the hill and that I'd walk the rest of the way.

  I was scared. Mulder was on the warpath, and didn't know just what an evil-minded bastard was minding the boat. Micky Harding was unconscious. I wasn't sure how, but I'd screwed up.

  Things had gone wrong.

  I stopped halfway down the wooded slope. The tide was rising in the river. The rain was lessening now, but it was still driven by a brisk westerly wind that shook the branches above my head. I was soaked to the skin. There were lights in Bannister's house, but none down by the boathouse or near my wharf.

  I went like a wraith down that slope. It was hard, for I was out of practice and my limp made me awkward, but I went as though I was on night patrol and a trigger-happy bastard with a full magazine waited for me. I stared for a long time at the shadows behind the boathouse. Nothing moved there, and nothing moved when I flicked a piece of earth into the rhododendrons to stir a hidden watcher's attention.

  I crept down the last stretch of the hill and hid myself in the boathouse shadows. "Terry?"

  "Been listening to you for the last ten minutes, boss. Bleeding noisy, aren't you?"

  Relief flooded me. "Any trouble?"

  "Not a bloody flicker. How did you get on?"

  "Bloody disaster. Mouse got stitched up. We should have had you there, not here." I climbed down on to Sycorax's deck. "Poor bugger's in hospital. Lost the bloody tape, too. Anything happened here?"

  "One car arrived ten minutes after you'd gone. Another came an hour ago."

  The first car would have been Bannister and Angela, the second Mulder. I suspected Mulder was in the house now with Micky's tape. He was telling Bannister and Angela that I'd met Jill-Beth Kirov on the moor. The implication was that I had been plotting against Bannister all along. The tape would bear that interpretation, too, but it was also possible that it would serve to warn Bannister of the real dangers of attempting the St Pierre. At this moment, though, I cared more about what Angela might be thinking of me. I stared up the slope to where a dark figure flitted across a lit window of the house. "I'm going up there," I said to Terry.

  "Want me?"

  "Yes, but keep out of sight."

  I was going to the house because I could not let Angela think that I had betrayed her. I wanted her to know what had happened, and why I had met Jill-Beth. I would explain everything, not only to her, but to Bannister as well. Things had become muddled, but now was the time to let truth untangle the mess. That's the advantage of truth; it cuts through all the deception and muddle. I like truth.

  Terry and I climbed the steep lawn and went on to the wide terrace. Terry whistled softly when he saw the luxury through the big windows. "Bleeding hell, boss. She's tasty."

  The tasty one was Angela, who looked expensive and beautiful in black trousers and a lilac shirt. She was sitting, head bowed, apparently listening, and I could see the spools of a big tape-recorder revolving. The machine was part of the bank of electronic gadgets that decorated one end of the room. Bannister stood behind Angela's chair while Mulder and two of his crewmen stood respectfully to one side.

  "Stay hidden, Terry," I said.

  The sliding doors were not locked and everyone in the room jumped as I pulled one of the great glass panes aside. I heard my own voice coming from the tape-recorder, then Angela leaned forward and used the remote control to switch it off.

  They all stared at me and I had the ridiculous notion that this was a scene out of a detective play when, at the end of the last act, everyone is gathered in the drawing-room to hear the culprit revealed. They seemed frozen by my appearance, as if caught in a flash photograph, then the tableau broke as Mulder moved towards me.

  "Leave him!" Bannister's sudden command stopped Mulder, who contented himself with a threatening and derisive stare. Bannister shuddered as though he found it hard to even speak to me. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "I came here to explain." Rainwater dripped from my clothes on to the expensive carpet.

  "You hardly need to explain." Bannister clicked his fingers at Angela. "Rewind it, then play it to Captain Sandman." He paused, then added with withering scorn, "VC."

  "I know what's on the tape..." I began.

  "Shut up!" Bannister shouted the command. Whatever courage he had lacked in the past was evident now; stung into the light by what he had heard on the tape.

  But if Bannister was showing a new side to his character, Angela's demeanour was as it used to be before the rainy day when we had come together in this same room. Her face was a cold, pale mask of dislike. I caught her eyes once and there was not even a flicker of recognition in them. She leaned forward and I listened to the scribbling squall of a tape going backwards, there was a click, then Jill-Beth's eager, friendly, American voice filled the room. "Because we need your help, Nick! You're our one chance. Persuade Bannister to take you as Wildtrack 's navigator, and count your money!"

  "And exactly what do I have to do?" My voice was much louder than Jill-Beth's, but the microphone had worked only too well and her words were quite distinct.

  "You just navigate a course that we'll provide you."

  "What course?"

  "Jesus! How do we know? That'll depend on the weather, right? All you have to do is keep a radio watch at the times we tell you, and that's it. The easiest four hundred thousand you ever earned, right?"

  "Right." There was a pause before my voice sounded again. "And what happens when we reach wherever it is that we're going?"

  "Nothing happens to you. Nothing happens to the crew."

  "But what happens to Bannister?"

  "Whatever Yassir wants."

  "And all this on the assumption that Bannister murdered his wife?"

  "You got it, Nick. You want the hundred thousand now?" Jill-Beth's voice sounded eager; then there was nothing but the magnetic hiss of empty tape.

  Angela leaned forward, turned off the tape-recorder, and stood up. "You bastard!" She turned away from me and stalked out of the room.

  "It isn't..." I had been going to say that the truth was not what they had heard on the tape, but Bannister, goaded to fury by hearing the damning evidence once more, shouted that I was to be quiet. Mulder took one threatening step forward and rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation. His two crewmen looked nervous, but willing. Ba
nnister flinched as the door slammed behind Angela, then repeated her insult. "You bastard."

  "I turned the offer down," I said. "I only wanted to hear what they planned to do."

  "You expect me to believe that?"

  "Don't be such a bloody idiot!" I snapped back. "Ask the police about a poor bastard called Micky Harding who's unconscious in hospital right now! He's a newspaper reporter."

  "He's lying," Mulder said laconically.

  "And how the hell did you get that tape?" I demanded.

  "I followed you," Mulder said coldly.

  "Why?" I demanded. Mulder did not answer, and I pressed on in the belief that I had regained some of the initiative. "And why, for Christ's sake, would I be wired for sound? Why in hell's name would I risk doing that if I was on their side?"

  "To make sure they wouldn't double-cross you, of course." Mulder's staccato voice was bleak.

  "Micky Harding's a newspaper reporter," I said to Bannister, "and your thug beat him half dead." It was clear from Bannister's face that I was wasting my words. He was a media man, and for him a tape could not tell a lie. His world lay on tape and film, and my betrayal was proven by the magnetic ribbon. He stood between me and the tape-recorder as though he feared I might try and snatch the damning spool. "I'm through with you, Sandman."

  "You know Harry Abbott," I said to him. "Phone him up! Ask him!"

  Mulder moved so that he stood between Bannister and myself. "Why did you go to America?" Mulder challenged me.

  I was surprised by the question and I hesitated. I'd told Angela the truth, but no one else.

  My hesitation looked like guilt, and Mulder mocked it with a smile. "You said your mother was dying. So what about this, liar?" He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a folded glossy newspaper that he tossed on to the carpet by my feet. "Front page, liar."

  It was an in-house news-sheet from Kassouli Enterprises, Inc. of New York, and on the front page, ringed in damning red ink, was the photograph of Jill-Beth and I which had been taken in Kassouli's Cape Cod garden. At the time I'd told the photographer I was nobody, just John Brown, but the caption said that Miss Jill-Beth Kirov, daughter of Rear-Admiral Oscar Kirov, USN, had been squired to a reception at Mr Yassir Kassouli's summer residence by Captain Nicholas Sandman, VC.

  "Well?" Mulder's voice reeked of victory.

  "Who the hell sent this to you?"

  "What does that matter? They sent two." He took another copy of the news-sheet from his pocket and gave it to Bannister.

  Bannister read it. I was at sea suddenly, my reasons swamped by this sudden twist. Mulder, in total control, stepped towards me. "You've done nothing but lie. You saved the American girl that night and you've been playing her game ever since. What else have you done, Sandman? Filed down a turnbuckle? Cut some warps? I think you just lost yourself a boat, Sandman. How else is Mister Bannister to recoup his losses?"

  Bannister looked up from the paper. "What were you planning to do? Kill us all at sea?"

  "I was trying to save your miserable life!" I shouted past Mulder's hulking figure.

  "And where's the hundred thousand?" Mulder demanded.

  "There isn't any money! I turned them down."

  "You pathetic little bastard." Mulder was triumphant in his victory. "You scummy cripple. The money's on your boat, isn't it?"

  "Get stuffed." It was a feeble response. I tried to think of an argument that might convince Bannister of my honesty, but the evidence against me was too overwhelming.

  "You want me to get the money?" Mulder asked Bannister.

  "There isn't any, you fool!" I backed towards the window.

  "Stop him, Fanny!" Bannister said. "Then search his damned boat."

  Fanny lunged towards me, and I twisted aside. "Now!" I snapped the word and Terry Farebrother appeared as if from nowhere. He made no sound. He must have been waiting just beside the window and he had been keyed up for this moment. If anyone in the room was astonished by his appearance they had no chance to display it before he crouched in front of Mulder who, dismissive of the much smaller man, went to push him aside.

  Mulder stopped dead, then screamed. It was a horrid, almost feminine noise. Terry straightened up and I could not see what grip he was using, but I could see that Mulder was sinking to his knees.

  The two crew members started forward and I snatched up a stone statuette that I swung like a short club. The threat checked them. I noted that Bannister made no move; he just gaped at the sudden violence which, with splintering speed, suddenly became more sickening as Terry swung his body, kicked with his right foot, and I heard a crunch as Mulder's nose was broken. The South African was finished, but our regiment never believed in half measures, and Terry felled the big man with a blow to his sternum. Mulder collapsed in breathless pain and Terry turned on the two crew men. "Come on, you fuckers." He was moving towards them, beckoning them to him, but they, seeing Mulder's agony, hung back. Bannister was white-faced and motionless.

  "Come on!" That was me, shouting at Terry. I did not want to use his name, nor his rank, because by identifying him I could risk him having to face disciplinary proceedings. He had appeared like a small, very nasty force, and he had utterly cowed the room with his economical and swift violence. Now it was time to get him out before his face became memorable. "Come on!" I discarded my unused club. Mulder was writhing and gasping, his face bloodied, while Terry and I were doing the classic thing: shoot and scoot. Hit the bastards, then run like hell before they can muster reinforcements.

  "Phone the police!" Bannister shouted.

  Terry and I were already in the rainswept darkness. I was limping as fast as I could and Terry was staying with me, covering my retreat. "Did I do the right thing, boss?"

  "God, yes." Why hadn't Bannister believed me? God damn it, but he was a fool! And Angela! The look she had given me before she stalked from the room had been one of pure reproach. More than that, a look of derisive hatred because she believed I had betrayed both her and Bannister.

  I slipped on the grass, thought for a second that my damned leg was about to fold up on me, but it had only been a damp patch of lawn that had made me lurch. The sudden movement wrenched pain in my back, but the leg was still strong. I looked to see if anyone was following us, but Terry had plainly terrified them. Terry himself, high on the adrenalin of a successful fight, chuckled. "Orders, boss?"

  "We get the fuck out of here. On Sycorax. You do the springs, then cast off the bow warp. Leave the stern till last."

  Terry had sailed with me before and knew what he was doing. But did Sycorax know? She had been out of commission for over six months, she was untested, and I had to take her to sea in a fretting wind against a flood tide. I dragged the mainsail cover back, lifted the boom, and fumbled with the topping lift. I saw Angela appear on the balcony of Bannister's bedroom. She was staring down at me. "Micky Harding!" I shouted at her. "Phone Inspector Abbott!"

  She turned away. "Springs and warp off!" Terry shouted at me. "Standing by!"

  The tide was swinging Sycorax's bows off the wall. She was moving in the water at last.

  "Let's go!" The stern warp splashed off the wharf and Sycorax was unleashed. "Peak halliard, Terry!"

  I did not trust the engine to start quickly, if at all. We were drifting on the tide and I needed a sail to give me some power. "Haul her I heard the rattle of the halliard and the flap of the big sail. It rose stiffly, stretching to the night wind, and there was a sudden creak as the starboard shrouds took the mast's weight and I felt a sudden surge of joy. It was not how I had imagined it, not in the least how I had dreamed of it, but Sycorax and I were going to sea.

  "Did you kill that big guy?" I asked Terry.

  "Christ, no!" He was scornful. "Just brought some tears to his fucking eyes. Have you got a light down here?"

  "Only an oil-lamp."

  He swore again. He had taken the companionway off to reveal the engine and was now trying to swing it into life. "Why can't you get a decent
fucking motor?"

  "Can't afford it." I pegged the tiller. "Throw up the yellow sail bag, Terry."

  He struck a match, found the sail bag, and heaved it into the cockpit. I struggled forward with the heavy load. I hanked on the jib's head, ran its tack along the bowsprit with the traveller, then hoisted away. I tied the sheets on to the sail and threw them back towards the cockpit. I heard Terry swear at the motor again and I told him to abandon it and hoist the mizzen. I could see figures standing on Bannister's terrace. Would the police be waiting at the river's mouth? I dragged the staysail from its bag and fumbled with its shackle. Terry had to unpeg the tiller and adjust our course as I pulled the sail up. My back was hurting.

  I rove the foresails' sheets through their fairleads, hauled the port sheets tight, and took over the tiller. We had no running lights, no compass, nothing but the boat, the sails and a pig of an engine that wouldn't start. Terry had gone below again, had lit the chart table's oil-lamp, and now swung the engine's handle. Nothing.

  The wind was made tricky by the western hills. At moments it seemed to die completely, then it would back suddenly to gust in a wet squall. Sycorax was in confusion. She had not been ready for sea, but to sea she was going. I heard the blessed sound of water running by her hull. We were clearing Sansom's Point which at last hid the lights of Bannister's house from us. "Topsail, Terry. Remember how to do it?"

  "Yes, boss."

  We now had jib, staysail, main, top and mizzen, and Sycorax was leaning to the wind, hissing the water, taking us fast down the river's buoyed channel. Fast, though, was a relative term. We were moving through the water, but the tide was moving against us. Our motion felt fast enough, but from the bank we would be creeping at less than walking pace. I was also uncomfortably aware that Wildtrack II's sharp bows might appear at any moment.

  Terry, the topsail hoisted, came back to the cockpit. "What happened, boss?"

  "Two rich men are having a row. Both tried to involve me. Bannister thought I'd joined the other side. Now he wants Sycorax."

  Terry took that lot on board, then squatted below the coaming to light a cigarette. "I thought Bannister was a decent bloke. He seems nice on the telly. Sally always watches his programme."