The Pirate Ship

by Peter Tonkin

The disk from the Sulu Queen, designed to function as a part of the ship’s network, not on its own, contained no program that would allow her access to the information hidden within it. She established that fact first. Then she proceeded doggedly, from bad to worse. Giuseppe had given Robin ten disks which he said contained the most common word processing and DTP programs. All she had to do was find the one which worked on the dead first officer’s network and she would gain access to the information on his disk. Each one she loaded and accessed, however, presented her with unfamiliar screen formats and irritatingly complex instructions. The more she concentrated and the harder she tried, the more exhausted she became and the sillier and sillier the mistakes she made.

  Time and again, Robin stopped, horrified, as some utterly unexpected result arose out of a carefully-thought-out sequence of actions and instructions, suspecting for terrifying minutes that she had ruined the whole system and wiped the disks clean by accident. It became clear to her at last that only someone who knew more about computers than she did, or someone who knew the name of the word-processing program she was seeking, could help. But the most obvious sources of that knowledge were all, like the first officer and network manager, dead. Too tired to think clearly or to plan further, she owlishly ensured that the disk from the Sulu Queen was separate from the other disks Giuseppe had given her and slid it back into the wrapping paper. Then she stood, irresolute, in the middle of her bedroom, prey to another bout of paranoia, wondering where she could hide the precious thing.

  *

  Andrew Atherton Balfour’s call to arms caught up with Robin in the Landmark at ten thirty the next morning. She had gone there to get some necessities, starting with clothing, but when she actually heard her name being called, she was looking longingly at a display of the latest computers and thinking of the dumb little disk in the birthday present from a dead officer to his daughter who would not be six for another couple of weeks.

  Robin had finally surrendered the precious parcel, and the priceless disk she could feel through the paper, to the night porter at 12:25 a.m., able to think of nothing else to do with it; and he had placed it immediately in the hotel’s safe. Then she had turned forlornly away, exhausted, defeated, starving, but too sleepy to think of anything beyond a relaxing bath and bed. Just one look at her had been enough to disturb the porter and soon after she arrived back in her room a gentle knock on the door alerted her to the fact that the Mandarin’s fabled family atmosphere was wrapping her in its gentle arms. Leaving the bath running, she wrapped herself in the fluffy white robe hanging behind the bathroom door and crossed the reception room. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It is Lao Sung the night porter here, Captain Mariner. I thought perhaps you would like a cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh, that would be heavenly!’ She opened the door and the night porter brought in the tray at once.

  ‘I will bring up some sandwiches in a few moments,’ he told her paternally. ‘I will leave them immediately outside the door so as not to disturb you again.’ He placed the tray gently beside the laptop on the teak table in the middle of the room.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sung,’ she said, although she felt that the words were scarcely adequate.

  ‘Also,’ he said, hesitating slightly, ‘I observed when we talked just now that your clothing may require a little care. The concierge also expressed some concern upon that point when I took over from him.’

  ‘I fell over,’ she said, again, inadequately.

  He tutted. ‘Would you like the hotel doctor to examine you?’ he asked solicitously, pouring the tea.

  ‘No. I am not hurt. Thank you.’

  He glanced up at her. ‘Milk and sugar? It is Daijeeling tea.’

  ‘I’ll do that myself, thank you. And I would love some sandwiches. Meat, please, of any kind.’

  He straightened and smiled. ‘I had thought beef, with a trace of English mustard on one side and some Burgess’s creamed horseradish on the other.’

  ‘Are you psychic, Mr Sung?’

  ‘Concerned, Captain Mariner. I will go now, before your bath overflows. We have a Malaysian prince immediately below you and I know he would not like to be disturbed at this time of night. Your sandwiches will be here within ten minutes.’

  Fortunately the sandwiches were covered with damp paper, for it was the better part of an hour before she could bring herself to drag her stiff body out of the scalding bath water. Then, wrapped in the hotel’s cotton-wool cloud of towelling robe, steaming gently in the cool air, she snatched the sandwiches in and had a midnight feast sitting in the middle of her bed at the better part of two o’clock in the morning. And the next thing she knew it was 9 a.m. on Monday morning.

  She found she had to ferret around in her suitcase for something clean to put on, and as she lifted out the underwear, thinking about the hands of the Customs official sorting through the silk and nylon, it became most forcibly bome upon her that it was time to get some proper clothes for herself. Her travelling outfit was still in the hotel’s laundry and dry-cleaners so it was only the fact that her outfit from last night had been sponged, pressed and returned by the night staff that allowed her to dress to her own satisfaction.

  But as had been demonstrated quite forcefully several times during the last thirty-six hours, there was one item she needed even more urgently than decent clothes: Hong Kong dollars. But even here, the forethought of the staff pre-empted her. As she approached the reception desk on her way out into the bright morning half an hour after waking up, the door into the concierge’s office opened and Giuseppe Borelli stepped out, apparently by coincidence. ‘Ah, Captain Mariner,’ he said, falling in step beside her. ‘We could not help but observe that since your arrival yesterday you have not had the opportunity to pick up any local currency. It may be that you have other plans, but we were wondering whether five thousand dollars would meet your immediate needs. Of course it would be added to your account at the current rate of exchange …’

  ‘In actual fact, Giuseppe, it would be an absolute godsend,’ she admitted quietly. ‘It will save me a lot of time, mean I can skip a visit to the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank, and allow me a great deal of freedom of action at once. I can’t thank you enough. Now, would it be possible for me to have a regular supply of local currency or shall I set up matters with traveller’s cheques?’

  ‘Of course we will be happy to supply cash on a regular basis, duly accounted of course, but we might find ourselves hard put to supply large amounts at short notice.’

  ‘I understand. Perhaps if five thousand was held for me on a regular basis until I have a chance to clear things with my bank?’

  ‘Of course. Your cash, Captain.’ He reached across the desk and the reception clerk handed him an envelope. ‘I trust you will have an enjoyable day.’

  Twenty minutes later Andrew’s call came through to the Mandarin’s switchboard. There was no reply from Robin’s suite, and the switchboard operator was just about to ring off with regret when the concierge became involved. When he heard who was calling and who the call was for, Signor Borelli decided to take it himself. ‘But no, Mr Balfour, I regret that Captain Mariner seems to have gone … shopping, I believe … No, I have no idea. She did not mention what time she expected to return … An emergency, you say? Well, in that case … No do not worry. If it can be done, then rest assured … No thanks are necessary, sir, she is a valued client.’

  Signor Borelli hung up the phone. ‘Now, where will she have gone?’ he mused.

  ‘Des Voeux Road?’ wondered the receptionist.

  ‘I think not. She has no coat, remember; she is more likely to remain under cover. And in any case, I have not observed her coming back through reception. Have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then she must have gone through the walkway into Prince’s Building. We will start there.’

  *

  Robin came out of the Swire Building at ten twenty and crossed Des Voeux Road towards the towering bulk of the Landmark, her mind still mile
s away and her hands still empty. Somehow, shopping had become a very difficult thing to do. The fact that she had the equivalent of several hundred pounds sterling in cash and a limitless Gold AmEx card on her only seemed to make things more difficult still. There was almost nothing on show which, one way or another, she could not afford. But to purchase anything but the practical necessities seemed to be so petty, so pointless, so self-indulgent, somehow. All she wanted was some plain clothing at a reasonable price which would do her when she got back home to Ashenden.

  She came into the Landmark’s main concourse and her dull eyes swept over the fountains, the golden trees, the crowded escalators, the balconies and the bazaar of shop fronts. She was surrounded by the calming, expensive sounds of running water, piped music, hushed conversation. Her nostrils twitched with the scent of the fresh flowers round the fountains, almost inundated by the less delicate smells of expensive fragrances and polished leather. She began to walk around here in the same way as she had walked around the Prince’s Building, Alexandra House and Swire House. It seemed to her that all she could see were Gucchi, Konrad, Klein, Courreges, St Laurent, Armani, Issey Miyake, Nina Ricci and Chanel.

  ‘Haven’t these people ever heard of Marks and Spencer’s?’ she asked herself, and then she saw the computer display and crossed to it, all thoughts wiped out of her mind other than the urgent speculation as to how she was going to find out what was on that disk without running the risk of letting someone else into the secret — or of wiping the secret message out altogether. Was it another computer she needed, she wondered, or a computer expert? Who would know the name of that elusive program? If there was no one from the Sulu Queen any more, then surely someone aboard her sister Seram Queen — or someone at the China Queens office. What was the name of that woman? Anna Leung. Yes! Either company secretary Anna Leung or Seram Queen’s first officer. Hope welled within her. All she needed was a phone …

  ‘Captain Robin Mariner,’ said a gentle, cultured voice in soft yet piercing tones. ‘Will Captain Robin Mariner please report to the information desk in the foyer?’

  On the second repetition she realised the announcement was for her and, frowning, crossed to the desk. ‘I am Robin Mariner. You have a message for me?’

  ‘You are Captain Mariner?’ The receptionist’s eyebrows rose slightly. No doubt she had been expecting a more masculine figure. Perhaps someone in more fashionable clothing.

  ‘That’s right. Captain Robin Mariner. You have a message for me?’

  Had it been a matter of parting with anything other than information, Robin felt, she would probably have been required to present identification. As it was, the receptionist gave her a brittle smile and said, ‘Will you please contact reception at the Mandarin Hotel? Apparently there is an urgent message.’

  She did so at once and the switchboard told her to call Andrew Balfour at his office.

  All thought of calling Anna Leung or the Seram Queen was driven from her mind for the time being. ‘Andrew? It’s Robin. What?’

  ‘Robin. Thank goodness we found you. Can you be at the Magistrate’s Court building at one o’clock? At reception, just inside the main entrance?’

  ‘Of course. What’s going on?’

  ‘Apparently they’re going to traduce him then. Listen.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ve retained a local silk who will stand up for us for the time being. He’s very good. And, look …’

  ‘Yes?’ she was concerned by his hesitation. There was something he did not dare to say to her, and it sounded like something bad. Had Twelvetoes Ho or Daniel Huuk let something slip about last night’s adventures? Was it something about Richard?’Stop beating about the bush, Andrew. What is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s your clothes. I mean the magistrate’s court is hardly high fashion, but you simply cannot be wearing trousers and —’

  ‘Listen, buster, if you had any idea of the trouble I’m having finding anything to wear …’

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’

  ‘Do you know of a decent shop where I can get an off the peg suit or twin-set which wasn’t made for an anorexic schoolgirl closely related to the Sultan of Oman?’

  ‘Ah. Right. Um, I’ll just ask Gerry. He might know where Dottie gets her …’ he stopped dead, realising that Robin might want to pitch herself somewhere between a teenage millionaire fashion victim and Dottie Stephenson.

  But after a certain amount of bellowing back and forth across the office, he came back uncertainly, defensively, with, ‘Look, is Jaeger any good? Gerry says it’s where Dottie sometimes —’

  ‘Jaeger? You wonderful man, you know where there’s a Jaeger?’

  ‘Yes. It’s in the Landmark, actually, Gerry says. Now where are you?’

  But she had hung up already and was turning to the supercilious young woman at the information desk.

  *

  By one o’clock, it was impossible to guess that the calm, collected, perfectly turned-out Englishwoman in her Jaeger suit, silk blouse (she had found a Laura Ashley in the Prince’s Building on the way back) and Bally shoes entering the magistrate’s court was breathless with trepidation. True the clothes made her feel more confident, but the vertiginous suspicion that everything was going to slide downhill very fast indeed from this point was overpowering.

  It was the stark reality of her situation which was doing it. Whatever she did, whatever little task she set herself to complete, whatever little obstacle she overcame, once in every couple of minutes she would look up mentally and there would be the terrifying enormity of her true situation standing like a giant before her. Richard, her Richard, was effectively in jail now. He was going to stay in jail and nothing she could do would get him out. She doubted whether there was even anything she could do to ease his situation. He would remain beyond her help, beyond her love, physically as well as mentally, for months at least, and there was nothing in the world which could alter that. Until he came to trial. Then what? What then indeed?

  And, in the meantime, what could she tell the twins? The family? Their friends? Their business associates? The world?

  Oh God in heaven, what was she going to do?

  With these thoughts clamouring in her mind, Robin glided into the magistrate’s court building, turning heads unconsciously as she went, like a model just stepped out of the London edition of Vogue.

  Andrew was waiting for her inside the main entrance and he swept her along as soon as he saw her; and, after all the fuss he had made, he didn’t even bother to mention her clothes. ‘Right. Welcome. Perfectly timed. We’re just down here. Richard’s up before Stipendiary Magistrate Morgan. I don’t know anything else at this stage. The police will be applying to have Richard remanded in custody until they can complete their case. Then of course they’ll be looking for a transfer to the High Court. The Crown Prosecution Service, the Lord Chancellor and the Lord Chief Justice don’t work here quite in the way that they do in Great Britain; Mr Morgan will rule on whether there’s a case to answer and we’ll go from there. If there is, then the prosecution will have to present it to him prima facie within eight days, he’ll decide on the transfer and that’s when we can really go to work. I know I’ve told you this before but I don’t want you to have any unpleasant surprises …’

  It was such an ordinaiy door; Robin couldn’t get over how ordinary it was. Just a plain, painted door such as might lead into any kind of a room, even a little room. It opened with just the hint of a creak and she walked in behind Andrew into the courtroom itself. It was a small, slightly shabby room, very different from the High Court setting Robin had expected.

  As Robin looked for a seat, her open, clear-skinned face folded into a frown. The court was crowded. There was very little space indeed for Andrew and her to sit in. The front few rows were unoccupied, but it was clear that these were for court officials of one kind or another. Behind that the rows were increasingly packed. She looked at Andrew, her face a picture of wonder. He shrugged. She looked back up at the
people sitting in the court. She did not recognise one face. They were all strangers to her. But it seemed from the increased buzz of speculation which built up as she stood there that some of them at least recognised her. She stood, riven by the horror of her unexpected situation, until a young man took her by the sleeve and pulled her into a seat he had obviously been saving for her. Andrew sat immediately in front of her.

  ‘Andrew,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘What are all these people doing here?’

  ‘Word must have got out,’ he said sheepishly. ‘We’ll apply to have the court cleared as soon as …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. Robin, I have to tell you I’ve never been in a position like this before. I can’t guarantee what is going to happen, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Now you tell me.’

  ‘No! I mean that we can’t find a case like this in any of our Hong Kong records. Of course we’re going through English case law as well, but I’m not sure that we’ve even been legally retained. Only Mr Morgan will be able to tell us that, and I think he’ll be ruling on it himself.’

  His words were cut short by the arrival of a slim man in a dark suit. ‘Well Andrew,’ he said. ‘You didn’t tell me it was going to be a circus!’

  ‘I didn’t know. Can we have the court cleared?’

  ‘We can ask. If the magistrate will speak to us.’

  ‘This is Captain Robin Mariner,’ said Andrew. ‘Captain Mariner, Edward Thong, your counsel. We hope.’

  ‘I know he’s my counsel,’ snapped Robin. ‘I thought our problem was whether he is Richard’s counsel!’

  ‘I say,’ said Edward Thong with a mixture of surprise and approval, ‘that was very well put.’ He reached out a long, slim hand and his angular face broke into a dazzling smile. ‘All rise,’ came a voice from the front. ‘All rise.’

  The magistrate, Mr Morgan, was a tall, angular man and there was nothing soft or self-indulgent about him. He bustled in apparently preoccupied with bitter personal reflections and sat as though he had noticed none of the other people there. But he had. ‘The prisoner is not here,’ he observed and his voice was full of disapproval.