Balance of Fear

by Geoffrey Osborne

  He turned to the other guard.

  “You, too. Cover that door.”

  The second man turned to obey — and then dropped his automatic to the deck as Brook’s gun jabbed him in the back.

  Jones cursed silently to himself. Brook, keyed up and over-anxious, had moved too soon.

  The first guard, the stubborn one, stopped and looked in amazement, noting the fact that the Sten-gun cradled in Jones’s capable hands was now pointing directly at his stomach.

  “Open that door,” grated Jones.

  The man didn’t hesitate. He flung the key away from him and dived to one side, for the shelter of an engineer’s work-bench. But he never made it. His body seemed to jack-knife in mid-air when the bullets from the Sten-gun hit him. He crashed to the steel deck plating and lay still.

  Jones didn’t waste time looking at a dead man. Without pausing, he swung round and fired a short burst into the second guard, who had picked up his automatic and was taking a snap shot at the Welshman. The bullet went wide, singing past Jones at hip level.

  Brook was sitting on the deck, rubbing his jaw and looking at Jones in bewilderment. When the first guard had thrown away the key, the second man had swung round, sharply to his left. His left arm had knocked the pilot’s gun aside. Brook had fired, but by then the guns had been pointing far to the right. Then the man’s fist had smashed into the left side of Brook’s jaw. Brook had fetched up violently against the bulkhead before sinking slowly to the deck.

  Jones walked across to him and shook his head sadly.

  “You didn’t pay attention to the lesson I gave you, did you, Mr. Brook? I told you never to stand behind a man with your gun touching his back. You should stand well clear. That was the oldest trick in the book he pulled on you. And I told you not to make a move until they’d unlocked that bloody door.”

  Brook scrambled to his feet, still rubbing his jaw.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not used to this sort of thing. I didn’t expect them to react like that. They … they were damned brave.”

  “Oh, aye,” said Jones indifferently. “Bloody brave. It’s proper little heroes they were. Now they’re dead heroes. So let that be your second lesson, Mr. Brook. Heroes don’t live long in this business. It’s them or you, man. So if you’re ever in any doubt, shoot first and ask questions afterwards. That way you might stay alive. Now let’s finish what we came here to do, and get Dingle and the others out of there.”

  “Where did the key go?”

  “We’ll never find it now, man,” snapped Jones. “It’s probably down in the bilges.”

  He walked over to the door and hammered on it.

  “Can you hear me, James?”

  “Yes,” Dingle’s voice came back. “What the hell’s going on out there?”

  “A technical hitch, boyo. We’ve lost the bloody key.”

  “You’ve what?”

  “Lost the key. Have you still got your gun handy?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll stand aside while you shoot the lock off,” called Jones. “There’s more room out here for a bullet to fly around. You’re a bit crowded in there.”

  “Right. Keep clear.”

  There was a sharp crack, the door swung open, and Dingle stepped out, closely followed by the American officers.

  “What’s been going on?” repeated Dingle. “I thought war had broken out … Oh!” He looked at the two dead guards. “It looks as if war did break out.”

  “Yes,” said Jones. “We won.”

  He jerked his head towards the Americans.

  “How are they? Fit enough for a spot of action?”

  “Yes,” replied Dingle. “All but two of them. Their little outing this afternoon did them good. That came as a surprise.”

  “I fixed that,” said Jones proudly.

  “You did? Well it had me worried for a while, because they didn’t let me out, and I hadn’t finished briefing these chaps. I thought they weren’t coming back.”

  “I had to keep Gorki happy somehow. I told him not to let you out. I told him you were that notorious British agent, James Dingle, and you might incite the others to mutiny.”

  “You told him what?”

  “You see,” said Jones smugly, “I remembered something you once told me. ‘If you want to sound convincing, tell the truth’. Anyway, I thought it would do you good to worry a bit. I’ve been doing all the bloody work so far.”

  “Okay, okay,” sighed Dingle. “What’s the time?”

  “Eight-thirty-five. Time Brook and I got back to the bridge. Gorki will be getting suspicious.”

  “Right,” said Dingle. “Give us half an hour to clear the after accommodation. That’ll take us up to five past nine. Then we move for’ard to the officers’ quarters in the bridge superstructure. You’d better allow us fifteen minutes to deal with anyone there.”

  “Okay,” said Jones. “So that makes zero-hour nine-twenty. Right?”

  “Right.”

  The two men synchronized their watches.

  “Come on then, Mr. Brook,” said Jones. “Let’s go and keep Comrade Gorki company.” He turned to Dingle and added: “I’ll make you a present of this Sten-gun — and there’s an automatic on the deck by that dead guard. No doubt you’ll increase your armoury as you go along. Incidentally” — he addressed the Americans — “if you come across the chap who was your bosun, don’t think he’s on our side. He was the Russian agent who put your radio out of action at the vital time.”

  The Americans nodded, grimly.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jones walked into the wheelhouse, followed by Brook. The Welshman smiled pleasantly at Gorki: “Bloody cold out there in the wind and the wet,” he said.

  “You found everything in order, Comrade?”

  “Yes. I’m most impressed with the efficiency and alertness of your guards.” Jones puffed out his chest importantly and added: “I think the men were heartened by my visit. I’m sure they appreciated the fact that I thought of them and took the trouble to get to them — no easy task in this weather for a man with my handicap. Yes, I think they were quite cheered by our little chat.”

  “I’m sure they were, Comrade,” said Gorki obsequiously.

  “It pays, you know. Consideration and thoughtfulness of that kind inspire loyalty. Men should be disciplined harshly when they make mistakes, and rewarded when they do well.” Jones lowered his voice conspiratorially. “As I am going to reward you, eh, Comrade Gorki?”

  The Russian smirked.

  “Thank you, Comrade.”

  Jones looked through the window at the man guarding the forepeak door. His shape was outlined dimly in the pool of light cast by a lamp fixed to the bulkhead.

  “That man looks cold and wet. I think I’ll go and visit him — and the guards on duty outside the wireless cabin. I’ll give them each a mouthful of vodka. That will warm them up, eh?”

  “I don’t think you will find any vodka aboard this ship, Comrade Kirenski; or anything else for that matter. The damned Americans don’t allow drink in their ships.”

  Jones smiled good-humouredly.

  “Ah! But I’m smarter than the Americans. I’ve brought my own. I’ll go and get it from my cabin, and when I’ve seen the guards I’ll return here. Then perhaps you and I can have a nightcap before I turn in for the night.”

  Gorki was about to protest, then thought better of it. He didn’t agree with this pampering of the guards — but it would be foolish to antagonize Jones now.

  “I should be honoured, Comrade,” he said.

  Jones looked at the clock.

  “Nine o’clock. I’ll make the rounds now; I want to get to my bunk reasonably early tonight. Come, Mr. Brook,” he added in English, “I may need your steadying arm again.”

  Dingle and the Americans had been working quickly. By nine o’clock they had practically cleared the crew’s quarters in the after end of the ship. Quietly, they had go
ne from cabin to cabin, taking the resting or sleeping occupants by surprise. The Russians offered no resistance. They were not fools. They knew they had no chance to reach for their own weapons. They could see from the Americans’ grim expressions that one false move would invite instant death.

  Dingle had the officers working in teams. A man was posted at each end of the companionway to act as a lookout; three others stood at strategic intervals, watching all the cabin doors in case someone came out unexpectedly.

  The British agent and three Americans entered each cabin in turn and held the off-duty occupants at gunpoint, while a fourth American tied them up. The tying was done speedily and efficiently by Grant, the big third engineer — and he was an expert. He was a Texan who had once worked on a ranch, and he was proud of his prowess with a rope.

  As soon as the Russians were bound, two other officers carried them away and locked them in two store rooms adjacent to the one that had so recently been the Americans’ own prison. The two officers who were not fit enough for more active work were left on guard — with orders to shoot on sight if anyone they didn’t recognize approached the area of the store rooms.

  The sound of gunfire wouldn’t matter down there; it would be drowned by the noise of the dynamos and the clamour of the ship’s main engines. The earlier shots, when the two Russian guards had been killed, had not attracted any attention. But Dingle warned the Americans not to use their firearms on deck, or in the crew’s accommodation, unless it was absolutely vital to do so. The noise might carry to the bridge.

  And now the crew’s quarters were cleared — except for their dining saloon, where six men were playing cards round a large, fixed table.

  They sat staring at the door, frozen into astonished immobility, like a tableau in a waxworks museum.

  “Stay right where you are and lift your hands high,” snapped Dingle.

  Five of the men didn’t understand English. But they understood the language of the .38 which Dingle jerked rapidly up and down in a commanding gesture. A .38 is a powerful persuader — especially when it is backed up by a .45 Colt and two Sten-guns.

  The men got the message. They raised their hands.

  The sixth Russian — one of those on the far side of the table — was the odd man out. He did understand English, perfectly; but he made no effort to obey Dingle’s command.

  Instead, he pushed his chair back, dropped to the deck and dived under the table, dragging a Luger from his pocket on the way.

  It was a good move. The chairs, and the legs of his companions on Dingle’s side of the table, would shield him.

  Dingle moved fast. He reached one of the sitting men in two long strides, cracked him over the head with the .38 automatic and, without pausing, tipped the chair back before heaving it to one side, out of the way, complete with the unconscious Russian.

  The man under the table was clearly in view; he was just swinging the Luger round and up to aim at the Englishman.

  A vicious kick sent the gun scudding across the deck, then Dingle bent swiftly, grasped the man’s right wrist and hauled him clear of the table before jerking him to his feet.

  As the Russian came up, he swung his left fist hard, catching Dingle high up on the side of the head. At the same time, the steel-capped toe of his left shoe cracked agonizingly into Dingle’s right shin.

  The SS(O)S man grunted with pain and anger, and flung his automatic away behind him. He was still grasping the Russian’s right wrist with his left hand, and Dingle used this to pull him off balance before the man could steady himself after delivering that powerful kick. Then Dingle stiffened his right fingers and chopped the rock-hard outside edge of his hand into the other’s throat.

  The Russian crashed down. Dingle knew he wouldn’t get up again. He was dead even before he hit the deck.

  The British agent retrieved his automatic and turned to face the remaining four Russians. They were still seated at the table; they still held their arms high. But they were no longer looking at the Americans; they were staring at the dead man.

  They had hardly had time to think about going to the aid of their comrade. It was barely fifteen seconds since he had made his dive for cover under the table. Now he was dead.

  They shifted their gaze to the first man who had been hit by Dingle. He was sprawled in an untidy heap near the overturned chair.

  “Any more for any more?” asked Dingle.

  The Russians didn’t understand the words so, for safety’s sake, they tried to stretch their arms even higher.

  Dingle grinned. He gathered that there were no more for any more.

  “Wow! That was sure something,” said one of the Americans. He stepped forward and prodded the dead man with his foot. “I guess this guy had it coming to him anyway. He was our bosun — the one that jiggered up the radio.”

  Dingle nodded, then looked at his watch.

  “Okay, Grant,” he called. “You can come in now and tie these men. We’re running out of time,” he added as the Texan entered the saloon, “so don’t bother tying their feet. Just take a loop of the rope round each of their necks and lead them down to the store room. I don’t think they’ll give you any trouble.”

  The four Russians made it plain that they were anxious not to give any trouble. But Dingle sent one of the Americans with a Sten-gun along as an escort, just in case.

  “And you two,” Dingle said to the other two Americans in his team, “can carry sleeping beauty here down and put him in the cage with them.”

  The officers nodded and hoisted the unconscious Russian between them. Then the body of the bosun was carried away and placed with those of the two guards Jones had dealt with earlier.

  “The ship’s beginning to look a bit more tidy now,” commented Dingle. “Let’s go and clean up the officers’ accommodation.”

  *

  Jones had been to his cabin to fetch a bottle of vodka from his bag. The vodka had been supplied by a thoughtful Director before Jones and Dingle had left London.

  “But don’t drink any,” the Director had cautioned. “Keep it strictly for your Russian shipmates. One swig is guaranteed to put anyone to sleep within seconds — and he’ll wake up about two hours later, with a very sore head.”

  The guard at the door of the wireless cabin sprang to attention as Jones approached with Brook.

  The wind had moderated considerably, but there was still a heavy sea running, and it was raining hard.

  “Step inside,” ordered Jones. “Let’s get out of the wet. I want to speak to you.”

  The guard looked surprised, but he said nothing. He opened the door and held it for Jones and the pilot, then followed them in.

  A second guard, inside, looked startled when he saw the visitors. He rose hastily from a chair, clutching his Sten-gun tightly across his chest. The radio operator spun round in his chair to face the door. A revolver was lying on the desk, close to his right hand.

  Jones smiled.

  “I won’t keep you long,” he said. “I’m visiting everyone in the ship. I just want to congratulate you all and to thank you for your excellent work.”

  The three Russians relaxed slightly.

  “I’ve brought you a present,” Jones continued. He produced the bottle from his pocket.

  The two guards looked pleased. The operator seemed slightly embarrassed.

  The Welshman held out the bottle to the first guard.

  “Here you are. Straight from Moscow. I bought it there last week.”

  “Thank you, Comrade Kirenski, you are most kind,” replied the man, taking the bottle. He studied the label, and then stood looking politely at Jones.

  The Welshman laughed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not all yours. That bottle has to go a long way. Just take one mouthful and pass it on to your friends. Then I must go and see the rest of the crew. Captain Gorki would like some, too, if there’s any left.”

  The guard coloured slightly. />
  “Of course, Comrade. My apologies.” He moved his hands awkwardly. The man had a problem. How could he open the bottle while he was holding a Sten-gun in one hand?

  Jones obligingly came up with the answer.

  “I’ll hold your gun while you open the bottle. And Mr. Brook will take your friend’s gun while you both enjoy your drink. We shall act as guards for two minutes, eh?” he joked.

  The men smiled and handed over their weapons. Then they each took a long pull at the bottle.

  “Now pass it to our friend at the radio,” said Jones.

  The wireless operator looked even more embarrassed.

  “I don’t drink,” he said.

  “Come, come,” said Jones, taking the bottle. “You must have some.”

  “No really, I … ”

  The operator broke off and stared as the first guard suddenly slumped forward and fell to the deck. The second guard knelt down to help him. Then he tried to speak, looking up at the Welshman, but no words came. He sank down beside his friend.

  The radio operator half rose from his seat, then dropped back as Brook thrust the muzzle of the Sten-gun into the side of his neck.

  Jones stepped forward.

  “Now drink.”

  “No! No! Please … ”

  The Welshman seized a handful of the man’s hair and forced his head back.

  “Open your mouth wide or my friend will shoot.”

  The terrified Russian opened his mouth, and Jones poured a liberal dose of the colourless liquid down his throat. The man coughed and spluttered for a few moments. Then he joined his companions in slumber.

  “There’s lovely they look,” Jones said to the pilot. “Now we’ll go and see the man on duty at the forepeak.”

  *

  The forepeak guard was cold; and, although he was no longer being drenched by huge seas shipped over the bow and washing over the deck, he was still very wet. The rain had taken over where the sea had left off. But, for safety’s sake, he was still tied to the lifeline. He was very miserable.

  Jones’s words of praise and encouragement did little to lift the man’s gloom; but the promise of a warming nip of vodka helped.