‘Good luck again,’ said Alison.
I said, ‘If you see Wheeler give him a good clout with my compliments. He was looking forward to seeing his Chinese friend operate on me. If things work out I’ll see you in Ta’Xbiex—at the same place as last night.’
Gently I eased the throttles forward and moved off. I passed Artina quite closely; there were three men on deck—Wheeler, the Skipper and the Chinese, Chang Pi-wu. I could see them quite clearly because they were illuminated, but I was low on the water in the dark and there was no chance of them recognizing me. I was just another ship passing in the night
Mentally I made a cross on the place on the hull I intended to hit, and then I carried on down Lazzaretto Creek. At the bottom, near the Manoel Island bridge I turned with idling engines. I switched on the air from the scuba bottle and checked the demand-valve, and then bit on the mouthpiece and put on the mask. If things went well I wouldn’t have time to do any of that later.
Behind me traffic passed on the road and presently a procession came by with a band of pounding drums and off-key brass. I ignored it and looked across to Valletta and the forthcoming firework display. There was what I thought to be a heavier thump on a drum but it was a mortar banging off. A maroon burst over Valletta in a yellow sunburst and in the echoing reflection from the water of the harbour I saw Artina clearly for a brief moment. The fireworks had begun and it was time for me to add my share to the festivities.
I advanced the throttles and moved off slowly as a rocket soared up and exploded in a shower of red and green fiery rain. I steered with one hand and with the other liberally doused my cargo with petrol from an open can, hoping to God that the sparks from the fireworks were totally extinguished by the time they reached water level. It only needed one of those in the boat and I’d go up in a cloud of glory.
Then I pushed open the throttles wider and by the time I was making any kind of speed the sky was alive with lights as the Maltese spent their fireworks with reckless abandon. Artina was clearly silhouetted as, with equal abandon, I jammed the throttles wide open.
The engines roared and the boat reared up in the water almost uncontrollably as she began to plane. The wheel kicked in my hands as I strove to keep her on course and I zigzagged dangerously close to the line of yachts moored at the marina. I swung the wheel hard over but the bitch was late in responding and there was an outraged cry from the bow of one of the yachts. It sounded like the curry-voiced colonel who must have got the fright of his life as I scraped his paint at twenty knots.
Then I was past him and heading out into the harbour, bucking and twisting and steering a course which would have brought tears to the eyes of any self-respecting helmsman. The fireworks banged and flashed overhead striking dazzling reflections from the water and my heart jumped into my mouth as a small runabout came out of nowhere and cut across my bows. I cursed him and swung the wheel and missed him by a whisker. That made two damned fools at large in Marsamxett Harbour.
As I swung the wheel hard over the other way I looked for Artina and I saw that I was going to miss her by a sizeable margin. I cursed again at the thought of having to make another mad sortie. It occurred to me that with the steering being as crazy as it was then I’d better aim at anything but Artina and then I might have a chance of hitting her.
I estimated I was going to shoot under her stern but just then the hard-pressed port engine blew up and, with a nasty flailing rattle of a broken connecting rod, it expired. The boat checked a little in the water and her bow came over to aim directly at Artina. I hung on as she loomed over me and then, with a satisfying smash, my underwater ram struck her amidships.
I was thrown forward and bruised my ribs on the wheel but it saved me from going into the water. I still had one last thing to do. As I groped for my cigarette lighter I heard a shout on deck and I looked up into the eye-straining alternation of light and darkness and saw a movement as someone peered over the side to see what the hell had happened now. I couldn’t see much of him but I must have been clearly visible as another batch of rockets went up.
I flicked the lighter and it sparked but there was no flame. In the rocket’s red glare I saw that the boat’s bow was smashed and broken with the impact against Artina’s side. The ram must have been deeply embedded because she showed no sign of wanting to drift away.
Desperately I flicked the lighter again but again there was no flame. There was a bang from above and a bullet smashed into the instrument panel next to my elbow, ruining the rev counter. I leaned forward and put the lighter right next to a bunch of petrol-soaked fireworks. The boat was making water and I had to start a fire before she went under.
I flicked again and the whole damned lot went up in a brilliant sheet of flame. It was only because I was fully equipped in scuba gear that I wasn’t instantly incinerated. It went up, as suddenly ignited petrol does, in a soft explosion—a great whooof of flame that blew me overboard. And as I went something hit me in the shoulder very hard.
Whether or not I was actually on fire for a moment I don’t know. When I hit the water I was dazed, but the sudden shock brought a reflex into action and I struck for the depths. It was then I found that my right arm was totally useless. Not that it mattered very much; in scuba diving the flippered feet do most of the work. But it worried me because I didn’t know what could be wrong with it.
I swam under water for a short while, then stopped because I didn’t know where I was going. I was absolutely disoriented and, for all I knew, I could have been swimming out to sea. So I surfaced cautiously and looked around to get my bearings and to see what was happening to Artina.
I had not swum as far as I thought—she was about a hundred yards away, too close for comfort, especially in view of the little piece of hellfire that I had established amidships. My fireship was going great guns. With the ram stabbed into Artina’s side like a narwhal’s tusk she was securely fixed, and the fireworks were exploding like an artillery barrage, showering multi-coloured sparks and great gouts of flame which licked up her side. Already a canvas deck awning was on fire and men were running about the deck every which way.
A big maroon went off like a howitzer shell, sending out a burst of green flame and sparks which reached out to patter on the surface of the water about me, hissing viciously as they were extinguished. I was close enough to be seen if anyone had the time to look, so I sank beneath the surface again after a last glance around, and struck out for the shore.
I had not done a dozen strokes before I knew something was wrong. I felt curiously weak and light-headed and my right shoulder had developed a dull throb which was rapidly sharpening up into a stabbing pain. I eased off and felt my shoulder with my left hand and the pain jabbed me with such intensity that I nearly yelled aloud which is a good way of getting oneself drowned.
So I surfaced again and drifted, becoming more light-headed and feeling the strength ebbing from my legs more swiftly every minute. The fire by Artina was still going strong but it all seemed blurred as though seen through a rain-washed window. It was then I knew that I was probably going to die, that I no longer had the strength to swim to the shore which was so close, and that I was drifting out to sea where I would drown.
I think I passed out for a moment because the next thing I knew there was a light flashing in my eyes from very close and an urgent whisper, ‘Owen; grab this!’
Something fell across my face and floated in the water next to my head and I put out my left hand and found a rope. ‘Can you hold on?’ I knew it was Alison.
An engine throbbed and the rope tightened and I was being drawn through the water. Desperately I concentrated all my attention on to holding on to that rope. Whatever strength I had left must be marshalled and pushed into the fingers of my left hand so that they would not relinquish their grip. The water lapped about my head, creating a miniature bow wave as I was towed behind Alison’s boat and, even in that extremity, I paid tribute to the efficiency of Alison Smith and Mackintosh’s training.
She knew she could not haul an almost unconscious man into the boat without either capsizing or, worse, attracting attention.
It was a ridiculously short distance to the shore and Alison brought up at a slipway. She rammed the boat up it, careless of the consequences, and jumped overboard into two feet of water and hauled me out bodily. ‘What’s wrong, Owen?’
I flopped down and sat into the shallow water. ‘I think I was shot,’ I said carefully, and my voice seemed to come from miles away. ‘In the shoulder—the right shoulder.’
The pain washed over me as her fingers probed, and then I heard the rip of cloth and she bandaged the wound roughly but effectively. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had operated there and then, using a penknife and a hairpin to extract the bullet. I was becoming used to her surprising range of talents.
I said tiredly, ‘What’s happening to Artina!’
She moved away and I saw Artina in the harbour beyond. All the sea was on fire about her and above the yellow flames rose the roiling cloud of greasy black smoke that could only come from oil. The ram had done its work. Even as I watched there was a red flash just under the wheelhouse and then the wheelhouse vanished as an oil tank exploded in her vitals and blasted through the deck. A deep boom came across the water, echoed and re-echoed from the cliff-like fortifications of Valletta.
‘That’s it, then,’ I said abstractedly.
Alison leaned over me. ‘Can you walk?’
‘I don’t know. I can try.’
She put her hand under my left arm. ‘You’ve been leaking blood like a stuck pig. You need a hospital.’
I nodded. ‘All right.’ It didn’t really matter now. The job had been done. Even if Slade or Wheeler had survived they were done for. I would be asked why I had destroyed Artina and I would tell the truth, and I would be listened to very carefully. People don’t wander around blowing up millionaires’ yachts for nothing and what I had to say would be heard. Whether it was believed or not would be another matter, but enough mud would stick to Wheeler to make sure that hard, professional eyes would be on him for ever more. As for Slade, I had escaped from prison with him and if I was on Malta and said that Slade was around then he would be picked up in jig time. It’s a small island and strangers can’t hide easily.
As for myself I didn’t know what would happen. Alison might give evidence in camera as to my part in the affair, but if Mackintosh was dead I didn’t know how much weight that would carry. There was a strong possibility that I would spend the rest of my life in the maximum security wing of Durham Gaol. Right at that moment I was past caring.
Alison helped me to my feet and I staggered like a drunken sailor up the slipway, hanging on to her arm with a flabby grip. We had just reached the top when I paused and stared at the man who was waiting. He looked remarkably like that tough, young copper, Sergeant Jervis, who had taken such a strong dislike to me because I had stolen some diamonds and had not the grace to tell him where they were.
I turned my head and looked in the other direction. Brunskill was there with Forbes just behind him. Already they were striding out and coming towards us.
I said to Alison, ‘The end of the line, I think,’ and turned to face Brunskill.
He stood in front of me and surveyed me with expressionless eyes, noting every detail of my disarray and the bandage on my shoulder. He flicked his eyes at Alison, and then nodded towards the harbour where Artina was going down in flames. ‘Did you do that?’
‘Me?’ I shook my head. ‘It must have been caused by a spark from the fireworks.’
He smiled grimly. ‘I must caution you that anything you say may be taken down in writing and used in evidence.’ He looked at Alison. ‘That applies to you, too.’
‘I don’t think Malta is within your jurisdiction,’ she said coolly.
‘Not to worry about that,’ said Brunskill. ‘I have a platoon of the local constabulary on call.’ He turned to me. ‘If you had as many lives as a cat you’d spend them all inside. I’m going to wrap you up so tight this time that they’ll have to build a prison just for you.’
I could see him mentally formulating the list of charges. Arson, murder, grievous bodily harm, carrying weapons—and worse—using them, driving a horse and cart through the Explosives Act. Maybe, with a bit of twisting, he could toss in piracy and setting fire to the Queen’s shipyards. Those last two are still capital offences.
He said, ‘What in hell did you think you were doing?’ There was wonder in his voice.
I swayed on my feet. ‘I’ll tell you after I’ve seen a doctor.’
He caught me as I fell.
II
I woke up in the nick. It was the prison hospital, to be sure, but still inside thick walls, and they build walls thicker in Malta than anywhere else. But I had a private room and came to the conclusion that the local coppers didn’t want the simple, uncomplicated Maltese criminals to be corrupted by contact with such a hard case as myself. This proved to be a wrong assumption.
An uncommunicative doctor performed a simple operation on my shoulder under local anaesthetic and then I lay waiting for the arrival of Brunskill and his inevitable questions. I spent the time thinking out ingenious lies to tell him; there are certain aspects of HM Government it is better for the ordinary copper not to know.
But it was a stranger and not Brunskill who was ushered into the room. He was a tall, middle-aged man with a smooth, unlined face and an air of quiet authority who introduced himself as Armitage. His credentials were impressive; I read a letter of introduction from the Prime Minister and pushed back the rest of the bumf unread.
He pulled up a chair to the bedside and sat down. ‘Well, Mr Stannard; how are you feeling?’
I said, ‘If you know my name is Stannard then you know most of the story. Did Alec Mackintosh send you?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said regretfully. ‘Mackintosh is dead.’
I felt a cold lump settle in my stomach. ‘So he never came out of hospital.’
‘He died without recovering consciousness,’ said Armitage.
I thought of Alison and wondered how she’d take it. The love-hate relationship she had with her father made it difficult to estimate her reaction. I said, ‘Has Mrs Smith been told?’
Armitage nodded. ‘She took it quite well.’
How would you know? I thought.
‘This is all going to be difficult,’ said Armitage. ‘Your activities—particularly in the Irish Republic—could put the Government into an awkward position.’ He paused. ‘Should they be fully disclosed.’
I could imagine that they could. Relations were already strained over what was happening in Ulster and the Press would have a field day with garbled stories of a British agent on the rampage in the sovereign State of Ireland.
I said ironically, ‘Not to mention my own awkward position.’
‘Just so,’ said Armitage.
We stared at each other. ‘All right,’ I said at last. ‘Who blew the gaff? This operation had the tightest security of any I’ve been on. How did it fall apart?’
Armitage sighed. ‘It fell apart because of the tight security. It fell apart because Mackintosh was constitutionally unable to trust anyone.’ He held me with his eye. ‘He didn’t even trust you.’
I nodded, and Armitage snorted. ‘He didn’t even trust the Prime Minister. All through he played a lone hand and deceived everyone regarding his motives.’
I said quietly, ‘I have a big stake in this. I think you’d better tell me the story.’
It all started with the spate of prison escapes which worried the people at the top. Mountbatten investigated the prison service and security was tightened, but the vague rumours of the Scarperers’ organization kept the worries on the boil and Mackintosh was put in charge of doing something about it.
‘I didn’t like that,’ said Armitage disapprovingly. ‘And I said so at the time. It ought to have been left to the Special Branch.’
‘Mackintosh told me they’d
tried and failed,’ I said.
Armitage nodded impatiently. ‘I know—but they could have tried again. Mackintosh was too much the lone wolf—too secretive.’
I could see what stuck in Armitage’s craw. He was a top-level civil servant—a Whitehall mandarin—and he liked things to go through channels in an orderly way. In particular, he didn’t like the idea of the Prime Minister having a private hatchet man. It offended his sense of what was fitting.
He leaned forward. ‘Unknown to anybody Mackintosh already had his eye on Wheeler but he kept his suspicions to himself. He didn’t even tell the PM. We’ll never know what went through his mind, but perhaps he thought he wouldn’t be believed. Wheeler was coming up fast in popularity and influence; in fact, the Prime Minister was on the point of making him a Junior Minister in the Government.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I can see Alec’s problem. How did he get on to Wheeler?’
Armitage shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I believe the Prime Minister reposed full confidence in Mackintosh regarding certain measures of top-level security.’ He sounded even more disapproving.
So Mackintosh was running security checks on the Ălite. That was one answer to the question: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? I could imagine the Prime Minister might expect Mackintosh to turn up some member of the radical Left or Right as a potential risk, but who would suspect a bourgeois capitalist who firmly trod the middle road of being a Maoist? The idea was laughable.
‘So Mackintosh had unprovable suspicions,’ I said. ‘He didn’t want them getting back to Wheeler so he kept his mouth shut until he could catch Wheeler in the act.’
‘That must have been the size of it,’ conceded Armitage. ‘He brought you in and put you next to Slade by means of the diamond robbery.’ A slight smile mitigated his severe expression. ‘Most ingenious. But he didn’t tell you about Wheeler.’
Running Blind / The Freedom Trap Page 50