He saw Tozier run past him, along the deck and out into the open space of the waist of the ship, zig-zagging so as never to take more than three steps in the same direction. He disappeared behind the donkey-engine casing at the foot of the derrick and Warren looked upwards. It seemed impossible that any man should climb that after what had happened.
Metcalfe had one eye on the derrick and the other on the Stella del Mare. He saw Tozier scrambling up and then turned the wheel so as to straighten the Orestes on her course. Tozier reached the crow’s nest and bent to put his eye to the sight, but the yacht was sheering off, although Metcalfe did his best to keep the bows in line with her.
The sudden change of course of both ships confused the gunners on the yacht. The forward machine-gun could not be brought to bear at all, while the one amidships fired but the aim was wild. However, the cannon was perfectly positioned and it traversed smoothly and opened fire. A hail of shells drove past Tozier and it seemed impossible that he should not be hit. Astern of the Orestes the sea erupted in fountains for a mile as the shells overshot the ship and exploded harmlessly.
Tozier stabbed at the buttons and two torpedoes, worth the combined sum of $50,000,000 were on their way.
Then he scrambled down the derrick as fast as he could. He got within ten feet of the bottom and fell the rest of the way. The cannon stopped firing and Warren heard someone cheering from the stern and wondered what Metcalfe had to be so glad about. One thing was certain—the torpedoes had missed. There was no explosion from the sea and a machine-gun still continued its staccato conversation.
Metcalfe had tried to emulate a tortoise as the cannon shells whipped overhead, hunching his neck into his shoulders as though that would save his head from getting knocked off. If the cannon had been depressed a fraction lower the stern of the Orestes would have been swept clear and Tom Metcalfe with it. When the cannon fire stopped he looked through a hole in the awning and began to cheer loudly.
Things had gone wrong on the Stella del Mare; there was confusion on her poop deck and the long barrel of the cannon was canted upwards at an unnatural angle. The improvised mounting had not been able to withstand the incessant hammering as the cannon had pumped out shells and it was now out of action. From the yacht came a thin and distant wail, sounding as though someone had been hurt.
So Metcalfe cheered.
Below, in the bows, Parker and Hellier heard the hiss of compressed air as the torpedoes left the tubes. Hellier was disposed to wait to hear if they struck, but Parker was already closing the outer doors of the tubes in preparation for reloading. He swung open the inner doors and stepped aside as the water gushed out, and then pulled smartly on the handles of the clamps which held the racked torpedo on the port side. ‘Come on,’ he yelled. ‘Get the bastard in!’
He and Hellier heaved on the torpedo which moved slowly on its rollers towards the open tube. It was very heavy and moved a fraction of an inch at a time, but it picked up speed as they pushed harder, and finally went in sweetly. Parker slammed the door home and spun the locking wheel. ‘Now the other one,’ he gasped.
‘Do you think the first lot hit?’ asked Hellier.
‘Dunno,’ said Parker, his hands busy. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Must have been point-blank range judgin’ by the racket goin’ on up there. Let’s get this one in, for God’s sake!’
Warren looked to see if he could see Tozier but there was no sign of him. He stuck his head around the side of the bridge and looked across at the Stella del Mare. She had turned as the Orestes had turned and was still on the port side keeping a parallel course. The midships machine-gun was still firing in short bursts and now the one in the bows could be brought to bear again and it also opened up, but both seemed to be concentrating on the forward deck.
He saw why. Tozier was sheltering in the break of the forecastle, just sitting there with one leg trailing behind him and oddly bent in a place where there should have been no joint. Even at that distance Warren could tell that the leg was broken. He saw Dan Parker dash from the doorway of the forecastle in an attempt to get to Tozier. He had not gone two steps when he stopped a bullet which flung him round and sent him crashing to the deck where he lay feebly moving.
It was too much for Warren. He broke from cover and ran up the deck, careless of whether he was in danger or not. Simultaneously there was a stentorian bellow from the stern. ‘She’s coming around to strafe us on the starboard side. She’ll be crossing our bows—get ready to shoot.’
Warren heard the words but they made no sense to him; he was intent on getting to Parker and Tozier. But he was thankfully aware that the machine-gunning had stopped as the Stella del Mare began to swing ahead of the Orestes and firing became unprofitable. Thus he was able to reach Parker without a scratch.
He bent down and took Parker under the arms and dragged him into the forecastle. He was ruthless about it because he had no time to waste, but mercifully Parker was unconscious. Then he went back for Tozier who looked up and gave a weak grin. ‘Busted leg,’ he said.
‘You can stand on the other,’ said Warren, and helped him up.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ yelled Metcalfe. ‘Someone get up that bloody derrick.’
Warren looked back and hesitated as he felt Tozier’s weight lean on him. He saw Abbot make a run for it, disappearing behind the donkey engine as Tozier had done to reappear half way up the derrick, climbing as though the devil were at his heels.
Metcalfe, on the poop, had a grandstand view. The Stella del Mare crossed his bows three hundred yards ahead. At the sight of Abbot on the derrick the machine-guns opened up again, hosing the Orestes unmercifully. Abbot did not bother to use the sight. He slammed his hand on the buttons just as a burst of machine-gun fire stitched bloody holes across his chest. He spread his arms as he was flung backwards to crash thirty feet to the deck below.
But then the yacht shivered and checked her stride as the torpedoes hit her, and she erupted as over three hundred and fifty pounds of TNT exploded in her guts. She was no warship built to take punishment, and the explosions tore her apart. Her mid-section was ripped and destroyed utterly, thus cutting her in half; her bows floated for a few seconds only, leaving the stern filling with water fast.
Several small figures jumped from the stern just before it went under in a boil of swirling water, and Metcalfe’s teeth bared in a humourless smile. The Orestes ploughed on towards the bits of wreckage floating on the surface, and he saw a white face under long blonde hair and an arm waving desperately.
Slowly, and with intense care, he turned the wheel so that the stern of the Orestes slid sideways towards Jeanette Delorme and she was drawn into the maelstrom of the churning screw. With equal precision he straightened the Orestes on her course and did not look back at what might appear in the wake.
VII
Metcalfe leaned on the rail and looked into the gaping muzzle of the second quick-firing gun he had seen that day. It was trained on the Orestes from the Lebanese patrol boat which ticked over quietly a hundred yards to port in exactly the same position the Stella del Mare had held. Everything was the same except that the engines of the Orestes were stopped, the companion was lowered and a small motor boat containing two ratings and a junior officer of the Lebanese Navy lay close at hand.
‘Give me a hand, Tom,’ called Warren.
Metcalfe turned and went over to where Warren was bandaging Parker’s shoulder. He bent down and held the dressing so that Warren could tie it off. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Not bad,’ said Parker. ‘It could have been worse—mustn’t grumble.’
Metcalfe squatted and said to Warren, ‘That civilian who came aboard didn’t look like a Navy man to me.’
‘I didn’t even know the Lebanon had a navy,’ said Warren.
‘It doesn’t; just a few coastal defence vessels.’ Metcalfe nodded to the patrol boat. ‘I’ve given those boys the slip many a time.’ He frowned. ‘What do you suppose Hellier’s nattering about al
l this time? Those two must have been talking for an hour.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Warren shortly. He was thinking about Mike Abbot and Ben Bryan—two dead of the original team of five. Forty per cent casualties was a high price to pay, and that did not count the wounded—another forty per cent.
Tozier lay close by, his leg in splints, while Follet talked to him. ‘Goddam it!’ said Follet. ‘I’ll explain it again.’ He jingled the coins in his hands.
‘Oh, I believe you,’ said Tozier. ‘I have to, don’t I? After all, you took the money from me. It’s a neat trick.’ He looked across the deck at the canvas-shrouded body which lay at the head of the companion way. ‘It’s a pity the idea didn’t work later.’
‘I know what you mean, but it was the best thing to do,’ said Follet stubbornly. ‘As I said—you can’t win ‘em all.’ He looked up. ‘Here comes Hellier now.’
Hellier walked across the deck towards them. Metcalfe stood up and asked, ‘Is that a Navy man?’ He nodded to Hassan who waited by the rail.
‘No,’ said Hellier. ‘He’s a policeman.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Everything.’ said Hellier. ‘The whole story.’
Metcalfe blew out his cheeks. ‘That puts us right in the middle,’ he said. ‘We’ll be lucky if we’re not in the nick for another twenty years. Have you ever been in a Middle East jail, Sir Robert?’
Hellier smiled. ‘I was a bit vague about your gun-running activities. He wasn’t interested in that, anyway. He wants to talk to us.’
He turned to Hassan, who walked over to them, his hands in his pockets. He surveyed them with tight lips and said abruptly, ‘My name is Jamil Hassan; I am a police officer. You gentlemen appear to have been conducting a private war, part of which was on Lebanese territory. As a police officer I find that most irregular.’
Some of the sternness softened from his face. ‘However, as a police officer I find myself helpless since the high seas outside Lebanese territorial waters do not come within my jurisdiction—so what am I to do?’
Metcalfe grinned. ‘You tell us, chum.’
Hassan ignored the interjection. ‘Of course, as well as being a police officer I am also a private citizen of the Lebanon. In that capacity let me offer you my thanks for what you have done. But I would advise you, in future, to leave such pursuits in the hands of the proper and competent authorities.’ His lips quirked in a smile. ‘Which in this case were not very competent. But that still leaves unanswered the question—what am I to do with you?’
‘We have wounded men,’ said Warren. ‘They need attention—a hospital. You could take them back to Beirut in that boat of yours.’
‘Not mine,’ corrected Hassan. ‘You, I take it, are Dr Warren?’ At Warren’s answering nod, he continued, ‘Any of you going back to Beirut in that boat would inevitably end in jail. Our small Navy does not have your English tradition of turning a blind eye. No, you will stay here and I will go back to Beirut. I will send someone to pick you up and you will be landed quietly and discreetly. You understand that I am arranging this purely in my capacity of a private citizen and not that of a police officer.’
Metcalfe let out his breath in a long sigh. Hassan looked at him sardonically, and said, ‘Our Arab nations work together very closely and extradition is easily arranged. There have been reports of a gang of international thugs roaming the Middle East, killing indiscriminately, using military weapons and—‘ he fixed Metcalfe firmly with a gimlet eye—‘indulging in other activities against the state, particularly in Iraq. Owing to these circumstances you will leave the Lebanon at the earliest opportunity. Air tickets will be delivered to your hotel and you will use them. I hope you understand.’
Tozier said, ‘What about the crew of this ship? They’re still battened down in the hold.’
‘You will release the crew just before you leave this ship.’ Hassan smiled thinly. ‘They will have some awkward questions to answer if the ship ever puts into port. In the circumstances I don’t think we will see the ship again.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hellier. ‘We appreciate your understanding of our position.’
Hassan nodded curtly and turned away. He was half way to the companionway when he paused and turned. ‘How much heroin was there?’
‘One thousand kilos exactly,’ said Parker. ‘A metric ton.’
Hassan nodded. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’ Unexpectedly, he smiled. ‘I thought I knew all about smuggling—but torpedoes!’ He shook his head and his face turned grave as he saw the shrouded body of Abbot. ‘I suggest you bury the body of this brave man at sea,’ he said, and went over the side to his waiting boat.
Tozier said, ‘Well, Nick; it’s over. It was nip and tuck towards the last, but we made it.’
Warren leaned against the hatch coaming. He suddenly felt very tired. ‘Yes, we made it. Some of us made it, anyway.’
But Ben Bryan would never be Lord of the Manor, although Warren intended to see that Hellier came through with his promise of a community centre for the treatment of addicts; and Mike Abbot would never again be found waiting on his doorstep for the latest dirt on the drug scene.
He looked up at Hellier—the man who had wanted blood—and hoped he was satisfied. Had the deaths been worth it? There would be an unknown number of people, most of them in the United States, who would live longer and presumably happier lives, quite unaware that their extra years had been purchased by death—and next year, or the year after, another Eastman or another Delorme would arise, and the whole damned, filthy business would start again.
Warren closed his eyes against the sun. But let somebody else stop it, he thought; the pace is too hot for a simple doctor.
Juggernaut
ONE
The telephone call came when I was down by the big circular pool chatting up the two frauleins I had cut out of the herd. I didn’t rate my chances too highly. They were of an age which regards any man of over thirty-five as falling apart at the seams; but what the hell, it was improving my German.
I looked up at the brown face of the waiter and said incredulously, ‘A phone call for me?’
‘Yes, sir. From London.’ He seemed impressed.
I sighed and grabbed my beach robe. ‘I’ll be back,’ I promised, and followed the waiter up the steps towards the hotel. At the top I paused. ‘I’ll take it in my room,’ I said, and cut across the front of the hotel towards the cabana I rented.
Inside it was cool, almost cold, and the air conditioning unit uttered a muted roar. I took a can of beer from the refrigerator, opened it, and picked up the telephone. As I suspected, it was Geddes. ‘What are you doing in Kenya?’ he asked. The line was good; he could have been in the next room.
I drank some beer. ‘What do you care where I take my vacations?’
‘You’re on the right continent. It’s a pity you have to come back to London. What’s the weather like there?’
‘It’s hot. What would you expect on the equator?’
‘It’s raining here,’ he said, ‘and a bit cold.’
I’d got used to the British by now. As with the Arabs there is always an exchange of small talk before the serious issues arise but the British always talk about the weather. I sometimes find it hard to take. ‘You didn’t ring me for a weather report. What’s this about London?’
‘Playtime is over, I’m afraid. We have a job for you. I’d like to see you in my office the day after tomorrow.’
I figured it out. Half an hour to check out, another hour to Mombasa to turn in the rented car. The afternoon flight to Nairobi and then the midnight flight to London. And the rest of that day to recover. ‘I might just make it,’ I conceded, ‘but I’d like to know why.’
‘Too complicated now. See you in London.’
‘Okay,’ I said grouchily. ‘How did you know I was here, by the way?’
Geddes laughed lightly. ‘We have our methods, Watson, we have our methods.’ There was a click and the line went dead.
I went outside the cabana and stood on the balcony while I finished the beer. The Indian Ocean was calm and palm fronds fluttered in a light breeze. The girls were splashing in the pool, having a mock fight, and their shrill laughter cut through the heated air. Two young men were watching them with interest. Goodbyes were unnecessary, I thought, so I finished the beer and went inside to pack.
A word about the company I work for. British Electric is about as British as Shell Oil is Dutch—it’s gone multinational, which is why I was one of the many Americans in its employ. You can’t buy a two kilowatt electric heater from British Electric, nor yet a five cubic foot refrigerator, but if you want the giant-sized economy pack which produces current measured in megawatts then we’re your boys. We’re at the heavy end of the industry.
Nominally I’m an engineer but it must have been ten years since I actually built or designed anything. The higher a man rises in a corporation like ours the less he is concerned with purely technical problems. Of course, the jargon of modern management makes everything sound technical and the subcommittee rooms resound with phrases drawn from critical path analysis, operations research and industrial dynamics, but all that flim-flam is discarded at the big boardroom table, where the serious decisions are made by men who know there is a lot more to management than the mechanics of technique.
There are lots of names for people like me. In some companies I’m called an expeditor, in others a troubleshooter. I operate in the foggy area bounded on the north by technical problems, on the east by finance, on the west by politics, and on the south by the sheer quirkiness of humankind. If I had to put a name to my trade I’d call myself a political engineer.
Geddes was right about London; it was cold and wet. There was a strong wind blowing which drove the rain against the windows of his office with a pattering sound. After Africa it was bleak.
The Spoilers / Juggernaut Page 31