by Peter Tonkin
‘So,’ he said conversationally, ‘why did you join Greenpeace?’
‘I have to know you a bit better before I tell you that story, I’m afraid.’
‘Fair enough. You freelance out of Rome?’
‘As a journalist? Yeah. Usual thing. A little magazine work, research. A little newspaper work. Stringer for Reuters. Trying to break into television.’
When the webbing cradle came back, he attached it with more care than ever to the barrel he had been checking out as he talked: the one immediately above her. He raised his hand, heard Asha’s call, watched the way Bernadotte eased it up.
And this time he was rewarded: ‘Hey! I see the light, Captain. I see the light.’
He smiled to himself and said nothing, but he flashed a ‘thumbs-up’ to Asha.
The next barrel uncovered the batten they were under and the fourth revealed a piece of white overall. Progress slowed for a minute then, for he had to move some of the lower barrels. One or two of them, leaning across others, were neither upright nor horizontal. These he simply wrestled round until they stood back in their places, giving him room to step down on to the floor. He was assessing his next move carefully—the barrel he had been standing on seemed to be supporting a slope of horizontal barrels like a stake holding back a pile of logs—when he heard a masculine groan.
‘Hey!’ cried an outraged Ann instantly.
‘What?’
‘He moved.’
‘Good.’
‘Good for you, maybe. You don’t know what he moved.’
‘He’s stirring,’ John called up to Asha.
‘Is he all right?’ Her voice echoed down strangely, as though he were hearing her through a faulty radio.
‘Too soon to say. I think I’ll need some help down here now. Marco and two men.’
While he waited, he sent up another barrel but getting to it made the batten under which Ann and Niccolo lay creak worryingly. Niccolo groaned again. This time Ann said nothing. ‘Is he still moving?’ asked John anxiously.
‘Yes,’ she snapped.
‘Capitano,’ called a voice from above, and Marco came scrambling down the barrels with all the youthful energy he expended on most of the things he did. The container began to shake again, a worrying movement which was exacerbated as his men climbed down behind him. John was heartily thankful he had asked for only three helpers. Any more would have toppled them on to the deck. ‘Put these barrels back in place.’ He gestured at the barrels which were lying about. ‘Not that one! No!’ This last to Marco who was thoughtlessly reaching for the one that held all the others safe.
By a combination of pushing, pulling and pointing, he got them to place the barrels so that he could climb up safely to the top of the dangerous slope without putting any weight on the two trapped under it. Then it was just a matter of time before he had placed the slings round the last few barrels and had them lifted away. Finally, he let Marco move the upright barrel so that he could roll the last one away. There they lay, wedged under the batten in a space which should not have contained one of them, let alone two.
Asha climbed down and knelt beside the groaning man while Ann, patiently, lay still between him and the wall until they had checked that it would be safe to move him. Marco and his men stood ready to carry him up and out. As Asha gently rolled Niccolo out on to the floor and began to check him more carefully for broken bones and internal injuries, John gave Ann a hand to roll out into the light and climb to her unsteady feet. Then he began to wave at Bernadotte.
Once again the webbing straps came down. ‘This’ll be the safest way to get Niccolo out, as long as it’s not going to damage him to strap him in,’ he said. ‘The alternative is to let Marco’s men carry him.’
Asha looked at Marco’s men. They looked like extras from a pirate film. She looked at Marco. He smiled. He was exactly like a great big, cheerful, willing, over-friendly, clumsy puppy. ‘Use the straps,’ she said.
John treated him like a barrel and tightened the straps round his chest and thighs. While he did so, Asha turned to Ann and they had a muttered conversation which apparently put the doctor’s mind at rest. Bernadotte could see what John had done and he used a great deal of technique to raise the unconscious man gently into the air. Asha immediately took off after her patient, and Ann, a little more stiffly, followed after her. John went up after the women, but paused and turned to find Marco and his team following him. ‘No,’ he said, slowly, trying to think of a word which would encapsulate the complex of orders he wanted to give. ‘Ordinato!’ It meant ‘tidy’ as far as he understood. And that was how he wanted the interior of the container. With long faces, the three men went back down. John went on up. At the top of the container he paused, his head and shoulders in the sunlight, his hips and legs still in the container. He looked down to see the men working slowly and fractiously below.
Then the shouting started and he was up and out in a flash. ‘What is it?’ he yelled down to Asha who was on the deck, beside Niccolo already.
‘Bernadotte!’ she yelled back. ‘The stupid bastard’s dropped Niccolo!’
In the container, Marco’s men paused to listen to the exchange. It was in English so they did not understand it. Their eyes, however, followed the angry footsteps of the captain as though they could see him through the steel of the container top. But their hands remained busy, and blind. They swung the next barrel back into position without noticing the slow drops of dull yellowish-green liquid leaking out of its side.
16
John hurled across the deck to where Niccolo’s body lay sprawled on the green. Asha was crouching anxiously over him and the men of the day work gang stood in a solicitous circle. ‘I think his leg is broken,’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘I can’t say any more until I’ve checked him over thoroughly.’
John shot up the ladder to the crane control cockpit, but as he stepped on to the small steel balcony outside its door, he realised he had been beaten to it. Ann Cable was standing there, her slim figure tense with outrage, bellowing in fluent Italian at the stunned deckhand. John had no idea what she was saying to him, but the big man was clearly not enjoying it. She paused for breath. ‘He says the control lever slipped,’ Ann informed John. ‘How could the control lever slip?’ And she was off again, hurling a tirade of Italian at him. The big sailor had clearly just about had enough. He surged to his feet, huge paw raised.
‘Resta!’ snarled John, as though Bernadotte were a dog. But he need not have bothered. Ann was more than capable of holding her own against inarticulate, macho threats of violence. Indeed, having disarmed the huge man with her flow of invective, it was she herself, carried beyond control by his sullen, mute insolence, who struck the first blow, hurling herself into the little cabin to rain a series of slaps upon his simian face and bullet head.
John reached in and grabbed her round the waist. She paid no attention to his firm grasp and so it was easy enough for him to swing her out of the cab and set her feet on the top rung. ‘That’s enough,’ he gasped, winded by her fury. ‘Leave this to me now.’
She froze, as though waking unexpectedly from a dream. ‘Go down,’ he prompted, and, thoughtlessly obedient, she moved.
He swung back and met Bernadotte’s eye. The giant’s expression was murderous. I’m going to have to keep him under lock and key, thought John. ‘Fuori!’ he snapped, emphasising the order with a jerk of his thumb.
‘Zis bitch she hit me bad,’ grumbled Bernadotte unexpectedly as he moved obediently.
‘I’ll sort it out later.’ John was still so angry that the crewman’s linguistic ability hardly made any impression. ‘Go to your cabin now.’
John followed the bear-like back down to the cabin Bernadotte shared in the lower deck of the bridgehouse. His cabin mate was off watch and lying reading on his bunk, which was lucky. ‘Which kit is yours?’ John asked the man and such was his obvious rage that he was answered, not by the usual universal shrug but by instant action. The man pointed to a p
ile of clothing and books. ‘Out,’ snapped John. ‘Fuori.’ The crewman picked up his stuff and shuffled out into the corridor. ‘In!’ he snarled at Bernadotte and, apparently in the grip of shock, Bernadotte obeyed.
John slammed the door and jammed his pass key in the lock. Let Bernadotte cool his heels there until he had this sorted out, he thought. And, he reckoned, it would give Salah a little more leeway as he settled into the bosun’s job. ‘You. Find yourself new quarters,’ he ordered Bernadotte’s erstwhile cabin mate. Then he spun on his heel and was gone. He would see the chief steward and make sure the man he had moved was comfortably housed. He would have to see the chief steward in any case to arrange Bernadotte’s food. He was tempted to make it bread and water. When he was calmer, he would talk to Bernadotte and try to discover what exactly had happened. He would need to make a report in the log and accident report book. In the meantime, he had better see how his first officer was faring and arrange to take over his watches himself. Thank God Asha was here.
*
Niccolo was just coming round when John arrived in the infirmary. Both Asha and Ann were there at his bedside, and the only person who seemed to be doing any work was Fatima. The Neapolitan was shockingly pale and when at last his eyes did open, he was so unwell that he hardly registered the presence of the women at all. He strove to move when he saw John, and seemed to be trying to sit up. John crossed to him at once. ‘Don’t disturb yourself,’ he said gently.
‘The container…’
‘It’s fine. Marco’s team are repacking it.’
‘The drums…’
‘They all seem fine. You just rest. You’ve had a rough time. We’ll talk later.’
Niccolo lay back with a sigh. John was surprised that he did not ask about Bernadotte, but then he realised Niccolo knew nothing about his fall to the deck. He obviously assumed his injuries had originated inside the container. Well, they would sort this all out later. Niccolo was sinking back under the influence of the sedative Asha had given to him. He had regained consciousness only to fall asleep almost at once.
‘Well?’ asked John.
‘I’m still not sure about his leg,’ she said. ‘I think he’s all right otherwise.’
‘Good. Ms Cable?’
‘Call me Ann. I ache all over and losing my temper like that always pisses me off. Other than that, I’m okay.’
‘If we can call it a day for the time being, I’ll take you down into the hold myself, but later. I have some sorting out to do now.’
‘That’s fine, Captain,’ she said.
His eyes met Asha’s. She smiled at him with loving pride. And he realised the tone in Ann’s voice betrayed the fact that when she called him Captain she really meant it.
*
During the next forty-eight hours the land closed in on either side and the traffic around them became denser as the shipping in the western Mediterranean was forced into the funnel of the Gibraltar approaches. John took Niccolo’s watches between four and eight in every twelve hours. On the one hand, the 16.00-20.00 watch allowed him to get the feel of the ship and the way she worked more satisfactorily than he could as the captain. On the other hand, the watch between 04.00 and 08.00 took Asha and himself back to feeling that this was not a very satisfactory honeymoon. But she was as often at Niccolo’s bedside as he was on duty; he was also concerned with checking the disposition of the containers and with holding an inquiry into the accident.
He had no time to keep his promise to show Ann the hold. Instead she took the opportunity afforded by his work on deck to watch him and his men replace the broken hawser and check all the others. They had to leave the loose container resting directly on top of the one beneath it because the timbers that had separated them were broken. She watched with fascination as every line was checked and tightened. She also attended Bernadotte’s hearing which John held the morning after the accident in the infirmary so that Niccolo could listen. He was much improved but would have to stay in bed for a little longer, especially as the infirmary was not stocked with crutches.
Bernadotte was brought in by Cesar at nine o’clock while Marco held the watch. He looked mutinous, and presented himself as being perfectly innocent. He explained that the controls of the forward crane were faulty and had slipped in spite of his best efforts to lower the first mate gently. Cesar had already checked it at John’s order. He found that it worked perfectly with heavy weights. Marco, too, had found no difficulty in lifting the barrels from the deck and lowering them back into the container yesterday. But when, at Salah’s suggestion, Cesar tested the crane with several lengths of chain weighing about the same as a man, the gears slipped once in every five attempts. Bernadotte’s claim might be true; the crane could be faulty. John kept him in custody while he continued to think things through.
They came under the Rock at the end of the first officer’s morning watch on the third day after the accident. John was on the bridge. It was an overcast morning, with a low sky and a mist of thin rain almost obscuring the great white rockface. The wind and tide were running against them but Napoli chugged doggedly forward into the Strait. John went to stand beside the helmsman, one of a team Salah was training.
He stared narrow-eyed through the clearview, but there was little to see. The Atlantic proper did not begin until after Tangiers and Cap Spartel. The biggest waves they had met so far came in in series, however, causing Napoli to pitch a little. A fitting preparation for the Bay of Biscay.
The rear door to the bridge opened and closed. John turned and was surprised to see Niccolo limping in. His left leg was bound in a firm bandage. He had a length of metal piping in one hand which had been bent into a makeshift walking stick. He saw John looking at it and grinned. It was the first time John had seen him smile. ‘Ann thought of it. She got one of El Jefe’s men to do it. I’ll take over my watch now if you like, sir.’
‘All right, Number One. Take the watchkeeper’s chair. Do you want a footstool?’
Before Niccolo could answer, the door was pushed open again and Ann Cable came in carrying one. The senior officers’ eyes met. Both men smiled. Ann put the footstool down without seeing the shared look and straightened. ‘Okay, Nico?’
Niccolo nodded and sat, swinging his leg up on to it. Ann turned to John, thoughtlessly wiping her palms down the thighs of her jeans. ‘I think you’ve got time to show me stuff in the hold now.’
‘Yes. It’s a good time. I want to double-check it before we get into the Atlantic anyway. Even if Biscay fails to live up to its usual reputation, we need to be certain it’s safe and sound.’
John had only been in the first hold but the other two were identically stowed. Once again, Ann disdained to wear the protective clothing the scientists had brought, but they both put on rainwear as the drizzle was beginning to thicken. John took a flashlamp since the hold lights were still not functioning and Ann armed herself with a small Geiger counter. Together, they scurried down to the relative shelter between the first two piles of containers which stood astride the hatch cover to number one hold. They went down the ladder with extra care; for the first time in a while the decks were wet with rain and the metal rungs were slippery beneath their feet.
‘Is it just me?’ asked John, sweeping the broad, bright beam across the pile of grey concrete blocks. ‘I find this lot very sinister indeed.’
‘No,’ she said, watching the display on the Geiger counter. ‘This stuff is sinister. Worse than the barrels. I didn’t much relish being trapped under the barrels but I would sure as hell hate to be under a pile of these. I’m getting a reading here. Did any of Faure’s men get a reading?’
‘No.’ John turned, his first instinct to get well out of the place. She saw his reaction and laughed.
‘Don’t worry. It’s not enough to do you any damage. You’re sure they didn’t mention it?’
‘No, I’m certain. I would have remembered.’
‘Yeah,’ she said quietly, ‘I guess.’
In the second
hold, there was no reading. John was relieved but Ann was not so sure. As they moved up, across and down into the forward hold, her face was folded into a frown.
In the third hold, the Geiger counter again buzzed quietly and Ann hissed almost angrily. ‘I want to see Faure about this,’ she said.
‘I’d better come down with them on a regular basis,’ said John, worried by her readings, even though she had said they were low, nothing to worry about.
‘Yes. Me too,’ she answered. ‘And I take back what I said. In future, we’d better wear the protective outfits.’
‘But it’s nothing to worry about, right?’ he persisted.
‘No. As it stands, you have nothing to worry about at all.’
‘Good.’
She went to find Faure the minute they got back to the bridgehouse. He went up on to the bridge again. They were off Tarifa now. The coast of Africa was running almost parallel to their course off the port beam and would continue to do so for a while; but after Tarifa, Spain pulled away sharply northwards up towards Cadiz. John stood silently, looking forward, his eyes blind to the movements of the traffic coming and going before and beside them, though he would have reacted quickly enough if anything threatened to cut their course. Dead ahead, the Atlantic was concealed behind curtains of rain. The sea was turning green below its silvery surface. There was a feeling of change in the air.
Two figures walked down the deck towards the first hold. They were wearing bulky protective clothing. He didn’t need to see their faces to know they would be Ann and Faure.
His mind turned uneasily to the radioactivity Ann had detected in the holds. If Faure’s equipment had registered anything he would have mentioned it. He had not. Therefore his equipment registered nothing. Ann’s Geiger counter did register something in the first and third holds, however. Not much, but something. This might mean that the Greenpeace equipment was more sensitive than Disposoco’s. That would not surprise him. But there had been no register in the second hold.