A Death on the Ocean Wave

by Tim Heald

  ‘But you’ll be arrested by the American authorities. There’ll be a trial. You haven’t a hope.’

  ‘Don’t worry your tiny head on that subject,’ said Ashley. ‘The ground has been well prepared. In any case what exactly would we be tried for?’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Tudor, ‘let’s go back to Sam for a second. What’s his part in all this?’

  ‘Sam’s what you might call a stool-pigeon or a stalking horse. I’m not sure. Your command of arcane idiom was always so much greater than mine. Just one reason I hated you so much. Sam, a victim of his own blind greed, is now as it were a visiting fellow aboard our hall-of-residence at sea. As such you could say that he is a sort of hostage. Were anyone to attempt anything desperate with relation to the Duchess then Sam might suffer. Riviera Shipping might not mind that, but they’d hate the publicity. Why would anyone want to put their trust and their life’s savings at the disposal of a company which allowed their most illustrious sea captain to be abducted on the high seas and then, as it were, be thrown to the sharks, walk the plank, or whatever? Again, you’re the one with the idiom. Write your own metaphor.’

  ‘So Sam is being held against his will? He’s effectively been kidnapped.’

  Ashley smiled.

  ‘It’s a nice point isn’t it? Sam left the Duchess quite voluntarily with several million pounds in gold. He boarded our vessel entirely of his own accord and without any coercion because he believed that we could guarantee him and his loot a safe haven. So in that sense and up to that point I plead innocence. It is conceivable that now Sam, having lost his ill-gotten gains, may be having second thoughts. Difficult to say and even more difficult to prove. Eventually, I dare say, he’ll be put ashore to face whatever music lies in store. For the time being, however, he remains afloat where he may conceivably be of use to me and mine as a sort of bargaining tool, guarantee, call him what you will.’

  ‘Hostage,’ ventured Tudor.

  Td rather not use that word. It carries mildly pejorative undertones. Not appropriate.’

  ‘So that’s Sam Hardy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ashley, ‘that’s Sam Hardy. I’m sorry about Mandy Goldslinger. She’s distraught, I understand, and the truth may prove even more unpalatable. Sam has rather let her down She won’t like it. Woman scorned and all that. I wouldn’t want to get the wrong side of La Goldslinger.’

  ‘No,’ Tudor agreed. ‘And the others?’

  ‘Watkyn’s working for MI6 and Grim for 5. But, of course you knew that.’

  ‘Of course,’ Tudor lied. The information actually came as rather a shock. He had put both men down as ineffectual independents. All piss and wind. Maybe they still were but it sounded as if they had official backing which made them more of a force to be reckoned with. Though perhaps ‘force’ was the wrong word.

  ‘Watkyn’s Six and Grim’s Five,’ said Tudor. ‘Are you sure that’s right?’

  ‘Five, Six, who cares?’ asked Ashley rhetorically. ‘Both as useless as each other. The umbrella description is ‘security services’ or something like that, but whatever you call them they’re no bloody good. Loada wankers.’

  ‘You’re telling me that Watkyn and Grim work for the British security services?’

  Ashley shrugged and smiled. ‘Same way Goldslinger works for the CIA. Work is pitching it a bit high. Security is clearly a misnomer. Nevertheless and up to a point, well, yes. Though I’m never sure whether Watkyn works for Six and Grim for Five or vice versa. Six is the flaky upmarket FCO one and five the working class nitty-gritty Home Office equivalent so I think I’m right. Could be wrong. The name of the game, after all, is bluff, counter bluff, triple bluff and bluff ad infinitum. Ask John le Carré – he worked for both. Then invented his own. He was right. It’s a never-never land that one makes up as one goes along. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tudor, bridling. ‘Well.’

  ‘And, of course, Mandy Goldslinger is CIA.’

  ‘Now you are fantasizing,’ said Tudor irritably, ‘she’ll be upset about Sam but if she’s a CIA agent then the Pope’s the King of Swaziland.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ said Ashley, ‘about Goldslinger. I buy what you say about the Pope and His Majesty the King of Swaziland, but now I’ve sown a seed about Goldslinger you’ll never be absolutely a hundred per cent sure about her. That’s the wonderful thing about sowing seeds. No smoke without fire. I’m not suggesting that your friend Mandy is a very important cog in the American Intelligence wheel but I most certainly think she’s not above an expensive meal with some chap from the Grosvenor Square Embassy and that she’s quite happy to betray little confidences for a couple of dry martinis and a filet mignon. Way of the world. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  In a sense and up to a fashion Tudor did. Uncertainty and innuendo were oxygen in the world of espionage, and espionage certainly came within the ambit of his department. Why else would he be lobbying so hard for an Honorary Doctorate for John le Carré?

  ‘You’re mad,’ he said, sensing that attack was the best form of defence, if not always at least where Ashley Carpenter was concerned.

  ‘Oddly enough,’ said Ashley, ‘you’re by no means the first person to say that. Little Elizabeth used to say it often. It’s a question of definition I suppose but, mad certainly isn’t the word I’d use. Obsessed or obsessive might be nearer the mark and possibly even something I’d admit to. Mad is very loose. Byron mad? I don’t think so; ‘bad and dangerous to know’ rather more plausible. I think mad is too often just a loose term of abuse. That’s the way you’re using it. You’re just calling me mad because I’m on your back and you can’t shake me off. Furthermore you don’t understand what’s going on so you’re flailing around and seeking to explain things by branding me mad. I’m profoundly unconvinced.’

  And he made a pyramid of his palms and rested his chin on the fingertips.

  ‘Smug bastard,’ thought Tudor, ‘but also mad as the proverbial hatter.’

  Out loud he said, ‘I don’t think any court of law would find you completely sane. And you’re certainly not rational.’

  ‘Oh Tudor, Tudor,’ said Ashley acting exasperated. ‘You’re so conventional and English. Who in their right mind would wish to be found sane by a court of law? The very idea.’

  He laughed. Tudor thought the laugh manic but, as he conceded ruefully, he would, wouldn’t he?

  ‘OK,’ said Tudor, ‘let’s cut out the verbiage and introspection. What happens now?’

  Ashley appeared to contemplate for a while, as if he was thinking about his plans for the first time. Then he said, ‘What would you do in my position? And what would you like me to do?’

  ‘Never answer a question with a question,’ said Tudor repeating a mantra he had learned at his first boarding-school or even perhaps, though he would never dare mention it, from a nanny or governess. More cause for resentment.

  ‘Masterly inactivity,’ said Ashley. ‘There has been too much action for one transatlantic crossing so for the remainder of the voyage we shall do as little as possible.’

  ‘And when we dock...?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ashley complacently, ‘then activity will resume. We shall disembark most but not all the passengers. Most of the crew will remain on board. I shall tell the authorities that you and your accomplice, well, maybe we should extend the focus of our accusation to include more than just little Miss Burney, and include one or two other players such as the Umlauts perhaps, or even your friend Mandy Goldslinger, that you and yours have been involved.’

  ‘Have been what?’ Tudor was incredulous. ‘You are mad. No one is going to believe you.’

  ‘On the contrary, dear boy. In today’s ‘war on terrorism’ people will believe what they want to believe. I have friends in the requisite high places, including the press and television. The basic tale will be that, together with my trusty band of free spirits, I have foiled a plot, fiendishly conjured up by your good self, to commandeer one of the most famous
ships in the world and use her for your own nefarious ends.’

  ‘But that’s crazy,’ said Tudor, ‘that’s what you were attempting. Not me. You’re standing reality on its head.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ conceded Ashley, ‘but mirror images are what so much of life is about, don’t you think? You have made yourself believe that I am the fruitcake determined on a desperate bid to hijack the Duchess, hold the Master to ransom and so on and so forth. But why not you, pray? Why should you be presumed innocent? I should add, incidentally, that I have been busy sowing seeds. The American authorities and my friends in high places are prepared for something much like this. There has been a whispering campaign. Tip-offs. As soon as we reach New York they will be ready and waiting. You will be surprised at the extent of documentary evidence. Convincing stuff, if I say so myself.’

  He sat back and smirked.

  Tudor was unnerved and would have been more so had he not known, or at least suspected, that he was privy to information which Ashley was not. Even so he felt chilled.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sea and sky were grey and sullen and would have seemed threatening and filled with menace were it not such a relief to escape his enemy’s presence.

  Elizabeth was leaning over the rail on the helicopter deck gazing out at the two widening white lines of wash behind them. She seemed pensive.

  ‘The Master is on the Michael Collins,’ he said, ‘somewhere out there.’ And he gestured at the huge anonymity of the sea.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, not unreasonably. ‘How do you know? Where have you been? People have been looking for you.’

  ‘That’s what I’m about to tell you,’ he said. ‘Sam Hardy and Mr X have done a swap. The mystery guest is in Sam’s cabin waiting to pounce. Guess who?’

  ‘I hate silly games,’ she said. ‘Tell me.’

  He told her.

  ‘That’s so surprising it’s not surprising,’ she said. ‘I was half expecting him.’

  ‘You didn’t know anything?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She seemed mildly irritated. ‘Ashley’s past history as far as I’m concerned. Not you though. Not by the sound of it. Why’s he here? Just to make trouble for you?’

  ‘That, and I don’t know... I think he’s flipped. I mean this bogus sounding so-called Irish university and their floating campus. I think they’ve gone to his head, infected his brain. I actually think he sees himself as some sort of latter day Che Guevara. I’m not joking. He believes his own publicity, thinks he can change the world. There are people like that.’

  ‘Mostly writing columns for the Daily Mail,’ said Elizabeth sharply. ‘I’m not convinced academics and others should try too much real world stuff. I’ve just been having a chat with Major Timbers.’

  ‘Oh him,’ said Tudor, ‘I’d forgotten about him.’

  This was true. Tudor found the Major instantly forgettable. This was true of most majors.

  ‘I think he’s quite fanciable, if you like that sort of thing.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘I might.’ There was a glint in her eye. She was only doing it to tease.

  ‘The Major is a great one for men and boys, chaps staying out of the kitchen if they can’t stand the heat, leave it all to the professionals, sang-froid, gung-ho, stiff upper lip, straight bat and when the chips are down the Brits do this sort of thing supremely well.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Not really,’ she smiled. ‘On the other hand I was hoping this would be a quiet crossing and we could all relax. That’s what he said: “Just relax and go with the flow”.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘His very words.’

  ‘He thinks he has everything under control?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘That sort of person always says that sort of thing,’ said Tudor. ‘They said it before the Fall of Singapore. You know, “Don’t worry our men are supremely well prepared and the Japanese can’t see in the dark”.’

  ‘And “don’t like it up ’em, Captain Mainwaring”.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Tudor. ‘False optimism; whistling in the dark, a Dickensian “something will turn up” characteristic of the British middle-classes. Something always does turn up in my experience, but seldom what you expect.’

  ‘It was men like Major Timbers who won the war,’ said Elizabeth. ‘They made Britain great. My father always told me so. All phlegm, grit and stoicism.’

  ‘All moustache and no chin,’ said Tudor, ‘they’re what makes Britain mediocre.’

  ‘You should know,’ said Elizabeth. The remark seemed meaningless since Tudor was clean-shaven and had a jaw which did not exactly jut but was a jaw nonetheless, but it was intended to be hurtful. Tudor was duly hurt. He felt vulnerable and unwanted.

  ‘I think people like the Major are a menace,’ he said with feeling. ‘They’re second-rate to the core, but they get away with murder because in some unexplained way they are able to pass themselves off as “Players” whereas they’re “Gentlemen”. I grant you that there used to be a caricature of brilliant amateur detectives and plodding professional policemen which was unfair to the police but the pendulum has swung too far the other way. You won’t find brilliance or intuition among the boys in blue and sometimes you find pedestrianism and downright incompetence. If the shenanigans on board ship were left to plodders like the Major nothing would ever be solved.’

  As if to add credence to this judgement the bardic figure of Sir Goronwy Watkyn came into view walking with exaggeratedly bowed legs as if to tell the rest of those on board that he was, among many other things, a salty old sea-dog of great experience. He shook his shaggy locks in Tudor’s direction and said, ‘Been warned off by the acting skipper. Little Grim likewise. A diabolical liberty. Crime occurs and you have real experts on hand with none of the concomitant obstruction of the local constabulary and you don’t just ignore what we have to offer – you positively shackle it. Outrageous.’

  With his low opinion of Watkyn and Grim, Tudor was inclined to side with Angus Donaldson, but at the same time he recognized that a strike against them was part of a strike against himself as well.

  ‘And another thing.’ The old Welshman looked as if he had a long list of ‘other things’ about which to complain. ‘Bloody Donaldson seems to have stopped talking to the ship from the bridge. No noon message. What’s more the chart showing the ship’s progress hasn’t been updated. According to what’s on it we haven’t moved at all for at least forty-eight hours.’ He peered out into the murky gloom. ‘We could be absolutely any bloody where. I shall complain to my agent when we get home.’

  Tudor thought privately that this was a threat unlikely to alarm Riviera Shipping. He also noted that if the old boy was correct about the captain’s non-speak regarding the ship’s position it served to confirm his innermost suspicions and make his letter to Donaldson all the more worthwhile.

  ‘He must be under a lot of strain with the Master’s laryngitis and everything.’

  ‘Laryngitis, my arse,’ said Sir Goronwy. ‘Believe that and you’ll believe Wales have a half-decent football team. Sam Hardy’s no more got laryngitis than I have. The day he loses his voice will be the day I lose mine.’

  The thought of Goronwy Watkyn losing his voice was indeed preposterous. Some sort of plastic container floated into the wake and bobbed about for a while reminding them all of man’s threat to the world. There was no sign of fish nor fowl, just the Duchess and hundreds of humans.

  ‘We could be anywhere,’ said Watkyn gloomily, ‘and I’m not at all convinced Donaldson and his people know what they’re about. That Major Wood is all piss and wind. I’m not happy about the Abdullah cove nor the Umlaut dwarfs. Neither up to any good. And someone must have dropped a firecracker in the Krauts’ crêpes Suzettes last night. One of the Prince’s wives if you ask me. I noticed one stroll past just before the conflagration. And what’s happened to the Irish press party? Have
n’t had sight nor sound for days now. All passed out down below somewhere, I suppose. And the other morning we seemed to have some sort of emergency and then we don’t have an emergency.’

  ‘It was a drill,’ lied Tudor, ‘not a real emergency. A fake.’

  ‘Huh!’ Sir Goronwy cleared his throat emphysematically. ‘I shall be glad to be back in the Land of My Fathers. I usually enjoy these trips but present company excepted this has been a bit of a downer. Haven’t even sold many books. And there’s something badly wrong somewhere. I feel it in my water. Talking of which would anyone care for a snifter. The drink of the day’s negroni.’

  The trio tottered off to the Rum Locker, a small sepulchral bar which had somehow missed out on the usual stately home nomenclature and had passable negronis mixed by Klaus, a middle-aged, strawberry-nosed bartender from Dresden who had been with the ship since her maiden voyage. Nothing significant was said over this drink which presently blurred into a second and was followed by food and more drink and by more drink and more food and by a little bit of lying down and a little bit of walking around the promenade deck and a snooze in the cinema and tea and sandwiches and a look in on the bingo and a rehearsal of the dance troupe and an abortive shop, not knowing whether or not to invest in some duty-free which would probably be cheaper in Tesco in Casterbridge, and a bit of a lie-down and a shower and another stroll and a perusal of the evening’s menu and a spin through the old movies on the stateroom TV and an attempt at reading an H.R.F. Keating ‘Inspector Ghote’ mystery spoiled with the sudden realization that it had been read already and one knew whodunit and a nodding off while lying down and a changing for dinner and, in short, all the little procrastinations and indulgences of a day at sea aboard the Duchess.