Sea of Gold

by Nick Elliott

  If it was sabotage, then the flag state would be mounting an investigation and possibly a prosecution for the mass murder of all eighteen crewmembers.

  The Astro Maria was registered in the Republic of Nawihiki, a small group of islands in Melanesia which had carved itself a niche as one of the more reputable flags of convenience. Its London representative was a lawyer called Charles Harrison. He had arranged the venue because, as he put it: ‘Trinity House, through its administration of British lighthouses, has a long tradition of protecting those in peril on the sea and the ships in which they sail.

  ‘Also,’ he added, ‘I believe we are on quite neutral territory here so all our interests can be expressed and debated without fear or prejudice or undue influence. Furthermore, my own office would be hard-pressed to accommodate more than three or four of us.’

  He looked around the table before continuing.

  ‘Now I don’t need to remind you all that maritime jurisdiction and its enforcement are complex matters. The exercise of state jurisdiction over maritime crime, if indeed a crime has been committed here, is governed by important factors such as the location of the offence, the nationality of the vessel involved, the nationality of the victims, the nature of the offence and the nationality of the offender.

  ‘Suffice to say that as representative of the flag state, my office stands ready to do whatever is needed to bring this sorry case to a just and satisfactory conclusion.’ There were murmurs of assent from around the room. He was a pallid man with cadaverous features. I wondered if he was ill, but his deep, somewhat theatrical tone suited the mood of the meeting and held our attention.

  What he was saying, and what we all knew, was that an investigation into the sinking in international waters of a Greek-owned ship, manned by a multinational crew, flying the flag of an obscure Pacific island nation, and carrying a cargo owned by South Africans to a port in the Philippines, was never going to be straightforward.

  ‘Now before we get started,’ he concluded, pausing to make sure we were all paying attention, ‘all of you will be aware that in cases of collision or incident on the high seas involving loss of life or serious injury or serious damage, penal or disciplinary procedures remain under the jurisdiction of the flag state.’ He’d made his point. As the flag state rep he was in charge.

  It was unusual to have all the parties present at such an early stage in what could be a long, drawn-out process and I admired Harrison’s foresight. He obviously thought that by bringing us together now we could avoid protracted arguments later.

  We introduced ourselves, then Harrison ran through the circumstances of the case as they were known.

  He singled out three parties: ‘Particularly, I commend the ship’s hull, cargo and P&I underwriters on their agreement to defray the cost of searching for the wreck between them.’ Sidney Waterson, who was representing the ship’s P&I Club, fidgeted self-consciously.

  Harrison then concluded that the facts suggested sabotage as the most likely cause of the ship’s foundering, after which each of us was invited to explain our interest in the case, restricted to a maximum of fifteen minutes, which Harrison’s PA ensured we adhered to.

  Michael Kyriakou spoke first giving an emotional account befitting a shipowner who had just lost his ship. At one point, his voice breaking, he had to stop and compose himself. He reported details of the Astro Maria’s final voyage, taking in the cargo loading in Durban and including an account of the stowage and securing of each piece. He gave all this as a PowerPoint presentation, but had in front of him hard copies of the ship’s stowage plan, tally sheets, mates’ receipts, draught survey, manifest and bills of lading, the report of the shipper’s surveyor and the ship’s deck and engine log extracts.

  We had already been through all this documentation with a fine tooth-comb back in Athens. It was what interested me most about the case. In the absence of any other rational explanation, we had considered the possibility that some of the heavier equipment in one or other of the holds had broken free from its lashings in heavy weather, destabilising and eventually capsizing the ship.

  ‘So from our own side,’ concluded Michael, ‘we have examined the ship’s own transmissions throughout the voyage and the weather reports along her route. In the first days following her departure from Durban she encountered three- to four-metre swells common to those waters. Could the lashings have broken free during that early part of the voyage only to lead to the accident a week later? It seems highly unlikely. The deck crew regularly checked the cargo lashings throughout the voyage and even if they had come loose and the ship had listed, she would not have capsized straight away. There would have been enough time to get a proper Mayday off and launch lifeboats and life-rafts.’

  Michael’s account led to a spate of questions, some aggressive, though none that we couldn’t field between us. Being of a suspicious nature, I was interested to see whether any of these queries would, of themselves, reveal a clue as to what lay behind the mystery, but none did.

  Insurance interests, the classification society, and of course the ship’s charterers, were all there, out to protect their own particular patch, and implying that the ship and her owners had, for one reason or another, fallen short of the required standards. But Harrison maintained his impartiality, not trying to avoid the possibility that some liability might fall on the shoulders of the flag state and sharply reminding others that the purpose of the meeting was to reach consensus, not sling mud.

  One surprise was Andrew Kershope, the Viscount Kershope to be precise. As a non-executive director of the classification society responsible for maintaining the ship’s technical standards, he had every right to be there, but the classification surveyor, a man called Stephen Barclay, was also present, which seemed odd to me. Why were both of them needed, especially since Kershope just happened to be chairman of the Caledonian Marine Mutual as well, and would normally steer clear of meetings like this? I wondered if Grant had asked him to attend – and if so, why?

  It was almost seven before the meeting wound up. Harrison had stamped his authority on the proceedings but there were still two unanswered questions. Who would carry out the investigation to determine the circumstances, the motive and the culprits? And if and when the cause was determined and the culprits identified, then under whose jurisdiction would they be brought to justice? That might depend on treaty agreements between Nawihiki and other nations with more adequate legal systems – the US or UK for example.

  ‘With our field of investigation stretching from the Pacific Ocean to South Africa, from Greece to the Philippines, there is a skein of jurisdictional and legislative issues to be untangled, Gentlemen,’ he concluded. ‘But rest assured, untangle them we will.’

  Kershope was deep in conversation with Stephen Barclay but as Michael and I got up to leave he came over. He was a distinguished-looking character with dark, wavy hair and a befittingly aristocratic, if eccentric manner. ‘You chaps did rather well today. Not easy with all these buggers having a go when you’ve lost your ship and her crew for God’s sake. But well done. You didn’t let ‘em score a single bloody point in here and that was to your credit. Drink?’

  Michael had another appointment so his Lordship and I retired to a little hotel bar near Trinity House that I hadn’t known of before. He ordered a couple of large Laphroaigs. I’d only met him a couple of times before and then only briefly. He was not the sort I would normally hob-nob with but I was curious to know what he wanted, and he was buying the drinks.

  ‘Listen, Angus. I wasn’t sure whether Michael would join us or not but now we’re alone, I wanted to just mention a couple of things.’

  He took a measured sip of his whisky. ‘First, forget all the grandstanding in there today. From a classification angle that ship was 100A1 and from a P&I perspective, knowing what I know about the owners, I would say 100A1 too. We’re all agreed, something pretty catastrophic happened out there and we’re not talking about an Act of God.’

  �
�What’s your best guess then?’

  ‘Let’s assume she was scuttled, as everyone seems agreed on. If they’d deliberately caused a crankcase explosion for example, then followed the time-honoured method of opening the ship’s sea-cocks, they would certainly have had time to get a Mayday off, have the cook make some sandwiches, pack their bags and safely abandon ship. That would support a theory that the owners were intending to claim a total loss and pick up the insurance value from hull and machinery underwriters. That didn’t happen, so, as we also agreed, in the absence of a better explanation, the cargo looks like the culprit, eh?’

  I drained my whisky. ‘Is this reminding you of a similar case?’ I asked him.

  ‘Of course. The Lucona, as well you know.’

  ‘It had crossed my mind,’ I admitted.

  Back in the late Seventies the Lucona was sunk in the Indian Ocean by an explosive device planted in the hold, improbably organised by an Austrian confectioner as part of an insurance fraud. He was the owner of the cargo, which he attested was uranium-mining equipment, and he claimed twenty million dollars from cargo underwriters. He was eventually convicted of the murder of six crewmembers killed by the explosion, and died later in prison.

  The similarities were striking except for one crucial difference. The charterers, as owners of the Astro Maria’s cargo, had no apparent motive. Coreminex was a prominent and reputable mining concern with concessions across the globe. It would make no sense for them to scuttle ship and cargo for the sake of one cargo claim which would almost certainly be rejected.

  I reminded Kershope of all this. He nodded. ‘Well, that’s for you to find out, eh? There’ll be some hefty claims out of this by the time you add up hull and cargo interests, then third party P&I liabilities such as compensation to families of the deceased. And that’s before you talk about the oil removal. Insurers will be dancing round each other like boxers in the ring trying to avoid a punch and land one on the other chap, eh? And you and old Kyriakou need to make sure the mud doesn’t stick to you and you lose a legitimate claim for the total loss, eh?

  ‘Furthermore, Angus, I’m not sure you’ll get much help from the flag state wallahs. Despite Harrison’s fine words, they’re just not geared up for anything like this. We all know the flag state must exercise its jurisdiction and control in administrative, technical and social matters over ships flying its flag, but in practice? Eh?’

  Despite his manner, Kershope wasn’t a fool. And in the circles in which he moved he might yet prove to be useful as I pursued the case.

  ‘Why did you come along to the meeting?’ I asked.

  He gave me a conspiratorial wink and tapped his nose. ‘Mum’s the word, eh?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Kyriakou fleet is entered with that Scandinavian Club as you know. So now you’re helping Kyriakou out, I was thinking the CMM should pitch for the business at next year’s renewal. So no harm in me lending a bit of moral support and seeing the lie of the land, eh?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said, not sure whether to welcome or resent his involvement, or even whether to believe him.

  ‘Will Barclay be handling this case for the classification society? Is that why he was at the meeting?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’ Kershope sounded a bit vague. Barclay hadn’t said a word all day until I saw him conferring with Kershope afterwards.

  ‘Good surveyor. Ex Royal Engineers I believe. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered. Listen, the total loss claim is one thing,’ I said, ‘but this is very personal for Kyriakou as well. He’s never lost a ship before and he knows as well as you and I that this casualty was no accident.’

  ‘Quite so, quite. Let me make this perfectly clear, Angus. To scuttle a ship for insurance or whatever other purposes, whilst reprehensible, is one thing. To commit mass murder in the process is something else entirely and can of course never be condoned.’

  As we parted he said, ‘Oh, you’ll be at Grant’s do at the weekend won’t you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ I said.

  ***

  I ambled along the Thames Path for a while gathering my thoughts. Back in the hotel I ordered dinner from room service and opened a beer from the fridge, then spent a couple of hours working through the email backlog.

  Zoe seemed to be coping. Knowing I was heading for Leith after London, she had thoughtfully referred a number of cases she was working on back to me for discussion with various syndicate managers up there. Then she wanted to know if she could take Friday off.

  The last email I opened was from Captain Derek Timson. It read: ‘Understand you’ll be at Grant’s bash on Sunday. Look forward to having a quiet chat. It’s important. Derek.’

  Derek Timson was a name I hadn’t heard for a while. He’d retired from the CMM after twenty or so years as the Club’s Africa representative. Although the CMM had correspondents in all ports, Timson was their roving superintendent, based in Cape Town but rarely in his office. In a region where things were more likely to go wrong than right, Timson had been indispensable. One week he’d be surveying bagged cashew nuts in Mtwara, the next interviewing crewmembers released from captivity by Somali pirates and recuperating in Mombasa. Derek must have been seventy by the time he quit. He had retired to Exmouth, just about as far away from Leith as he could get without leaving the UK. But it seemed he’d succumbed to an invitation to Grant’s party to be held that Sunday.

  I replied confirming that I’d be there and went to bed wondering if it was just a coincidence that this old Africa hand had popped up on my radar just as the investigation was focusing on the Astro Maria’s final loading operation in Durban.

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘Welcome, friends, to the green links of Liddesdale. Eat, drink and be merry!’

  Grant was wearing a kilt in the tartan of the Black Douglas, the clan to which he claimed some distant ancestral affiliation and which I suspect he aspired to lead as their chieftain one day. He wore a loose-fitting white cotton blouse under a leather doublet and his kilt pin carried the clan motto: Jamais arrière. A sgian-dubh was tucked into his stocking. I was surprised he wasn’t brandishing a sword and buckler.

  He’d invited half the office down to his remote estate deep in the Borders, and half the population of Liddesdale too by the look of it. Cars were parked carelessly around the front of the house. I noticed Claire’s black Porsche tucked neatly away to one side.

  The carcasses of three lambs were roasting on spits across a bed of red-hot coals tended by three young girls dressed in their own interpretation of sixteenth-century Borders chic. Other wenches were circulating bearing earthenware mugs of ale. Brawny kilted young men were shooting arrows into straw-backed targets. Someone had brought his peregrine falcon along and a local historian was reading excerpts from Walter Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. There was even an old crone telling fortunes. I wondered if she knew what had really happened to the Astro Maria.

  Set behind this scene of contrived medieval revelry, amidst rolling parkland, was Grant Douglas’s pad as he called it. He’d bought a ruined sixteenth-century reiver tower house on the south side of the valley and spent a fortune renovating and extending it to its current splendour. This event was by way of celebrating its completion, in particular a ten-car climate-controlled garage to house what he referred to as his bevy of Bentleys. It was said that Grant had family wealth. His CMM salary certainly wouldn’t have funded such extravagances.

  Some guests had arrived in their own cars. He’d laid on a small bus for those who hadn’t. I’d arrived from London that morning and was wafted down the A7 from the airport in his cherished 1953 R-Type Continental.

  ‘Coachwork by Mulliner, all-aluminium body,’ explained George, who was chauffeuring me today. ‘She’s just coming up for her sixtieth birthday.’

  ‘Is Grant going to bake a cake?’ I asked but George didn’t smile. Cars were no joking matter and particularly not the boss’s pride and joy.

 
; ‘Used to belong to a maharajah. Mr Douglas had a complete bottom-up restoration done on her just last year.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have been cheap,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t even ask, sir.’

  To what I owed the privilege of this ride was a mystery and made me rather suspicious. But there I was, sitting up front beside George in this extraordinary car, surrounded by wood and leather and admiring the view down the long bonnet to the flying B mascot and beyond. I could have savoured its subtle aroma of oil and leather too if it hadn’t been for George’s overpowering aftershave.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I told Grant when we arrived. ‘A bit cramped mind.’ Grant knew when I was winding him up. ‘Why me though? What’s the ulterior motive?’

  ‘You’re a paranoid cynic. Maybe it’s just a gesture of appreciation. And I want to hear all about this Astro Maria case of yours. Where’d she go down? The Coconut Islands? Where the hell are they for God’s sake?’

  Grant knew exactly where the Cocos Keeling Islands were. It just amused him to pretend he didn’t. I explained anyway and treated him to a short history of the islands. He particularly liked the part about how a wealthy Englishman had laid claim to them and brought in a harem of forty Malay women only to be ejected by a Scotsman and his family who, together with their eight crewmembers, took possession of the islands, women and all.

  ‘Sure, it would take a bunch of Scots to pull that one off,’ said Grant proudly. He was never slow to uphold the national reputation. ‘So it was sabotage on the Astro Maria, right?’