Chapter Twenty Two
Just before dawn McBride shook Ben awake, and without waiting for him to emerge on deck, had the engine going and was inching out of the berth. Quietly with the engine only on tick-over, they crept across the marina and out into the river. McBride doubted they had been observed, but their absence would be noticed later. He felt as though he was running away carrying a large flag with a sign saying Here I am. The yacht was the means of escape, but it was fast becoming a liability. Should they ditch it? After they left Denmark, their next port was in Britain. Surely they would be safe enough then. The SVR just didn’t have the resources to track them across the North Sea, and capture them before they made landfall. Did they?
The decision time was when they arrived at Skagen. If there was a chance they could fly from there without being observed, then they should take it.
McBride was always able to file away a problem in his mind, once he had decided the course of action. And he did so now, standing confident at the helm of the Belinda, all thoughts of capture leaving him, together with the large flag.
Ben joined him on deck just as dawn broke. The low pressure system had moved on, and the sky was only partly cloudy. When they joined the strait, and the boat traffic, the wind had died to force three, and the sun intermittently shone.
They continued under power, past Copenhagen, dodged the numerous ferries crossing from and to Sweden and at last they reached open water. It was lunchtime, and Ben went below to knock up a meal, together with mugs of black tea. During the middle of the afternoon they were away from the other shipping, ahead of them the great length of Jutland heading northwest as far as they could see.
Once the sails were hoisted, they made good time, sailing at an average ten knots. McBride spent some more time with the charts. They were at the edge of their final chart. Unless they purchased charts of the North Sea, they would be navigating by compass bearing alone. Not that McBride was worried about this, because there were no hazards to negotiate. Apart from big ships on automatic pilot, and the crew not paying attention. It happens.
McBride told Ben that they would turn northwest soon and follow the coast. When they had followed it far enough, they would reach Skagen. The village was on the end of the peninsula. It was a popular holiday resort, especially for yachtsmen, and the population in summer would double. But at this time of year, the main users of the harbour were commercial fishing boats.
The wind was from the northwest, and so Belinda was on a broad reach, and the sailing was easy.
Night fell at a little after five o’clock. That was no problem with very little sea traffic. McBride reflected that they hadn’t worried about twenty four hour sailing only a couple of days ago, but the last two nights of sleep had altered his outlook. It would be different if and when they took the boat out of Skagen, and set forth to cross one of the most unpredictable seas. On a voyage of at least four days, he guessed.
They saw the lights of Skagen ten miles before they reached the port. It was the only cluster of habitation visible, although they could see car headlights on the road down the peninsula, and the red and green rail signals. Occasionally they would see windows lit in isolated houses. But the lights of Skagen were a beacon on the coast.
When they were a few hundred yards from the harbour, they stowed the sails, and chugged in on engine power. A sign, illuminated over a building to the left said Harbour Master, and above it presumably the same in Danish. There were lots of umlauts, anyway.
They chose a berth on a pontoon that held several moored yachts and power boats. McBride told Ben to look after the boat while he went to see the harbourmaster.
“With the boathook at the ready?”
McBride pointed at the quayside, which was fairly busy with pedestrians, and he could see converted warehouses that now were bustling restaurants.
“If you see danger, yell and these people will come to hold your hand.”
He sauntered up the steps, and joined the bustle on the quayside. A reassuring light showed in the harbourmaster office, and the door opened when he tried the handle. A man in a peaked cap sat at a desk, busy with paperwork. He turned as McBride came in.
McBride stared at him, then he grinned, held out his hand.
“Damn me, if it isn’t Bob Johnson!”
“John McBride. Still in the army are you?”
“No, not for ten years and obviously you aren’t.”
“Are you yachting? Was that rather nice thirty footer yours?”
“Wish it was, but no. It’s a long story. Tell me about yourself, and why you are in Denmark and a harbourmaster.”
“Quite simple. I married a Danish girl I met in London. She came from Jutland, but we lived in Copenhagen for a few years. Then this job became vacant, so here I am. The wife is thrilled to be back in her childhood community. Yes, it has worked out okay.”
“I’m on one of the berths down there. Where do you want me to moor?”
“Leave it there. In the winter, there is not so much business. In the summer it is completely different, and we are turning people away. Are you alone, or with your wife?”
“I divorced a good few years ago, but I have with me a young man I rescued from a Russian prison camp. He is the brother of a girl I met in England. I am returning him to England.”
“I hope you will tell me the full story. You are going to sail from here, in the winter? You are braver than me.”
“I’m still not totally committed. We will see. We have been chased. If our pursuers don’t turn up here, then we may fly out. If not, we will continue to flee.”
“I am intrigued. I hope you will have dinner with us tonight. We have booked at the fish restaurant; you can see it there, one of the old warehouses.” He pointed through the window. “I will just phone my wife, and she will ask the restaurant for a bigger table. No problem. But you have to promise that you will tell us the rest of the story.”
“I need to fill in a form and pay you a fee?’
“Yes, here is the form. Just sit down at that desk. I also need to see your passports.”
“We only have temporary ones. We both went to Russia totally unprepared. A very kind MI6 gentleman arranged the passports at the Saint Petersburg Consulate. He also lent us his yacht.”
“Fill the form in now, and show me your passports tonight.”
McBride handed the completed form to Johnson. “I don’t know how long we are staying, or if we leave the boat here, and phone the owner so that he can pick it up.”
Johnson clutched the form in his hand. “We meet at the restaurant tonight at eight o’clock. Dress is informal.”
When McBride got back to the boat, Ben was looking anxious, and smiled asnd waved when he saw McBride.
“I thought maybe you had been captured, and I might have to sail single-handed. I’m not sure I could manage that.”
“So that is why you are looking worried. Not that I had been killed, eh?”
“Of course not.”
“We have been invited out to dinner. At the restaurant across the road. The harbourmaster is an old friend I was in the army with. He married a Danish girl. I think we should get changed into fresh clothes. He says the dress is informal, but he didn’t say dirty. We have to be there at eight. Already it is seven.”
“What if the SVR turn up? They must already know we are in Skagen.”
“True, but unless they use local staff, they must fly here, or take some complicated car journey. I can’t think they would be here before eight o’clock. Even local men would hardly be based on the peninsula.”
At eight o’clock McBride and Ben arrived at the restaurant. They looked around as they entered, and saw Bob Johnson waving madly at them. When they had threaded their way through the tables, he shook both them both by the hand, and McBride introduced Ben, adding he was an investigative journalist.
Bob introduced his wife, Angelina, a pretty blonde Scandinavian.
McBride said, “Bob has told me that he move
d to Skagen because you spent your childhood here.”
“Oh yes, I went to the local school here and now I teach there! It is beginning to look as though I never grew up.” She smiled at them all.
The waiter brought menus and Bob, who was Robert to his wife, explained the menu, which was predominantly fish and shell fish. There were a few beef steak options, too. Mike translated the fish dishes, some species of which were not eaten in England, as far as Ben and McBride knew. Bob suggested they have sea bass, which had been caught in the Baltic Sea.
“We had Baltic fish a couple of days ago,’ Ben said. “It was one that I caught from the boat. I was amazed when I landed it, to find it was perch. They are only a fresh water fish in Britain, as far as I know. It was still jolly bony though.”
“The Baltic is not very saline in many parts, so there is some crossover in species living here,” said Angelina, sounding rather school mistress like.
This was the first meal that they had eaten since leaving Russia that was not taken on the boat, and as a result the best by far.
“We have been eating out of tins for the last five days,” said McBride, “so this is a welcome treat. We must get stocked up with food, especially fresh food that we can keep refrigerated.”
“We have a supermarket in Skagen, the Euro Spar. It is over one thousand square metres, and bakes bread, and sells wine as well as groceries,” said Angelina.
Bob said, “Tell us more about your journey, and why you were in a Russian prison.”
McBride said, “You tell it, Ben.”
“Well it all started when I was investigating the anti-fracking campaigners. We have found considerable reserves of shale gas in England, and the government wants to exploit it and pay down the national debt, and my word we certainly need to do that. But as soon as drilling companies started test drilling, they have been hampered by unbelievable quantities of demonstrators. As John told you, I write freelance articles for the press, and I couldn’t understand how young unemployed people could live in a tent in the winter, sitting in the rain, when they could be sitting on a couch watching television. Believe me, they are not dedicated people. I joined them, and they are being paid. Because I asked too many questions, I was bundled into a van and ended up in a Russian prison camp with about, at the moment another hundred British men.
“My sister asked John to help find me, apparently. The first thing I knew about that was when John walked into the barracks one evening and asked for me by name.”
“Ben’s sister told me that Ben had gone missing, and the story he was working on. I just joined the protesters, and travelled the same route. We broke out of the prison camp one night, andwalked a fair bit of the distance to St Petersburg Then we hitched a lift the rest of the way to St Petes. We were met by MI6, who had done some work and expected us. They gave us passports, and Nigel, a MI6 agent, got permission to charter his yacht to us, paid for by MI6. How about that? Oh, I nearly forgot, here are our temporary passports.”
“Your experience as a soldier did you some good, eh?” said Bob, taking the paper passports. He pulled a notebook out of his pocket, copied the passport numbers into it, handed the passports back.
“Well, sometimes I thirst for excitement, gives me a break from the other job.”
“Which is?” said Bob.
“Painting, watercolours. That is what brings in the pennies.”
“McBride! Of course. You are that McBride are you? I bet that brings in pounds rather than pennies.”
“My agent takes nearly half of the price.”
The conversation turned to generalities, amid much laughter, helped on by the wine. At ten o’clock, McBride stood up. I think we must be getting back to the boat. I hope you will let me share the bill.”
“Rubbish. This is my treat. And don’t leave it fifteen years next time, before you look me up!” They were all heading for the door now. Outside there was a glistening frost on the pathway. McBride glanced across to the quayside and stopped suddenly.
In a low voice he said, “Do you see those men, Ben? Aren’t they the ones who went for a swim last night?”
“If they aren’t, then they are the brothers.”
Bob Johnson said; “What is the problem?”
Still standing outside the restaurant, McBride filled him in.
Find My Brother Page 24