The White Schooner

by Antony Trew

  He was contemplating the enormity of his failure when Helmut’s calm, ‘Well, what now?’ broke into his thoughts and he felt suddenly ashamed that he had given way so easily to despair.

  He took a grip on himself, shook off the mood of defeat, and his mind cleared. He recalled Kagan’s, You’re not beaten until you give up. Well, he wasn’t giving up. Standing there in the darkness, silent, his mind now seeking feverishly for a solution, an idea came to him—flickering at first, then steadying and growing like the flame of a newly lit candle. He called the others. ‘That farm truck isn’t far behind. Let’s push the Zephyr into the middle of the road.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘The truck’ll have to stop and we’ll borrow it.’

  Helmut laughed hoarsely from the depths of his belly. ‘Anything you say, boss.’

  With difficulty the four men pushed and lifted the Zephyr until it was parked in the middle of the road at an angle of about forty-five degrees to the centre line, and there they left it with the side and rear lights burning.

  Black turned to Kamros: ‘When we see the truck’s lights, get under the car. Make as if you’re working at something. We’ll stop the truck about fifty metres back. Soon after we begin talking to the driver, come and join us. You, Francois, stay in the car with Manuela.’

  He went back to where she was sitting huddled in the front seat. He could just make out her features in the reflection of the dashlight. ‘Manuela,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you to get hurt. But if you try anything when that truck pitches up … You know what I mean?’

  He was waiting for her reply, when Helmut shouted, ‘The lights have just come over the hill. Not too far, I reckon.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Black. ‘Let’s get cracking.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The truck rattled down the hill, the engine misfiring and the brakes squealing as the driver controlled its descent. Rounding a corner, its headlights revealed two men on the road waving their arms: behind them the tail lights of a car glowed brightly, spilling pools of vermillion on the road and illuminating feet which projected from it.

  With a final groan of brakes the truck stopped and the men on the road went up to the driving cab.

  In the darkness Black couldn’t see the face of the driver, but he greeted him in Spanish, explaining that the Zephyr had broken down.

  ‘We are tourists,’ he said. ‘It is a hired car. We are not sure what the trouble is. A part is loose underneath.’

  While the driver spoke to someone in the cab, Black heard Kamros coming up the road from the Zephyr.

  ‘How far is it to San José?’ asked Black.

  ‘About two or three kilometres, señor,’ said the truck driver.

  ‘Can you take a message for us?’

  ‘At this time they will be in bed. There is an inn. You can spend the night there.’

  ‘Can you look at the car? Tell us what the trouble is?’

  There was a pause and then the voice from the darkened cab said, ‘Señor, I would like to do this, but my son and I are not mechanics. Also we must get our load to the market in Ibiza and be back to the farm by daylight. We are late.’

  Black said, ‘I understand, señor. But we cannot move the car. Something is stuck. Can you and your son help us push it to the side of the road so that your truck may pass?’

  They heard the man’s low rumble as he spoke to his son. The cab doors opened and they stepped down on to the road. When they reached the front of the Zephyr, Black explained what had happened, and the farmer’s son bent down and with Black’s torch looked underneath. He called to his father, saying that the track rod had broken.

  With exclamations of surprise, Helmut and Kamros discussed the implications of this with the farmer, while Black watched the Zephyr anxiously, checking what could be seen in the truck’s headlights. But it all looked normal enough: the windows closed against the cold night air; the old man in the back leaning in a corner, evidently asleep; the woman and the man in the front seat close to each other, the man’s head next to hers.

  Francois got out of the front seat and the five men pushed the car slowly and with noisy exertion to the side of the road. Black opened the door, pulled on the handbrake and then, walking round the car, he took the automatic from his shoulder-holster. ‘Stand-by,’ he warned in a low voice. To the farmer he said, ‘I am sorry, señor, but we must borrow your truck. We have urgent business in Ibiza.’

  The Spaniard looked in astonishment at the muzzle of the automatic, and Helmut grabbed the boy who had jumped forward to help his father. The farmer called sharply, ‘Do not resist, Manuel,’ and Helmut released him.

  ‘We will leave the truck in the Paseo Vara de Rey,’ said Black. ‘The vegetables will still be marketable. I am sorry. We have no option. Have you the key?’

  ‘In the cab,’ said the farmer sullenly.

  Black turned to Helmut. ‘Get in. Start the engine and park ahead of the Zephyr.’

  When the truck had drawn ahead, he ordered the farmer and his son to walk up the hill away from the vehicles. ‘Don’t try any tricks,’ he said, sounding as villainous as he could, ‘or we’ll use our guns.’

  The farmer and his son walked away in the darkness, and Black posted Kamros as a rearguard at the back of the Zephyr. Then he called to Manuela and helped her into the driving cab. Van Biljon, still in a state of torpor, was lifted on to the top of the vegetables and lay at the back well under the canopy, Kamros and Francois on either side of him.

  Black leant out of the cab and called to Helmut, ‘Okay. Come along.’

  The German jumped in beside Manuela, slamming the door as the engine revved up and the truck creaked forward.

  ‘We’ll have to take the road through San José,’ said Black. ‘It’ll save time and distance, and the police won’t be looking for a farm truck yet. What’s the time?’

  Helmut looked at his watch. ‘Twenty-seven minutes past midnight.’

  After that there was a long silence in the swaying, rattling cab. Later, Black felt Manuela’s head resting against his shoulder and it reassured him, though he knew it was sleep and not affection. He’d not had much time to think of her since the chase had started and now, in the darkness, he wondered what to do about her. She knew a great deal. Too much to let her loose yet. But soon he would have to make the decision. Already he had a vague sense of guilt: a feeling that he’d already made the decision, that now he was looking for excuses to justify it. And though he was able to mask this with considerations of security and other things that were not related to his emotions, he knew that even the desire to get her away from Ibiza, from the tangle she’d got herself into with Kyriakou, was not paramount in his mind. He began an involved argument with his conscience: if I cannot be honest with them, at least I can be honest with myself. It is because I want her. Now that the time of decision has come, I don’t want to lose her. And what does she want? This is a question I cannot answer. For she does not and cannot yet know the truth. But how can I, at this time, in these circumstances, with so much at stake, so much dependent upon my judgment, sit here and worry about a Puerto Rican drop-out I’ve known for a few weeks, who at this moment detests and fears me? What sort of future can there be for us …?

  Helmut’s voice brought him back to reality. ‘What time d’you reckon we’ll make Cabo Negret?’

  ‘We can’t do much in this outfit. But we’ll be in San José any minute now, and it’s about eight kilometres from there. Let’s say, at the beach shortly before one o’clock.’

  ‘Goot,’ said the German, and there was once more silence in the cab.

  The truck struggled up the winding road, past the cultivated terraces and outlying houses into the village of San José. As the gradient levelled, Black changed gear and the truck rolled down the tarred road between the houses, their walls sliding silently by, shadowy and spectral, encapsulating their sleeping inmates, the darkness broken only by the headlights. Towards the end of the village they were slowing
down for the turn on to the Cubells road, when Helmut hissed ‘Achtung!’ as the headlights picked up the white crash helmet and dark uniform of a policeman astride a motorcycle. It was parked in the shadows where the road forked right to Cubells. He was smoking a cigarette.

  Black hissed, ‘Watch Manuela, and look straight ahead.’ There was a scuffle beside him and he realised that Helmut was pushing her on to the floor boards: with a hand over her mouth, judging by the muffled protests.

  Slowly the truck’s speed picked up, the policeman was passed, and the houses fell behind. Black relaxed. ‘My God! That was a near thing,’ he said hoarsely.

  Helmut lifted Manuela back on to the seat, where she burst with indignation. ‘You swine—you bloody swine of a man,’ she gasped. ‘You nearly choked me.’ She turned on Black. ‘You said that if I …’

  ‘Shut up,’ he interrupted. ‘He had no option. No way of knowing you’d co-operate.’

  ‘Co-operate,’ she spluttered indignantly. ‘With you?’

  After that she was silent, but Black felt her body shaking and knew she was crying.

  ‘We have missed the Cubells road,’ announced Helmut lugubriously. ‘So what now?’

  ‘There’ll be another on our right shortly. Just before Cova Santa. We couldn’t have turned in San José. Loaded vegetable lorries don’t go down to Cubells. That policeman would have been on to us. It’s a million to one he’s watching for the Zephyr.’

  Helmut said, ‘I reckon so.’

  Not long afterwards they reached the turnout before Santa Cova and set off down the country road through stone-walled terraces of olives and caribs. A few kilometres later they joined the Cubells road, and were soon turning and twisting through heavily terraced undulating tree-strewn countryside, dark and anonymous save for an occasional finca. The final descent to the beach was by way of steep bends which necessitated low gear and heavy braking, the engine coughing and spluttering in protest. Coming out of the last bend the road straightened abruptly and in the headlights they could see, beyond the stone parapet which marked the end of the road, the dark ripple of the sea.

  Black stopped the truck and switched off the lights. At the back he found Francois and Kamros already busy man-handling van Biljon from the top of the vegetables.

  ‘How is he?’ he asked.

  ‘Okay,’ said Francois. ‘I gave him one more shot. He’ll be all right for at least another fifteen minutes. Heart and pluse okay.’

  Black said, ‘Good. Get him down those steps and on to the beach. I’ll look after the signalling. Helmut will see to the girl. We had a close shave in San José. Policeman on a motorbike at the road fork. See him? Just as we were about to make the turn.’

  ‘Didn’t see a thing,’ said Francois laconically. ‘Is she …’

  ‘Just as well,’ said Black. ‘Bad for the heart.’ Ignoring Francois’ interrupted question, he went round to the driving cab. What the hell. He’d made the decision long ago, even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself. He called to Helmut. ‘Down here. Quickly!’

  ‘And the girl?’

  ‘Forget her for a moment.’

  Helmut joined him and they moved away. Black lowered his voice. ‘We’ll have to take her. She’s too heavily involved now. If we leave her she’ll talk. They’ll know how we left, and from where. We need all the start we can get. When we’re on the other side she can do what she likes. By then the story will be out. ZID will see she’s okay.’

  ‘This is logical,’ said Helmut censoriously, ‘if highly unusual. Anyway, we have not the time to argue.’

  ‘Who with?’ said Black dryly. ‘Take the girl and join the others on the beach.’

  Black went down the stone steps to the beach, feeling his way in the darkness. Close ahead he could hear Francois and Kamros talking in low voices. As he passed them carrying their human load, he said, ‘Keep close. I’m going to signal.’

  He stopped at the water’s edge and looked at the wall of darkness over the sea. Behind him, and to left and right, the land rose steeply, the rims of the cliffs outlined against the starlit sky. Ahead the bay opened out, narrow at first but widening like a bell-mouth, and across the water to the south-east the lights at Ahorcados and Formentera flashed their warning to seamen. A cold breeze smelling of kelp and salt water came in from the sea. Except for the lapping of wavelets on the beach, the night was without sound.

  Black aimed the pencil torch, flashing groups of shorts and longs. He had begun the third group when the answering flashes came, from a good deal closer in than he’d expected. Good man, he thought. Must have seen the truck’s lights coming down the road.

  On the screen of Black’s mind there were two persistent images: the farmer and his son walking along the road, encountered by a searching police car; and, later, the policeman on the motor-cycle at the road fork in San José confirming that the truck had gone towards Ibiza. He looked at his watch. Twenty-seven minutes to one. Daylight at six-thirty-one. Six hours at most.

  In the darkness he found the others. ‘Dimitrio’s answered,’ he said. ‘Not long now. Dinghy’ll take four. Five with him. As soon as it shows up we’ll put van Biljon in. Helmut and Francois must shove the dinghy off. Then hang on to the lifelines and swim.’ He chuckled. ‘You’ll have a wet ride.’

  He became serious again. ‘Keep your automatics with you while you’re on the beach. As we leave, chuck them into the dinghy. There’s no sign of anyone yet, but if there’s a last minute show up, you may need them. Fire to frighten, not to kill. We’ve no quarrel with the Spanish.’

  ‘Tell that to the farmer and his son,’ said Kamros.

  Helmut made a rude noise. ‘And to Pedro, Juan and company.’

  ‘What about the girl?’ asked Francois. ‘Leaving her here?’

  ‘No,’ said Black. ‘She’s coming with us.’

  Next to him he heard Manuela say, ‘I’m not.’ It was a pathetic gesture of defiance. Black, nerves stretched taut, felt smothered in guilt. ‘You are,’ he said wearily. ‘Conscious, if you play ball. Unconscious if you don’t. It’s up to you.’

  Her voice became suddenly small. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Can’t tell you yet. But we won’t hurt you. In a short time you’ll be free. Then you can do what you like.’

  She said in a broken voice, ‘I never thought you would do this to me.’

  The reproach stung him. ‘Nor did I,’ he said. ‘But van Biljon decided the time-table. There were no options.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I …’

  ‘Shush! Listen!’ he interrupted.

  In the silence which followed, only the lapping of the sea, the deep breathing of van Biljon, and the lesser respirations of the others, could be heard. Then, faintly, a new sound obtruded, a minuscule splash and swish of water. It grew stronger and Black said, ‘That’s him. Get ready.’

  Soon afterwards they heard a soft scraping on the beach, followed by Dimitrio’s low call.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The hull of the schooner loomed suddenly above them in the darkness and the next moment they were alongside and climbing on board. Helmut and Francois clambered from the water into the dinghy and helped lift van Biljon out. The dinghy was brought inboard and deflated, a jib hoisted, the anchor weighed, foresail and mainsail set, and slowly, silently, without lights, Snowgoose moved to the south-west. Twenty minutes later, when they had cleared Cabo Llentrisca and the light on Vedra was broad on the starboard bow, the diesel engines coughed and boomed into life, the sails were lowered and the schooner shook purposefully as she drove through the water at fifteen knots.

  Van Biljon, his lashings removed, had been locked in the single cabin adjoining the owner’s suite. The lights there were on and he could be seen through a portlight from the cockpit, lying on the bunk, his manacled hands resting on the rug which covered him. Francois had reported that he was in good shape and recovering from the effects of the Pentothal.

  Manuela had been given a cabin of
f the saloon. When he’d shown her to it, she’d complained to Francois of a headache. He told her she was suffering from nervous exhaustion and gave her two Codis tablets. ‘Take them in water,’ he said. ‘You will sleep well. To-morrow when you wake up everything will be okay. Bon soir, mam’selle.’

  She had given him a look which he described to Black later as, ‘A stiletto from the eyes. You know,’ and slammed the cabin door.

  It was dark in the cockpit but for the dim shaded lights over the binnacle and hooded chart-table where Black was busy with dividers and parallel rulers.

  He switched off the light and went over to Dimitrio who was at the wheel. ‘How are we heading?’

  ‘Two zero-five,’ said Dimitrio.

  Black looked at the automatic log repeater. It was reading 15.3 knots.

  ‘Won’t be a moment,’ he said, taking the chart and going down the companionway to the saloon. Helmut and Francois were there.

  ‘Signal sent?’ he asked abruptly.

  Helmut nodded. ‘Yes. ZID has acknowledged.’

  ‘Dinghy stowed away?’

  Helmut made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Also, yes.’

  With a start Black remembered something which the torrent of the night’s events had pushed to the back of his mind. ‘Hassan,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  Helmut smiled slowly. ‘Dimitrio and Kamros landed him on Abago this afternoon. Blindfolded until he reached the shore. He still does not know the name of this schooner, or where it is from.’

  Black felt again something of the pity and kinship of the night at Rafah. He would have liked to have seen Ahmed ben Hassan, if only to have apologised for the uncavalier treatment he’d been accorded. ‘How is he?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Very well,’ said Helmut. ‘He laughed and joked with us on the skimmer going into Abago. When we took the blindfold off and handed over the provisions and water he bowed and salaamed in Arabic style. After we had shown him the fisherman’s shelter, he insisted on shaking hands.’