by Peter Tonkin
Within a minute, the ladder was extended and in place. With the other three at the bottom, Nicoli climbed up for a first look at Gallaher's bomb.
It was surprisingly innocuous; hardly more threatening than a neatly wrapped present, with its gaily coloured wires. Without thinking, Nicoli reached down and touched it. His fingertips no more than brushed it, but that was enough. It settled back into the junction of pipes and wall with a decided Clunk! Nicoli jerked back, turning away. He would have fallen had the ladder not been so firmly held below. But the expected explosion did not come.
After a mental count of three, Nicoli turned back, pushed his arms through the rungs and hugged the safe steel to his broad chest, waiting for the shock to die. Waiting for his heart to stop racing; waiting for the roaring in his ears to fade.
But then he realised that the roaring in his ears was nothing to do with shock. It was real.
Automatically, he looked down. At the foot of the ladder, Kanwar stood, gazing up. On his face was the most frightening expression Nicoli had ever seen. The boy's fists were locked on to the ladder and his whole body, like his fingers, seemed closed in some kind of seizure. His eyes were wide and his mouth stretched open, as though he were drowning. His lips and tongue were blue. He was standing there screaming silently up at his friend and he was dead.
Nicoli saw all this in the time it took for the first agony to hit his chest like a breaking heart. And in the instant it took him to die, he understood: something had switched on the automatic fire-fighting equipment. Every single atom of oxygen had been driven from the place.
From everywhere in the Pump Room: including their lungs.
When the first spasm hit him, he locked on to the ladder and remained where he was, apparently about some business; looking just as much alive as the three other corpses at the ladder's foot.
The roaring of the automatic fire-fighting equipment continued for five more seconds. Then, as there was no more oxygen left anywhere in the Pump Room, right up to the ceiling, it switched itself off and there was silence.
Chapter Two
Captain Georg Levkas was an angry man. Even when nothing had happened to enrage him, he still went about life as though in the grip of an overpowering fury. In truth, most of Levkas's fury was directed against himself for failing to live up to the heady dreams of his youth, but he was far too proud a man to admit this to himself and so the anger which filled him at all times was poured upon everything around him like molten metal boiling over in a crucible.
He had always been a buccaneer, a blockade runner. As a young man he had learned the sea, smuggling between Europe and Africa. He had carried something of that romantic apprenticeship with him when he had worked his way through his first real set of officer's papers and beyond; into the glittering world of commercial shipping. On to his beloved tankers.
But the price. In the end the price had been too high. The price of getting his Tanker Captain's papers; the price, now, of keeping them.
At half past midnight local time, 16th July, he was standing in the radio room yelling at the Owner over the radio. The object of his considerable ire was, at that precise moment, the Chief Engineer, the American C J Martyr.
It had begun as a routine midnight report that the cargo had been loaded from the Iranian oil terminal that day. The oil was currently - on paper at least - the property of the Abu Oil Company, but it was likely to pass from owner to owner during the voyage according to the vicissitudes of the oil market. Their papers to transport the cargo from the Gulf to the huge refineries in Europoort near Rotterdam in Holland, sailing via the Cape of Good Hope on the standard route, were all in order. The report had contained all this information but then it had somehow turned itself into a diatribe against the one officer Levkas had not made fully conversant with what would really happen in the meantime.
Hamstrung by the fact that he could not be absolutely sure who else was listening to the open radio link, and by the knowledge that he could never be explicit if there was the faintest chance he might be overheard, unaware of just how drunk he really was, Levkas was trying to explain that Martyr simply did not fit in with his crew, who otherwise seemed perfect for the business in hand:
'...hand-picked. All of them. Men I know. Men I can trust. I don't have to like them. I do not like any of them particularly, except the boy Kanwar and Nicoli, but I know them. I know what they have done and will do. I know nothing of this man Martyr except that I do not trust him for this.'
'Captain,' the Owner's voice was irritated. The man had a Greek name, thought Levkas. Why did he ape the Americans? Had he no pride? 'Captain Levkas, can you hear me?'
'I hear you.'
'I understand your concern, Captain. You must understand me. I vouch for Martyr. I guarantee he will fulfil everything required of him. In any case, you know there is no time to get another Chief out to you. You sail in the morning.'
'I understand that. I understand how tight the schedule is. But you could get a new man to Dubai in three days. There is the launch which comes out from Ras al Kaima …’
'I don't see how that would solve anything, Captain ...'
'You do not understand the nature of the problem. My crew is a well-tuned instrument. Each one knows his place. They do not trust this American ...' An idea struck Levkas. He threw open the door of the radio room. Outside, the Radio Officer, Tsirtos, was talking to the Hong Kong Chinese chief steward 'Twelve-toes' Ho.
'You two!' bellowed the Captain. 'Get the Mate down here. He'll be on the bridge ...'
But Tsirtos returned a minute or two later to report that Nicoli was not, in fact, on the bridge. Nor was he in his cabin. There had been no officer on watch, it seemed, since Kanwar had disappeared over an hour ago; just after having spoken with the Electrical Officer.
This was too much for Levkas. With a bellow of rage, he broke off connection with the Owner and stormed out of the radio room. 'Sound for lifeboat drill!' he ordered. 'I want everyone up and out!'
Ten minutes later, with the alarm still sounding, everyone was at his assigned post for lifeboat drill. Everyone except Nicoli, Gallaher, Kanwar and two seamen.
'We'll search the ship!' announced Levkas, unconsciously slurring his words. Then he was hit by a sudden bout of paranoia - he did not really trust these men as much as he had told the Owner - 'And we'll do it together!' At first they moved from station to station, collecting all the other officers and crew, most of whom were fuddled still with sleep or alcohol - or worse.
Once they were all in a group, the Captain led, followed by the rest of his officers in sullen silence. Tsirtos and Martyr kept clear of the mob of them, the only truly sober officers there; the outsiders, watched and watchful.
Then came the crew, grumbling amongst themselves, in two groups: the Hong Kong Chinese stewards led by 'Twelve-toes' Ho; the GP seamen, Palestinian to a man, led by the tall, intense Salah Malik. They made long, straggling line- the Captain, Chief, and five officers including Tsirtos; ten GP seamen and ten stewards.
Drunker even than he looked, Captain Levkas knew where each and every one of them was - though the knowledge served him little in the end.
It took them half an hour to reach the Pump Room. During that time, the mood of the groups had changed slightly and the grumbling had become louder. Even Levkas had begun to suspect he knew not what, his head splitting with the beginnings of a hangover.
He swung the great bulkhead door open with a sort of explosion of rage and there they were, grouped around a ladder at the far side of the room. The scene was so natural it didn't occur to him that anything might be wrong. He looked up, saw Nicoli standing twenty feet up and, calling his name, stepped in.
With a ragged cheer, the others followed him. After the long search, it was the natural thing to do.
Two steps over the threshold, Levkas knew there was something badly wrong. One more hesitant step and he knew just what it was. He turned, solid enough to stem the rush, but not to stop it. Tall enough to see ov
er their heads to a face outside the door. A terrible roaring began, filling all the room. The first drunken officer tottered away, collapsing, surprised.
'Out!' yelled Levkas, but he knew it was already too late. The face outside the door asked an agonised question, although its lips did not move.
Strange, thought Levkas dreamily, that now he was putting all his trust in the one man he had said he could not trust at all.
There were simply too many people coming in, away from the door. All his officers now except the Chief and the boy Tsirtos. There was no time to repeat the order; to explain to them that they should all turn and get out. The carbon dioxide, heavier than air, would spew out of the door until at first the corridor, and then the engine room and everywhere else level with or below here was also deadly. The only real chance they had for rescue came from the deck-hatch three decks' height above. And then only if the men immediately outside the door survived.
There were half a dozen of them in here and half a dozen oxygen masks in the fire control room. Christ! if only his head was clearer! Another man sat down, faintly surprised at being unable to catch his breath. Only a millisecond had passed since his eyes had met Martyr's. There was no choice. Whatever the chances of the people inside, the door had to be closed. Almost wearily, Levkas nodded. The massive American's face twisted with the effort. The great slab of steel swung closed and the flat clang of its closing echoed in the bright room like the chime of a cracked bell.
Levkas was already moving, shouldering his way through those few still standing, looking away from their desperate eyes. Useless to all until he got to an oxygen mask and was able to breathe himself.
It was years since he had trained for anything like this. He had all but forgotten the rules. Of course he was holding his breath now. But had he already breathed in a lungful of the deadly gas, like the others, dying with every new breath they took? Should he hurry and risk passing out from overuse of the little oxygen left in his system; or should he walk more slowly and risk simply running out of time? In the end he walked as fast as he could towards the fire control room. Blackness swirled around the periphery of his vision. Lightning flashed before his eyes. The door, coming closer, suddenly became much taller and he never realised he had fallen to his knees.
All he could feel was the pain in his chest. It was like fire but he would not breathe. He fell forward and gashed his head on the jamb of the door. The blood came out blue. The shock of the fall surged through his system, giving him an iota more strength. As though in a dream, he pulled himself to all-fours and crawled. Weaving from side to side, a terrible parody of the numberless drunken staggers of the last few years, he crossed the room until his head hit the wall opposite. He found he no longer had the strength to reach the masks a mere three feet above him. Distantly he decided, I am dead then, with a vague sense of pride that he should have behaved like a professional at the last.
When his arms gave out, the figure caught him and turned him over. It seemed huge to him, though his eyes could have been playing tricks. It was dressed in dungarees. It was wearing an oxygen mask.
Levkas looked up at it with dream-like wonder. Even when it began to speak, reality came no closer.
'Levkas!' it spat, its voice disguised by the mask. The tone was not disguised. What had this man Levkas done to earn this much hate? Levkas wondered. Then he realised the figure was addressing him.
A mask was pressed over his face. Oxygen hissed over his lips, cool as iced water. Still he did not breathe. The figure shook him. 'Breathe!' it ordered. Levkas obeyed. All pain vanished. His head began to clear.
'I have done nothing. I know nothing,' he lied.
At once the mask was gone. One breath had not returned much in the way of strength to his body. He struggled to see what had become of the others. 'They are dead,' said the cold voice of his saviour. 'Forget them and listen to me.'
Levkas was tempted to answer but knew better now. This man had saved his life for the time being only, and for his own purposes. Perhaps he had also let the others die on purpose. Perhaps this was some kind of plot. Levkas needed time to think. He had until the oxygen in his lungs ran out. If he spoke, that would happen sooner.
Could he hold out until Martyr came in through the hatchway? As he wondered, his saviour began to speak. 'I have sought you many years, Levkas. I have followed your name, from ship to ship and port to port around the world from Beirut. And now I have you where I want you!'
Beirut! Of course! He had known then that this would happen in the end. He had known now, deep in his bones, that this was Beirut catching up with him.
The memories flooded back, much more vivid than the present ...
The memories ...
Beirut harbour. Years ago. The city smoke-shrouded, wavering in the fierce heat of the afternoon. Himself, Levkas, younger, standing in the bow of his old tramp steamer Sanna Maru watching the inflatable buzz out to them from the war-torn city.
'Think he's got it?' the American demanded suddenly, tensely, speaking too loud. Levkas glanced back with distaste at the plump young man. Mediterranean complexion speaking eloquently of Greek origins made more striking by the American naval uniform whites. 'Think he's got it?' asked Second Lieutenant Kostas Demetrios again.
'Who knows?' answered Captain Georg Levkas, wearily, as though he did not care. As though nothing important hung on this at all ...
Then his mind jumped back to the present. Back to the Pump Room. It was the pain in his chest which pulled him back. He was beginning to black out again.
He tried to make it look worse than it was and was rewarded with another icy draught of oxygen. It gave him a little more strength but hardly enough to speak.
'Do not expect another breath,' the distorted voice was telling him. 'I have sworn an oath. I will perform that oath. You will die looking upon his face.'
He's mad. Utterly insane, thought Levkas as the battered old photograph of a lean, hawk-proud boy was thrust before his dying eyes.
But then he began to doubt his own sanity. For he knew the face in the photograph. It had haunted him since that day. He had half expected to carry it with him to the grave, never suspecting that his grave would be so near ...
'You think he's got it?' Lieutenant Demetrios had asked.
For the third time.
'Of course!' snapped Levkas, so young, so sure. 'Are we not lucky men, Lieutenant? I should be lost and hopeless on some nameless bucket, scum among scum. You should be dead in some jungle or river or shallow sea in Vietnam. Yet here we are with a cargo of medical supplies stolen from NATO making our fortunes in Beirut!' His tone, heavy with sarcasm, almost with hatred, silenced the American at last.
And the boy climbed on to the deck.
Of all the luck these lucky men had had, this was the greatest. That the PLO should have placed the responsibility of harbourmaster on the shoulders of this arrogant boy. That he should have access to the fortune the medicine was worth on the black market and no real back-up except an old, crippled sergeant.
It was the fighting, of course. The battle raging in the city, distracting the boy's superiors just at the perfect moment.
As soon as he arrived on deck, the boy threw down the bag. 'There!' he spat. 'It is as I said. The full sum. I did not lie.'
Levkas hurled himself forward and tore the bag open. All the breath left his body. It was as the boy had said. It was all there. Levkas had never seen so much money in his life. He looked up at the proud young Palestinian, simply awed.
The aristocratic lips curled disdainfully. The hard black eyes looked down on him as if he were scum. And the high, pale forehead, just where it vanished beneath the boy's bright headdress, exploded open, spewing threads of blood and lumps of bone and brain.
Levkas never heard the first shot. But three more boomed out. Before the horrified Levkas could move, the boy was gone, blasted back over the side, leaving great gouts of blood on the deck.
'What ...' screamed Levkas, coiling himself
to pounce on the American lunatic. 'What have you ...'
The gun moved to cover him. He froze.
'Don't you see?' purred Demetrios. 'We get out of here quick and sell the stuff over. Further down the coast. We've just doubled our money, boy. Doubled our money!’
Levkas hurled himself to the side. The fat inflatable was powering away, the wizened face of the Palestinian sergeant glaring back.
'You fool,' screamed Levkas. 'You've killed us both. Do you think they'll let us get away with this?'
'Who's to know?' drawled Demetrios. 'Who's to know it was us?'
And the dead boy in the water slowly turned on this back, glaring up at the sickened Levkas with bright red, bloodfilled eyes, searing himself into the captain's memory ...
'It wasn't me,' he screamed up at his monstrous inquisitor in the Pump Room of Prometheus, all those guilt - and whisky-sodden years later.
The last of the oxygen left his lungs. His gaze fastened inflexibly on the dead face in the photograph. 'It wasn't me,' he choked, overcome by the unfairness of it all. 'It was the American. I swear to God. The American ...'
But then it began to dawn on him that even this treachery was too little and too late.
The last thing he saw, as he had long known it would be, was the face of the dead boy ...
Chapter Three
Martyr was a fit man, lean and hard; and yet he was completely out of breath by the time he reached the Pump Room hatchway on the deck. He stood, back straight, head up, gazing at the pearl-bright stars and filling his lungs with oil-tainted air. The pause gave him time to think - not about the danger he was going into, but about the man he was going to save.