by Peter Tonkin
Trained at sea, through the Heritage fleet, with a surprising range of papers to show for it; trained also, if briefly, at the London School of Economics and at Harvard, here was a mind of unusual quality. Here was a power in the shipping world not lightly to be crossed.
But Angus could not sacrifice his friend. 'Now look ...' he began, trying charm as a last, desperate, tactic.
'Don't bullshit me! I came to you as much out of courtesy as anything else. I can drop on to Prometheus by parachute if I want and Richard Mariner will be hard put to do much about it. Demetrios might own the ship, but by God I own the cargo; all 250,000 tons of it. I own it as of 09.00 GMT yesterday morning and I have the right to ride with it if I choose.'
'Hardly marine lore ...' He faltered. The icy glance said it all: Robin Heritage had forgotten as much marine lore as Angus would ever know. Thank Allah and the Shamaal, he thought. Thank Him also for the fact that Richard had not got in touch.
Angus knew better than most what Richard had suffered during these last few years. He suspected very precisely what it must be costing his old friend to be back at sea again after all this time. He saw all too clearly the resemblance to the dead Rowena in the determined young face opposite. He saw the bitter twist to the lips every time they mentioned Richard's name.
There was no way Robin Heritage would get on to Prometheus if Angus El Kebir could help it.
Robin saw this clearly enough in Angus's strange, light eyes and drove a fist down on to his desk in a gesture of frustration.
The impasse was complete.
The telephone rang.
Doctor, nurse and pilot had been sitting patiently in the little Sikorsky for over half an hour when Heritage showed up.
'You flying out to Prometheus?'
The doctor nodded towards the pilot as though he didn't speak English. The pilot, an American, turned and looked back. 'If the sand clears,' he said.
'They need a replacement for the man you're bringing back.'
'You?' The pilot looked at the perfectly pressed whites, innocent of badges of rank or seniority.
'Yup. Me.' The cool, confident voice allowed no room for argument.
'On your own head,' said the pilot equably. 'But that's a bad ship. Unlucky.'
Robin climbed fully aboard. 'You've a Florida accent.'
'Fort Lauderdale. Born and bred.'
'Ever fly the Bermuda Triangle?' The question seemed innocently asked, but the point was made. Some people pay more attention to superstition than others.
Robin dumped the bulky suitcase beside the doctor's medical supplies and came far enough up the Sikorsky's short body to see that the right-hand seat was empty. 'Mind if I sit up front?'
'Can't say's I do.'
Something about the way Robin's capable hands and feet rested on the controls prompted the pilot to ask, 'Ever flown one of these?'
'No.'
For some reason, the American felt mildly surprised by the simple negative. But there was more.
'I learned to fly helicopters in England. Westlands, mostly. I've never flown a Sikorsky, though this looks almost identical to some I have been up in.'
'Well now, if that's the case ...' The pilot grew expansive, warming to his passenger's quiet English modesty and charm. 'I'll see about giving you a lesson as soon as this wind drops.'
In the event, the wind veered almost immediately and the sand cleared rapidly from the south.
Within half an hour the Sikorsky was following the fading petticoats of the sandstorm north as fast as the pilot dared - given the odd unexpected buffet and jump which caused both doctor and nurse to make some very strange noises indeed, and the danger of sucking too much flying sand into the engine and taking them all for an unscheduled swim.
The pilot flew almost the whole way out, but it was Robin, given a flat calm, clear air and a floodlit landing site - almost perfect conditions - who brought them down in the end, drifting the Sikorsky sideways gently and expertly to match the tanker's speed.
As soon as they touched down there was a sort of bedlam. Four men rushed down the bright-lit deck bearing a fifth on a stretcher, paying scant attention to the clouds of sand still whirling under the idling rotors.
The side door of the Sikorsky slammed open and the doctor and nurse rushed out to meet their patient, equally oblivious of the sand. The pilot gave Robin an impressed thumbs-up and was gone to see what he could do to help.
Robin was left alone for a moment, like a yacht with the wind taken out of its sails. Movement seemed too much to demand of muscles still thrilling with the excitement of landing. Was this such a good idea after all? What would Richard say? Nothing pleasant; that was for sure. Did that matter a damn? Nope. One thing was certain: there was no point in coming all this way, then vanishing again.
The hesitation lasted perhaps a second.
Everything was gone out of the body of the helicopter to make room for the stretcher. This included Robin's luggage. There was nothing to do but to leap down on to the sand-cloaked metal and get out of the way as the doctor pushed past; already attending to his patient.
The sand was settling now, revealing an effulgent white bridge, big as a block of flats; revealing the distant, more shadowy lines of the ship. She hadn't seemed all that big from the air, but she was twice the size of the largest vessel Robin had served on before.
Then the pilot was there. 'Doc says we got to go or the boy'll be dead before we land. Pleasure to've flown with you. You have a delicate touch ...'
He paused in the doorway, looking back. He might have been going to repeat his warning; going to suggest a change of mind. Their eyes met and he shrugged. 'Your cases are up with the Second Mate. Captain's on the bridge. Take care.'
Robin raised a hand in reply.
Ten steps towards the bridge and the pilot had completed pre-flight. The engine coughed warningly. Robin hunched forward and broke into a run. The Sikorsky fired up. The rotors caused another storm, clouding everything with red sand from the deck.
The side door to A deck was open an inch or two and someone - John Higgins - was waiting just inside it. Robin tumbled through in a rush and a choking cloud and they faced each other - much the same height, uniforms pink and faces like children's made up as Red Indians because of the sand sticking to them.
John launched into his speech of welcome: 'Welcome aboard. I'm John Higgins, Second Mate. I've had your cases taken up to the Third Mate's cabin, and ...' He paused. 'Good God! You're ...'
'I know I am,' said Robin, pushing past him; nervous suddenly, and uncharacteristically rude. 'I know where the Third Mate's cabin is. And I know where the Captain is. Thank you.'
Ten minutes later, washed and brushed, the new Third Mate arrived on the bridge. The deck officers were all there John Higgins, frowning with concern; Ben Strong, his face devilish with laughter - one glance showed that John had reported to Ben and the information had stopped there.
Richard turned. He looked older; tired; so distinguished. In the grip of feelings far too complex even to begin to examine, Robin strode towards him, watching the colour drain from this face.
Richard stood, ashen, and watched the exact image of his dead wife approach him across the shadowy bridge and stop.
Only when she smiled did he realise that this was Robin, not Rowena.
'Hello, Richard,' she said.
Richard closed the door with his back then leaned upon it looking at her as she turned to face him. The Owner's suite was large - as large as the Captain's - but it seemed tiny now, far too small to contain the pair of them. He remained, apparently at ease, tense as a coiled spring. She turned and there was no pretence of ease about her.
'You want rid of me,' she accused. 'But you can't send me away.' She did not add that she owned the cargo, as she had when confronting Angus El Kebir. She did not need to - Richard knew and that was enough.
He let his breath out, hissing, between his teeth. He hardly trusted his jaw muscles to loosen or his numb lips
to frame the words. He certainly did not dare to deal with things o her tumultuous level. 'It's been a long time,' he said.
She stopped. Her eyes narrowed calculatingly. She had not expected this. Outrage, anger, hatred even; coldness, no. Calmness, certainly not.
But only Richard knew how shallow that calmness was.
They faced each other in silence across the narrow room. 'A long time,' he repeated quietly.
'Are you going to let me stay?'
'I'm working it out,' he answered.
'You want rid of me, the same as always,' she challenged again.
'Not the same as always, but this time, at first glance, yes! I'm thinking. This is no place for you.'
'An unlucky ship?'
One corner of his mouth curled up. Almost a smile. 'Perhaps.'
'You need a Third Officer.'
'That I do.'
'And I am qualified.'
'Eminently.'
'But ... What I am ...My sex ...'
He hesitated. There was no denying it. Pictures from the video and the magazines flashed through his mind. What if anyone who found such things exciting were still aboard?
But even as she threw down the challenge, so she raised her chin and he recognised that look - something that existed in natural leaders. Some quality he had seen in her father but never in her sister. A power he had never seen in her before, nor ever even suspected she possessed.
'Not only that, no ...' He was suddenly fighting for time and they both knew it. Like a duellist more interested in testing competition than easy victory, she turned away and let him compose himself.
Let him face the inevitable question: why not?
Why should he not let her do as she planned? She was capable. She was available. She was here. In many ways she was a better officer than he was expecting. She would strengthen his command considerably.
But would she weaken him?
And was she actually strong enough herself'?
Had this Robin Heritage been the son that old Sir William Heritage had always wanted - a young man equally qualified, even with all the hatred that lay between them - would he have been hesitating now'?
No, he would not.
He stopped hesitating.
When she turned back, she saw it in his eyes and her face became almost incandescent as she smiled.
Chapter Nine
11.00 local time next morning, they were all on the bridge again, but Robin was on watch.
Salah Malik stood stock-still by the wheel, eyes scanning instruments and then horizons in easy rhythm, hooded against the dazzle of the sun. Robin stood at his shoulder, hands clasped behind her back, rocking gently on the balls of her feet; calm, collected, confident.
Ben and John were at the chart table. Every now and then one of them would look at the Collision Alarm Radar, though there wasn't much to see. Both of them, of course, were really watching the new Third Mate. They would have been here, observing any newcomer on their first watch - especially one as important as this - but the fact that Robin was who she was, and what, added extra interest.
Only Richard was not watching her. He had arrived half an hour ago - precisely when expected - checked the lookouts on the bridge wings, checked logs, speed, course and heading, all the things he would normally check, and sat himself down as usual. He paid this Third Mate the same courtesy he would have given any other: he was on the bridge and responsible; she was on watch and in charge.
It had taken hours of heated - impassioned - argument into the small hours of the morning to make him accept the situation, even though - as she had pointed out to Angus El Kebir - she held all the strong cards. And, she suspected, he had seen beneath what she was saying to some of her hidden, secret, desperate reasons.
But it was done: save that her bags were in the Owner's suite, as befitted her relationship with the cargo, she was the Third Mate.
Richard's mind was full to bursting, for all the languid mien of his long body. Leaving aside the memories which Robin brought with her, there were all the normal worries of running a ship; all the peculiar problems of running this one. The strange Chief with the bullet-scarred stomach; the fact that he had counted ten corpses in the Pump Room when only nine had been recovered; the sorry state of a ship listed as Al for Lloyd's; the unreliability of the apparently first-rate equipment; the strange nocturnal wanderings; the drink on the bridge; the pornography ...
'Sir!' Robin broke into his reverie, pointing to starboard. There, a couple of miles away, lay the maze of low islands - lost in the glare for the most part - stretching out from the Musandam Peninsula, climaxing in that pair of islands, used as guide for generations, called the Quoins.
They were going out through the doorway to the Gulf at last. Overcome by a rush of unaccountable energy, Richard decided not to wait until they 'turned the corner' at Ras al Hadd: 'Good. Tell Sparks to make a telex,' he ordered. 'To the Owner (wherever he is): "Left the Gulf at 11.10 local, July twenty-first" ...' He paused, then added, ' "All well so far. Prometheus." '
A few minutes later he left the bridge.
John and Ben were not long in following. Both had work to do, and Ben was due to relieve Robin in three quarters of an hour.
'I think she's going to do,' said John.
'Not bad for someone nursed through their qualifications aboard their father's ships.'
'Do you really think she let them give her an easy ride?' The tone of John's voice made it clear he did not.
'Too soon to tell.' Ben wasn't going to give an inch. 'Better keep an eye on her, though ...'
'Don't you think she's competent.'
'Dunno. Tell you what. One, she's a mite overqualified, a mite too powerful by all accounts, to be Third Officer on this tub without good reason. Two, she's a bit too close to Richard's nasty past for my taste.' He paused, a third finger held up. 'Three what if that joker who brought all that pornography aboard isn't among the dead?'
John's mind was flooded with the terrible images he had seen so recently. He went cold at the thought. But no; Ben was scaremongering. 'Not very likely,' he said quickly.
'That's what I would have thought. But then who's been breaking into the library?' Their eyes met. They had both heard the gossip rife amongst the stewards and the seamen. 'Who, and why?'
'They're all dead, aren't they?' It was a rhetorical question. John expected no answer. But he got one.
'Tsirtos isn't. Martyr isn't. And, of course, the Captain isn't, though he could hardly be a threat ...'
'What? Who?'
'The Captain. Levkas. Didn't you know? Martyr got him out of the Pump Room alive!'
INDIAN OCEAN
Chapter Ten
They came for Robin six nights later as she was coming off watch at midnight when they crossed the Line.
Two burly sea-nymphs sprang from the shadows of the corridor and caught her tired arms. Surprised, she looked over her shoulder but Ben was oblivious - crouching over the chart table already, rechecking their course and exact position.
She opened her mouth but was immediately gagged. A smelly rag was thrust under her nose, but a clean handkerchief was actually tied round her mouth. One of them giggled girlishly, reeking of alcohol, and she knew it would be useless to struggle against them. Although she hated the feeling of powerlessness even more than she had thought she would, she knew there was no alternative, so she gave a mental shrug and went along for the time being, wondering queasily what to expect.
On bare feet, silent except for the swish of their seaweed skirts, they ran her to the lift then crowded in beside her. The light had been put out of commission so they plunged downwards in absolute darkness.
Robin stood still and straight, her mind a whirl of possibilities, her long upper lip prickling with sweat. It was a stultifyingly hot night. The grip of the sea-nymphs, one on each arm, threatened to bruise her tense flesh. She calmed herself by trying to work out who they were. She had been aboard a week now, after all, and she felt she was getti
ng to know the officer complement well.
Ben Strong was on the bridge. That ruled him out for the moment, though Robin was firmly of the opinion that he would be involved in this somewhere along the line. The two of them had not really hit it off - for the strong-minded, energetic, enthusiastic young woman had found her superior officer either over solicitous, patronising, or bullying; constantly surprised that she knew what she was doing. And, if Ben was on the bridge, then Paul Rice, the Welsh First Engineering Officer - second to the Chief as Ben was second to the Captain - a hard man from Tiger Bay, would be in the engine room.
Unless the mysterious, unreadable Chief was relieving him. That was possible. Not probable - schoolboy pranks did not seem to have any place in Martyr's character - but Robin had simply been unable to sum the man up; so anything was possible.
John Higgins would be involved. On the one hand, the quiet Manxman - possibly under Richard's unofficial direction - would be there to see things did not go too far. On the other hand, this was an important part of traditional sea lore and he would want to see it done right.
David Napier would be there too. The Second Engineering Officer. A hard-faced Mancunian bully. Napier would delight in making things as unpleasant as possible. She would be well advised to keep out of his clutches.
That left McTavish and Tsirtos. They were the most likely candidates for sea nymphs. And while McTavish did not drink, Tsirtos most certainly did.
She began to explore the black air around her for the exact source of the fumes. At no time did it occur to her that Richard might be directly involved in any of this.
The lift jarred to a halt. The door opened to a blaze of light at whose heart stood a gargoyle figure, half fish, half man, bewigged and hideously masked like the sea nymphs. Two green arms reached out towards her and even before her vision had cleared from the glare, a bag went over her head.
During the last six days they had begun the voyage proper. As soon as the restrictions of the Gulf were left behind, Richard had ordered full ahead and Prometheus had answered with an easy fifteen knots.