by Peter Tonkin
They lay, fully clothed, on the bunk they had collapsed on the night before. Her arms and legs wound round him, clutching him to her. He smiled and returned their gentle pressure for a few moments, luxuriating in the feel of her, then he softly disentangled himself and rose. As he put his feet on the floor, something chimed quietly: a tray with cups and saucers, sugar and reconstituted milk. And a thermos of teak-dark tea. Richard smiled. Ho's one concession to the emergency was the thermos - he would not wake his Captain at 06.30 anymore; nor would he let his Captain's tea go cold while he slept. He opened it and poured himself a cup, then left it uncorked by the head of the bunk, knowing the warm fragrance of the hot tea would waken Robin more effectively than anything except the emergency siren.
With his cup in his hand, he crossed to the vacant window frame to look down across the scarred deck, through the balmy morning towards his distant goal. If they had maintained course and speed through the night - and if they had not, he would have been informed - they should be north of Cancer by now. The Canaries and the Azores beckoned temptingly: they still had not sighted another ship. They were still in enforced radio silence. There was, creeping over the men, a sort of fantastic suspicion that something unimaginable had happened to the rest of humanity, some unannounced holocaust which had left them alone in all the world. Like the Flying Dutchman, whose waters they had so recently crossed. But Richard was not going to stop at any of the islands unless he absolutely had to. He was going to take her home. If they limped into some safe harbour on the way, they would simply be taken off and flown home, leaving the massive impersonal machinery of the investigation to work itself out distantly from them while they were occupied with other things. Like getting on with the rest of their lives. There was a temptation, but Richard could not entertain it. He could not allow the resolution of all this to come about through the workings of others: men and women who had not earned the right, as his crew had, to lay bare the whole truth of the matter.
No. The only thing which could have made him turn aside now was if their rudimentary medical facilities began to fail, putting the lives of the wounded at risk. But, as he had observed in the lifeboat three days ago, the men were either dead or only lightly wounded. There was no one who needed hospitalisation. The worst hurt was Nihil, among Ho's men, who had lost part of a finger. And that only served to make his endless playing of that strange flute even more weird and haunting. The others only needed burial, and they would wait.
Burial. And restitution. Richard would not, as Martyr, did, use the word revenge. But there was payment to be made. And not only by their murderous shipmate.
He frowned, still gazing out into the still, clear morning, his thoughts taking a darker turn.
'Penny for them ...' she whispered at his shoulder, so close she made him jump. She took another silent step forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, crushing herself to him.
'You're due on watch in fifteen minutes, Number Three,' he said.
She screwed up her nose. 'Just time for a shower, then.'
They showered together, not having time to turn it into a game; Richard, in any case, too preoccupied to answer her playful advances. They came out together also and quickly changed into clean white uniforms. 'Twelve-toes' Ho and his team had performed little short of miracles getting the ship's laundry back in service. And, since Durban, there had always been a complete change of clothes for each of them left, apparently by accident, in the other's quarter. The bomb and the abandonment had not changed that.
There had been enough glass in the ship's stores to replace the bridge windows. Everyone else had to put up with ply or board unless, like Richard, they were willing to risk inclement weather and leave their windows uncovered for the moment. So, with windows in and blast damage covered if not corrected, the bridge seemed normal as they stepped into it side by side ten minutes later, as though the explosion had never happened. Until, that is, they walked forward far enough to see the crater on the deck.
John was sitting, worn out, in the Captain's chair. When the rest of them had collapsed, exhausted, at four this morning, it had been time for him to take over his watch. He was certainly due for some sleep now, and, emergencies aside, he would sleep until Pour Out.
Richard had reinstated the ship's routine at once, as though nothing untoward was going on. He would make his noon report as usual later, having calculated their position himself with John's sextant; without the international news which Tsirtos used to supply, but still scrupulously including the bearing of Mecca for the Muslims. They might be working all the hours that God - or Allah - sent, trying to repair the damage caused by their strange, invisible enemy, but the daily routines punctuated their efforts with the calm accuracy of a Swiss watch. The façade of normality was enormously important. It gave them an added strength. So the watches changed like clockwork, with Martyr replacing Napier below, and all the meals were served as normal. They were only an hour adrift of GMT now, and would not come back on to it until they were entering the Channel Approaches in a little less than five days' time. With luck, they would sight the Lizard at dawn on 9th September.
Richard walked forward and put his hand on John's shoulder. The Second Officer jumped into full wakefulness and looked up. 'We've got her now, John. Robin's watch. You get to bed.'
'I think we came pretty close to another vessel last night. Strong echo on the radar. Couldn't raise her with the signal lamp, though I thought I could see her lights. Watch must have been asleep.'
Richard looked down at the tired man with infinite respect. In spite of everything, the watch on Prometheus had been anything but sleepy. He glanced at Robin. She was just signing onto the log. 'Logged at 04.45,' she confirmed. 'Echo's course due south. Closest three miles. Should have seen a signal lamp: conditions clear enough.'
Richard nodded. They might find it difficult to raise a passing ship with the lamp. So many ships relied solely on their radios now. But then Prometheus would strike passers-by as unusually silent; worthy of closer attention. It should be possible to attract someone's attention to that flashing point of light. And most ships' officers still understood Morse Code.
In fact, it was not until that evening, part way through John's second watch, that the fifth ship they had passed during the last twelve hours made the cheerful, unexpected reply:
'HELLO PROMETHEUS STOP SOMEONE OVER THERE PRACTISING FOR THEIR ELEMENTARY SEAMANSHI EXAM QUERY'
'Cocky bugger's missed his "P" off,' growled John.
Richard chuckled, still half winded by his dash to get up here. 'Make: RADIO OUT STOP SOME CREW WOUNDED IN ONBOARD EXPLOSION STOP ... What else?'
They were outside on the port bridge wing. John was using the lamp himself, and Robin was taking down the messages as the Second Officer growled them out.
'Contact Daddy,' she said without thinking, and then stopped, confused. For the first time in a long while, she had spoken as Robin Heritage: a different person to the lean, hard Third Officer, Prometheus, she had become. The difference between what she had been and what she was now came as a shock. So little time had passed: so much had happened.
The other two continued speaking without pause. If they had noticed her momentary confusion, they gave no sign. 'Better Heritage than Demetrios at this stage, surely,' agreed John. Robin's confusion lasted long enough to miss the linking of the two names. And the cold glance that passed between the two men.
'Yes ...' Richard temporised. No matter whom they contacted, Demetrios would know soon enough. But what would the wily Owner do at this stage? He couldn't relay orders to his henchman - or men - aboard until they got a radio in, and even then it would be dangerous; perhaps impossible.
But, as he had said in the lifeboat, their murderous friend would hardly need further orders. Prometheus still had to sink, whether Demetrios knew she was afloat or not. Their only real hope was that he would find it harder now.
If only he could trust Martyr ...
'Richard!' John jerked him out
of his reverie. 'They're signalling again: PROMETHEUS STOP RELIEVED TO SEE YOU STOP INFORM YOU YOU ARE OFFICIALLY LOST WITH ALL HANDS STOP LUTINE BELL RUNG FOR YOU AT LLOYD'S TODAY STOP'
The three of them looked at each other. A chill seemed to settle on them all at once. Robin actually shivered. They had just read their own obituary.
'Well, sod him,' swore Richard, suddenly enraged. 'He's just a little too sure of himself. Let's spoil the bastard's day. Make: PLEASE INFORM OWNER STOP KOSTAS DEMETRIOS STOP NEW YORK STOP AND HERITAGE SHIPPING STOP LONDON STOP PROMETHEUS COMING HOME STOP ALSO PLEASE INFORM SIR WILLIAM HERITAGE STOP HERITAGE SHIPPING STOP ROBIN ALIVE AND WELL STOP NO IMMEDIATE AID REQUIRED STOP CAPTAIN STOP PROMETHEUS STOP MESSAGE ENDS.'
Back on the bridge, Robin asked, frowning, 'Are you sure we should be warning Demetrios?'
'He'll get to know soon enough in any case. At least this way he might be fooled into supposing we don't suspect him yet.'
'What good will that do?'
'I don't know. But every little might help. It's all so vague ...' He was going to say more, but he left it in that uncharacteristically indecisive manner as John came in from the bridge wing.
'They'll inform everyone. I gave them an ETA for the Channel Approaches. There'll be some coastguards waiting, I expect.'
'At the very least.'
'But what exactly do you propose to do?' asked Robin. It was a subject they had skirted but never really discussed. The Manxman looked speculatively at him, but he probably knew the answer as well as the anxious woman.
'I'm going to park her in Lyme Bay and invite a full inquiry,' he said. 'Like it says in the Bible, "All hearts will be open and all secrets known".'
The conversation would not have ended there. Robin's mouth was open to reply, but at that precise moment the normally inscrutable 'Twelve-toes' Ho burst on to the bridge. 'You come,' he cried to them all. 'Big fight. They going to kill each other for sure.'
The chair exploded across Salah Malik's back, sending him staggering forward. His foot slipped on the photograph of his son, which had somehow started this, lying where Martyr had thrown it on the floor, and he crashed into the TV above the video stand, smashing them both to ruins.
He fell, stunned but turning automatically like the old street fighter he was, and saw the Chief closing in on him, his face a mask of hatred so intense he seemed insane. In his right hand he carried a chair leg like a club, splintered at the end and dangerously sharp. Surprise held the Palestinian's mind in irons for an instant, then he was thinking like lightning. Reaching back and up, he grasped the wrecked box which had been the television and hurled it up at the advancing man. Spewing brightly coloured components, it flew into Martyr's face. Wires wrapped themselves around his shoulders. Shards of glass flew everywhere.
As Salah rolled to his feet, that strange pulling sensation on the skin and muscles of his upper back warned him that he had not come unscathed through his collision with the TV screen. He noted the fact coldly, in icy rage, then fell into his fighting stance - listing the information about his wounds for later reference - if he survived.
Martyr threw the gleaming mess to one side and charged. They met, shoulder to shoulder like wave and cliff, the sound of the impact echoing on the air, a physical thing, to be felt rather than heard.
At once Martyr's hand rose and fell, bringing his club across the small of Salah's back. There was a grunt of pain: otherwise, silence.
As the club rose again, so did Malik's knee, into the Chief's groin. The American seemed hardly to notice, though the blow was shrewd. This time the club hit high, grinding in some glass splinters. A hiss. The knee again.
Martyr grunted and gave ground. He did so suddenly, hoping to get in a blow to the head with his club; but Malik pressed forward, driving straight fingers for cold green eyes. Martyr saw the danger at the last moment and turned his head. Immaculately trimmed fingernails opened the puffy skin of his right cheekbone like a straight razor. Then Salah's hand plunged, even as the first drops of blood sprayed, grabbing for the club. This also was anticipated: Martyr could not get it clear of the Palestinian's grip, so he turned it and his opponent's fist closed on the splintered wood. Where a lesser man might have jerked his hand free, Malik grasped the splinters without flinching and tore the club from Martyr's grasp, hurling it away.
Horror hit Martyr like that first light after the dark night of the explosion. This was not the man who had tried to kill him with a torch. That murderous coward would never have done what Malik had just done. His mind raced, clearing of its berserk rage. He had made a terrible mistake. Malik had nothing to do with the attempt to sink the ship - there was another explanation for the picture of his son that had fallen out of the magazine. The photographs had been in someone else's hidey-hole!
At once the fight changed direction, with Martyr falling back looking for a way to end it and the Palestinian pressing forward intent upon the kill. And Martyr knew he was dead. There was no way of stopping this resolute man now and no other way out. But right or wrong, he had no intention of going under meekly. Grimly, he prepared to die as well as he was able, according to his own lights.
Where Mariner and Higgins came from he never knew. But suddenly they were there at the Palestinian's shoulders, swinging the enraged seaman away, trying to calm him. As though in a dream, Martyr stepped forward, reaching out for his Captain's arm, mouth opening to explain. But they misunderstood the action. Higgins yelled a warning and Robin Heritage stepped out from somewhere behind them both and cold-cocked him with the chair leg Malik had just thrown away. The cold, calm light in her eyes as the blow fell made him wonder for an instant. But no, he thought; not the girl. He was sure it had been a man. He would have known if it had been the girl ... And then the lights went out.
Ten minutes afterwards, both combatants were in Richard's dayroom standing like schoolboys in front of their angry Captain. On his desk lay the apparent causes of the fight - the magazine and the photograph. The air almost crackled with the tension in that small, dark room.
'Well?' snapped Richard.
Martyr turned his still scarred face towards him and spoke in a dead voice. 'When I was restarting the generators after the bomb I found a circuit I didn't recognise. I followed it one way and it led to the sea-cocks. It was designed to open them all at once. I followed it the other way. There was a hidden switch designed to activate it. The picture was beside the switch. Look at it! It's a picture of his son! I thought he must be the bastard who's trying to sink this ship. Who killed Hassan and the others. Who tried to beat my head in ...'
Salah remained silent.
'Still think so?' prompted Richard, more gently.
'I ...No. No, I don't.'
'So. How did this photograph get there?' Richard's iceblue gaze switched to the Palestinian.
Malik had to answer, although he plainly did not wish to. 'I don't know, Captain. I found the magazine while ... while we were searching for Haji Hassan. I kept it with my son's picture because ...' He faltered and looked desperately at the Chief. He could not bring himself to say more. The secret was not his to reveal.
A kind of revelation came over the American's craggy face. 'Because you recognised her,' Martyr whispered.
Malik nodded. 'But they were stolen from my quarters long ago,’ he concluded firmly.
Richard looked down at the magazine, glancing with acute distaste over the naked bodies to that one anguished face that explained so much. The face of Martyr's daughter, too like his own to be mistaken.
He looked back up at the two men, studying them coldly for a moment. He did not believe that Martyr merely found the extra circuit by accident. The fact that such a thing could exist, attached to the sea-cocks, had incredibly complex implications and the least of them was that the Chief had been willing to turn a blind eye - at the very least - to the criminal destruction of his ship. The fact that she was still afloat must mean that he had changed his mind. Changed sides, effectively. Unless ...
; But that word 'unless' opened too many doors to be dealt with now. He turned his mind to Malik. The big Palestinian was far and away the most reliable seaman Richard had ever met. Or had seemed to be, until now ...
He brought the flat of his hand down on the desk-top with a crash that made the other two jump. 'Sit down,' he ordered. 'It's time to clear the air. You both have some further explaining to do.'
'What d'you think, then?' asked Ben, sometime later. 'You believe them?'
Richard put his feet up on one of the rickety tables left among the carnage of the fight and swung speculatively back on the only undamaged chair in the room. 'I don't know,' he temporised at last. 'On the one hand Martyr's story makes as much sense as Malik's. Not much to choose between one man who comes back from sea to find his daughter making pornography to feed a cocaine habit then kills her suppliers and takes any job he can to keep her in the clinic ...’
'Sort of thing any father might do, under the circumstances ...'
'... and another who comes back to the Beirut docks, where he has left his son in charge for an afternoon, to find that the boy has been duped out of a fortune and murdered by a tramp steamer Captain calling himself Levkas and an American offering fake medical supplies for sale ...'
'And who follows Captain Levkas all around the world, looking for revenge on whichever of the two of them pulled the trigger...'
'Right. But the long and short of it is this. Does it all make Martyr more or less likely to be involved in whatever is going on?'
'God knows, medication in the States can come expensive ...'