by Peter Tonkin
Bill Heritage loved this landscape—Wordsworth country—more than any other, and, as chairman of the largest privately owned shipping company in Europe, he had traveled the world and knew them all. And he loved Cold Fell, the great, frowning fourteenth-century border reivers’ castle-cum-home that had come to him as a dowery with his wife nearly fifty years before when he had been young, ambitious, and poor, and she—Lady Fiona Graham—had been the most sought-after debutante of the last social season before the War. Their marriage had lasted thirty happy years before her abrupt and mercifully brief, fatal illness. It had been perfected in the birth of two beautiful daughters, both married in turn to Bill’s senior captain and business partner, Richard Mariner.
The elder, Rowena, had been killed on the eve of her divorce from Richard. She had driven a wedge between Mariner and Heritage that only the younger daughter, Robin, had been able to remove. But at a price. During the years when Richard had worked away from the sea—and in bitter separation from Heritage Shipping—Bill had come to rely on Robin as his strong right hand. And now, the reliance he placed on her, the closely personal nature of the relationship between father and daughter had been fundamentally changed by her marriage. Bill and Richard were far too similar, though a generation apart, and the products of vastly different backgrounds and experiences, but essentially they were of a kind. In that strange way that men have, each had seen Robin as belonging to him, and not even that extraordinary woman could share herself between them.
Now, with Robin on the far side of the world, Bill had found himself a new right hand. Her name was Helen Dufour and she sat in the deep seat at his side now as he throttled the Bentley up the sheer mountain road toward Cold Fell where they would spend the coming weekend as secret lovers.
At the exact moment that Bill turned on the headlamps, sending great white beams into the gathering dark in front of them, the car phone started ringing.
Helen’s gray eyes flicked across to him as her long right hand rested questioningly on the handset. This weekend was strictly off the record, exploiting the August bank holiday to get away from the city so that she could come to know Cold Fell before she became its mistress. As far as anyone knew, she was at her family home in Grimaud, beneath the shadow of its castle overlooking the Gulf of St. Tropez; both Bill and Helen were too worried about gossip columnists to risk anything more public yet.
Bill shook his head and gestured—they were approaching a parking area. He swung onto the graveled surface and parked, already too deep in thought to be aware that the headlight beams reached out above a sheer drop as though trying to bridge the valley with light. Night was filling the steep-sided chasm with misty shade. Far below, the river thundered in summer flood; far above, a ragged rent in the cloud cover gave a first glimpse of the crescent moon.
Part of Helen’s mind took all this in as Bill reached for the phone, pushing her hand off it. “Yes?” His voice was strong, even at his age; virile.
The handset gabbled.
Helen lay back, stretching, every sense tensely alert beneath apparent sleepiness. She herself had left “emergencies only” notes for both of them with the weekend secretariat; this had to be a major problem. But it soon proved to be much worse than anything that sprang to her pragmatic Provençal mind and the beginning of her part in the nightmare most of them would be lucky to walk away from.
“Piracy!” The quaintly archaic word was the first he could manage to say after hanging up. He turned to her, face expressing both rage and disbelief. “They’ve seized Prometheus with her whole crew. John Higgins, Bob Stark, Asha Quartermaine…”
“Why?” She had no French intonation. She spoke English as though she had spent all her life at Oxford, her accent a direct reflection of her mental acuity and academic education.
“God knows! Arab terrorists, apparently. Nobody knows any more than that, except…”
She waited, knowing better than to prompt him.
“…except they say they’ve executed a senior officer to prove how serious they are.”
“Dieu!”
“We have to contact Robin and Richard at once!”
“Impossible, unless they have radioed in to the office. No one knows where they are.”
“We’ve got to go back to London. Now!”
Even as he spoke, he was swinging the Mulsane out onto the empty road.
They were back in Heritage House on Leadenhall Street in London before midnight. A sleepy doorman checked them through security and they rode up in the lift together. The top floor was electric with tension, the twenty-four-hour secretariat supplemented by those executives Helen had managed to contact on the car phone while Sir William was exceeding the speed limit by a factor of almost two, racing down the empty M6 to London. Into this tense atmosphere they stepped, deep in conversation, and unconsciously undid all the careful secrecy that had obscured their true relationship until now. Security had buzzed up. Everybody was waiting for them, many agog to know how two people apparently spending the weekend at different ends of the continent could manage to turn up simultaneously. But such speculations were almost forgotten as everyone bustled into the quickly overcrowded chief executive’s suite of offices. It was the natural place to go, under the circumstances. Such was the nature of Heritage Mariner’s senior management that there were three suites of offices here: Bill Heritage’s, the Mariners’, and Helen Dufour’s. Officially “retired” for some years now, Sir William’s position as chairman of the board gave him a small suite that he used only occasionally. Robin and Richard, as joint managing directors, shared a large, fully equipped complex, which consisted of their own offices, two secretaries’ offices, a bedroom, and a bathroom. But all that was closed off now. So it was natural that everybody gather in Helen’s office because she was the senior executive present, chief executive until Robin and Richard returned, the one with her fingers currently on the pulse of the business.
Her desk was not made of teak or mahogany like the others’, but of molded plastic: more like the console in a spacecraft than anything else. The central writing area was surrounded by dials and video display screens controlled from a keyboard designed to slide in and out like a central drawer. Phones, each one with its own molded perch, nested round the upper edge; all programmed to contact over one hundred numbers worldwide, just in case Helen’s computers could not get enough online information directly from the computers of her contacts. Her fingers were busy the moment she sat in her chair; simultaneously she began interrogating all the staff members who had been there since the first bulletin. As she talked she tapped in urgent requests for information and was answered at once through her electronic mail system. The screens filled with messages. The printers in her secertary’s office chattered discreetly into life.
But no new information of any use was currently available. As the small hours ticked slowly by, it became clear that there was no machine-generated or -stored information for any of them. Bill Heritage, content to take a back seat and reexamine those files Helen had finished with at greater depth, began to get restless. He understood the high-tech information-gathering systems Helen used almost as well as she, but he also knew they had their limitations. Reaching the limits of his patience, he scowled at his watch and crossed to his own, unimpressive office. The new computer networks were stymied for the moment: it was time to try the old-boy network.
They were at school together, went up to Cambridge together, joined up together in 1939. After demobilization, the thirty-year-old Captain Bill Heritage had gone into shipping. Commander Justin Bulwer-Lyons had joined the Diplomatic Corps. He had been Bill’s best man—and might be again, sooner than he knew—and was Robin’s godfather. Neither man was in his wonted position of absolute power any longer, but each kept his finger on the pulse. Bill and Bull had been famous for their all-night activities in their youth and neither of them slept much now, either. Bull answered the phone on the third ring.
“Bull? Bill Heritage here.”
&nb
sp; “Been expecting your call, old man. What can I say? It’s a nasty business. One dead so far, I understand.”
“Yes, that’s what we hear. Any word at the Bureau as to who it is…was…”
“Nothing.” Bull was one of the chief advisers to the International Maritime Bureau, the Interpol of the sea. There was little that escaped him if it happened in shipping. And his specific area of expertise was the Middle East—so if anyone outside Heritage Mariner might have helpful information, it would be he.
“Anything on the general situation coming through the Office?” Bill meant the Foreign Office.
“Nothing. The Corps is quiet, too.” The Diplomatic Corps.
“Intelligence?” It was a faint hope.
“If they know anything, it hasn’t filtered down to us yet.”
There was an uncomfortable, almost threatening silence for several long seconds.
Then, “Any projections, Bull?”
Bull was prepared for the question: “Right. The situation as I understand it is this. Your tanker Prometheus has a complement of about forty. English and American officers; Hong Kong Chinese stewards; mixed bag of general purpose seamen—everything from Palestinian to Pakistani. Mixed bag of hostages; lots of governments over lots of barrels.”
“Right. Most of the G.P. seamen are Muslims, though.”
“The same religion as the terrorists, you mean? Unlikely to be much help. I assume most of your people are conservative, ordinary Sunni Muslims. The terrorists are likely to be Shi’ite fundamentalists. Very different kettle of fish: like looking at Ireland and saying Protestants and Catholics are both Christians.”
“I see what you mean…”
“Right. Anything else about the crew? Any specific diplomatic levers so to speak? Oh yes, Bob Stark, your American chief engineer.”
“His father is John Stark, senator from…”
“I know. But I was thinking of his uncle, Walter. Officer commanding the U.S. Navy’s Sixth Fleet, currently on maneuvers in the Gulf of Oman.”
“That make much difference?”
“Not in the short term, but you never know. They’re forbidden in the Gulf at the moment, for diplomatic reasons though. Can’t go past Hormuz except in the most exceptional circumstances unless the President gives them the direct order. And anyway…”
“Yes?”
“As I understand it, your ship is still off Kharg Island. This puts her firmly in Iranian waters. There have been no pronouncements from Tehran so far, but I would assume both our chaps and the Americans will play it safe until someone fairly senior over there makes the position pretty clear.”
“And that means?” There was a frosty tone in Bill’s voice: he could see where this was leading.
“If Khadaffi had them, then you might stand a chance. But I really can’t see anyone getting too gung ho with the Iranians, especially at the moment; I understand there’s the usual power struggle going on between various branches of the Irani armed forces. But even if there weren’t, one has only to think of President Carter…”
That uncomfortable silence fell on the lines again.
“But you think it’s random, Bull?”
“Don’t quite follow…”
“Were they after any ship or were they after our ship?”
“Have you had any demands? Any contact?”
“Nothing.”
“Probably is random in that case. I mean, it’s possible you have enemies that powerful, I suppose, but I’d say that unless you hear anything specific, assume you’re the victim of a sort of diplomatic traffic accident.”
The background noise on the phone lines whispered; Bill remembered reading somewhere that people had contacted the dead down unused phone lines.
Then Bull tried to lighten things a little, “But what does my goddaughter say? I can’t imagine either Robin or Richard short of ideas. I was just saying a couple of days ago, when the Bureau next goes shopping for advisers…”
“They’re out of touch, Bull. Gone off the face of the earth.”
“Not like you to be so fatalistic, Bill. Getting a bit tired?”
“Maybe just a tad. They left for the Seychelles last week. Silhouette Island. Went sailing on some kind of yacht three days ago, that’s all anyone knows.”
“Well that’s all right then.”
“I don’t follow you, old man.”
“If they’re at sea, they’re bound to be fine. Directly descended from Neptune and Amphitrite, those two, the oceans love them.”
Unconsciously Bill touched the wood of his desk. Bull had always believed in pushing his luck to the limit; Bill was more careful. “Even so,” he countered, “they’re not much help at the moment.”
“I take your point. Look, if they were there, I suspect at least one of them would get the first flight out to the Gulf they could. It’s the obvious thing to do. It’s what I would do. Leave someone in charge of the office and see what things are like on the ground. Got anyone there you can trust?”
“Helen’s here.”
“God! That’s lucky. I thought she was in Grimaud this weekend. There you are then. Get out to the Gulf yourself. You’ll feel better in the thick of it anyway, if I know you. Now I know you’ve got your own offices out there, but the High Commissioner in Bahrain’s the son of a very dear friend…”
Sir William was back in Helen’s office a few minutes later. “Yes,” she agreed. “It’s the obvious thing to do; and you’re the obvious one to send. If anyone’s going out, it has to be someone with seniority to make decisions, someone with enough contacts to be sure of what’s going on, someone with weight…” She trailed off, exhausted. She hated being right. She hated knowing that he had to go. Talking herself into letting him.
He stood, helpless. There was nothing he could do but wait for her to finish. He didn’t like it any more than she did. He was long past boys’ own adventures now, in spite of what Bull had said. He could have done with some peace and quiet. They both could. He checked his watch. Coming up for four o’clock. They should have been wined and dined and well tucked down in his great four-poster bed at Cold Fell…
“There’s a flight at ten from Heathrow,” she said at last. “It’ll get you to Muharraq airport at eight tonight, Bahrain time.”
Muharraq. He paused at the top of the Boeing’s steps, shocked as always by the brutal impact of the heat. It was dark—had been for hours—and the yellow security lights of the international airport gave everything a sulfurous glare that went well with the temperature: it was like a minor hell. In the distance, beyond the buildings on his right, he could see the great flares blossoming from the rigs out on the Gulf. The whole world seemed to have ignited around him. He breathed in the thick atmosphere and it seemed to fill him instantly, pushing a trickle of sweat out of every single pore in his body. Even with his jacket off, he was nearly overwhelmed by it. Within two steps he had to move the carefully folded garment—the flesh on his arm beneath it was prickling with the heat. Thankfully it was only a short walk through the oil-smelling, shower-humid evening to the blessed coolness of the air-conditioned arrivals area. Once again, shock. Just as he had forgotten how hot the real air on this island could be, he had also forgotten how inhumanly cold the conditioned air felt in contrast. He quickly donned the soggy jacket that had been such an encumbrance only a second or two ago and buttoned up at once. Even then, he shivered as though in the grip of a Cumbrian winter.
Passport, baggage collection, and customs were formalities that hardly distracted him. He was through into the great new arrivals hall within minutes, looking dazedly around, his thought processes slowed by exhaustion and jet lag, not knowing who—if anybody—would be there to meet him. Bull’s man from the High Commission, most likely, though the Diplomatic Service was kept pretty busy out here, what with receptions and parties and dinners and functions…
Heritage Mariner maintained an office in Manama, but it was one of three in the United Arab Emirates and the one man who ran th
em all—Angus El Kebir—was in Dubai at the moment.
Perhaps he had better get a cab.
Lost in memories of times long past when he had first got to know this island, when Muharraq was primarily an RAF base with a few little independent airlines shuttling supplies from one airfield to another, when old Neville Shute—Neville Norway, his real name—was out here working on his novel Round the Bend, when there had been a real sense of adventure to the Gulf, Bill Heritage drifted out into the stultifying night, carrying his own case, looking for a cab. He failed to hear his name being called over the announcement system. He paid no attention to the limousine with its CD license plates that had actually come to meet him. As he had done countless times before, he raised his hand to the driver of one of the great yellow Cadillac taxis and it pulled over to the curb beside him. He opened the back door and slung his baggage in before the driver could offer help. He climbed in after it. “Manama, please,” he said. “The Hilton, on Government Road…”
But even before he could finish his directions, the door he was closing was torn open again and he had one stunned glimpse of a shadowed body in battle fa- tigues with a bright checked kaffiyah folded across its nose and mouth looming over him.
Beirut. He had to be in Beirut. That was all he could think. There was nothing in the room except the bed, a table, and a rickety chair. There were no identifiable sounds from outside. Nothing except a continuous, muffled, distant roar, but it sounded like traffic. Or artillery.
Perhaps when someone came he would learn more—but he doubted it. He had awoken in this dark room some unspecified time ago, in his shirtsleeves and trousers but with no shoes, no braces or belt, no watch, no luggage. It was dark, but only because there were no windows. He had groped his way to the bed, the table, the chair, the door. He had stood on the chair and searched high up on the walls. He had stood on the table and discovered nothing but an unyielding ceiling. He had listened at the door. Again he had heard only the distant roar. Now he lay on the bed and thought. He had been kidnapped. Certainly by Arab terrorists. Probably by the same Arab terrorists who held Prometheus. Which made it all look less like Bull’s “diplomatic traffic accident” after all. Yet he was not onboard Prometheus. He was not on a ship at all—there was no hum of alternators, no movement over the sea. And he was still in the Middle East; the temperature told him that. The heat confirmed it.