by Peter Tonkin
“A terrorist unit of more than twenty?” Hood’s tone was skeptical.
“Right. It’s likely to be a smaller unit than that. Twelve people, tops,” agreed Robin.
“So, Prometheus’s crew are likely to be in one central location,” said Angus. “Now where would that be, Richard?”
“If it was me,” Robin answered slowly, clearly having been thinking about this already, “I’d put them in the gym.”
Prometheus, like most modern tankers, had a full range of leisure facilities. After all, she did not dock like a cargo ship and release the crew for shore leave during loading and unloading. She simply moved from terminal to terminal, hardly ever going nearer to the shore than ten miles out, filling and emptying her holds through great pipes in the sea. Crews aboard had no end of voyage to look forward to, simply a turnaround leading to a return journey. Time after time. Under these circumstances, a library, a cinema, videotapes, radios, televisions, a swimming pool, and a gymnasium, as well as the more traditional haute-cuisine dining facilities and inevitable bars, became absolute necessities—bulwarks against the stultifying boredom that could dangerously blunt the edge of even the most able and experienced crew.
“Yes,” struck in Richard again. Caught up in the urgent practicalities of planning action, their minds unconsciously clicked into unison. Their words and phrases wove around each other like braided rope until there was neither one mind nor the other, but a union stronger than either. “The gym.”
“It’s the biggest usable room aboard.”
“Apart from the cinema.”
“But the cinema’s full of seats.”
“That’s right. Clear the equipment out of the gym…”
“Easy enough to do…”
“…Chuck it overboard if necessary…”
“…a waste, but it’d give you plenty of room.”
“Move in some tables and chairs.”
“Beds?”
“Bedding on the floor.”
“Right!”
“And you should be able to hold forty people in there. Easy to oversee. Easy to guard.”
“You’ve the boxes from the stage if you want some height.”
“And the parallel bars up the walls.”
“You could just take out the stewards in teams to get food and clear up.”
“Seamen to see to anything else that needed doing.”
“And some officers to oversee them, holding the rest as hostages against good behavior.”
“It’d work!” concluded Robin, face aglow with excitement, until she remembered she was describing the hell being suffered by some of her closest friends. More soberly, she added, “Well, I can’t see any other way…”
“Nor can I.” Richard sat back, massaging tired eyes.
“But you’re assuming,” said Angus, “that these people are well organized. Intelligent. That they know what they’re doing.”
“Yes,” said Richard. “I think we have to assume that.”
“So,” said Hood slowly, “your worst-case scenario goes like this. Ten or twelve heavily armed hostiles. Forecastle head watch. Bridge watch. Engine room watch. Two more watching the bulk of the crew in the ship’s gymnasium. Two more to oversee the cooking, tidying, toilet, what have you. Maybe two more to oversee the seamen if need be. Two backups. Leader or coordinator. Whatever. Yes; it’d work real sweet with twelve.”
“Twelve looking after forty,” chimed in Weary. “Not much rest. Damn little sleep. They’ll be getting tired. Jumpy. They’ve got to move soon or they’ve lost it. Fish or cut bait. I wonder what they’re waiting for?”
“God knows. But you’re right about moving soon,” said Richard. “And it’s the same for us. If we’re going in, we have to do it quickly, while they’re at their most exhausted and we’ve got our fresh troops. And before they get any fresh troops.”
“We can up anchor whenever you like. We’ll have the south wind behind us,” said Weary. “If we go with the dawn and it holds through the day, we’d sight her tomorrow evening. Go in tomorrow night.”
And it lay there on the table before them, like the corpse of some foul thing. Within twenty-four hours, if they chose, they could be creeping aboard Prometheus to face twelve desperate, heavily armed terrorists to try to release their shipmates without getting everybody killed.
Tomorrow night.
“No,” said Richard at last. “It’s too risky. Especially without the grenades.” Now that he had had them and had lost them, he realized how much he really needed them. The dud grenades would have to be replaced. “And it’s too soon. We’d be going off at half cock. We need another day. Maybe two. And we still need that extra edge. Damn!” His hand slammed down on the tabletop. “Three days.”
“What?” For the first time tonight, Robin’s mind was not on the same wavelength as his. But she was still trying to come to terms with the news about the faulty thunderflash grenades.
“Three days’ hard sailing. Back to Fujayrah and then back here. With one of the other boxes. Doc, could you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Right. You go at first light. With Martyr. He knows about munitions too. For God’s sake, test them there this time. Angus, Robin, you and I will go ashore now. We’ll meet Martyr off the plane. And tomorrow we’ll hire a small coastal craft. Do some fishing off Bushehr.”
“Find Prometheus,” whispered Robin.
“Find out what we can and get back here within three days ourselves. Meet up for a final briefing. Go in then.” He looked around the table. “It’s Wednesday night now. The better the day, the better the deed: we go at dawn on Sunday.”
Chapter Nine
Once again Weary stayed aboard, checking the multihull from stem to stern now that he knew they had seventy-two hours’ hard sailing ahead. Hood came with the others to get provisions for the return run to Fujayrah. Although the Soukh would have closed its gates at sunset, he hoped to get all he needed at Manama Port. Richard and Robin were going to meet Martyr’s plane. Angus was going to find them a small coastal craft.
Hood took control of the little inflatable’s outboard and sat on the full rubberized side at the back. Richard sat at the other side of the little motor, the two big men balancing each other, but raising the inflatable’s round bow well clear of the water. Angus and Robin sat on the slatted wooden seat that divided her halfway along her stubby length, facing backward so that the four of them could talk.
“Guess you have all known each other a good long time?” Hood’s question, coming over the buzz of the motor and the slap of the waves, was apparently innocent, and yet Richard had been expecting it. He had seen the calculating, careful light enter those calm brown eyes even as Weary had thrown himself and Katapult wholeheartedly into Richard’s plan. Hood needed to be convinced that this was the best way. That this was the best team. Richard had no doubt that Robin and he passed muster with the careful American, but why should Hood take their word for the quality of the rest of them? The flamboyant Angus might easily prove to be less than he appeared at first sight. The mysterious Martyr all reputation and no reality. As for Salah Malik—all they had established about him was that he worked for the PLO, he might be dead, and he probably wasn’t coming. Not very confidence-building. Richard could see that.
“Look,” he said. “Angus and I were at school together. I’ve known Robin since she was sixteen. I was married to her sister. But what you really want to know about started ten years ago.”
“It was an insurance fraud,” struck in Robin, the business manager.
“It centered on the first Prometheus.”
“The one you fell off,” Hood said, grinning at Robin, “trying to save a parrot.”
“You told! You rat!” said Robin to Richard.
“That’s right. Well, Prometheus was due to sail from Kharg to Rotterdam with a full load of crude,” continued Richard, riding over her protest.
“But the plan was for her to slip into Durban, sell her oil illegall
y, and then sink so the owner could claim insurance on both hull and cargo,” completed Robin.
“That was the plan. Then an industrial accident killed off most of the officers aboard before she could sail, and we went out to replace them. I was running a crewfinding agency in those days.”
“Crewfinders,” said Hood. He knew about that, too: it was the best in the world.
“They knew nothing of what was planned,” added Angus. “Then you went aboard later, Robin.”
“The cargo changed hands several times on the in- ternational spot market,” said Robin. “My father owned it at one point. I went aboard then. They need a new third mate in any case.”
“A whole set of officers replaced and then they needed a new third mate! Sounds like a death ship to me.” Hood’s quiet comment stopped the rush of information for a moment.
Then Richard picked up the thread again. “We knew nothing about anything illegal. We were just trying to bring her home. But some of the old crew were still aboard and one of my own Crewfinders people was up to no good. The long and the short of it is this: the original plan still went ahead behind our backs…”
“But these guys, Martyr and Malik, they were Crewfinders men, right?”
“No, they were part of the original crew,” said Richard. “But it was one of my own men doing all the damage anyway. He poisoned the food. He tried to kill Martyr after the bomb went off.”
“There was a bomb? On a supertanker? And you all walked away?”
“We only brought half of her home. But it’s a long story. Martyr and Malik were only on the fringe of the original plan, each one there for his own good reasons. Once they realized what was really going on, they changed sides and helped us.”
“Saved us,” said Robin earnestly. “Saved our lives. Literally.”
“What we went through then still binds us,” said Richard. “It was like war. Do you see what I mean?”
“Sure,” said Sam easily. “You guys are like Doc and me. All we got in common is Nam. But that’s more than enough. Thicker than blood.”
Robin nodded, her bright curls outlined by the lights of Manama. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s exactly the right phrase. Blood is thicker than water—and this is thicker than blood.”
They tied up at a low wooden jetty and climbed up a short dark flight of steps into the dazzling light above. And out of the heart of that brightness stepped a slim figure, to stand, legs slightly apart, precisely blocking their path. It was a young man, perhaps thirty-five, slight of build but giving the impression of stature in his erect, military bearing. He wore a meticulously pressed khaki uniform topped by a peaked cap. The peak, worn low over his eyes, gleamed like patent leather, as did the straps of his Sam Browne. As did the open flap of his military holster.
“Captain Richard Mariner?” The calm voice spoke perfect Oxbridge English, as clipped as his pencil mustache.
Richard stepped forward. “Yes?”
“I am Mohammed Suleiman, captain of police. Would it be convenient for us to have a word or two in private?”
Captain Suleiman’s office was as precise as the man himself, a modest room lent size and style by its Spartan neatness. Richard, his mind racing, stood a little apart from the others, awaiting events. As he did so, he looked out of the captain’s window with veiled eyes, apparently paying complete attention to the view. The office faced the other half of the port, the south side. From here he could follow the curve of Old Palace Road past the school until it disappeared down by the walled fortress of the market known here as the Soukh. Beyond that lay low buildings, square and flat-topped for the most part, overlooking the profusion of boats on the black water that stretched away toward Sitra, invisible in the distance.
There were a number of ways in which the Bahraini police could be involved in this. There was the matter of Sir William’s kidnapping at the airport itself. Or the port authorities might have caught some wind of what Katapult was carrying. Or it might have to do with Hood’s report of this afternoon about the sinking of the arms ship. Or it could all be as innocent as a question or two about the passenger list of the incoming flight from London.
It started with Sir William. “Mrs. Mariner, let me first say how deeply I myself, and indeed, the whole Bahraini people regret the kidnapping of your father from our soil.”
“Thank you, Captain. Is there any news?”
“I regret not. We do not even know who is holding him or where.” Abruptly he swung toward Richard. “Captain Mariner, I assume that is why you and your representatives have been in contact with terrorists and terrorist organizations?”
“I beg your pardon?” Here it comes, thought Richard.
“Salah Malik. He is an associate of yours, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“You cannot be unaware of his standing in the Palestine Liberation Organization.”
“I haven’t seen him in some years. I know nothing of his current standing.”
“Then it will be a matter of indifference to you that he has dropped out of sight. That he is moving. And with such a man, his slightest movements are—how shall I put it?—observed. Scrutinized.”
Angus coughed. The captain swung round to look at him. Their eyes locked for a moment, as Angus thoughtfully tugged at his full red beard. “I may have got a message to him,” he admitted at last. “I tried, but I can’t be sure…”
“So. Captain Mariner?”
“As you say, Captain Suleiman. Of course, I take full responsibility.”
“But this is stupid,” exploded Robin, suddenly up out of the chair, confronting Suleiman eye to eye. “My father is in the hands of some kind of terrorist group. Of course we would try to contact the one man who might be able to give us a little inside information. I hope your people are trying to do the same!”
“Very well, let us leave terrorists aside for a moment.” He paused for a heartbeat. “Let us discuss the murderers you have invited into my country.”
Richard was in no way surprised that C. J. Martyr’s reputation should have preceded him. The two men had been close friends for ten years now, and this was by no means the first time that such information had traveled from one authority to another. In at least one country Richard could think of, the taciturn New Englander had been slammed into jail within half an hour of landing. It was the old story.
“He’s been to court,” Robin cried, suddenly. “The jury called it justifiable homicide. He got commended by the judge, for God’s sake! Your computer has the charges, not the verdict!” Martyr was more than a shipmate, more than a friend. The tall, strong, lath-thin ex-engineering officer had become almost a second father to her. Since leaving his last berth, he had run their New York office for them with the help of his daughter Christine. Moved beyond words by the injustice of the situation, Robin swung round to Richard, agonized appeal in her tear-bright eyes.
But he was already speaking. “Look, Captain Suleiman, the story’s simple enough. Martyr married young. Had a daughter, Christine. Then his wife took up with another man. They kept Christine but Martyr visited. Then Christine vanished. Mother and stepfather were helpless. They had tried everything they could but had got nowhere. Martyr jumped ship, turned detective, and tracked her down. When he found her she was in a bad way. Hooked on hard drugs, working as a prostitute, and making pornography to support her habit. When he took her back, her pimp of a boyfriend tried to stop him. Brought in some pushers for support. Martyr brought her back over their dead bodies.
“But it didn’t end there. He put her straight into a private clinic. But he hadn’t the money for both Christine’s treatment and his own defense: he couldn’t risk going to jail, or she would be out on the street again. So he stayed abroad, taking any job, sending all the money back home to her. It was all he lived for. Then he risked it all for me. Risked his life and Christine’s future to save me and my ship, Prometheus, nearly ten years ago. Since that time he has worked for me. Heritage Mariner paid for his daughter’
s treatment, and for his own defense. And it’s all cleared up now. He runs our New York office with Christine as his executive assistant. All legal and aboveboard. Exonerated of all charges.”
Aware of the increasingly bitter irony in the last few phrases of this passionate speech, Captain Suleiman allowed himself the slightest shrug of apology. “Very well, Captain Mariner,” he said. “We will consider the matter closed. If you vouch for the man. If he is passing through.”
“Thank you.”
“But I warn you, I warn all of you, I will not be so indulgent if Salah Malik appears on the scene! Good night.”
As he guided Angus’s Mercedes across the causeway toward Muharraq, Richard thought about Captain Suleiman. The captain was no fool. He struck Richard as a careful career officer making his way successfully through a complicated system. And the fact that he had taken such a line with people who habitually dined with the Sheikh was very worrying indeed. Oh, this was not like some states where the ruling family considered themselves above the law and would destroy importunate officialdom at a whim, but the fact remained that if Richard and Robin had been here in any official capacity at all, they would certainly have been invited to the palace once again. And Suleiman must have known that. Yet he had still warned them off in no uncertain terms.
Richard suddenly went cold at the thought of what might happen to them if they ran afoul of less patient, less courteous authorities. Of the Iranians, say, for whose waters they would set sail in a few hours. So far they had been carried forward by their need to react to the twin situations confronting them. They had perhaps been seduced by the freedom of action their unique position allowed them. Were they getting seduced into a situation that they had no chance of controlling, no chance of escaping? They could all too easily end up in an Iranian jail. Executed, like that journalist last year. They could well end up dead, all of them, just a pile of corpses to be dumped over the side of Prometheus by victorious terrorists, who would then start taking reprisals by executing the very people they had set out to save.