by Peter Tonkin
The first box was sitting waiting by the anchor as agreed. No sign of any others yet, or of Sam. He hung there, secured the rope to the handle at its side then pulled twice. The line tightened, the box stirred and began to slide across the sea bed. He turned to follow it up.
Sam Hood was swimming purposefully in the opposite direction, carrying another of the boxes close to his chest, trying to get out over the long drop where he could get rid of it safely. It was one of the broken ones, one of the ones Richard had warned them to be par- ticularly careful with. But the warning had been in vain. There was something going on inside it Sam did not like at all. There was something hot in there. Something trailing a thickening stream of bubbles behind it. Although smashed, the box remained stubbornly impenetrable, its lid locked, its sides damaged with cracks too narrow to admit prying fingers. God knew what was in there. Some grenades for certain—he had just been able to make them out in the beam of his torch. But there was something else there as well. Long pipes, like candles: flares of some kind, maybe. And one of them had ignited, he had no idea how or why. It just had, a cloud of bubbles giving it away. As soon as it became clear the thing was not going to explode at once, he decided to take the calculated risk of moving it. This was a small box. Light. He reckoned his chances were okay. And anyway, if it went off close to all the other stuff it would probably set off a chain reaction that would blow them all out of the water.
Dare he drop it yet? Not really. Heaven knew what the detonation would do to Doc’s head if it went off too close. Especially after this afternoon. Hood felt sorry about that. His reaction to the girl and her father had resulted in Doc getting it in the head once more. Well, not again. Not again today.
It must be coming up to a minute now and nothing had happened except that the flare had started the plastic round the grenades to melting. He shone his torch down, the beam powerful enough to show him the sea bed, still close at hand. Littered with boxes and piles of rubbish. But close beyond, a cliff edge, and over that a bottomless abyss by the look of it. Another thirty seconds away. Another thirty seconds couldn’t hurt.
Weary broke the surface and handed the box up as though it contained eggs. Fabergé eggs. Chris leaned forward to take it, eyes like emeralds shining in the dark.
And the sea seemed to catch fire. A brightness spread through it, white at its heart, shading through the color of Christine’s eyes to black again. And above it, the surface heaved up so that Weary found himself looking at a hill of water. Not a wave. A hill. Then the shock hit his body like a charging horse.
Chris and C. J. acted in concert and like lightning. Even as the hill of water was forming, they reached down so that when the shockwave threw him back, they caught his arms and tore him up out of its grip onto the deck. Then, as Katapult rushed forward to swing, rocking round on her anchor chain, the three of them were huddled together beside the box of grenades on the afterdeck. The sound was like the slamming of a huge door close by.
None of them spoke. First they held each other and the box. Then they prayed the anchor would hold them. Then, when it had done so and the water was dark again, Doc hurled himself back down into the seething blackness.
Swimming with manic speed, he followed the anchor chain down, only to pause. Coming up toward him in the dark distance was Sam’s torch, its beam shining purposefully upward in the darkness. With a grunt of relief, he swam toward it, waving his own torch to signal. But Sam, probably stunned by the blast, just kept coming steadily upward. Doc pumped his legs until they popped and creaked, swimming toward his friend marveling that even the torch had survived, supposing that Sam must have found some shelter from that blast.
But then, something made Doc pause and hang motionless in the water. He had been swimming back along Katapult’s length. The brightness of the lights at her stern was striking down through the water more powerfully than his own torch beam. And yet it failed to reveal anything behind the circle of brightness Sam’s torch was throwing. More slowly now, and with a sinking heart, he swam down toward that puny light. It was surprisingly close at hand, shining dazzlingly into his face. At last he gripped it and his fist closed around Sam’s wrist behind it. “Ha!” he shouted, in an exultant cloud of bubbles, and he pulled his friend toward the light. Only to find himself falling backward in the water, fighting to understand why Sam’s bulky body moved so easily.
But then he understood fully. Even as he saw, in the brightness behind the boat they had built together, the torch, the hand, the arm.
And that was all.
The rest of Sam was gone and the torch had floated upward alone, still gripped by that dead hand.
They pulled him out of the water and on to the lazarette together. He had brought nothing back with him. He had simply reared out of the water, clearly in terrible distress, and come toward them, fighting to get aboard. They pulled his twisting, shaking body up onto the afterdeck. Then, three abreast, they had guided his stumbling frame down into the cabin. Once there, Martyr left them, going back to secure all aft.
Chris took off his face mask, and the headband came with it. The cowlick of hair lifted to show that great, scarred forehead.
His eyes were everywhere except on her eyes.
“Doc,” she said gently. “Tell me, Doc. Is Sam dead? Is that it?”
“Sam?” said Doc. “Who’s Sam? Who’re you? Who am I? Sweet Christ almighty, who am I?”
Chapter Thirteen
The shots rang out down the length of Prometheus and Richard was in action at once. He rolled forward to the edge of the forecastle head and swung easily down. The pipes that ran along the center of the deck did not end abruptly. They plunged into the tank system below like plumbing for giants. He had to turn sideways to squeeze among them but then he could hurry forward, as Salah had done, at a slight crouch. The stench of oil was overpowering down here, and, with the shadow so deep in contrast to the sunlight, he had the crazy impression he was wading through crude. But even this failed to slow him. He ran on, fearing the worst.
Midships, he met Salah coming the other way and they took the risk of pausing for a hurried conference. “What were those shots?”
“Warning fire. Making a point. Not as bad as it sounds, Richard. They were shooting over their heads.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They’re all in the gym, just as you reckoned. All twelve terrorists are in there with them. I can’t find out anymore. Something’s going on but I don’t know what. I get the impression it won’t take much longer, though, and when it’s over the terrorists will all be out again. Back on watch.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I checked their watch stations. Bridge, engine room, where you suggested. There were cups of coffee still warm. Stuff half eaten, half done. They’d just gone into the gym when we came onto the scene. They’ll be coming back out soon.”
“Right, That’s it. Let’s go.” As they turned, Richard checked his watch. “We’ll be on our way back here, in thirty-six hours. I hope it stays calm until then!”
They got off in the same way they had boarded and set sail as soon as possible. If Salah was correct, they had been lucky to get this far unobserved, and it would be a pity to hang around too long and make the terrorists suspicious after all. But they had been successful. They had confirmed Prometheus’s position and the disposition of the enemy. It had been a worthwhile reconnaissance. With all of them in high spirits, they motored back to Bahrain as quickly as they could. After an idyllic day’s cruising across the Gulf, which even that stiff, hot southerly could not spoil, they arrived just before sunset and went ashore at once.
This time there was no polite policeman awaiting them. In fact nobody seemed to remark their arrival at all. They went straight to Angus’s apartment. Here, Salah, who had become very quiet during the day, abruptly requested the loan of a djellabah and some robes. Within moments, the Palestinian had transformed himself into an innocuous figure who would blend with the local popula
ce. “I have a visit or two to make tonight,” he said. “I will be back by dawn.”
“Anything I can help with?” asked Richard at once. “Need a good man to watch your back?”
Salah wavered. He was bound for the Soukh and had meant to go alone. He had contacts in the ancient market—or used to have contacts there—who might give him some information. Especially as he had found two further clues on Prometheus that he had definitely not discussed with the Mariners yet. But going into the Soukh alone was dangerous for a man such as himself. Especially if he had to reveal his true identity to too many people. There were many in the Soukh who would happily see him dead. Or who would also quite happily inform the authorities that he was there. In either case, Richard would prove invaluable. On one hand, a faceless, dangerous bodyguard. On the other, a powerful friend who would not easily let him vanish into some hellhole prison without making a fuss about it. But there were dangers for Richard as well. The Palestinian’s wise eyes glanced across to Robin, who was studiously looking out of the window. Angus stepped into the breach at once. “Robin,” he said quietly, “let me take you out to dinner. I will find you the finest meal Manama can offer.”
And she turned to him with a brittle smile. “That would be lovely,” she lied.
Like the Medina and the Kasbah, the Soukh was effectively a medieval walled city. A huge labyrinth of tiny, twisting streets leading into and out of each other in seemingly endless profusion. High, forbidding walls, windowless, featureless, alternated with bright shopfronts selling all kinds of wares, for this city within a city was dedicated to one thing only: commerce. The two men, apparently unremarkable Arabs, arrived just after the sunset prayer. And they did so just in time, for soon the gates would be closed to outsiders so the night’s business could begin. Richard had been here before but was overwhelmed anew by the intensity of the place. As he was in disguise, he was not pestered by boys demanding alms or offering wares for sale. Instead, he had some leisure, though not much, to look around himself.
The gates to the Soukh were huge, carved in wood and adorned with black iron. They would fill the high stone arch of the entrance completely when closed, forbidding entry to all the rest of the world. Inside them the clamor began at once. A clamor that threatened to overcome ears, eyes, and nose alike. A million voices, it seemed, trapped by the walls and the buildings within them, demanded, demurred, cajoled, chatted, begged, and bargained. Radios and televisions mingled conversations, car chases, high, wailing songs, and occasional gunshots with the noise. Livestock bleated, bellowed, neighed, lowed. Cars revved their engines threateningly and hooted their horns imperiously. Dogs—a great profusion of dogs—barked, snarled, yapped, whined, and howled.
The odors of the place varied constantly according to the vagaries of the heavy breeze. The stink of camel dung would be replaced in a breath by the scent of sandalwood; the carrion stench of open butchers’ shops piled with offal would give way to the aromas of simmering curry or the fragrance of bread baking in roadside ovens. The eye-watering fumes of dye from boiling vats or great hanks of vivid yarn hanging to dry would, in a single step, be replaced by the perfume of fresh dates and green figs. The putrid emanations from leather being tanned in shallow baths of urine would mingle with the bouquet of oleander, japonica, mimosa.
His eyes were at first dazzled by the kaleidoscope of color, shape, and movement, which slowly resolved itself into the visual counterpart of all he could hear and smell. Immediately within the gates was a square from which many roads led off in all directions. In the center of the square stood a great water trough. All round it clustered animals drinking and pens for those that had drunk. Camels he saw at once, and goats and a few lean sheep. No cows or pigs. Oxen. Donkeys. Horses. Around the patient herds swirled people. Light-skinned and tall, dressed in dark blue and black. Dark and wiry, dressed in plain white djellabahs and multicolored kaffiyahs, as they were themselves. Boys in little more than vests. Stately gentlemen in fine sleeveless overrobes. Shy women in black abbahs with gold filigreed chadors over their faces, gold chains falling from beneath their headdresses to hang above their huge, kohl-dark eyes.
“Come,” said Salah at his side in whispered English. “We’ll start in the Street of the Carpet Makers.”
Together they crossed the busy square and dived into the dizzying swirl beyond. The Street of the Carpet Makers led away to the right and it was as though the throng from the central square had simply been squeezed into it like toothpaste. On the pavements, such as they were, and on the narrow roadway, lay carpets. Individually, flat. In piles, in hillocks. In bundles rolled like logs or standing erect like multicolored forests against tall walls. In shopfronts that were little more than stalls open to every passerby. In exclusive establishments that would not have disgraced Knightsbridge or Fifth Avenue. Here the smells were of dye and dust, of rope and of age. The sound remained overwhelming save that no cars drove here and the rumble of footsteps was muffled by millions of pounds’ worth of rugs. At the most exclusive-looking of the shops, Salah paused. There were no customers in evidence within, nor anyone paying particular attention to two more shoppers thinking of entering.
“Wait by the door. Pretend to look at the carpets, but keep an eye on the street. Say nothing.” Salah spoke in a barely audible whisper and they were in.
The air-conditioning hit Richard like a bucket of ice water; he was surprised his breath did not come in clouds on the air. A tall man came forward and salaamed. The two of them performed the same courtesy, then Salah was escorted into the dark recesses within and Richard found himself alone. He began to examine the exquisite workmanship on those carpets nearest the door, keeping a careful eye out through the plate glass. Soon he became fascinated by the way in which the carpets were thrown into the road. When he had first come across the practice, he had assumed that only the cheapest rugs were put there as a sort of advertising gimmick. But later he discovered that this was not so. Sometimes the most expensive carpets were put out for anyone to walk on because the constant motion of so many feet tightened the knots in the carpets’ weave and made them stronger and more priceless. In fact, some of the most priceless carpets in the world, tradition had it, were left in the roadways outside villages near Bokhara or Tabriz for the better part of a year so that the footsteps of passersby could finish the weavers’ work in the summer, and then the winter snows lift out the dirt to leave them fresh and clean.
“Richard!” He spun round. It was Salah, holding two small shoulder bags made of carpet. Richard had seen many people carrying them here this evening, for traditional robes had no pockets. He took the one offered and, feeling its weight, looked inside. His eyes flicked up to meet the Palestinian’s calculating gaze.
“They are necessary. Vital. We have come to do business. We must be seen to mean business. And if we do not need them for tonight, we will find a use for them soon enough.”
With a sudden imperative sense of danger, Richard slung his bag over his shoulder. If he let his hand hang casually inside it he could easily grasp the butt of the machine pistol it contained.
Then they were out in the suffocating miasma of the street. Richard felt his whole body prickling with sweat and resisted an urge to scratch. A man immediately in front of him felt no such inhibition, however, and luxuriously scratched his right buttock. The result was a huge damp patch on the crisp white cotton, through which could be seen the garish patterns on his underwear.
“Where next?”
“Let’s try the Street of Gold.”
As with the Street of the Carpet Makers, the name described the trade. Every piece of pavement, stall, shop, emporium, was given over to the smithing and selling of gold. It could be seen molten in crucibles, being stretched into wires or being beaten into silver-gilt; being etched, stamped, filigreed, set with precious stones. Made into finger rings, toe rings, earrings, nose rings. Anklets, bracelets, armlets, necklets, waistlets, and belts. Chains, bangles, medals, medallions, stars, shapes of a thousan
d different sizes and significances. The place reeked of the smelting fires, of the seething metal. It rang with the tintinabulation of the goldsmiths’ hammers. The jingling of golden bracelets and bells; the ticking, striking, and chiming of all those golden clocks.
“We’ll be quick here. It’s just a hunch. We’ve only got an hour for the whole thing.”
“Why that little?”
“That’s how long it’ll take them to find us.”
“Them?”
“The police. You’ve met Captain Suleiman?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be seeing more of him soon.”
On that word “soon” they entered not a shop but an alleyway between two shopfronts. It was narrow—Richard’s broad shoulders brushed the walls on either side—and dark. They reached a recessed doorway, a deeper shadow in the shade. “You are my bodyguard,” whispered Salah. “You speak no Farsi!”
Too bloody true! thought Richard, and they were in. Five men sat drinking fragrant coffee on rugs more beautiful than any Richard had just seen. Three big bodyguards almost as tall as Richard stood around them. They all looked up as Salah entered, not unduly surprised to see him.
“Salaam,” he said, and launched into a dialect Richard did not understand. He stood motionless, right fist closed on the gun, ready for action. Only his left hand might betray him. He had hidden it in the folds of the robe, for it was not the right color at all. And his eyes, narrowed in his tanned face half hidden by the kaffiyah.
But then, he thought, as his racing mind explained Salah’s last, cryptic remark, only an Aryan Iranian would have such blue eyes in any case. And such a man would be bound to understand Farsi, the language of other Aryan Iranians. He looked around the room more closely.
The conversation switched from Salah to the others. Their accents were no more comprehensible than Salah’s had been, but their body language was universal. We’d love to help, but…Sorry.