Torrential rain made pockmarks in the three-metre waves as they raced to catch the yacht. Time and time again, the craft was carried aloft standing on its bow in a suicidal nose dive before arching crazily back with such bone-jarring force that it must break in two. Moffat fell back onto the bed, sprawling helplessly and banging his elbow in the process. In the seething, heaving maelstrom, the yacht was tossed about like a matchstick, rolling, yawing, pitching, suddenly being flung almost broadside to the oncoming waves. Beyond the cabin door a loud crack came from above, followed by the tremendous impact of something heavy falling just overhead. ‘There goes the mast,’ Moffat cried out, his face white.
The storm boiled around them for over an hour. More than once Lana thought the yacht was sinking. Waves poured over the decks and streamed past their portholes but, gallant as a mountain pony, the boat shuddered, shook free of the water and burst out of one wave, only to be hit by the next. Waterspouts danced across the bucking lake, giant vacuums of water, hell-bent on destruction.
After what seemed like an eternity, Lana could see pockets of blue sky. The storm had passed right over them, leaving the waters of Lake Malawi heaving and panting in its wake. It took more than two hours to soothe its ruffled surface but, by this time, Karl had restarted the engine and they were well under way again.
Up on deck, sounds of frantic cleaning up told them the damage had been considerable.
‘When do we reach Likoma?’ they heard Ramón ask.
‘At this speed, and with no more storms, tomorrow afternoon,’ Karl replied.
Tomorrow afternoon. Lana’s eyes met Moffat’s. Would tonight be their last? She turned to look through the porthole at the final rays of light in the western sky. It was such a beautiful sight. She did not want to die.
SEVENTEEN
Tim Gilbey lowered his compact Pentax binoculars and grunted with impatience. What is the bloody man doing? Frederick Hamilton behaved like someone suffering from acute lethargy, rather than someone trying to hold a government to ransom. His actions, since arriving two days ago, were those of a decidedly laid-back tourist.
On Sunday morning, Tim had followed Hamilton from the landing strip, expecting him to go directly to the cathedral. Even though he was no longer a missionary, Tim would have thought he’d at least have paid the Bishop the courtesy of a greeting. Instead, Hamilton checked into the Akuziki Private Rest House and, so far, had not gone anywhere near the priests, the cathedral or the crypt. He spent most of the daylight hours on a beach directly below the rest house. He did not swim or take walks. Despite being well known on the island – which Tim concluded he must be since he’d lived here for twenty years – very few people stopped to speak to him. The only exertion Tim had observed was when he turned the pages of his book. Every now and then Hamilton would raise his eyes and gaze across the water to the Mozambique mainland. Tim had little doubt that the man was waiting for someone.
The fact that Frederick Hamilton had chosen to stay at the rest house was a mixed blessing. While it didn’t give Tim an excuse to observe the missionary at close range, at least Hamilton would not become suspicious of, or speculate on, what Tim was doing on Likoma. Passing up what – if the smells coming from the kitchen were anything to go by – promised to be a delicious dinner, Tim went to the rest house to eat on Sunday evening. Gossip that Tim was on Likoma looking at its potential as a tourist destination had circulated and the manager of the Akuziki was delighted to accept Tim’s booking for a meal. Ready to enlarge on the tourist development myth if necessary, Tim found Hamilton already seated. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ In point of fact, there was little else Tim could do. The ‘dining room’ was an open-ended verandah, off which four doors led to bedrooms. There was only one table.
Hamilton nodded pleasantly enough. The manager appeared at one end of the verandah and beamed when he saw that his two guests were talking. ‘I will serve the soup at your convenience,’ he announced formally.
‘Any idea what kind it is?’ Tim asked Hamilton.
‘Chicken, it’s always chicken. Not bad though.’
‘Stayed here before have you?’
‘I’ve eaten here.’
‘Do you know Likoma well?’
‘Well enough.’
Tim put out his hand. ‘Tim Gilbey.’
Hamilton shook it. ‘Frederick Hamilton.’ His handshake was limp and damp.
‘What brings you to this tropical paradise?’ Under the table, Tim rubbed the man’s sweat off on his trouser leg.
‘Nothing much.’
Talkative little shit aren’t you!
The manager, having clearly decided that now was as convenient a time as any, reappeared with two steaming bowls of soup. Hamilton immediately bowed his head and began to eat, spooning the thin and relatively tasteless liquid into his mouth as though he hadn’t eaten for days.
So much for Grace!
Hamilton did not raise his eyes until his bowl was empty and wiped clean with a chunk of doughy bread. Up close, he reminded Tim of something straight out of a Charles Dickens novel. He had the kind of face that as a boy Tim would have loved to squash a cream bun into, just for the hell of it. His eyes were permanently moist, like those of a reproachful fish. A long, thin nose dragged down an expression that managed to look perpetually disappointed and disdainful at the same time. His sunken cheeks, almost cadaverous in colour, had a number of painful-looking red weals on each, like developing boils. The book at his elbow was a surprise. It by Stephen King. Tim would have expected something more ecclesiastical. ‘Staying long?’ he enquired cheerfully.
‘Couple of days.’
Through the trees between the rest house and the harbour, the evening sky was gearing itself for yet another spectacular finale. Tim tried a different tack. ‘I’ve never seen anything like these sunsets. They’re beautiful.’
Hamilton dutifully looked but said nothing.
The main course was placed before them. Chambo fillets, boiled potatoes and baked beans. Hamilton virtually inhaled his as though he were starving, reluctantly responding in monosyllables to any attempt at conversation. Tim wondered idly what his reaction would be if asked, ‘Found any good secret documents lately?’ He stopped trying to make conversation and concentrated on his own meal.
Hamilton finished well before Tim, picked up his book and began to read.
Giving up on food, Tim rose from the table, the fish and baked beans competing unhappily in his stomach.
‘Aren’t you waiting for dessert?’ Hamilton queried, not raising his eyes from the page.
‘Why don’t you have mine?’ Tim said. ‘I don’t believe I could eat another thing. Good night.’
The double entendre was lost on Hamilton.
Tim walked back to Camp Likoma, confident that Hamilton would be going nowhere tonight. The man was a missionary, not a trained professional. If action, any action, were imminent, the man would have been showing signs of nervous energy. He was obviously waiting for someone, otherwise he would have retrieved the documents and left Likoma. After dark, he wouldn’t be going anywhere. Likoma had no electricity so an aeroplane could not land and any vessel arriving by water was unlikely.
As he walked in the gathering dusk, Tim’s mind shifted sideways and drifted. Where would Lana be now? Was she all right? Were his misgivings about Karl Henning justified? Why did Hamilton keep that damned book with him? Were the documents lying between its pages? Who was the man waiting for? ‘Kill him if necessary,’ Martin Flower had implied. ‘Christ!’ Tim thought, disgusted. ‘It would be like stepping on a bug.’
There was a storm brewing to the north-west. He had seen signs of it earlier but now that it was almost dark, the full fury of lightning was awesome. He wondered about the colourful Captain Santos. Where would he go in such a storm? Tim grunted with amusement as he thought about the man. He’d probably be so full of rum he’d scarcely notice the weather.
When he reached the camp, Tim sat on the deck outside his tent for so
me time watching the gathering storm. He tried to keep his mind on the job but it kept returning, time and again, to Lana.
In the morning, Tim had an early breakfast then returned to his tent. From the deck he had a perfect view of the beach but, because the camp was well screened by trees, anyone on the beach would need to get very close before they noticed him. Hamilton was already on the beach, in a deckchair, with his book open. Tim resigned himself to the possibility of a long and boring day.
Around midmorning, Wireless came to see him. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Gilbey. The telephone is working now.’ If the man was intrigued to know why Tim, who claimed he was interested in exploring Likoma, had spent all yesterday afternoon and all morning in his room, he was too polite to ask.
Tim followed Wireless to reception where the man cranked an old-fashioned telephone handle and spoke to the operator. He enjoyed several minutes of animated jollity before handing the receiver to Tim. After giving a Lilongwe number and waiting for five minutes, the connection to his secretary was established. Quickly, he explained that he wanted a doctor flown to Likoma and, if it was at all possible, a portable X-ray machine.
His secretary, a seasoned member of the Diplomatic Service and one who, Tim suspected, had an inkling of the true nature of his profession, merely asked, ‘When?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘I’ll get onto it.’ She hesitated, then asked, ‘Is it for you?’
‘No.’
Again she hesitated. ‘British?’ she asked finally.
‘Of course.’
‘Life threatening?’ she pushed.
It will be if you don’t stop asking these damned questions! ‘Head injury – old but nasty. Can’t move him but I want it checked. Just get on to it. If there’s a fuss I’ll take the flak.’
Let off the responsibility hook, she noted the number at the tented camp and assured him that a doctor would be on Likoma as soon as she could arrange it. Since he was supposed to be on an orientation tour she would have been well within her rights to ask him just what, in the name of all things sane, the hell he was doing on Likoma. It was a measure of her professionalism that she did not.
When he hung up, Tim found Wireless studiously polishing the reception desk. ‘We have a hospital here.’
‘I know, but they have no X-ray equipment.’ In fact, they had very little of anything. Tim gathered from Father Smice that if anyone was seriously ill or injured they were immediately flown to the mainland.
‘Somebody is sick?’ Wireless asked.
‘Someone needs attention.’ Tim was being cautious. Then he wondered why he’d bothered.
‘We have a fish in Malawi,’ Wireless said carefully. ‘It is called Mpasa.’
‘Yes I know,’ Tim replied, grinning wryly. ‘Lake salmon. A good fighting fish.’
Wireless nodded. ‘It will fight very hard to avoid capture.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Tim said, going past the man. ‘Mpasa only fights when it is in danger.’
Wireless nodded again, satisfied.
Instead of returning to his tent, Tim walked the kilometre or so to the Akuziki, sneaked into Hamilton’s unlocked room and gave his belongings and the room a thorough search. As he expected, there was no sign of any documents. Returning to the camp, he resigned himself to the boredom of watching Hamilton who, predictably, had not moved. An hour or so later, a familiar figure in white robes crossed the beach to where Hamilton sat. Tim watched Father Smice carefully. The priest moved briskly, like a man on a mission. He stopped in front of Hamilton and spoke to him. Watching his face carefully through the binoculars, Tim thought Father Smice looked troubled. Hamilton shrugged, then the priest was speaking again. He appeared to be pleading with the missionary.
Frederick Hamilton carefully placed his book on the sand and stood up. From his hands on hips stance and body language, Tim could see he was being defensive. After a few minutes, Father Smice patted Hamilton on the shoulder and left, shaking his head. Hamilton, after a long stare at the lake, sat down and resumed reading.
Tim would dearly have loved to know what transpired between the two men.
And now, at three-fifteen the following afternoon, after yet another long day of watching Hamilton do nothing more exciting than read, Tim was fizzing with impatience. He trained his binoculars on the mainland. Jungle and beaches. Tim scanned the distant shore. More jungle and beaches. ‘Christ this is monotonous!’ Between the north-easterly tip of Likoma and the mainland of Mozambique, the lake shimmered with reflected brilliance. The glare was almost painful. Something white out there on the glittering blue caught his eye. A boat! ‘Could this be it?’ Tim focussed on the distant shape. It was well out from the mainland, heading towards Likoma perhaps ten kilometres away.
Fifteen minutes later, Frederick Hamilton saw it too. He jumped to his feet, shading his eyes against the glare. The sudden movement confirmed it. Tim had no doubt that this was what Hamilton had been waiting for.
There was something not quite right about the approaching craft. Suddenly Tim realised that it was a yacht, or, at least, what was left of a yacht. The stump of its aluminium mast, broken off about a metre above deck, jutted defiantly upwards.
Hamilton had abandoned his book and was still staring at the yacht. Tim alternated between watching him and the boat. It was definitely heading straight for Likoma.
The yacht was no more than a kilometre away when Hamilton turned and walked off the beach. Several times he looked back, as though uncertain, before reaching a decision and striding purposefully towards the rest house. ‘Here we go,’ Tim thought. The familiar rush of adrenalin hit him. Something was happening at last. Was Frederick Hamilton carrying the documents with him – in the book which never left his side? Would he simply board the yacht and leave? That could be a problem if they headed for Mozambique or even Tanzania. Tim was gambling on the documents being hidden on the island. What he couldn’t figure out was who Hamilton had been waiting for.
Hamilton, bag over his shoulder, strode down to the beach. As usual, the arrival of a boat attracted a large group of islanders. Tim picked up the binoculars as the yacht drew closer. ‘Silver Bird II. Nice boat.’ There were two men on deck. The one at the helm was Karl Henning, Tim recognised him from the newspaper cutting in John Devereaux’s file. As Tim watched, he rubbed a hand over his eyes, as if weary. ‘No sign of Lana Devereaux? Good! She must have decided not to accept Henning’s invitation.’ Tim turned the glasses to the second man. ‘Shit!’ he said aloud. Ramón Alzaga’s eyes seemed to bore right through the binoculars.
Tim, as part of his training, had committed to memory the names, faces and deeds of literally hundreds of field operatives from all parts of the globe. Ramón Alzaga was one of them. Mentally, Tim flicked through the filing cabinet in his mind.
Ramón Alzaga was an old hand. He had been around for more than twenty years. Cunning and clever he had come up against a number of Tim’s colleagues, some of whom were still licking their wounds. Alzaga was a military man, one of only a few to escape after the juntas collapsed when Argentina had been defeated by Britain in the Falkland Islands war. Before that, he had been active in the terror squads which rounded up, tortured and very often murdered, suspected subversives. When the tables turned, Alzaga went underground, re-emerging four years later with the international division of SIDE – Argentina’s State Information Service. His presence on Likoma was about as subtle as an atomic explosion. Britain had stalled for too long and, in his impatience, Hamilton had crossed sides. It was Ramón Alzaga he had been waiting for.
Tim scanned the yacht for any sign of Lana Devereaux, relieved when he saw none. Her chances in the company of Henning were bad enough. Alzaga would have made it worse. The man was a cold-blooded killer.
The arrival of Alzaga confirmed that the documents must be on Likoma. If Hamilton had already removed them then Alzaga would simply have met him somewhere outside Malawi.
The boat was close enough now that Tim did not ne
ed his binoculars. As he watched, Silver Bird II dropped anchor in the small harbour. Karl Henning went to the back of the yacht and, a few minutes later, a dinghy was lowered into the water. Henning jumped deftly into the dinghy and it set off immediately for the beach where Hamilton waited. Ignoring the laughing, waving children in the water, as soon as Hamilton was in the small craft Henning turned it and returned to the yacht. Once on board, Hamilton and Alzaga shook hands. ‘What’s a nice missionary like you doing with men like that?’ Tim muttered under his breath.
He wondered about Lana. Where in God’s name was she? Was she safe? Was she floating face down somewhere between Chilumba and Likoma? ‘I don’t need this,’ Tim was thinking as he checked his Browning automatic pistol. Keeping an eye on Hamilton was child’s play. Henning and his games an irritating diversion. But Alzaga was another story altogether. Ramón Alzaga would, more than likely, recognise Tim. As soon as that happened, he would know why the MI6 man was here. ‘And from that point in time, he will be trying to kill me,’ Tim thought soberly. ‘Unless I’ve eliminated him first.’ Tim wasn’t unduly bothered by the prospect of killing the Argentinean. From the point of view of agent against agent, it went with the territory. What did bother him was the thought that Lana Devereaux had, quite innocently, been caught up with the job at hand. Tim tried to put her out of his mind. He realised, ruefully, that he wasn’t doing a very good job of it.
He waited until just on dark before leaving the camp. Wireless watched him go, a mournful look on his face as he thought of the steamed chicken and dumplings specially made for his only guest. Tim headed for the crypt. Two days ago, when Father Smice showed him around, he had noticed a vantage point from where both the cathedral and the small harbour should be visible.
Echo of an Angry God Page 34