Attack at Dead Man's Bay

by Paul Adam

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Chris asked.

  She was gaping at her phone, speechless, her hands trembling.

  ‘Consuela?’

  She held out the phone to him. Chris saw the text message on the screen.

  Its max. Don worry im alive need 2 dispear 4 time 2 find dad. Btr if Clark thinks im ded. Plz tel mum. Soz 4 all the trubl

  ‘He’s alive!’ Consuela exclaimed, starting to cry again. ‘Max is alive.’ Then her face clouded over. ‘What the hell is he playing at? Half the San Francisco police force are out there looking for him. Boats, divers, helicopters.’

  Chris read the message again. ‘Whose number is that? Where’s it been sent from?’

  Consuela punched in the number and listened. ‘Voicemail. The phone’s switched off. Is this genuine? It’s not a hoax, someone playing games?’

  ‘It looks genuine. How many people have your mobile number?’

  ‘Not many. No one who would pretend to be Max.’

  ‘Then it’s him all right.’

  ‘What do we do?’ Consuela asked, bewildered. ‘Do we show this to the police, tell them to call off their search?’

  Chris gave the question some thought. ‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘Max is playing for very high stakes. His father’s life is at risk. He wouldn’t do this unless he felt he had no alternative.’

  ‘So we do nothing?’

  ‘For the time being, yes.’

  ‘How could he do this? Put us through all this suffering?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Chris replied. ‘But I know one thing. If he comes out of all this alive, I’m going to kill him.’

  SEVENTEEN

  MAX WAITED UNTIL the Reunion Star had been underway for several hours before he dared emerge from the crate. Forcing off the lid, he climbed out. His wet clothes were completely dry now, but it was cold in the ship’s hold. If he was going to survive the voyage to Kamchatka, he needed to find a way of keeping warm.

  He ripped open the plastic bags he’d lain on in the crate and discovered they contained overalls and fleece jackets with the blue and white Rescomin company logo on them. The overalls were all way too big for him and the fleece jackets were also on the large side, but if he rolled up the sleeves of the smallest size, they just about fitted him. And they were very warm, obviously designed for the Russian climate.

  Then he set about exploring the hold. He knew he was going to be on the ship for some time. How long did it take to sail from San Francisco to Kamchatka? He had no accurate idea, but it was certainly going to be several days. He’d need somewhere to sleep, and he’d need to find food and drink.

  Luckily, there was enough light trickling in through ventilation slats in the deck hatches for him to see what he was doing. The hold contained a lot of cargo, but it wasn’t completely full. There were spaces through which Max could squeeze, boxes and packing cases which he could access. He opened a few and found more clothing with the Rescomin logo on it – clearly intended for the workers at the company’s platinum mine at Zaliv Myertvetsa. He found medical supplies and blankets and a whole crate packed with cigarettes and vodka. Vodka? Didn’t the Russians make that themselves? He opened two of the big metal containers and discovered machine parts and pneumatic drills and hard hats. Then, in a corner of the hold, he found some boxes of food and bottled water. There were sacks of flour and rice, bags of pasta and cartons of pizza bases, cans of beans and other vegetables. He inspected them longingly, realizing just how hungry he was, but also with a sense of frustration. It was food, but he couldn’t eat raw rice or pasta, and he couldn’t get into the cans without some kind of tin opener. He broke into another box and saw packets of biscuits and chocolate bars. That was more like it. He ripped open a chocolate bar and ate it greedily. Then he went through a whole packet of cookies and washed them down with some of the bottled water. It wasn’t a very healthy diet, but he could live on it, if he had to.

  Feeling better, he sat down on a wooden crate and thought about what he was going to do next. He had food and water and blankets. He could sleep in one of the crates or on the floor. Would anyone check the hold during the voyage? He couldn’t see why they would, but he would have to be careful, just in case – make sure he had somewhere to hide if someone came, and ensure he left no signs of his presence: no wrappers or empty bottles out in the open.

  He could survive, that was what counted. What he had to think about now was his father. Max was sure he was being taken to Kamchatka for more brainwashing, but was he on the Reunion Star? Max would have to search the entire ship to find out. But how should he do it without being caught?

  Max pictured the ship lying alongside the quay in San Francisco. It hadn’t looked a particularly large vessel, certainly nothing like as big as an oil tanker or even one of the car ferries that Max had been on across the English Channel. Most of the space was taken up by the cargo holds, but Alexander Cassidy wouldn’t be being held in a hold – he’d be locked up in a cabin somewhere, possibly with a guard on the door. Max would have to find the crew’s quarters and check every cabin. Doing it at night would be safer. The ship never stopped, of course; it kept going round the clock and there would always be someone on duty, particularly on the bridge, but Max reckoned there would be fewer people around after dark.

  He removed another packet of biscuits, some chocolate and a bottle of water from the box he’d opened, then closed it up, grabbed a blanket from the other box and went back to his crate. He climbed inside, pulling the lid back into place above him, wrapped himself in the blanket and closed his eyes.

  He dropped off almost immediately. He’d been up for more than twenty-four hours and had endured two long, gruelling swims. He was shattered, utterly exhausted. He didn’t know how long he slept for, but when he woke up he sensed it was night. His body clock told him so. He clambered out of the crate and saw at once from the darkness that he was right. There was no light coming in anywhere, though high above him in the hatches he could see the pale strips of the ventilation slats.

  He felt his way across to the hold door and opened it. The gangway outside was brightly lit. Down here in the bowels of the ship, Max guessed that the lights would be on all the time. It made sense if there was an emergency and the crew had to get out in a hurry.

  The cargo holds occupied the middle and rear of the ship and the bridge, from where the vessel was controlled, was at the front – the bow. The crew’s quarters had to be below the bridge – there was nowhere else to fit them in – so Max made his way forward. He could hear the throb of the engines, feel the vibrations through his feet. There was a strong smell of diesel, which gradually started to blend with another odour – the pungent reek of fried onions and garlic. He heard the clank of pans and realized he must be nearing the galley, the ship’s kitchen.

  There were doors along the left side of the gangway, one every three or four metres, that he guessed were cabins. Then he reached a wider opening on the right. He paused just before it and peered cautiously round the corner, seeing stoves and stainless-steel worktops, two men in greasy white aprons dishing out food through a serving hatch to a group of men, a couple in oil-stained overalls who must have come from the engine room and three in smarter, pressed white shirts – part of the above-deck crew who actually sailed the ship.

  Beyond the serving hatch, on the wall of the dining room, was a television screen showing a CNN satellite news programme. Max did a double take, astonished to see pictures of himself, footage that had been taken on the Golden Gate Bridge just before his stunt, then a clip of the wooden crate crashing down into the sea and shattering. The report cut to Consuela returning to the Fairmont Hotel looking pale and strained, declining to give any comment to the waiting reporters, then a police spokesman came on camera to say that the search for Max Cassidy would go on throughout the night. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since the teenager had disappeared, but they still hadn’t given up hope of finding him alive.

  Max felt a sharp stab of guilt – he
was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he finally reappeared. When? Maybe that should be if he ever reappeared, since he still had a lot to do, all of it potentially hazardous. He put the negative thoughts out of his mind. One thing at a time. First he had to find out whether his father was on the ship.

  He ducked back out of sight. How many crew did the Reunion Star have? he wondered. He suspected it wasn’t all that many. Some would be up on the bridge, steering and keeping watch. If these others down here were having their evening meal, it probably meant that most of the cabins would be unoccupied. He retreated along the gangway and tried the first door he came to. It wasn’t locked. Max glanced inside. It was, indeed, a cabin – a cramped little space containing a pair of bunk beds and a chest of drawers. But no people. He tried the other two cabins. There was no one in any of them either.

  There had to be more cabins, he thought. Probably on the other side of the ship. He crept softly back along the gangway and turned left into another corridor that took him over to the starboard side. There were three more cabins there, all empty.

  Max decided he’d done enough for the time being. No doubt there were other cabins further forward, but he couldn’t reach those without going past the galley and dining room, and that was far too risky to attempt now. Don’t push your luck, he said to himself. You can continue your search later.

  He returned to the hold and, settling back down in his crate with another bar of chocolate and some biscuits, he tried to map the layout of the ship in his head. How many decks were there? Two, maybe three down below, then the bridge up above. His father wouldn’t be on the bridge – that wasn’t somewhere you could hold a man prisoner. He had to be below deck. Max had searched part of the bottom deck; if he waited a while for the crew to finish their meal, then he could go and search the rest of it.

  A few hours later, he ventured back out into the gangway. The galley and dining room were deserted, though the lights were still on. Max went across into the bow section of the ship and found more doors that looked like cabins. It was half past twelve – he’d noted the time from the clock in the dining room – so the night watch would be up on the bridge, but some of the crew would certainly be in their bunks by now. That made checking the cabins a potentially tricky operation. Max would have to watch his step.

  He tried the first door, pushing it open a fraction. The room beyond was in darkness. Max opened the door wider, then stopped dead. Someone was inside. He could hear the faint sound of snoring. He closed the door quickly and moved away around a corner, his heart rate increasing. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. But how else was he going to find his dad?

  Then something occurred to him. He didn’t need to actually enter any of the cabins, or even open their doors. His father was being held against his will. He wouldn’t be in an unlocked cabin. Therefore, if a door was unlocked, his father couldn’t be behind it.

  Reassured by the thought, Max tried the next door and felt it give a little. It was unlocked. He released the handle softly and moved on along the gangway. Two more doors were also unlocked. Max crossed them off the list and kept going until, at the very front of the ship, he came across a door that was locked. He looked through the keyhole. He could see no light. He put his ear to the panel. No sound. His hopes rose. Maybe this was the one. Maybe his dad was here, probably drugged to keep him quiet. Max took out the piece of wire he’d cut from the fence around Pier 80 and used it to pick the lock, surprised to see his hand shaking a little. He grasped the handle and paused, trying to hold in his excitement, then pushed open the door. The disappointment hit him like a wave, throwing him back a step. His father wasn’t there: the cabin was just a storeroom, full of cans of paint and tarpaulins and old ropes.

  It took a few moments for him to recover, to get his mind back on track. One setback wasn’t going to deter him. He’d tried every door on this deck, so he went back to the dining room and up the stairs to the deck above. There was no one about here either. He checked more doors, ignoring the ones that were unlocked and picking the locks on those that weren’t. But he still didn’t find his father.

  Finally, he decided he’d done enough for one night, taken enough risks. It was time to retreat to his bolt-hole. He went back down the stairs and made a detour to the galley to see if there was any food he could scavenge. There was a large bowl in one of the fridges containing a chicken stew that must have been left over from the evening meal because it was still lukewarm. Max ate a good helping of it, but not so much that anyone would notice it had gone, then cut a chunk off a block of cheese and ate that too. There were plastic-wrapped loaves of sliced bread and small packs of butter and jam on the serving counter, obviously put out in advance for breakfast. Max took a couple of slices of bread from three of the loaves and resealed the plastic bags, then he helped himself to butter and jam and borrowed a knife from one of the drawers. He noticed a tin opener in amongst the other utensils and fingered it thoughtfully. Would anyone miss it if he removed it? He glanced around the galley. There was another, more sophisticated can opener on the wall that had to be the main one the cooks used. This opener in the drawer was surely just a back-up. No one was going to notice if it disappeared, and even if they did, they’d simply assume it had been misplaced, not taken by a stowaway on the ship. Max put the opener into his pocket and headed back to the hold.

  The following night, he made another foray out into the ship, focusing this time on the higher decks. He went up two flights of stairs and began to try doors again, creeping quietly along the gangways, listening hard for sounds inside the cabins before he tested the handles. Just two of the doors he checked were locked, but when he picked them and peered inside he found only empty offices. Puzzled and frustrated, he paused underneath a staircase to consider his next move. Was there somewhere he’d missed? Was his father being held in one of the holds – there were at least two others apart from the one in which Max was hiding – or even in the engine rooms down below the bottom deck?

  He heard men’s voices, footsteps on the stairs above him. Someone was coming down. He caught a glimpse of shoes through the open treads. They were very close, only seconds away. There was no time to run – he’d be spotted for certain. Hiding was his only option. But where? There was a long locker, like a bench, against the wall beside him. He whipped open the lid and saw life jackets inside. The men were almost at the bottom of the stairs, still talking loudly. Max scrambled into the locker and wriggled down among the lifejackets, then pulled the lid shut and lay still, holding his breath. Had they heard him? Maybe not. They hadn’t stopped talking, at any rate. He heard them go past, then waited a few minutes before he dared open the lid. The gangway was deserted. He climbed out, his pulse throbbing, and went quickly back down to the hold. The experience had shaken him, reminded him that there were crew around at all times of the day and night. He had to be patient, not get over-confident. If his dad was on the ship, he had plenty of time to find him.

  He ventured out again the next night, and the night after that, searching all the holds, going down into the engine rooms, even once sneaking up to the bridge and taking a peep through the window at the control room. By the end, he was pretty sure he’d explored every corner of the Reunion Star and had come to the depressing conclusion that his father was not on board.

  That was a blow. Max wondered if he’d made a huge mistake stowing away on the vessel. He’d been so sure that his dad was going to be taken to Kamchatka. Maybe he was. Just not by ship. Maybe he’d been flown there instead and was already being injected with Episuderon by Julius Clark’s sinister scientists. The thought made Max feel even more despondent. His father was in great danger, probably being drugged and interrogated, and Max was stuck on a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, no use to anyone.

  Not that there was anything he could do about it. He just had to sit tight, make sure he wasn’t discovered and hope he got to Kamchatka in time to save his dad.

  The days went by with tedious slowness. Max d
idn’t leave the hold; he lived off tinned meat and tuna, canned vegetables and biscuits and chocolate; he didn’t wash, and a bucket he’d taken from a storeroom served as his toilet.

  On the morning of the sixth day, he felt a change in the ship’s engines. It was slowing down. The dipping and rolling motion of the open sea that he’d got used to eased off and he knew that they were in more sheltered waters. The vessel slowed further. Max heard movement on the main deck above him, orders being shouted, then the engines went into reverse, the power coming on and off as the Reunion Star manoeuvred its way into port. The side of the ship scraped against the dock, there was a rattle of the anchor being dropped, then the engines stopped completely. For the first time in nearly a week, there was silence. No vibrations, no throbbing, no noise at all. They had arrived in Kamchatka.

  Max felt an immense sense of relief mixed with apprehension. He was in Russia now, and he didn’t know what to expect. He’d tried to plan a course of action for when he arrived, but how did you plan for the complete unknown? He would just have to take his chances and hope for the best. He hid his slop bucket and all the empty cans and food wrappers in a container, then climbed inside his crate and listened as the deck hatches were opened, flooding the hold with daylight. Stevedores came on board the ship and began to unload the cargo. Max could hear them moving around, talking to one another in Russian.

  The big metal containers were winched out first, then the smaller boxes and crates, including Max’s. He felt himself being lifted into the air, the crate swaying in a sling, and for a moment he was back on the Golden Gate Bridge – the heart-stopping terror of those few minutes, when he’d been dangling precariously from the crane, then plummeting down into the sea, returned with chilling intensity. He felt sick, his pulse began to race and he had to slow his breathing, force himself to calm down. It wasn’t the same, he assured himself. The Golden Gate trauma was over and done with. This was just a routine unloading of a freighter. Nothing was going to go wrong.