by Peter Tonkin
“Optical illusion?” Wells.
“Don’t think so. It looked like a light. I couldn’t make it out.”
“We’ll keep watch,” said Wells. “To starboard, you say?”
“Yes. It might have been anything, but. . . WAIT! There it is again!”
“I see it,” said Stone.
There was a light away to starboard. Just for a second it glinted on the water, too bright and substantial to be a star on the horizon.
“Quick!” cried Wells, full voice now, “the Very pistol!”
“Where is it?” Stone.
“You’ve got it!” Wells, frantically.
“It’s not on the seat.” Stone.
“What’s the matter?” Mrs Gash, stridently.
“There’s a light.” Slattery.
“Where is it?” muttered Stone to himself.
“What are you looking for?” Miss Buhl, sleepily.
“The Very pistol,” snapped Stone.
By now everyone was awake. They stood by the mast and began to shout. Typically, O’Keefe, who had said he was going to stay awake, was the only one not joining in for he was sitting stolidly in his place and seemed to be still asleep.
“There it is,” cried Wells, seeing a silvery column catching starlight on the little Irishman’s lap. “O’Keefe’s picked it up.” He went over to O’Keefe and took the Very pistol from him. O’Keefe stirred. “Thanks,” said Wells. Then he turned quickly and fired it into the air. The white flare curved up and away into the darkness on the port beam. Everybody was on their feet now except O’Keefe. They all shouted and yelled, moving across to one side of the boat as the light grew steadily smaller.
“Another flare, quick!” cried Laughton and there was a concerted movement towards the flare box.
“Careful!” yelled Slattery, but too late. Mrs Gash’s ample form tottered and then tumbled sideways. The boat shook as she landed then tilted onto another tack. The boom swung, caught O’Keefe a solid thump on the head and pitched the little Irishman into the water. Nobody noticed.
“It’s going,” whispered Miss Buhl.
“Where the HELL is that flare?” shouted Slobowski.
“Here,” said Wells and fired it away to starboard. Ten pairs of eyes searched the distant horizon as the flare rose and curved in the air, its long thin trail exploding suddenly into a white magnesium light. “It’s gone,” said Bates.
“Nothing there at all,” said Gant. “What did you see?”
“Mr Slattery saw it first,” said Wells, “it was a sort of a light. It was quite clear. Stone and I saw it as well.”
“Yes,” agreed Stone.
“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone now,” said Laughton. The flare sank towards the horizon.
“What’s that?” suddenly cried Rebecca, whose eyes had strayed down from the falling flare.
“Sweet Jesus, it’s a man,” said Slattery.
“But that’s impossible!” said Wells, “Where could he have come from?”
Then Bates noticed that O’Keefe was gone. “My God, it’s O’Keefe,” he yelled. “O’Keefe. O’KEEFE!” But O’Keefe gave no sign of having heard them. He was floating face-down some yards to starboard and he seemed to be unconscious. “Quick! Get over to him before the flare goes out,” ordered Wells. Then the flare went out.
“There’s a torch,” said Slattery.
“Here. In this locker,” said Gant. And in a few moments it was probing the water. O’Keefe’s left arm appeared first, slightly bent and quite still on the water. Then his shoulder and his head. He began to roll slightly,- the waves splashing against his dark shock of hair. “He’s waking up!” whispered Wells, hardly believing it, and O’Keefe began to roll over. “I’m going in,” said Stone, already stripping off his jacket.
“No!” Wells. “LOOK!”
In the shadows behind O’Keefe, something moved. The little Irishman was galvanized into action. He jerked up, eyes wide and staring, mouth agape in a silent scream, and lurched through the water towards the boat.
“Here! Hurry!” screamed Rebecca, but O’Keefe slowed and began to drift again as though it were all too much effort for him. Behind him, at the edge of the circle of light, more dark shapes moved restlessly. The water became agitated and O’Keefe began to roll into some sort of swimming stroke but the sharks whirled around him, their evil slit mouths moving closer and closer.
“No! Oh God, NO!” cried Rebecca.
“Do something!” screamed Mrs Gash. The first of the long shapes flashed by O’Keefe’s tossing head. The man in the water reared his chest clear of the surface. The tiger sharks closed in.
Suddenly the beam of the torch dipped, then rose and steadied. There came six pistol shots fired so quickly that they were almost one long explosion. Everyone turned, momentarily forgetting O’Keefe. In the bows of the boat, steadied on widespread legs, Eldridge Gant stood with a blue snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 Police Positive revolver. He held it directly over the torch aiming both as if he had been well trained.
They all stood silent and immobile as the smoke curled into the torch beam, coloured blue-white like cigarette smoke, and the echoes died flatly on the water. Then there came a strange dead sound part way between a splash and a thump. O’Keefe jerked erect, his hands thrown up into the air. A red-brown stain blossomed behind him. Miss Buhl fainted just as the second shark struck. It took O’Keefe below the waist and his body was wrenched under the surface. After a second, however, the torso bobbed up again, falling forward with the weight of the head. Then, strangely, it jerked fully upright again and started to move rapidly through the water. The head bounced grotesquely, nodding and rolling. The hands slapped on each wave as though applauding the performance.
But then it ended. The last shark took what was left of O’Keefe from below. Suddenly the water erupted beneath the wildly careering torso and it was taken up and up and up into the air, cradled in the gaping maw of a great grey-brown tiger shark. For a second it seemed to hang there like some fabled monster with the head and torso of a man, and the tail of a shark. But then there was a sharp crackling like dry wood being snapped as O’Keefe’s ribs were crushed, the tawny body smashed back into the ocean and was gone.
Eldridge Gant switched off the torch and put his gun away.
Stone sat and watched them in the bright dawn light. It was going to be a hot day, he thought, not looking forward to it: hot and bright and clear. They were all awake - indeed he doubted whether anyone had slept at all after Gant had plunged them back into welcome darkness. They were all awake but they sat stunned by fatigue and fear, silent and haggard. Even the huge figures of Slattery and Laughton seemed to have shrunk and the Englishman’s placid face was pale. Stone reached up to scratch his beard, prickly and itching with two days’ growth, and all their eyes swivelled suspiciously towards the movement.
Stone wondered if this was in fact the murderer’s objective: certainly if they wanted to continue their campaign it was hard to think of better circumstances to do so than those of mutual fear and mistrust. Stone stirred uneasily. The words Wells had flippantly uttered in answer to Miss Dark’s question earlier took more force in his mind as he thought: Perhaps someone did want them all dead. Why? Insufficient information.
On the face of it, yes: insufficient. But what information did he actually have? Take Gant, for instance: World-famous actor, widely travelled, unmarried, unattached. Capable of quick action. Even, according to that article in the Straits Times a couple of days before they sailed, a Vietnam veteran, ex-Special Forces. Armed with a heavy little gun he knew how to use. Motive? Insufficient evidence. Miss Dark, Wells, Slobowski, Laughton, Bates, Miss Buhl, Mrs Gash and Slattery. Insufficient evidence. Insufficient information. Nothing.
Stone stirred discontentedly. He hated inaction but there was nothing to be done. He coughed. They all stared at him suspiciously.
The sun came up over the horizon, gold rays striking like arrows across the quiet sea. They all stirred and
shifted, slitting eyes and licking lips. Stone had a sudden illusion in the yellow dawn that he was surrounded by Chinamen.
“I think,” said Slattery, his voice made harsh by the dryness of his throat, “it’s time for breakfast.” All the yellow slit-eyed faces turned towards him. Nobody spoke. “Today’s menu consists of corned beef, corned beef or corned beef.” Nobody thought it was funny. Bates wearily began to open cans. Slattery brought the five-gallon can of water out of the after locker. “One cup each, remember.” He poured out a cup and handed it to Miss Buhl, who took it and began to drink avidly. She had taken a couple of swallows when she dropped the cup and began to retch.
“What’s the matter?” Mrs Gash leaned over her solicitously.
“Salt,” gasped Miss Buhl.
“Oh CHRIST!” said Wells in an undervoice. Stone’s mouth went dry. Slattery held up the can and took a careful sip. His face screwed up. He spat. “Salt,” he said, and the word echoed around the boat like a funeral bell: Salt. Salt. Salt. It might just as well have been arsenic, thought Stone. And the sun was suddenly very hot indeed. “What about the water-maker?” asked Gant, an undertone of strain even in his calm New England voice. The water-maker was in the after locker and it was untouched. “Thank God,” said Mrs Gash.
“I don’t think God had a lot to do with it,” said Gant. Stone looked at the water-maker in considerable surprise. He had really not expected it to be there. Now here was a rather complex puzzle. The murderer wanted them to die but did not want them to die. Or wanted some to die and not others. But if the murderer wanted some to survive then this was a rather imprecise method of going about it. Wasn’t it?
Stone sat trying to make sense out of it while Wells filled the water-maker in the sea. Nobody ate any of the dry meat and biscuits. “I say,” said Wells, “Shouldn’t we check among the tins in there and see whether there are any tins of fruit? I mean, they might have something with a bit liquid in them.” Right at the bottom of the Provisions box, which nobody had thought of emptying until that moment, were three large tins of Australian cling peaches, ‘The Sunshine Fruit’, and three large tins of mandarin oranges. Bates opened a tin of each and they had breakfast after all.
The air of relief and new confidence which grew out of this piece of good fortune withered quickly in the heat of the sun. There was a slight, steady wind but although it served to tilt the boat and fill the sail it could not take the heat out of the merciless day. They covered themselves against the sun as best they could, taking special care to protect their heads and necks. But Miss Buhl had on a sleeveless dress and she had to sit in the shade of the sail until midday when there was no shade left. Rebecca Dark was also in trouble for the shirt which covered her body did nothing to protect her legs. Stone gave her his jacket which he had been wearing like a turban, and sat in the shade of the sail with Miss Buhl.
By midday they were all prostrate. Breathing was a chore and any other movement virtually impossible. The only sounds were the fitful whisper of the wind in the rigging, the inane bubbling of the water under the bows and the deliberate, maddening, drip-drip-drip of the water-maker. Stone forced his mouth closed and made himself breathe steadily through his nose in a vain attempt to conserve body moisture. Reality began to recede and a whirlpool of exhaustion gripped him. The pyramid point of the sail wavered across the white hot disc of the sun.
The pale blue sky seemed terribly far away.
He tossed restlessly and the terrifying size of the ocean almost overwhelmed him. Stone found his back suddenly wedged hard against the tilted mast, the sail billowing over his shoulder. The infinite surface of the sea mocked him, light concealing depths, and, to his mind which was wildly spiralling out of control now, monsters of incredible size and savagery. Great white sharks, longer than the boat, which would crack the craft like a nutshell. Huge killer whales could crush it like a pea. Wild visions of huge squids, manta rays, all the childhood panoply of ocean terrors, reared before him. The oily round of each wave magically transformed into the back of some kraken let loose to destroy the world.
“What are you doing?” Slattery. It was little more than a whisper but it was as good as a shout. Stone opened his eyes. Wells was sitting with a flask at his lips, frozen in the act of drinking. “What is that?” Slattery demanded, concern giving some strength to his voice. Wells looked around the boat, his gaze switching guiltily from one hostile pair of eyes to another. He gulped, suddenly pale. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t realize.”
“ What is it?” Slattery pulled himself to his feet and went over to Wells so unsteadily as to make the boat rock.
“It’s only my whisky,” said Wells and offered it to him. “Have a taste.”
“No thank you, sir. I’m not a drinking man,” said Slattery ponderously.
“But I thought you were Irish,” exclaimed Wells in frank astonishment.
“We don’t all behave according to our national characteristics, sir. May I just let Mr Stone have a taste to check?” But he was already giving it to Stone as he spoke. “Don’t take too much of that, sir, it will make you thirsty.”
“A sniff will be enough. Yes. That’s whisky allright.”
“Sorry to have caused so much of a commotion, sir,” said Slattery.
“No, no. That’s allright. My fault entirely. I’m afraid I didn’t think.”
“Well. No harm done. But if I were you, I wouldn’t drink too much of that: send you off your head.”
“No. Just a sip or two - medicinal purposes, eh?” But for all the good it seemed to do him he might just as well not have bothered.
Later, Bates gestured to the water-maker. “I think there’s enough for a mouthful all round,” he whispered.
“Right,” grated Slattery’s dust-dry voice, “Pour it into the cup and pass it round.”
“Ladies first,” said Bates and handed it to Mrs Gash. She took a sip and nudged Miss Buhl. Miss Buhl toppled off her seat and slumped in a heap on the boards at the bottom of the boat.
“Letty! Letty, what is it?” cried Mrs Gash. Miss Buhl moaned faintly. “Give me the water,” ordered Stone, taking her head in the crook of his arm. “It must have been the salt she drank. I’m going to give her enough of this water to bring her round, OK? If I don’t she’ll be dead within a couple of hours.”
“None of that!” suddenly growled Slobowski, his dark Polish eyes red-rimmed and glittering like buttons. “If you give it all to her, the rest of us’ll be dead.” He heaved himself erect. Slattery yelled, “Slobowski!” but it was far too late. The big Pole took a shambling half-step across the boat, hands reaching out for the cup. Stone, entangled with Miss Buhl couldn’t move. Gant hauled himself erect by grasping the foresail, only to be knocked back by Slobowski’s shoulder. The boat tilted dangerously. Slobowski grabbed the cup. Bates, giving a roar of rage and jealousy, leapt for the big Chicagoan.
Within live seconds of Slobowski’s first mad outburst, the cup was spinning away into the sea, spilling out the precious quicksilver water in a rainbow spray of drops into the air. And the water-maker, ground carelessly underfoot had become a mess of crystal shards in the bottom of the boat.
Stone looked down at it more in sorrow than in anger. It made no difference now. They were all dead. The murderer had succeeded almost in spite of himself. But he had committed suicide now too. If he - or she - had salted the water but spared the water-maker to give themselves a chance of survival once the rest of them were dead, then that chance also was gone now. Silence held the boat. Even the wind had dropped. This is it, thought Stone. A tremendous frustration welled up in him. He shook with black rage. But there was nothing to be done. This was the end.
He looked up from Miss Buhl’s dead-white, salt-caked face, dragging his gaze away from the great fatigue-bruises of her eyes, and let his own eyes stray away over the glittering water to the horizon.
And fatigue, hunger, thirst all vanished under a wave of disbelief. Yet he never for a moment doubted what he sa
w. There was no doubting his eyes, no closing them, no rubbing them. There was no mistaking that long wedge-shaped half-shadow although he had never seen it before. Generations of seafaring ancestors stood behind him guiding his gaze and informing his mind. So Stone yelled at the top of his broken voice: “Land! I see land!”
Chapter Six: The Lessons
Beijing, 19-20 July
After Feng’s death the Bee had nothing further to do. Restless because he was alone, increasingly feeling the loss of his partner the Hummingbird, and the dearth of decadent Western amusements he had become used to, he prowled the sand-swept city keeping in sporadic touch with headquarters in Bowstring Alley. Socially and physically he was an outsider, even though idealogically this was his home. The hours stretched out unbearably towards one full day.
He was asleep in the makeshift office he had set up on the third storey of the tall building in Bowstring Alley when the message from Glorious Revolution came through. The Wanderer, the subject ship, had vanished. There had been no mayday, no call for aid, no messages at all. She had simply vanished from the radar screen a little time before a typhoon had hit. At first bad weather had been blamed but when things cleared there was still no sign of her. There was one other ship in the area, an American vessel, the Lincoln, but she had seen no sign of the Wanderer.
The Bee read the message. He re-read it, stunned. Something had gone terribly wrong. There should have been a mayday, a derelict ship, a complete complement of passengers and crew. There should have been the Hummingbird safe and sound. There should have been no American vessel. There should have been no silence, no empty ocean. The Bee felt fear for the first time in many years. Stark terror in fact: not for himself of course, but for his action and, almost totally, for the Hummingbird.
The Chinese Secret Service, the SAD, being younger in this last re-incarnation, but far older in fact than any other, is not as highly structured as the CIA, the FSS, or the British Secret Service. It does, however, have a rigid hierarchy of power and responsibility. The Bee had set this action up. He was the ultimate control. It was not his place to become directly involved.