The Collectors Book Five (The Collectors Series 5) (22 page)

              Petros and Alfredo ran to the bridge.

              “No one’s moving,” said Petros.

              “The politicians have named this the perfect storm of immigration. These fools place their lives at risk in boats, which are not fit for firewood. I am told the operators charge a small fortune for a single place.”

              The
Tuna Turner
shivered as the engines started. Alfredo waited until the control indicator lit. “Let us take a look.” At minimum speed, he guided his vessel alongside the stricken craft.

              Both men stared unbelieving into a mass of men, women and children. An arm lifted and dropped.

              “The young man in blue moved,” said Petros. He ran from the bridge and jumped the one-metre gap between the two craft. This is insane, he thought, as he placed his feet between bodies. The boy turned his head as Petros felt for a pulse. “This one’s alive,” he screamed. With care, he lifted the thin frame and handed him to Tommaso. One by one, he checked the others. “There’s a young woman with a baby, unconscious but both have a pulse.” Again, he lifted and carried them to waiting arms. A wooden ladder led to the flooded deck below. Bodies bloated by death filled the space.

              “Alfredo, I can’t see an engine.”

              “There is a rope hanging over the bow. Was it cut or broken?”

              Petros clambered over the hulk and pulled the rope from the sea. “Cut with a sharp knife.”

              “The bastards filled the boat with refugees, towed it into the middle of nowhere and left them.”

              Petros went to say something but what was the point? He rushed back to the
Tuna Turner
.

              “She’s sinking. We haven’t much time to get the bodies off.”

              Amadou rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Marco, myself and ZZ will hand them across.”

              As the number of dead increased Amadou shouted, “How many?”

              “At a rough count, seventy from a boat which at best could carry twenty,” said Petros.

              “ZZ, Marco, time to get off.”

              The calm sea lapped over the top edge of the aged sides and the craft settled into the deep waters.

              Willing hands grabbed Amadou, dragging him inboard. “The dead in the lower deck numbered thirty, give or take.”

              Davide covered the bodies with reverence securing the tarpaulin with heavy concrete sinkers.

              “The little boy, how is he?” asked Petros.

              “The three of them might have a chance. Dehydrated and possibly have not eaten for days. Tommaso has been dribbling a rehydration solution down their throats.”

              “What’s the mix?”

              Alfredo seemed surprised. “Tommaso served with the army in Afghanistan. One jug of boiled water with a teaspoon of salt and six of sugar. He’s using a dripper for the baby and tells me we must continue the treatment until we reach Palermo. Maybe we will berth in Syracuse.”

              Petros smiled. “I’m impressed but which is nearer Malta or Sicily?”

              “About the same but I will check.” Alfredo checked his sat-nav and placed a cross on the chart. With a pair of dividers he measured the distance between Valetta and then Syracuse. “Malta is closer by far. Why?”

              “Helicopters. Get on the radio, channel sixteen, and tell them we have three survivors from an abandoned boat of refugees. They stand a chance with proper medical treatment. Tommaso is doing his best but a hospital can give fluids intravenously. This will flood their bodies with water and salts much quicker.”

              Alfredo lifted the handset on the dual frequency radio. “This is
Tuna Turner.
I have an emergency. Out.” He waited.

              For a few moments the radio remained silent.

              “
Tuna Turner
this is the harbour master, Valletta. State your position and nature of emergency. Out.”

              Alfredo gave the ship’s position and the details requested. He glanced at the chronometer on the aft bridge bulkhead and turned to Petros. “Thirty minutes for the helicopter and a doctor.”

              Petros peered through the bridge windows. “I recommend you advise their man to descend onto the bow. There’s plenty of room and nothing will move in the down draught. The pilot will inform you of speed and direction.”

              The throb of a helicopter’s rotors signalled its arrival.

              The radio blasted into life on channel sixteen. “This is Gulf Tango Charlie 326 – Channel seven two. Out.”

              Alfredo switched channel. This is
Tuna Turner
. Course west. Speed three knots. Maintaining steerage way.”

              “This is G T C 326. Course and speed ok. Don’t touch anything.”

              Everyone except Petros watched as the craft maintained its position over the bow as a dark-haired crewmember in a day glow orange dry bag descended with two stretchers dangling below.

              Head down Petros assisted with the equipment.

              “Thank you.”

              “You’re a woman.”

              “Doctor Martese De Martino and yes, I am. Where are my patients?”

              “Please follow me.”

              She examined the casualties in minutes. “I have intravenous drips in the copter. Please carry the woman to a stretcher. Then you can come back for the man. I’ll take the baby.”

              With the utmost care, he lifted the woman, carried, and placed her on a stretcher. As he left, the doctor strapped, clipped the harness and watched it rise and vanish.

              Petros returned with the man who opened his eyes. Fear covered his face.

              The doctor unzipped the front of her dry bag and positioned the baby between her breasts. She turned. “Thank you.”

              While they waited for the hook to lower, Petros shouted, “What are their chances?”

              She mouthed. “Not good.”

              Secured, she gave a wave to the wireman.

              In minutes the craft gained height and flew in the direction of Malta.

              “
Tuna Turner,
my patients are on drips and alive. Out.”

              The radio crackled as Alfredo changed to channel sixteen. “Let us go home and land the less fortunate.” He checked the chart, fixed their position, and drew a line direct to Syracuse, the nearest Sicilian port. “Nine hours means we arrive in the early hours of the morning. When we are in range, I will contact the harbour master. It has been a long day. Eat and rest for tomorrow may be even longer.”

***

An orange glow filled the sky above the island.

              “The mountain is on fire,” said Alfredo.“This year must be a record, thirteen times Etna has grumbled and spewed out its guts.”

              “Our ancestors, like us, have lived with the danger. The soil in which our grapes prosper came from the mountain. Maybe one day she will be angry...Tommaso tell my crew to prepare for coming alongside.”

              The
Tuna Turner
negotiated the entrance to Syracuse harbour at three knots. “We will berth opposite Riva Giuseppe. There is a large car park, perfect for ambulances and the authorities.”

              On approaching an empty berth, a blaze of lights lit the ship. Alfredo swore and covered his eyes with a pair of Ray-Bans. Without a scratch on the paintwork, his ship nestled against the ancient berth.

              Marco, Simone, ZZ and Amadou secured the ropes fore and aft. As Davide shut down the engines, the babble of the waiting media took over.

              The police formed a line and prevented anyone boarding until the harbour master and another clambered across the gap between the ship and the wall.

              Alfredo and his crew waited.

              “Alfredo Abruzzi?”

              “I am.”

              The uniformed man held out his hand. “Julio Lucia, Harbour Master. This is Pavlo Silva, the Mayor. Such a tragic mess with the sea becoming a cemetery. A humanitarian problem with no solution. Where are the unfortunates?”

              Alfredo pointed. “Seventy two men, women and children are under the tarpaulin. We failed to recover another thirty or so.”

              Julio, followed by Pavlo and Alfredo, crossed the deck. Julio lifted the corner of the canvas. The stench of the dead filled the night air. “I have trucks and men with body bags on the jetty. Leave this to them. I have good news. The three survivors in Malta are recovering. I understand it will be some time before they will be fit enough to leave the hospital.” He shouted to a man wearing a one-piece blue coverall on the jetty. “Seventy plus. Inspector, shift those people so the trucks can come closer.”

              He turned to Alfredo. “The media are hungry for another disaster. Talk to them and then I’ll have the area sealed.”

              “I will speak to three on the forward deck. You choose.”

              Julio climbed up to the jetty and walked between the ten trucks adjacent to the ship. “The captain will talk to three of you.” He touched two men and one woman. “Let these through with their cameramen. The rest might as well go back to bed.”

              ZZ, wearing tight cut off jeans, a white T-shirt and flip flops, waited for the media to cross the gap. His eyes never left the blonde reporter who negotiated between the shore and the ship with the efficiency of an athlete. Good looking and has taste, he thought. Her clothes not from a local store. She wore a white blouse, dark blue designer jeans and black Doc Marten boots. In her right hand, she carried a Gucci duffle bag. Their eyes met, she laughed and smiled before lowering her gaze.

              The three teams guided by ZZ picked their way forward around wires and items of salvage equipment.

              “You have five minutes to set up your equipment,” said Alfredo.

              Ready, her hair in a French bob, the energetic slim female started to ask questions.

              “Wait,” said Alfredo. “I do not intend to repeat myself. My crew and I are tired and could use a good night’s sleep.”

              “Where are these people from?” asked the woman.

              “I have no idea.”

              “We have been told three have survived,” said a man.

              “Three out of over one hundred. If it had not been for the sharp eyes of Petros Kyriades they might have been placed with the others.”

              For a moment, the cameras focussed on Petros before returning to Alfredo.

              “What happened to their boat?” asked the other man.

              “It sank. My crew recovered as many as they could but we believe thirty or so went with it.”

              “Why did you recover dead people?” said the woman.

              “I have no idea who they are or where they came from but they deserve a proper burial.” Alfredo glanced at his watch. “I have said all I am going to say, except goodnight.”

              Alfredo, followed by his crew, entered the superstructure and closed the door.

              Petros and ZZ guided the news teams ashore.

              Before she clambered to the jetty, the blonde held out her hand and whispered to ZZ, “Scarlet.”

              ZZ stared at her face; it would always photograph well, and grabbed the opportunity to assist. When she let go she flashed her most innocent smile and placed a card in the palm of his hand.

             As the last corpse was hoisted and placed on the jetty, the ship’s engines started. “Alfredo isn’t hanging around,” said Amadou.”

              “No point. Job done,” said Petros.

              “A coffee and then bed,” said ZZ.

              “I’ll be in the mess in ten minutes. I need to see if Alfredo needs any help with watch-keeping.” Petros ascended the ladder to the bridge where Alfredo and Tommaso controlled the vessel as she left harbour. “I’ll give you two a break when we’re clear.”

              The night passage through the Straits of Messina remained uneventful.

              At noon the following day,
Tuna Turner
entered Palermo harbour and faced another gathering of the media.

              Wearing a smart outfit, Alfredo’s wife stood on the jetty and waved.

              He waved back and laughed. “That is a first. Do you think my wife wants to be on television or is here to see me?”

              “I shouldn’t worry, she’s talking to my girl friend,” said Tommaso. “Tomorrow we will be old news. Let them have their five minutes of fame. I’m going for a shower before stepping ashore.”