The Golden Rendezvous (29 page)

And to make any such clear signal while in the water, I had discovered, was impossible. If the manilla wasn't there i'd just be towed along at the end of that nylon rope until I was drowned. Nor would that take long. The salt water i'd swallowed, the violent buffeting of the waves, the blows i'd suffered from being flung a score of times against the iron walls of the campari, the loss of blood and my injured leg-all those had taken their frightening toll and I was dangerously weak. It would not be long.

my left hand brushed against the manilla: I grabbed it, a drowning man seizing the last straw in the wide, endless expanse of the ocean.

tucking the life line through the rope round my waist, I over armed myself up the manilla till I was all but clear of the water, wrapped my one good leg round the rope and hung there, gasping like an exhausted dog, shivering and then being violently sick as I brought up all the sea water that had collected in my stomach. After that I felt better but weaker than ever. I started to climb.

I hadn't far to go, twenty feet and i'd be there, but I hadn't gone two feet before I was bitterly regretting the fact that I hadn't followed my impulse of the previous night and knotted the manilla. The manilla was soaking wet and slippery and I had to clasp tight with all the strength of my hands to get any purchase at all. And there was little enough strength left in my hands, my aching forearm muscles were exhausted from clinging so long and so desperately to the life line, my shoulders were just as far gone; even when I could get a good purchase, even when my weakening hands didn't slide down the rope when I put all my weight on them, I could till pull myself up only two or three inches at a time. Three inches, no more: that was all I could manage at one time.

I couldn't make it; reasons, instinct, logic, common sense il told me that I couldn't make it, but I made it. The last two feet of the climb was something out of a dark nightmare, hauling myself up two inches, slipping back an inch, hauling myself up again and always creeping nearer the top. Three feet from the top I stopped: I knew I was only that distance way from safety, but to climb another inch on that rope was something I knew I could never do. Arms shaking from the strain, shoulders on fire with agony, I hauled my body up until my eyes were level with knotted hands: even in that almost pitchy darkness I could see the faint white blur of my gleaming knuckles. For a second I hung there, then flung my right hand desperately upwards. If I missed the coaming of the scuppers... But I couldn't miss it. I had no more strength in me, I could never make such an effort again.

I didn't miss it. The top joint of my middle finger hooked over the coaming and locked there, then my other hand was beside it, I was scrabbling desperately for the lowermost bar in the guardrails; I had to get it over, and over at once, or i'd fall back into the sea. I found the bar, had both hands on it, swung my body convulsively to the right till my sound foot caught the coaming, reached up to the next bar, reached the teak rail, half dragged, half slid my body over the top, and fell heavily on the deck on the other side.

how long I lay there, trembling violently in every weary muscle in my body, whooping hoarsely for the breath my tortured lungs were craving, gritting my teeth against the fire in my shoulders and arms, and trying not to let the red mist before my eyes envelop me completely, I do not know. It may have been two minutes, it may have been ten.

Somewhere during that time I was violently ill again. And then slowly, ever so slowly, the pain eased a little, my breathing slowed, and the mists before my eyes cleared away, but I still couldn't stop trembling.

It was well for me that no five-year-old happened along the deck that night: he could have had me over the side without taking his hands out of his pockets.

I untied the ropes from my waist with numbed and fumbling and all but useless hands, tied them both to the stanchion just above the manilla, pulled the life line till it was almost taut, then gave three sharp, deliberate tugs. A couple of minutes passed, then came three clearly defined answering tugs. They knew now I had made it. I hoped they felt better about it than I did. Not that that would be hard.

I sat there for at least another five minutes till some measure of strength came back to me, rose shakily to my feet, and padded across the deck to number four hold. The tarpaulin on the starboard forward corner was still secured. That meant there was no one down below. But I really hadn't expected them to be there yet.

I straightened, looked all round me, then stood very still, the driving rain streaming down my sodden mask and soaking clothes. Not fifteen yards away from me, right aft, I had seen a red glow come and vanish in the darkness. Ten seconds passed, then the glow again. I'd heard of waterproof cigarettes, but not all that waterproof. But someone was smoking a cigarette, no question about that.

like falling thistledown, only quieter, I drifted down in the direction of the glow. I was still trembling, but you can't hear trembling. Twice I stopped to line up direction and distance by that glowing cigarette and finally stopped less than ten feet away from it.

My mind was hardly working at all or i'd never have dared to do it: a carless flick of a torch beam, say, and it would have been all over.

But no one flicked a torch.

the red glow came again and I could now just make out that the smoker wasn't standing in the rain. He was in the v-shaped entrance of a tarpaulin, a big tarpaulin draped over some big object. The gun, of course, the gun that carreras had mounted on the afterdeck, with the tarpaulin serving the dual purpose of protecting the mechanism from the rain and concealing it from any other vessel they might have passed during the day.

I heard the murmur of voices. Not the smoker, but another two crouched somewhere inside the shelter of the tarpaulin.

that meant three people there. Three people guarding the gun.

Carreras was certainly taking no chances with that gun. But why so many as three? you didn't need three. Then I had it. Carreras hadn't just been talking idly when he'd spoken of the possibility of foul play in connection with the death of his son. He did suspect it, but his cold, logical mind had told him that neither crew nor passengers of the campari could have been responsible. If his son had met death by violence, then death could only have come from one of his own men. The renegade who had killed his son might strike again, might attempt to ruin his plans. And so three men on guard together. They could watch each other.

I left, skirted the hatch, and made my way to the bo'sun's store.

I fumbled round in the darkness, found what I wanted, a heavy marlinespike, and then was on my way, marlinespike in one hand, macdonald's knife in the other.

dr. Caroline's cabin was in darkness. I was pretty sure that the windows were uncurtained, but I left my torch where it was. Susan had said that carreras' men were prowling round the decks that night: the chance wasn't worth it. And if dr. Caroline wasn't already in number four hold, then the chances were high indeed that he would only be in one other place in his bed, and bound to it hand and foot. I climbed up to the next deck and padded along to the wireless office. My breathing and pulse were almost back to normal now; the shaking had eased, and I could feel the strength slowly flooding back into my arms and shoulders.

Apart from the constant dull ache in my neck where the sandbag merchant

and tony carreras had been at work, the only pain I felt was a sharp burning in my left thigh where the salt water had got into the open wounds. Without the anaesthetic i'd have been doing a war dance. On one leg, of course.

the wireless office was in darkness. I leaned my ear against the door, straining to hear the slightest sound from inside, and was just reaching out a delicate hand for the doorknob when I just about had a heart attack. A telephone bell had gone off with a shatteringly metallic loudness not six inches from the ear i'd so hard pressed against the door. It jarred me rigid; for all of five seconds lot's wife couldn't even have hoped to compete with me, then I pussyfooted silently across the deck into the shelter of one of the life boats.

I heard the vague murmur of someone talking on the telephone, saw the light come on in the wireless office, the door open, and a man come out. Before he switched off the light I saw two things: I saw him bring a key from his right-hand trouser pocket, and I saw who it was, the artist with the machine gun who had killed tommy wilson and cut down all the rest of us. If I had to settle any more accounts that night, I hoped bleakly it would be with this man.

he closed the door, locked it, and went down the ladder to "a" deck below. I followed him to the top of the ladder and stayed there. There was another man at the foot of the ladder, lit torch in hand, just outside dr. Caroline's cabin, and in the backwash of light from the cabin bulkhead I could see who it was. Carreras himself. There were two other men close by, and I could distinguish neither of them, but I was certain that one of them would be dr.

Caroline. They were joined by the radio operator and the four men moved

off aft. I never thought of going after them. I knew where they were going.

ten minutes. That was the detail the news broadcast about the disappearance of the twister had mentioned. There were only one or two men who could arm the twister, and it couldn't be done in less than ten minutes. I wondered vaguely if caroline knew he had only ten minutes to live. And that was all the time I had to do what I had to do. It wasn't long.

I was coming down the ladder while carreras' swinging torch was still in sight. Three quarters of the way down, three steps from the bottom, I froze into immobility. Two men leaning into that driving rain their black blurred shapes were barely distinguishable, but I knew it was two men because of the low murmur of voices-were approaching the foot of the ladder. Armed men-they were bound to be armed, almost certainly with the ubiquitous tommy gun which seemed the standard weapon

among the generalissimo's henchmen.

they were at the foot of the ladder now. I could feel the ache in my hands from the tension of my grip round marlinespike and opened clasp

knife. Then suddenly they went veering off to the right, round the side of the ladder. I could have reached out and touched them both. I could see them almost clearly now, clearly enough to see that both had beards, and had I not been wearing the black hood and mask they would have been

bound to see the white glimmer of my face. How they didn't even see my shape standing there on the third bottom step was beyond me: the only reason I could think of was that they both had their heads lowered against the driving rain.

seconds later I was inside the central passageway of "a"

accommodation. I hadn't poked my head round the outside passage door to

see if the land was clear; after that escape i'd felt that nothing mattered; i'd just walked straight inside. The passageway was empty.

the first door on the right, the one opposite caroline's, was the entrance to carreras' suite. I tried the door. Locked. I walked down the passage to where benson, the dead chief steward, had had his cubicle, hoping that the luxurious carpet underfoot was absorbent enough

to soak up the water that was almost cascading off me. White, benson's successor, would have had a blue fit if he could have seen the damage I was doing.

the master key to the passengers' suites was in its secret little cubbyhole. I removed it, went back to carreras' cabin, unlocked the door, and went inside, locking it behind me.

the lights were on throughout the suite. Carreras probably hadn't bothered to switch them off when he'd left he wasn't paying for the electricity. I went through the cabins, sending each door in turn flying open with the sole of my stockinged foot. Nothing? no one. I had one bad moment when I entered carreras' own sleeping cabin and saw

this desperate hooded, crouched figure, dripping water, hands clenched round weapons, with wide, staring eyes and blood dripping down beside the left eye. Myself in a looking glass. I had seen prettier sights.

I hadn't been aware that i'd been cut; I supposed it must have been the result of one of the many knocks i'd had against the side of the campari, opening up the wound in my head.

carreras had boasted that he had a complete loading plan of the fort ticonderoga in his cabin. Nine minutes now, maybe even less.

Where in the name of god would he keep the plan? I went through dressing tables, wardrobes, lockers, cupboards, bedside tables.

Nothing. Nothing. Seven minutes.

where, where would he keep it? think, carter, for heaven's sake, think. Maybe caroline was getting on with the arming of the twister faster than anyone had thought possible. How did anyone know, as the broadcast had said, that it took all of ten minutes to arm it? if the twister was such a secret and until it had been stolen it had been such a top-priority hush hush secret that no member of the public had known of its existence-ow did anyone know it took ten minutes to arm it? how could anyone know? maybe all it required was a twist here, a turn there. Maybe-maybe he was finished already... Maybe.

I put those thoughts to one side, drove them out of my mind, crushed them ruthlessly. That way lay panic and defeat. I stood stock-still and forced myself to think, calmly, dispassionately. I had been looking in all the most obvious places. But should I have been looking in the obvious places? after all, i'd gone through this cabin once before, looking for a radio; i'd gone through it pretty thoroughly, and I hadn't seen any signs. He would have it hidden; of course he would have it hidden. He wouldn't have taken a chance on anyone finding it, such as the steward whose daily duty it was to clean out his cabin, before his men had taken over the ship. No stewards on duty now, of course, but then he probably hadn't bothered to shift it since the take-over. Where would he have hidden it where a steward wouldn't stumble across it?

that ruled out all the furniture fittings, all the places i'd wasted time in searching. It also ruled out bed, blankets, mattresses but not the carpet! the ideal hiding place for a sheet of paper.