The Abigail Affair (23 page)

Toby hoisted himself further up the racking. It was useless—the emergency ceiling lights provided no useful illumination and he couldn’t get his head far enough in anyway.

Perhaps the watch camera would pick something up. He held his wrist over the open part of the box and turned the winder anticlockwise to start the video. He waved the watch around a little.

He tensed again. More noise from outside, and not just clinking.

Someone.

Either in the boat bay or clattering down the stairs towards it.

He collected the lid and put it back on the case as best he could, though the annular nails prevented him seating it down. Still, it might pass a casual inspection, and there were dozens of similar cases around the room.

He shimmied to the sliding door and peeped out. No one in the bay. He ducked across to the control panel and pressed the green button. The door to the concealed cargo room slid shut with a rumble and a whine. While it was closing up, he bundled together the lifejackets and thrust them back into the storage container.

Now he heard footsteps resounding on the metal steps leading down to the boat bay.

Too late.

He was caught, and red-handed.

An idea came to him. He took the top lifejacket back out of the metal box and pulled it over his head, then fastened the straps. He would make it look as if he was trying to escape again.

He stood up and tried to compose himself. Would they shoot him or just throw him out of the boat bay door to take his chance with the sharks? No, they wouldn’t dare. The Royal Navy had delivered him to the
Amelia
and were not far away.

But Ski-Pants and Scott were ruthless men who might act first and think later. If they believed Toby had penetrated their secret sanctum full of God-knows-what, they might risk disposing of him without referring to Krigov.

Again, no—to do that would invite a full-scale search of the vessel at its next port of call.

There was no more time for conjecture, anyway. The footsteps had stopped and in a moment he would know his fate.

He moved across to the jet skis and started to work the ratchets to loosen the webbing strops on the left-hand one. Might as well look convincing.

He heard the grate of the lever as the door bolts disengaged from top and bottom.

He wondered what it felt like to be shot dead. Presumably if they got you in the head you would know little about it. But suppose they shot you in the stomach? Wasn’t that supposed to be the slowest and most painful death possible?

He heard a muffled bang from somewhere.

Half a second later, all the lights went out.

At first, it was pitch dark. The yacht was somehow quieter, too. The generator had failed! And he knew that the second unit was already out of order.

Now he heard raised voices from outside the boat bay, and the footsteps retreated. Scott and Ski-Pants, or whoever, were on their way back up to investigate the power outage.

Toby waited. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest. What now?

Seconds later the emergency lights came on, casting a twilight glow.

There was still no escape for Toby because his route was through the gantry in the generator room, and that would now be occupied as they worked on the faulty unit.

What about using the elevator?

Too risky.

He could hide out here and just wait. But Scott would return to find him. He needed to get back to his cabin undetected so he could deny everything. Perhaps it would all blow over then. He hoped fervently he had not been recorded on the monitors. It wasn’t too long until they reached port, and perhaps Julia could scrub any recording of his image.

These thoughts tumbled through his head as he waited. As least he had a lifejacket on if they threw him out.

He toyed with the idea of actually trying to launch a jet ski and make good his escape by sea, as he had planned earlier. He quickly rejected this. For a start, if he opened the boat bay hangar doors he knew it sounded an alarm on the bridge. Secondly, operating the crane and lifting the heavy jet ski out on his own were tasks beyond him. A non-starter.

Wait! There was another way out of here. The emergency exit hatch!

Toby went over to examine it. It had a wheel that you turned to lock it or open it. Unfortunately, it also had wires in a metal conduit leading to the door mechanism. Of course, it would be alarmed too.

Anyway, he would be worse off outside the
Amelia
in the water. Stupid idea.

Think, man!

Raise your eyes to the horizon!

Maybe he could bluff his way out. He took off the lifejacket and looked around for more inspiration.

There was a workbench at the back of the bay, next to the exit door up to the crew quarters. On the bench was a clipboard. In the dim light, Toby saw that it bore an inventory of equipment: wet suits by size, masks and fins, diving tanks and their contents and so on. He picked this up, found a pen and altered some of the quantities.

It might just work.

He turned off the light switch for the bay so the main illumination would not come on when the generator restarted. Then he took a deep breath and exited.

He stepped up the stairs, trying to look nonchalant. Up he went, through the various doors until he was outside the generator area. Another deep breath. Here goes.

“It’s you, Robinson.”

It was Timmins the owl-eyed engineer, crouched in front of the generator. “My God, lad, you made me jump. Come and hold this.” Timmins stretched his hand out, holding a spanner. His other hand was inside the casing of the generator. He looked like a vet in the process of delivering a recalcitrant baby lamb.

Toby crouched down next to Timmins, who now whispered, “What were you doing down there? They were searching for you. What’s going on?”

Toby whispered back, “Just say I came down from up above to help you, OK? When the lights went out.”

Timmins felt around with his hand up the machine. A bead of sweat rolled down the little engineer’s forehead. “Hide that clipboard then,” he replied. “Scott will be back in a minute. I told them this would happen if we sailed with only the one genny. That’s why we have two—run them a couple of days at a time, switch over, check levels, all nice and seamanlike. But no, they have to sail with the Boss aboard and only one unit. Pass that nut. And we only had to get through the night.”

“Are we still due to dock at dawn?”

“Yes, back to St Helen’s where the captain should have the new generator ready to come down. I’ll be pleased to see him back on board. This passage has been a nightmare.”

“You know about the girls?”

“Trash,” said Timmins. He withdrew his hand from the machine casing and flexed his fingers. “Where did they get to?”

So Timmins didn’t know.

“No idea,” Toby said innocently. Timmins might as well stay in the dark.

“OK.” Timmins puffed out his cheeks. He fished around on the floor for a rag and wiped it across his brow. “Stand clear.”

Toby stood up and backed off a pace. Timmins swung a hinged panel shut and latched it. He pressed the green start button. The generator turned over, fired up and started smoothly enough. Needles on dials steadied.

“It’s working. Just the impeller this time. Lucky. Needs a full service and it’s desperate for new oil. God know what the injectors are like. A minute or so before we get power. You head on back to your duties.”

“No, I’ll wait and come up with you and make sure we’re seen together.”

“What were you doing in the boat bay?”

“Inventory of the water equipment—see here.”

“Pull the other one.” Timmins took off his round glasses and searched in his boiler-suit pocket. Finding nothing, he put the spectacles back and pushed them up his little nose. “Here we go.”

The generator tone deepened as the alternator engaged and the engine loaded up. More lights on the control panel blinked, and the digital readout flashed up “110.” An instant later and the main lights came on.

Toby’s heart was in his mouth as they made their way back up to the crew quarters. But no one saw them. Toby went to the crew mess. It was stuffily warm, with no one inside. He helped himself to a paper cup of water from the dispenser and a new book of
Amelia
-branded matches, and wondered if he had caught anything worthwhile on his wrist camera.

He scouted briefly around the crew service area. No one there, either. Scott and Ski-Pants had obviously found something more pressing to attend to. Perhaps they were back on the foredeck, or looking at the generator. And where was Julia? Still on the bridge?

He went on to the side deck and got himself out of view of the two cameras. He pulled the packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up gratefully.

His half-hour break was up, so after throwing the butt far out to sea, he returned to the bar area. Again, the big stateroom was silent, apart from the whoosh of the air-conditioners on full power as they struggled to bring the temperature back down after the power outage.

Toby decided he had risked enough. He just hoped his image had not been recorded on the monitor system.

No more heroics.

He looked out the port side windows and saw the outline of St Helen’s ahead at about 10 o’clock. From this distance, the island rose out of the sparkling Caribbean Sea like a tiny illustration from a fairy-tale book. The pointy peak of Mount Souffriere poked through a ring of pale clouds. It was too far off for Toby to make out any settlements.

He crossed to the starboard side and peered out. No sign of the Navy. On the horizon, a lone yacht with full sail up appeared to be almost stationary, though it must be travelling at a fair few knots in the trade winds.

Another twelve hours and he would be off the
Amelia
with Julia not far behind him. They would rendezvous somewhere—a bar or hotel lobby. Toby would make a telephone call to his parents and then arrange to debrief with the British agents as he had been instructed. He vaguely wondered if they really would pay him for his efforts. He certainly deserved it. He’d get his passport back, or a new one. Then he and Julia would take the island hopper aircraft to Antilla where he would hope to get to know her better.

Much better.

She would be quite a conquest. He could handle the age gap. Perhaps the two of them could work together as a charter crew, on a smaller yacht, preferably not one owned by a psychopath.

With pleasant thoughts along these lines, Toby completed his evening duties, served dinner to Krigov and Spiegl, who were morose but not hostile, saw Julia on the sidelines and gave her a big wink to which she did not respond, then took himself to his cabin (mercifully, a new one, not the same one where Irina had been dumped) and locked himself in securely.

Chapter 22

He awoke. It was still dark outside—no light filtered around the edges of the porthole blind.

The floor of his cabin was not moving and no distant engine noise rumbled down below. They must have entered St Helen’s early and docked without his assistance. Toby slipped out of his berth and lifted the blind. Yes, there were the lights of St Helen’s, and in particular, the flashing buoys marking the entrance to the harbour and the marina. They winked as if in greeting.

Might as well leave now. Only, he had arranged no rendezvous with Julia. That was a bummer.

He dug in his rucksack, which appeared not to have been touched in his absence. He found some shorts and a plain white T-shirt, rather crumpled but not too bad. They would have to do, as there were no other clean clothes in there—only his rancid castaway outfit. He put on his uniform white socks and trainers.

He opened his cabin door slowly and tiptoed down the corridor. Outside Julia’s cabin, he paused. If he knocked or called out, he could wake or alert others. He tried the door handle. Locked, not surprisingly.

He returned to his cabin, found an old receipt in his rucksack, and wrote on the back, “Founder’s Bay Hotel lobby 10am.” It was the only hotel on the island he had heard of: he knew it was on the north-west coast, a few miles out of town, and therefore presumably safer than anywhere in the centre of town or near the marina. He slipped the note under Julia’s door, giving it a flick with his fingernails to post it right in.

Job done.

Toby did not think Scott or anyone else on the
Amelia
would physically try to prevent him leaving the yacht. He knew Ski-Pants would gladly murder him, but suspected he was under orders not to indulge this desire.

All the same, he was taking no chances. He packed his few bits and pieces of personal belongings and the plastic lapel nametag in his rucksack and slipped it on. Opening and closing doors silently, he made his way by a circuitous route around the outside of the yacht, then in the port side crew door and down through the generator room and to the boat bay.

Inside the boat bay safely, he took his key ring and used the little pen flashlight to see his way across to the rack of water toys. He held the little light in his teeth, unstrapped a windsurfer board and lifted it across to the emergency hatch. He put both hands to the wheel of the hatch and turned. The wheel spun easily and the bolts disengaged. He paused for a moment to listen for an alarm. Not that he would hear anything down here. Anyway, he would be gone in a moment.

He put his shoulder to the door and pushed it open.

As he had expected and planned for, dark water gleamed outside, with the occasional glint reflected from a dock light. The
Amelia
had backed on to the jetty this time, and the bow end of the yacht protruded beyond the concrete piers of the marina into the deeper water. Hence the surfboard. Toby manhandled it through the hatch and down to the water a little way below.

He clambered out and lowered himself on to the board. He had a nasty moment when the board tipped this way and that like a seesaw, and he nearly lost his balance and went into the drink.