The Coffin Ship (4 page)

Only two men aboard remained relatively unaffected
by the news. The owner, Kostas Demetrios, was a shipping man and not a sailor. He knew of Mariner’s reputation distantly. He knew nothing of exploding tankers, lost loves, and lost fortunes. It seemed to him fitting that on a contract this size, the boss should get his hands dirty too. He thought no more of it than that, as far as anyone else could tell.

Martyr heard. He heard some of the story from young Andrew McTavish, third engineer supplied by Crewfinders. It moved him not at all. It spoke to him of a man who had married the boss’s daughter for advancement in the firm; who only took her on the fatal voyage because he had been told to and was afraid of queering his pitch with the old man; and who had fouled up anyway and run away from the sea.

It was a story utterly without romance, as far as he was concerned; the tale of a man who by luck or circumstance had built himself a reputation, but when the testing time had come had simply cut and run. So now, probably down on his luck again, with his vaunted company at full stretch, he was being offered a fortune to come and get his hands dirty again. Dirty in more ways than one, Martyr thought.

As far as the taciturn American could see, this was just the man to replace the late, unlamented Levkas.

They had left the last three coffins close to the top of the accommodation ladder so that they were the first things Mariner saw as he pulled himself wearily onto the deck.

They were the worst things he could possibly have seen during his first moments back aboard a supertanker and he froze, horrified. For a moment even his massive reserves of emotional strength were taxed to their limit.

Ben Strong pushed forward at once, shocked to see his godfather’s long, aristocratic face all bone and line; the massive chin steely with stubble; the incendiary blue eyes dull and dark-ringed, sunken with fatigue. His hand was raised, but more to support than to greet.

He was unceremoniously shoved aside by the owner. “So this is the great Richard Mariner,” boomed Kostas Demetrios. “Welcome aboard, sir. Welcome aboard.”

Mariner took Demetrios’s hand and shook it formally. He dragged his tired eyes away from the boxes and glanced around the deck. He saw little enough—only the expanse of green overlain with huge pipes, fifteen feet above, running fore and aft; port and starboard. Odd-shaped columns of manifolds, winches, hatches, tank tops; all standing to shoulder height—all dancing and wavering in the furnace heat of a Gulf afternoon.
And beyond them, the incandescent brightness of the bridge. Five stories high. Far, far away.

Ben succeeded Demetrios at last, shaking Mariner’s hand. “Hello, Dick,” he said quietly. “Welcome back. No ceremony, I’m afraid. I thought you’d rather not…” His eyes, gentle brown in a mahogany tan and deep-slitted against the murderous glare, searched Richard’s pale face anxiously. Then, as his godfather’s eyes came alive again, he gave a broad grin. They shook hands vigorously and might have embraced, had Demetrios not interrupted. “C’mon. Let’s go. Time’s money.”

Richard looked at him properly, and didn’t much like what he saw. Demetrios was a short man, lean in body but with something self-indulgent, almost de cadent, about his huge dark eyes and full red mouth. His luxuriant black curls just topped Mariner’s square shoulder. As he spoke, sunlight blazed on a gold tooth. And when he spoke, it was with an American accent. Among the most dangerous combinations in the world, mused Richard grimly. Greek pirate’s soul and a Harvard Business School mind. And greed. Demetrios had greedy eyes. But then, which self-made millionaire did not? he wondered. And pushed the bluff, honest gaze of his father-in-law out of his memory.

These thoughts occupied his mind for the walk up to the blessed shade cast by the port bridge wing. He opened the bulkhead door and stepped ahead of the others into the cool of the A deck corridor. There was a distant hum of generators. The lights and the air-conditioning were on. He shivered. Then Ben was by his side. “Good trip out, Dick?” Richard was momentarily distracted. Ben’s cheerful smile, dark tan, and sun-bleached hair seemed to give off energy. He gave a wry smile.

“Fine. How soon can we weigh?”

“As soon as the owner, and…and the others leave.” If Richard closed his eyes he could see the coffins. The three, full no doubt, at the head of the accommodation ladder. Others, older, at the memorial service five years ago: empty every one.

They got under way at 16.35 local time. The interim was taken up with a brief conference between the owner and his new captain, during which Demetrios seemed determined to answer as few questions as possible and to emphasize the overwhelming need for a swift passage. When he left, he took the last three coffins with him.

At 17.00, Richard began his inspection.

He started high in the navigation bridge with Ben Strong at his side. Then they went down to the bridge and chatted briefly to John Higgins on watch there; checked the equipment, chart table, course, logbooks. Looked down the long deck, changing color from green to ocher in the early sunset. Went down to C deck, then B deck, then A; then the crew’s quarters and the rest.

Here Richard met his crew. Vague names, quickly forgotten at first—only Salah Malik and “Twelve Toes” Ho standing out from the crowd because they were so obviously in charge. Salah somewhere between a mullah and a chief petty officer; Ho named “Twelve Toes” because of his uncannily sure footing.

He took the Accident Report Book into the Pump Room and read through the concise notes above the chief engineer’s signature. He tried to reconstruct the sequence of events those bland words described. He walked into the Fire Control Room and looked around, narrow-eyed. The wires above the lintel were all new and meticulously fitted. “Your work?” he asked Ben.

“Chief engineer’s.”

He walked across to the rear wall and looked up at the pipe junction where Kanwar had seen the twist of green wire. There was nothing. “Anything up there?”

“Not that I could see. They were maybe checking the pipe junctions. Some of them are…Well, let’s just say some of the pipework isn’t all it looks.”

Richard looked at his first officer, frowning, then up at the pipes again. “No, no,” said Ben. “Nothing to worry about. It’s fine. I’ve had a good look round. Next time she’s in for maintenance she might need a little work, that’s all.”

They checked that the oxygen cylinders and the carbon dioxide canisters all read full pressure and left.

Then they went deeper into the bowels of the ship, down into the roaring inferno of the Engine Room. And here at last the captain met the chief engineer.

In the air-conditioned relative quiet of the Engine Control Room, overhanging the three-deck-deep hole that contained the huge engine, C. J. Martyr stood with the statue stillness that characterized the man. He must have heard the surge of sound as Ben opened and closed the door, but he did not move until Ben took him by the shoulder. Then he swung round incredibly fast, as though he were going to fight them.

His face was absolutely closed. What lay behind that statuesque mask they might learn in time, little by little, but what struck Richard immediately was the cold hostility. Martyr had tremendously expressive green eyes astride a great beak of a nose that overhung an uncompromising mouth extended by deep lines down to his square, gray chin. Only his ears added a touch of levity, sticking out like jug handles to draw attention to the width of his cheekbones; their size emphasized by the
sand-gray stubble of his crew-cut hair. He was six feet four inches tall and as thin as a rake.

He stuck out a massive hand. Richard looked down as he took it. It was as gaunt as the rest of the man—fingers thin between scarred knucklebones, tipped with great square nails.

“How do you do?” In the face of the baseless hostility, Richard spoke stiffly, and then felt very stage-English, as though he were putting on airs to belittle the American. Martyr scanned him from head to toe, able to look down on him—just; the blue-black waves perhaps half an inch below the sand-gray crew cut. He nodded once, coldly, silently.

It was like a declaration of war.

Dinner was held back to 20.00 that evening, waiting until the captain’s inspection was complete. Richard had told Ben to proceed with Pour Out while he showered and changed. Although exhausted, he hurried, knowing that the first social meeting with his officers was of the greatest importance.

At precisely the same moment as Richard stepped out of his cabin door, Martyr stepped out of his a few feet away.

“Evening, Chief,” said Richard guardedly. “You’ve missed Pour Out.”

“Yeah.”

They crossed to the lift, shoulder to shoulder, in silence, while Richard sorted out in his mind the sequence of questions he wanted to ask. Martyr pushed the button.

“What exactly happened in the Pump Room?” asked Richard at once.

Martyr, his face closed, turned. There was something
Richard could not read, moving in his glass-green eyes. “Murder,” he said.

“Murder?”

“As good as.”

The lift came. The doors hissed open. They stepped in together.

“What do you mean?”

“Goddamned amateurs,” yelled Martyr, suddenly overcome by the enormity of what had happened. “You’ve never seen anything like it in your life. Rotten wiring. Empty emergency equipment…”

“Did you look at the pipework that Nicoli was checking?”

“Yeah. Nothing wrong with it. The biggest disasters have the smallest causes. That’s always the way.”

They arrived. The doors hissed open. Martyr’s face snapped closed again.

The silence between them still cool, they walked down to the Officer’s Bar and entered together at 20.00 precisely.

Everyone was there, except the third mate and the third engineer, who had just begun their respective watches above and below. They were rowdy and cheerful. Even young Tsirtos looked blearily happy, holding a pint of beer—clearly not his first—very much more at home with this crew than he had been with the other.

John Higgins bustled across to them, beaming, an empty briar wedged jauntily in his mouth. “Evening, Captain. Chief. Would you like a drink, sirs?”

Richard at least was tempted—Martyr rarely drank—and he hesitated for a second. It seemed too long, all of a sudden, since anyone had called him “sir” like that. He grinned enormously, feeling all the weariness drop away and an old excitement stir inside him. Then he clapped
the second mate on the shoulder. “No, thanks, John. I’ve kept you all from your meal long enough. Ben, Chief. Let’s go through.”

The meal started quietly because both senior officers were silent; but as course succeeded course, each more excellent than the last, conversation became a hum and then a contented buzz.

An hour or so later they trooped back to the bar, picked up a few more drinks, then proceeded to the lounge. The food had sharpened Richard’s mind—the food and a simple joy in existence he had almost forgotten how to feel. He had spent the meal studying his men. He felt able to invest another half hour in this crucial exercise before retiring at last. He took his beer and followed.

In the lounge there was a TV, but it could only pick up Arabic stations. There was also a video. “Where are the tapes for this?” demanded Martyr unexpectedly. He, too, had been watching the captain and officers during the meal and he now looked less hostile—perhaps even a little confused. Certainly this was the first time he had ever come into the lounge with the others. Truth to tell, it was also the first time Tsirtos had dared come in here as well. The young radio officer was as willing to oblige as an excited child.

“There are some tapes in the library, I think,” he offered at once.

“Try and get a good movie, son,” demanded Martyr. Tsirtos vanished to obey.

Martyr seemed to have reached a decision. He crossed to Richard’s table and sat, uninvited. Richard swung round until his back was to the screen, facing Martyr. The chief put his great scarred hands on the table and leaned forward above them. “Richard Mariner,” he drawled. “Do I know that name?”

Richard knew when he was being tested. He had no idea of the stories that had circulated, anticipating his arrival, and would have been surprised to hear half of them. He thought instead of the collision; the explosion…He sat quiet, watching his adversary. The cheerful hum of conversation continued unabated. That was good, he thought; he didn’t want this clash of wills too public, or the authority of one of the combatants must inevitably suffer, no matter what the outcome.

“Captain Richard Mariner…” The American drew it out, apparently using the sound as a goad on his recalcitrant memory.

Suddenly, with breathtaking vividness, Richard saw three hundred feet of pipe-forested deck rolling back toward him as he stood, unbelieving, in his bridge. Three hundred feet of steel plate, rolling like a carpet. Like the top of a sardine can with an invisible key turning.

His whole body jumped and flinched. Martyr’s eyes focused on him sharply at once, but Tsirtos unwittingly saved the situation by bustling back importantly, holding a handful of black video cassettes. Martyr swung toward him, a glimmer of interest lighting his bronze hatchet face. “Anything good? Any westerns?” he asked almost wistfully.

“I don’t know what they are, sir. No labels.”

All the officers turned back into their little groups. Martyr turned back toward Mariner, the temporary distraction over. The test began again. “Mariner. Now I’m sure I know that name…”

Richard ran out of patience. He opened his mouth to tell the chief to play up or get out of the game, but caught his breath in shock. At the very moment he looked up, Martyr’s face changed.

The eyes blazed. The thin lips drew back from marble-white
teeth. Nostrils flared. Ugly veins wormed their way across his broad forehead.

At the same time, all conversation stopped, stunned into silence. Discordant music blared. Richard swung round, knowing a crisis when he found one.

Tsirtos was kneeling down, checking the video machine as it ran. Above him, on the screen, a young girl was hanging from the branch of a tree. Her legs were lashed to pegs, wide spaced in the ground. She was utterly naked. As they watched, in stunned silence, a hooded man appeared and began to beat her with a stick. She looked sixteen years old, if that.

“Tsirtos!” snapped Mariner, but his voice was lost in Martyr’s roar. The table rose in the captain’s face as the chief launched himself forward. Richard toppled to one side, rolled over, and came up just as Martyr hauled Tsirtos to his feet. Holding the boy’s shirt left-handed at his throat, Martyr launched a murderous right hook low to his belly. Another.

Captain and first officer leapt forward as one, each catching an arm. Martyr dropped Tsirtos and pulled free, swinging round. He drew back his fist, eyes completely mad. “Ben!” called Richard, at whom the blow was aimed. Ben caught Martyr’s wrist and turned the blow. Richard stepped back, kicking away the table and chair.

“Right! That’s all. Look after Tsirtos.”

His whole stance changed. The English stiffness went out of his back and shoulders. His heels left the floor and his knees bent slightly. His chin tucked down toward his chest. “Come on, then,” he said quietly. His voice and face had changed too. When he raised his fists, they were surprisingly big.