The Fire Ship (12 page)

“God knows. But you’re right about moving soon,” said Richard. “And it’s the same for us. If we’re going in, we have to do it quickly, while they’re at their most exhausted and we’ve got our fresh troops. And before they get any fresh troops.”

“We can up anchor whenever you like. We’ll have the south wind behind us,” said Weary. “If we go with the dawn and it holds through the day, we’d sight her tomorrow evening. Go in tomorrow night.”

And it lay there on the table before them, like the corpse of some foul thing. Within twenty-four hours, if they chose, they could be creeping aboard
Prometheus
to face twelve desperate, heavily armed terrorists to try to release their shipmates without getting everybody killed.

Tomorrow night.

“No,” said Richard at last. “It’s too risky. Especially without the grenades.” Now that he had had them and had lost them, he realized how much he really needed them. The dud grenades would have to be replaced. “And it’s too soon. We’d be going off at half cock. We need another day. Maybe two. And we still need that extra edge. Damn!” His hand slammed down on the tabletop. “Three days.”

“What?” For the first time tonight, Robin’s mind was not on the same wavelength as his. But she was still trying to come to terms with the news about the faulty thunderflash grenades.

“Three days’ hard sailing. Back to Fujayrah and then back here. With one of the other boxes. Doc, could you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Right. You go at first light. With Martyr. He knows about munitions too. For God’s sake, test them there this time. Angus, Robin, you and I will go ashore now. We’ll meet Martyr off the plane. And tomorrow we’ll hire a small coastal craft. Do some fishing off Bushehr.”

“Find
Prometheus,
” whispered Robin.

“Find out what we can and get back here within three days ourselves. Meet up for a final briefing. Go in then.” He looked around the table. “It’s Wednesday night now. The better the day, the better the deed: we go at dawn on Sunday.”

Once again Weary stayed aboard, checking the multihull from stem to stern now that he knew they had seventy-two hours’ hard sailing ahead. Hood came with the others to get provisions for the return run to Fujayrah. Although the Soukh would have closed its gates at sunset, he hoped to get all he needed at Manama Port. Richard and Robin were going to meet Martyr’s plane. Angus was going to find them a small coastal craft.

Hood took control of the little inflatable’s outboard and sat on the full rubberized side at the back. Richard sat at the other side of the little motor, the two big men balancing each other, but raising the inflatable’s round bow well clear of the water. Angus and Robin sat on the slatted wooden seat that divided her halfway along her stubby length, facing backward so that the four of them could talk.

“Guess you have all known each other a good long time?” Hood’s question, coming over the buzz of the motor and the slap of the waves, was apparently innocent, and yet Richard had been expecting it. He had seen the calculating, careful light enter those calm brown eyes even as Weary had thrown himself and
Katapult
wholeheartedly into Richard’s plan. Hood needed to be convinced that this was the best way. That this was the best team. Richard had no doubt that Robin and he
passed muster with the careful American, but why should Hood take their word for the quality of the rest of them? The flamboyant Angus might easily prove to be less than he appeared at first sight. The mysterious Martyr all reputation and no reality. As for Salah Malik—all they had established about him was that he worked for the PLO, he might be dead, and he probably wasn’t coming. Not very confidence-building. Richard could see that.

“Look,” he said. “Angus and I were at school together. I’ve known Robin since she was sixteen. I was married to her sister. But what you really want to know about started ten years ago.”

“It was an insurance fraud,” struck in Robin, the business manager.

“It centered on the first
Prometheus.
”

“The one you fell off,” Hood said, grinning at Robin, “trying to save a parrot.”

“You told! You rat!” said Robin to Richard.

“That’s right. Well,
Prometheus
was due to sail from Kharg to Rotterdam with a full load of crude,” continued Richard, riding over her protest.

“But the plan was for her to slip into Durban, sell her oil illegally, and then sink so the owner could claim insurance on both hull and cargo,” completed Robin.

“That was the plan. Then an industrial accident killed off most of the officers aboard before she could sail, and we went out to replace them. I was running a crewfinding agency in those days.”

“Crewfinders,” said Hood. He knew about that, too: it was the best in the world.

“They knew nothing of what was planned,” added Angus. “Then you went aboard later, Robin.”

“The cargo changed hands several times on the in-
ternational spot market,” said Robin. “My father owned it at one point. I went aboard then. They need a new third mate in any case.”

“A whole set of officers replaced and then they needed a new third mate! Sounds like a death ship to me.” Hood’s quiet comment stopped the rush of information for a moment.

Then Richard picked up the thread again. “We knew nothing about anything illegal. We were just trying to bring her home. But some of the old crew were still aboard and one of my own Crewfinders people was up to no good. The long and the short of it is this: the original plan still went ahead behind our backs…”

“But these guys, Martyr and Malik, they were Crewfinders men, right?”

“No, they were part of the original crew,” said Richard. “But it was one of my own men doing all the damage anyway. He poisoned the food. He tried to kill Martyr after the bomb went off.”

“There was a bomb? On a supertanker? And you all walked away?”

“We only brought half of her home. But it’s a long story. Martyr and Malik were only on the fringe of the original plan, each one there for his own good reasons. Once they realized what was really going on, they changed sides and helped us.”

“Saved us,” said Robin earnestly. “Saved our lives. Literally.”

“What we went through then still binds us,” said Richard. “It was like war. Do you see what I mean?”

“Sure,” said Sam easily. “You guys are like Doc and me. All we got in common is Nam. But that’s more than enough. Thicker than blood.”

Robin nodded, her bright curls outlined by the lights
of Manama. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s exactly the right phrase. Blood is thicker than water—and this is thicker than blood.”

They tied up at a low wooden jetty and climbed up a short dark flight of steps into the dazzling light above. And out of the heart of that brightness stepped a slim figure, to stand, legs slightly apart, precisely blocking their path. It was a young man, perhaps thirty-five, slight of build but giving the impression of stature in his erect, military bearing. He wore a meticulously pressed khaki uniform topped by a peaked cap. The peak, worn low over his eyes, gleamed like patent leather, as did the straps of his Sam Browne. As did the open flap of his military holster.

“Captain Richard Mariner?” The calm voice spoke perfect Oxbridge English, as clipped as his pencil mustache.

Richard stepped forward. “Yes?”

“I am Mohammed Suleiman, captain of police. Would it be convenient for us to have a word or two in private?”

Captain Suleiman’s office was as precise as the man himself, a modest room lent size and style by its Spartan neatness. Richard, his mind racing, stood a little apart from the others, awaiting events. As he did so, he looked out of the captain’s window with veiled eyes, apparently paying complete attention to the view. The office faced the other half of the port, the south side. From here he could follow the curve of Old Palace Road past the school until it disappeared down by the walled fortress of the market known here as the Soukh. Beyond that lay low buildings, square and flat-topped for the most part, overlooking the profusion of boats on the black water
that stretched away toward Sitra, invisible in the distance.

There were a number of ways in which the Bahraini police could be involved in this. There was the matter of Sir William’s kidnapping at the airport itself. Or the port authorities might have caught some wind of what
Katapult
was carrying. Or it might have to do with Hood’s report of this afternoon about the sinking of the arms ship. Or it could all be as innocent as a question or two about the passenger list of the incoming flight from London.

It started with Sir William. “Mrs. Mariner, let me first say how deeply I myself, and indeed, the whole Bahraini people regret the kidnapping of your father from our soil.”

“Thank you, Captain. Is there any news?”

“I regret not. We do not even know who is holding him or where.” Abruptly he swung toward Richard. “Captain Mariner, I assume that is why you and your representatives have been in contact with terrorists and terrorist organizations?”

“I beg your pardon?” Here it comes, thought Richard.

“Salah Malik. He is an associate of yours, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“You cannot be unaware of his standing in the Palestine Liberation Organization.”

“I haven’t seen him in some years. I know nothing of his current standing.”

“Then it will be a matter of indifference to you that he has dropped out of sight. That he is moving. And with such a man, his slightest movements are—how shall I put it?—observed. Scrutinized.”

Angus coughed. The captain swung round to look at
him. Their eyes locked for a moment, as Angus thoughtfully tugged at his full red beard. “I may have got a message to him,” he admitted at last. “I tried, but I can’t be sure…”

“So. Captain Mariner?”

“As you say, Captain Suleiman. Of course, I take full responsibility.”

“But this is stupid,” exploded Robin, suddenly up out of the chair, confronting Suleiman eye to eye. “My father is in the hands of some kind of terrorist group. Of course we would try to contact the one man who might be able to give us a little inside information. I hope your people are trying to do the same!”

“Very well, let us leave terrorists aside for a moment.” He paused for a heartbeat. “Let us discuss the murderers you have invited into my country.”

Richard was in no way surprised that C. J. Martyr’s reputation should have preceded him. The two men had been close friends for ten years now, and this was by no means the first time that such information had traveled from one authority to another. In at least one country Richard could think of, the taciturn New Englander had been slammed into jail within half an hour of landing. It was the old story.

“He’s been to court,” Robin cried, suddenly. “The jury called it justifiable homicide. He got commended by the judge, for God’s sake! Your computer has the charges, not the verdict!” Martyr was more than a shipmate, more than a friend. The tall, strong, lath-thin ex-engineering officer had become almost a second father to her. Since leaving his last berth, he had run their New York office for them with the help of his daughter Christine. Moved beyond words by the injustice of the situation, Robin swung round to Richard, agonized appeal in her tear-bright eyes.

But he was already speaking. “Look, Captain Suleiman, the story’s simple enough. Martyr married young. Had a daughter, Christine. Then his wife took up with another man. They kept Christine but Martyr visited. Then Christine vanished. Mother and stepfather were helpless. They had tried everything they could but had got nowhere. Martyr jumped ship, turned detective, and tracked her down. When he found her she was in a bad way. Hooked on hard drugs, working as a prostitute, and making pornography to support her habit. When he took her back, her pimp of a boyfriend tried to stop him. Brought in some pushers for support. Martyr brought her back over their dead bodies.

“But it didn’t end there. He put her straight into a private clinic. But he hadn’t the money for both Christine’s treatment and his own defense: he couldn’t risk going to jail, or she would be out on the street again. So he stayed abroad, taking any job, sending all the money back home to her. It was all he lived for. Then he risked it all for me. Risked his life and Christine’s future to save me and my ship,
Prometheus,
nearly ten years ago. Since that time he has worked for me. Heritage Mariner paid for his daughter’s treatment, and for his own defense. And it’s all cleared up now. He runs our New York office with Christine as his executive assistant. All legal and aboveboard. Exonerated of all charges.”

Aware of the increasingly bitter irony in the last few phrases of this passionate speech, Captain Suleiman allowed himself the slightest shrug of apology. “Very well, Captain Mariner,” he said. “We will consider the matter closed. If you vouch for the man. If he is passing through.”

“Thank you.”

“But I warn you, I warn all of you, I will not be so
indulgent if Salah Malik appears on the scene! Good night.”

As he guided Angus’s Mercedes across the causeway toward Muharraq, Richard thought about Captain Suleiman. The captain was no fool. He struck Richard as a careful career officer making his way successfully through a complicated system. And the fact that he had taken such a line with people who habitually dined with the Sheikh was very worrying indeed. Oh, this was not like some states where the ruling family considered themselves above the law and would destroy importunate officialdom at a whim, but the fact remained that if Richard and Robin had been here in any official capacity at all, they would certainly have been invited to the palace once again. And Suleiman must have known that. Yet he had still warned them off in no uncertain terms.

Richard suddenly went cold at the thought of what might happen to them if they ran afoul of less patient, less courteous authorities. Of the Iranians, say, for whose waters they would set sail in a few hours. So far they had been carried forward by their need to react to the twin situations confronting them. They had perhaps been seduced by the freedom of action their unique position allowed them. Were they getting seduced into a situation that they had no chance of controlling, no chance of escaping? They could all too easily end up in an Iranian jail. Executed, like that journalist last year. They could well end up dead, all of them, just a pile of corpses to be dumped over the side of
Prometheus
by victorious terrorists, who would then start taking reprisals by executing the very people they had set out to save.

And Sir William. They could so easily cause him to
be discovered in some gutter in Beirut with a note pinned to his clothing and a bullet in his brain.

“Penny for them.”

“It’s all so damn dangerous, Robin. It could all go so terribly wrong.” His tone robbed the words of weakness. He sounded like a doctor delivering a diagnosis.

“I know, darling. But what alternative do we have? Meet the plane, say hi, then send Martyr home? Get Angus to send another message to Beirut, ‘Thanks all the same, Salah, but we’ve changed our minds’?”

“There’s got to be more to it than face and inconvenience. We have to have a better reason for going on than that it would be embarrassing to turn back!”

“Okay. Look at the alternative. We give up here. We go home. We put
Katapult
into production if we can find the backing after all this bad publicity. We run Heritage Mariner. Only we send no more tankers to the Gulf. We can’t risk losing another one. So we run out of the few customers for crude-carrying we still have. And in the meantime, all our insurance payments go up until
Prometheus
is safe. Heritage Mariner really begins to lose big money. But we still have Crewfinders. Only there is no one left on the Crewfinders books because all the officers and crew who might have come to us know we can no longer guarantee their safety. Christ! We can’t even protect the chairman of the board! So we start closing down Crewfinders and try to put Heritage Mariner into liquidation while the costs begin to spiral way out of control. We move someone else into Father’s office and we wait for word of him. Like they’re waiting for word of all the other hostages still in terrorist hands. Year after year after year…” Oddly, it was the lack of emotion that gave her words so much impact. If he had sounded like a doctor, she
sounded like a pathologist announcing the cause of death of somebody else’s business. Family. Life. In this as in all things, they were the perfect team. They leaned on each other unreservedly in any crisis, and their strength together was greater than either of their strengths alone. “So what have we really got to lose?” she whispered, as he silently turned the steering wheel and guided them into the parking lot outside Muharraq International Airport.