San Andreas

ELEVEN

Half an hour later McKinnon joined Margaret Morrison in the small lounge off the mess-deck. She was pale and unsmiling but looked composed enough. He sat down opposite her.

'How do you feel now?'

'Bit sick. Bit nauseated.' She half-smiled. 'Dr Sinclair seemed to be more concerned about the state of my mind. I think that's well enough.'

'Fine. Well, not fine, it was a damnable thing to happen to you, but I feel less like commiserating with you than congratulating you.'

'I know. Janet told me. I'm not one for mock shudders, Archie — but, well, he could have done, couldn't he? I mean, cut my throat.'

'He could have done. He should have done.'

'Archie!'

'Oh God, that wasn't very well put, was it? I meant that for his own sake he should have done. He may just possibly have given away enough rope to hang himself.'

'I don't understand what you mean.' She smiled to rob her words of offence. 'I don't think anyone understands quite what you mean. Janet says you're a very devious character.'

'Be you white as snow, etcetera. Only the truly honest get maligned in this fashion. A cross one has to bear.'

'I have difficulty in seeing you in the role of martyr. Janet said you had lots of questions to ask me.'

'Not lots. Just one. Well, a few, but all the same question. Where were you this afternoon before we stopped?'

'In the mess-deck. Out there. Then I went to relieve Irene just before the lights went out.'

'Anyone enquire about the health of the patients in Ward A when you were out there?'

'Well, yes.' She seemed faintly surprised. 'I often get asked about the patients. Natural, isn't it?'

'This late afternoon, I meant.'

'Yes. I told them. Also natural, isn't it?'

'Did they ask if anyone was asleep?'

'No. Come to think of it, they didn't have to. I remember telling them that only the Captain and First Officer were awake. It was some sort of joke.' She broke off, touched her lips with her hand and looked thoroughly chagrined. 'I see. It wasn't really such a joke, was it — it let me in for half-an-hour's involuntary sleep, didn't it?'

'I'm afraid it did. Who asked the question?'

'Wayland Day.'

'Ah! Our pantry boy — ex-pantry boy, I should say, and now your faithful shadow and worshipper from afar.'

'Not always as far away as you might think, gets a little embarrassing at times.' She smiled and then was suddenly serious. 'You're barking up the wrong tree, Archie. He may be a bit of a pest, but he's only a boy and a very nice boy. It's unthinkable.'

'I don't see a tree in sight. Agree, unthinkable. Our Wayland would never be a party to anything that might harm you. Who were the others at your table? Within hearing distance, I mean.'

'How do you know there was anyone else at my table?'

'Margaret Morrison is too clever to be stupid.'

'That was stupid. Maria was there — '

'Sister Maria?' She nodded. 'She's out. Who else?'

'Stephen. The Polish boy. Can't pronounce his surname — no one can. Then there were Jones and McGuigan, who are nearly always with Wayland Day — I suppose because they are the three youngest members of the crew. Two seamen by the name of Curran and Ferguson — I hardly know them because I hardly ever see them. And, yes, I seem to remember there were two of the sick men we picked up in Murmansk. I don't know their names.'

'You seem to remember?'

'No. I do. It's because I don't know their names, I suppose. I'm sure one's a TB case, the other a nervous breakdown.'

'You could identify them again?'

'Easily. Both had red hair.'

'E.R.A. Hartley and L.T.O. Simons.' McKinnon opened the lounge door. 'Wayland!'

Wayland Smith appeared within seconds and stood at respectful attention. 'Sir.'

'Go and find Mr Patterson and Mr Jamieson. Oh yes, and Lieutenant Ulbricht. My compliments to them and ask them if they would please come here.'

'Yes, sir. Right away, sir.'

Margaret Morrison looked at the Bo'sun in amusement. 'How did you know that Wayland was so close?'

'Ever tried to lose your shadow on a sunny day? I can prophesy things — nothing to do with the second sight — such as that Lieutenant Ulbricht will be the first along.'

'Oh, do be quiet. Has this been of any good to you? Another stupid question. Must have been or you wouldn't have sent for those three.'

'Indeed it has. Another little complication but I think we can manage it. Ah, Lieutenant Ulbricht. That was very quick. Please sit down.' Ulbricht took his seat by the side of Margaret Morrison while McKinnon contemplated the ceiling.

She said in a vexed voice: 'There's no need for that.'

Ulbricht looked at her. 'What do you mean, Margaret?'

'The Bo'sun has a warped sense of humour.'

'Not at all. She just doesn't like me being right.' He looked round, greeted Patterson and Jamieson then rose and closed the door with a firm hand.

'As serious as that, is it?' Patterson said.

Td rather we weren't overheard, sir.' He gave them a brief resume of the talks he'd had with Janet Magnusson and Margaret Morrison, then said: 'One of those nine people within hearing distance of Sister Morrison knew that Captain Bowen and Mr Kennet were the only two patients in Ward A who were awake and made the fullest use of that information. Agreed?'

No one disagreed.

'We can rule out Sister Maria. No hard reason, except that it's inconceivable.'

'Inconceivable.' Both Patterson and Jamieson spoke at the same time.

'Stephen? No. He's pro-British enough to make us all feel ashamed and he'll never forget that it was the Royal Navy that saved his life in the North Sea.'

Margaret Morrison looked up in surprise. 'I didn't know that.'

'Neither did we, Sister, even although he is in the engine-room department. Not till the Bo'sun told us. His agents are in every nook and cranny.' Patterson seemed slightly aggrieved.

'Wayland Day, Jones and McGuigan. No. They're hardly out of kindergarten and haven't lived enough or been steeped enough in sin to make apprentice counter-espionage agents, junior grade. That leaves us with four suspects.'

'Curran and Ferguson are out. I know them. They are shirkers and malingerers of the first order and haven't the energy, interest or intelligence to make the grade. That apart, they spend all their spare time holed up in the carpenter's shop in the bows and leave it so seldom that they can hardly know what's going on in the rest of the ship. Final proof, of course, is that though they may not be very bright they're hardly stupid enough to set off an explosive charge in the ballast room while they are sleeping in the carpenter's shop directly above. That leaves Simons and Hartley, two of the sick men — or allegedly sick men — that we picked up in Murmansk. Don't you think we should have them up here, Mr Patterson?'

'I do indeed, Bo'sun. This is becoming interesting.'

McKinnon opened the door. 'Wayland!'

If possible, Wayland Day made it in even less time than the previous occasion. McKinnon gave him his instructions, then added: 'Have them here in five minutes. Tell them to bring their pay books.' He closed the door and looked at Margaret Morrison.

'Wouldn't you like to leave now?'

'No, I wouldn't. Why should I? I'm as interested and involved in this as any of you.' In a wholly unconscious gesture, she touched her throat. 'More, I would say.'

'You might not like it.'

'A Gestapo-type interrogation, is that it?'

'How they are treated depends entirely on Mr Patterson. I'm only venturing an opinion, but I wouldn't think that Mr Patterson goes in very much for thumbscrews and racks. Not standard engine-room equipment.'

She looked at him coldly. 'Facetiousness does not become you.'

'Very little does, it seems.'

'Hartley and Simons,' Jamieson said. 'We had them on our list of suspects. Well, more or less. Remember, Bo'sun?'

'I remember. I also remember that we agreed that the CID were in no danger of a takeover from us.'

'Something I have to say,' Ulbricht said. 'Discouraging, but I have to say it. I was here from the time the generator lights went out until they came on again. With their red, heads, those two men are unmistakable. Neither of them left their seats in that time.'

'Well, now.' Margaret Morrison had an air of satisfaction about her. 'Rather puts a damper on your theory doesn't it, Mr McKinnon?'

'Sad, Sister, very sad. You really would like to prove me wrong, wouldn't you? I have the odd feeling that I will have been proved wrong before this trip is over. Not by you, though.' He shook his head. 'It's still sad.'

Sister Morrison could be very persistent. She put on her best ward sister's face and said: 'You heard what the Lieutenant said — neither of those two men left their seats during the crucial period.'

'I should be astonished if they had done.' Margaret Morrison's prim frown gave way to perplexity which in turn yielded to a certain wariness. McKinnon looked at Ulbricht. 'Lieutenant, we are not just dealing with Flannelfoot number two: we are dealing with Flannelfeet numbers two and three. We have established that it was number two, a crew member, who blew the hole in the ballast room when we were alongside that sinking corvette. But no crew member under suspicion was within hearing range of Sister Morrison. So the finger points at Hartley or Simons. Maybe both. It was clever. There was no way we could reasonably associate them with the misfortune of the San Andreas, for at the time the first hole was blown in the ballast they were still in hospital in Murmansk, where one or both had been suborned. Of course neither was going to leave his seat during the time of the attack. That could have been too obvious.'

Ulbricht tapped his head. 'The only thing that is obvious to me is that Lieutenant Ulbricht is not at his brightest and best today. Hit me over the head with a two-by-four long enough and I'll see the point as fast as any man. Of course you have the right of it. Obvious.' He looked at Margaret Morrison. 'Don't you agree?'

There was a distinct tinge of red in the normally pale face. 'I suppose so.'

'There's no supposing.' The Bo'sun sounded slightly weary. 'What happened was that the information was passed on before — well before — the engines stopped. How long before the engines stopped did Wayland Day ask you the question about Ward A?'

'I don't know. I'm not sure.'

'Come on, Margaret. Can't you see it's important?'

'Fifteen minutes?' she said uncertainly. 'Maybe twenty. I'm really not sure.'

'Of course you're not. People don't check their watches every five minutes. But during those fifteen or twenty minutes one of those two men left his seat and returned?'

'Yes.' Her voice was very low.

'Which one?'

'I don't know. I really don't. Please believe me. I know I said earlier that I could easily identify them — '

'Please, Margaret. I believe you. What you meant is that you could identify them as a pair, not individually. Both look uncommonly alike, both have red hair and you didn't even know their names.'

She smiled at him, a grateful little smile, but said nothing.

'You do have the right of it, Bo'sun. Apart from that, I'm convinced of it because there's no other explanation.' Patterson rubbed his chin. 'This interrogation business. Like Mr Jamieson and yourself, I don't really think I'm CID material. How do we set about it?'

'I suggest we first try to establish their bona fides — if any — to see if they are what they say they are. Hartley claims to be an Engine-Room Artificer. I'll leave him to you. Simons says he's a Leading Torpedo Operator. I'll speak to him.' He looked at his watch. 'The five minutes are up.'

Patterson didn't invite either man to sit. For some seconds he looked at them coolly and thoughtfully, then said: 'My name is Chief Engineer Patterson. I am in temporary command of this vessel and have some questions to ask. The reasons for the questioning can wait. Which of you is E.R. A. Hartley?'

'I am, sir.' Hartley was slightly taller, slightly more heavily built than Simons, but otherwise the resemblance was remarkable: Margaret Morrison's confusion over the pair was more than understandable.

'You claim to be an E.R.A. Can you prove it?'

Trove it?' Hartley was taken aback. 'What do you mean — "prove it", sir? I don't have any certificates on me if that's what you're after.'

'You could pass a practical test?'

'A practical test?' Hartley's face cleared. 'Of course, sir. I've never been in your engine-room but that's no matter. An E.R.A. is an E.R.A. Take me to your engine-room and I'll identify any piece of equipment you have. I can do that blindfold — all I have to do is touch. I'll tell you the purpose of that or any piece of equipment and I can strip it down and put it together again.'

'Hm.' Patterson looked at Jamieson. 'What do you think?'

'I wouldn't waste our time, sir.'

'Neither would I.' He nodded to the Bo'sun, who looked at Simons.

'You L.T.O. Simons?'

'Yeah. And who are you?' McKinnon looked at the thin arrogant face and thought it unlikely that they would ever be blood-brothers. 'You're not an officer.'

'I'm a seaman.'

'I don't answer questions from a Merchant Navy seaman.'

'You will, you know,' Patterson said. 'Mr McKinnon is hardly the equivalent of the Royal Navy's ordinary seaman. The senior seaman aboard, the equivalent of your warrant officer. Not that it matters to you what he is. He's acting under my orders and if you defy him you defy me. You understand?'

'No.'

McKinnon said in a mild voice:' "No, sir," when you're talking to a senior officer.'

Simons sneered, there was a blur of movement and Simons was doubled over, making retching sounds and gasping for breath. McKinnon looked at him unemotionally as he gradually straightened and said to Patterson: 'May I have an option as regards this man, sir? He's an obvious suspect.'

'He is. You may.'

'Either irons, bread and water till we reach port or a private interrogation with me.'

'Irons!' Simons' voice was a wheeze, a McKinnon jab to the solar plexus was not something from which one made an instant recovery. 'You can't do that to me.'

'I can and if necessary will.' Patterson's tone was chillingly indifferent. 'I am in command of this ship. If I choose, I can have you over the side. Alternatively, if I have proof that you are a spy, I can have you shot as a spy. Wartime regulations say so.' Wartime regulations, in fact, said nothing of the kind but it was most unlikely that Simons knew this.

'I'll settle for the private interrogation,' McKinnon said.

A horrified Margaret Morrison said: 'Archie, you can't — '

'Be quiet.' Patterson's voice was cold. 'I suggest, Simons, that you will be well advised to answer a few simple questions.' Simons scowled and said nothing.

McKinnon said: 'You an L.T.O?'

"Course I am.'

'Can you prove it?'

'Like Hartley here, I haven't any certificates with me. And you don't have any torpedoes to test me with. Not that you would know one end of a torpedo from another.'

'What's your barracks?'

'Portsmouth.'

'Where did you qualify L.T.O.?'

'Portsmouth, of course.'

'When?'

'Early 'forty-three.'

'Let me see your pay-book.' McKinnon examined it briefly, then looked up at Simons. 'Very new and very clean."

'Some people look after their things.'

'You didn't make a very good job of looking after your old one, did you?'

'What the hell do you mean?'

'This is either a new one, a stolen one or a forged one.'

'God's sake, I don't know what you're talking about!'

'You know all right.' The Bo'sun tossed the pay-book on the table. 'That's a forgery, you're a liar and you're not an L.T.O. Unfortunately for you, Simons, I was a Torpedo Gunner's Mate in the Navy. No L.T.O's qualified in Portsmouth in early nineteen forty-three, or indeed for some considerable time before and after that. They qualified at Roedean College near Brighton — used to be the leading girls' school in Britain before the war. You're a fraud and a spy, Simons. What's the name of your accomplice aboard the San Andreas?

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Amnesia.' McKinnon stood and looked at Patterson. 'Permission to lock him up, sir?'

'Permission granted.'

'Nobody's going to bloody well lock me up,' Simons shouted. 'I demand — ' His voice broke off in a scream as McKinnon twisted his forearm high up behind his back.

'You'll stay here, sir?' McKinnon said. Patterson nodded. 'I won't be long. Five, ten minutes. We won't be needing.E.R.A. Hartley any more?'

'Of course not. Sorry about that, E.R.A. But we had to know.'

'I understand, sir.' It was quite apparent that he did not understand.

'You don't. But we'll explain later.' Hartley left, followed by McKinnon and Simons, the latter with his right wrist still somewhere up in the vicinity of his left shoulder-blade.

'Ten minutes,' Margaret Morrison said. 'It takes ten minutes to lock up a man.'

'Sister Morrison,' Patterson said. She looked at him. 'I admire you as a nurse. I like you as a person. But don't interfere in things or presume to pass judgement on things you know nothing about. The Bo'sun may only be a bo'sun but he operates at a level you know nothing about. If it weren't for him you'd be either a prisoner or dead. Instead of constantly sniping at him you'd be better occupied in giving thanks for a world where there's still a few Archie McKinnons around.' He broke off and cursed in silent self-reproach as he saw tears trickling down the lowered head.

McKinnon pushed Simons inside an empty cabin, locked the door, pocketed the key, turned and hit Simons in exactly the same spot as previously although with considerably more force. Simons staggered backwards across the corticene, smashed heavily into the bulkhead and slid to the deck. McKinnon picked him up, held his right arm against the bulkhead and struck his right biceps with maximum power. Simons screamed, tried to move his right arm and found it impossible: it was completely paralysed. The Bo'sun repeated the process on the left arm and let him slide down again.

'I am prepared to keep this up indefinitely,' McKinnon's voice was conversational, almost pleasant. 'I'm going to keep on hitting you, and if necessary, kicking you anywhere between your shoulders and toes. There won't be a mark on your face. I don't like spies, I don't like traitors and I don't care too much for people with innocent blood on their hands.'

McKinnon returned to the lounge and resumed his seat. Ulbricht looked at his watch and said: 'Four minutes. My word, you do keep your word, Mr McKinnon.'

'A little dispatch, that's all.' He looked at Margaret Morrison and the still visible tear stains. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing. It's just this whole horrible ugly business.'

'It's not nice.' He looked at her for a speculative moment, made as if to say something, then changed his mind. 'Simons has come all over cooperative and volunteered some information.'

'Cooperative?' Margaret said incredulously. 'Volunteered?'

'Never judge a man by his appearances. There are hidden depths in all of us. His name is not Simons, it's Braun, "au", not "ow".'

'German, surely,' Patterson said.

'Sounds that way but he is RN. His passport is a forgery — someone in Murmansk gave it to him. He couldn't be more specific than that, I assume it must have been a member of what must now be that espionage ring up there. He's not an L.T.O., he's an S.B.A., a Sick Bay Attendant, which ties in rather nicely with the chloroform used twice and the drugging of Captain Andropolous.' He tossed two keys on the table. 'I'm sure Dr Sinclair will confirm that those are the dispensary keys.'

'Goodness me,' Jamieson said. 'You have not been idle, Bo'sun, and that's a fact. He — Braun — must have been most communicative.'

'He was indeed. He even gave me the identity of Flannelfoot number two.'

'What!'

'Remember, Margaret, that I said to you only a few minutes ago that I would be proved wrong about something before the trip was over. Well, it hasn't taken long for me to prove I was right about that. It's McCrimmon.'

'McCrimmon!' Jamieson was half out of his seat. 'McCrimmon. That bloody young bastard!'

'You are sitting — well, more or less — next to a young lady.' McKinnon's tone of reproof was mild.

'Ah! Yes. So I am. Sorry, Sister.' Jamieson sat again. 'But — McCrimmon!'

'I think the fault is mainly mine, sir. I've been on record as saying that although he was a criminal, I regarded him as a trustworthy criminal. Serious flaw in judgement. But I was half right.'

'I can accept that it was McCrimmon.' Patterson's tone was calm and if he was upset it wasn't showing. 'Never liked him. Truculent, offensive, foul mouthed. Two terms in Barlinnie, the maximum security prison outside Glasgow. Both for street violence. I should imagine that the feel of an iron crowbar in his hand is nothing new to that man. The Royal Navy would never have accepted a man with his record. One can only assume that we have lower standards.' He paused and considered. 'We pull him in?'

'I wonder. I'd love to have a little chat with him. Point is, Mr Patterson, I don't think we'd get any useful information out of him. Men who hired him would be far too clever to tell a character like McCrimmon any more than he needed to know. They certainly wouldn't tell him what their plans, their end was. It would be a case of "just do so and-so and here's your cash". Also, sir, if we leave him loose, we can watch every move he makes without his knowing that we are watching. It's quite possible he has something more up his sleeve and if we can watch him in the act of what he's doing it might give us some very valuable information indeed. What, I can't imagine, but I have the feeling that we should give him that little more rope.'

'I agree. If he's bent on hanging himself, just that little more rope."

Lieutenant Ulbricht had found them a star to steer themselves by. He was on the bridge with McKinnon as the San Andreas headed due west at full speed, Curran at the wheel. Cloud cover was patchy, the wind light and the sea relatively calm. Ulbricht had just caught a brief but sufficient glance of the Pole Star and had established that they were in almost exactly the same place as they had been at noon that morning. He had remained on the bridge where he seemed to prefer to spend his time except, the Bo'sun couldn't help noticing, during those periods when Margaret Morrison was off duty.

'Think we've shaken him now, Mr McKinnon? Three and a half hours, maybe four, since we may have shaken him.'

'Nor hide nor hair of him and that's a fact. But because we can't see him, as I keep on saying, doesn't mean that he's not there. But, yes, I do have this odd feeling that we may have slipped him.'

'I have a certain regard for your so-called odd feelings.'

'I only said "may". We won't know for certain until the first Condor comes along with its flares.'

'I wish you wouldn't talk about such things. Anyway, it's possible that we may have lost him and that the Focke-Wulf may fail to find us. How long do you intend to maintain this course?'

The longer the better, I should think, //they have lost us, then they'll probably reason that we're heading back on a course to Aberdeen — as far as we know, they have no reason to believe that we have reason to believe that they know we're heading for Aberdeen and would therefore opt for some place else. So they may still think that we're on a roughly south-south-west course instead of due west. I have heard it said, Lieutenant Ulbricht, I can't remember who it was, that some Germans at some times have one-track minds.'

'Nonsense. Look at our poets and playwrights, our composers and philosophers.' Ulbricht was silent for some moments and McKinnon could imagine him smiling to himself in the darkness. 'Well, yes, maybe now and again. I sincerely hope that this is one of those times. The longer they keep combing the area in the direction of Aberdeen and the longer we keep heading west the less chance they will have of locating us. So we keep this course for an hour or two more?'

'Yes. Longer. I propose that we maintain this course throughout the night, then, shortly before dawn, lay off a course directly for Scapa Flow.'

'Sounds fair enough to me. That'll mean leaving the Shetlands on our port hand. May even have a glimpse of your islands. Pity you couldn't drop in in passing.'

'There'll come a day. Dinner-time, Lieutenant.'

'So soon? Mustn't miss that. Coming?'

'May as well. Curran, get on the phone and ask Ferguson to come up here. Tell him to keep a constant lookout on both wings. 360 degrees, you understand.'

'I'll do that. What's he supposed to be looking out for, Bo'sun?'

'Flares.'

McKinnon met Jamieson just after they'd entered the mess-deck and drew him to one side.

'Our traitorous friend been up to anything he should not have been up to, sir?"

'No. Guaranteed. Chief Patterson and I had a discussion and we decided to take all the engine-room staff into our confidence — well, all except one, Reilly, who seems to be the only person who talks to him. Reilly apart, McCrimmon would win any unpopularity contest without trying, he's the most cordially detested person in the engine-room. So we spoke to each man individually, told them the score, and told them not to discuss the matter with any other member of the crew. So he'll be Under constant supervision, both in the engine-room and in the mess-decks.' He looked closely at McKinnon. 'We thought it a good idea. You don't seem quite sure?'

'Whatever you and Mr Patterson decide is okay by me.'

'Dammit.' Jamieson spoke with some feeling. 'I suggested to the Chief that we talk to you but he was sure you'd think it a good idea.'

'I really don't know, sir.' McKinnon was doubtful. 'It seems a good idea. But — well, McCrimmon may be a villain but he's a clever villain. Don't forget that he's gone completely undetected and unsuspected so far and would have kept on that way but for a lucky accident. Being a crude, violent and detestable person with a penchant for crowbars doesn't mean that he can't be sensitive to atmosphere, to people being over-casual on the one hand and too furtively watchful on the other. Also, if Reilly is on speaking terms with him shouldn't he be under observation too?'

'It's not all that bad, Bo'sun. Even if he does suspect he's under observation, isn't that a guarantee for his good behaviour?'

'Either that or a guarantee that when — if — he does something he shouldn't be doing he's going to make damn sure that there's no one around when he does it, which is the last thing we wanted. If he believed he was still in the clear he might have betrayed himself. Now he never will.' McKinnon looked at their table. 'Where's Mr Patterson?'

Jamieson looked uncomfortable. 'Keeping an eye on things.'

'Keeping an eye on things? Keeping an eye on McCrimmon, you mean. Mr Patterson has never missed dinner since joining this ship. You know that, I know that — and you can be sure McCrimmon knows that. If he has the slightest suspicion that we have the slightest suspicion I can just hear those alarm bells clanging in his head.'

'It is possible,' Jamieson said slowly, 'that it may not have been such a good idea after all.'

Patterson wasn't the only absentee at the table that night. Janet Magnusson was on duty and both Sister Maria and Dr Sinclair were engaged in the ticklish and rather painful task of rebandaging Captain Bowen's head. Captain Bowen, it was reported, was making a considerable amount of noise.

Jamieson said: 'Does Dr Sinclair think he'll be able to see again?' Jamieson, like the three others at the table, was nursing a glass of wine while waiting for the first course to be served.

'He's pretty sure,' Margaret Morrison said. 'So am I. Some days yet, though. The eyelids are badly blistered.'

'And the rest of the ward sound asleep as usual?' She winced and shook her head and Jamieson said hastily: 'Sorry, that wasn't a very tactful question, was it?'

She smiled. 'It's all right. It's just that it'll take me a day or two to get Simons and McCrimmon out of my head. As usual, only Mr Kennet is awake. Perhaps Oberleutnant Klaussen is too — it's hard to say. Never still, keeps rambling,on.'

'And making as little sense as ever?' McKinnon said.

'None. All in German, of course, except for one word in English which he keeps repeating over and over again as if he was haunted by it. It's odd, the theme of Scotland keeps cropping up all the time.' She looked at Ulbricht. 'You know Scotland well. We're headed for Scotland. I'm half-Scots. Archie and Janet, although they claim to be Shetlanders, are really Scots.'

McKinnon said: 'And don't forget the lad with the chloroform pad.'

She grimaced. 'I wish you hadn't said that.'

'Sorry. Stupid. And what's the Scots connection with Klaussen?'

'It's the word he keeps repeating. Edinburgh.' 'Ah! Edinburgh. The Athens of the North!' Ulbricht sounded very enthusiastic. 'Know it well, very well. Better than most Scots, I dare say. Edinburgh Castle. Holyrood Palace. The shrine. The Gardens. Princes Street, the most beautiful of all — ' His voice trailed off, then he said in a sharp tone: 'Mr McKinnon! What's the matter?'

The other two looked at the Bo'sun. His eyes were those of a man who was seeing things at a great distance and the knuckles of the big hand around the glass were showing white. Suddenly the glass shattered and the red wine flowed over the table.

'Archie!' The girl reached across the table and caught his wrist. 'Archie! What is it!'

'Well, now that was a damn stupid thing to do, wasn't it?' The voice was calm, without emotion, the Bo'sun back on balance again. He wiped away the blood with a paper napkin. 'Sorry about that.'

She twisted his wrist until the palm showed. 'You've cut yourself. Quite badly.'

'It doesn't matter. Edinburgh, is it? He's haunted by it. That's what you said, Margaret. Haunted. So he damn well ought to be. And I should be haunted, too. All my life. For being so blind, so bloody well eternally stupid.'

'How can you say such a thing? If you see something that we can't see, then we're all more stupid than you are.'

'No. Because I know something that you don't know.'

'What is it, then?' There was curiosity in her voice, but it was overlaid by a deeper apprehension. 'What is it?'

McKinnon smiled. 'Margaret, I would have thought that you of all people would have learnt the dangers of talking in public. Would you please bring Captain Bowen to the lounge.'

'I can't. He's having his head bandaged.'

'I rather think, Margaret, you should do what the Bo'sun suggests.' It was the first time that Ulbricht had used her Christian name in company. 'Something tells me that the Captain will need no second invitation.'

'And bring your pal,' McKinnon said. 'What I have to say may well be of interest to her.'

She looked at him for a long and thoughtful moment, then nodded and left without a word. McKinnon watched her go, an equally thoughtful expression on his face, then turned to Jamieson. 'I think you should ask one of your men to request Mr Patterson to come to the lounge also.'

Captain Bowen came into the lounge accompanied by Dr Sinclair, who had no alternative but to come for he was still only halfway through rebandaging Bowen's head.

'It looks as if we'll have to change our minds again about our plans,' McKinnon said. He had a certain air of resignation about him, due not to the change in plans but to the fact that Janet was firmly bandaging his cut palm. 'It's certain now that the Germans, if they can't take us, will send us to the bottom, The San Andreas is no longer a hospital ship, it's more of a treasure ship. We are carrying a fortune in gold. I don't know how much but I would guess at something between twenty and thirty million pounds sterling.'

Nobody said anything. There wasn't much one could make in the way of comment about such a preposterous statement and the Bo'sun's relaxed certainty didn't encourage what might have been the expected exclamatory chorus of surprise, doubt or disbelief.

'It is, of course, Russian gold, almost certainly in exchange for lend-lease. The Germans would love to get their hands on it, for I suppose gold is gold no matter what the country of origin, but if they can't get it they're going to make damned sure that Britain doesn't get it either, and this is not out of spite or frustration, although I suppose that that would play some part. But what matters is this. The British Government is bound to know that we're carrying this gold — you've only got to think about it for a moment to see that this must have been a joint planned operation between the Soviet and British Governments.'

'Using a hospital ship as a gold transport?' Jamieson's disbelief was total. 'The British Government would never be guilty of such a pernicious act.'

'I am in no position to comment on that, sir. I can imagine that our Government can be as perfidious as any other and there are plenty of perfidious governments around. Ethics, I should think, take very much a back seat in war — if there are any ethics in war. All I want to say about the Government is that they are going to be damned suspicious of the Russians and would put the worst possible interpretation on our disappearance — they may well arrive at the conclusion that the Russians intercepted the ship after it had sailed, got rid of the crew, sailed the San Andreas to any port in northern Russia, unloaded the gold and scuttled the ship. Alternatively, they might well believe the Russians didn't even bother to load any gold at all but just lay in wait for the San Andreas. The Russians do have a submarine fleet, small as it is, in Murmansk and Archangel.

'Whichever option the Government prefers to believe, and I can imagine it highly likely that they will believe one or the other, the result will be the same and one that would delight the hearts of the Germans. The British Government is going to believe that the Russians welshed on the deal and will be extremely suspicious not only of this but of any future deal. They'll never be able to prove anything but there is something they can do — reduce or even stop all future lend-lease to Russia. This could be a more effective way of stopping Allied supplies to Russia than all the U-boats in the North Atlantic and Arctic.'

There was quite a long silence, then Bowen said: 'It's a very plausible scenario, Bo'sun, attractive — if one may use that word — even convincing. But it does rather depend on one thing; why do you think we have this gold aboard?'

'I don't think, sir. I know. Only a few minutes ago, just after we had sat down to dinner, Sister Morrison here happened to mention Oberleutnant Klaussen's constant delirious ramblings. In his delirium one word kept recurring — Edinburgh. Sister says he seemed to be haunted by that word. I should damn well think he was. It was not so very long ago that a U-boat sent the cruiser Edinburgh to the bottom on her way back from Russia. The Edinburgh was carrying at least twenty million pounds of gold bullion in her holds.'

'Good God!' Bowen's voice was no more than a whisper: 'Good God above! You have the right of it, Archie, by heaven you have the right of it.'

'It all ties in too damn nicely, sir. It had been dunned into Klaussen that he was not to repeat the exploits of his illustrious predecessor who had dispatched the Edinburgh. It also accounts — the sinking of the Edinburgh, I mean — for the rather underhanded decision to use the San Andreas. Any cruiser, any destroyer can be sunk. By the Geneva Convention, hospital ships are inviolate.'

'I only wish I had told you sooner,' Margaret Morrison said. 'He'd been muttering about Edinburgh ever since he was brought aboard. I should have realized that it must have meant something.'

'You've nothing to reproach yourself with,' McKinnon said. 'Why should the word have had any significance for you? Delirious men rave on about anything. It wouldn't have made the slightest difference if we had found out earlier. What does matter is that we have found out before it's too late. At least, I hope it's not too late. If there are any reproaches going they should come in my direction. At least I knew about the Edinburgh -1 don't think anyone else did — and shouldn't have had to be reminded of it. Spilt milk.'

'It does all mesh together, doesn't it?' Jamieson said. 'Explains why they wouldn't let you and Mr Kennet see what was going on behind that tarpaulin when they were repairing the hole in the ship's side. They didn't want you to see that they were replacing that ballast they'd taken out to lighten ship by a different sort of ballast altogether. I suppose you knew what the original ballast looked like?'

'As a matter of fact, I didn't. I'm sure Mr Kennet didn't know either.'

'The Russians weren't to know that and took no chances. Oh, I'm sure they'd have painted the bullion grey or whatever the colour of the ballast was: the size and shape of the blocks and bars of the gold would almost certainly have been different. Hence the "No Entry" sign at the tarpaulin. Everything that has happened since can be explained by the presence of that gold.' Jamieson paused, seemed to hesitate then nodded as if he had made up his mind. 'Doesn't it strike you, Bo'sun, that McCrimmon poses a bit of a problem?'

'Not really. He's a double agent.'

'Damn it!' Jamieson was more than a little chagrined. 'I'd hoped, for once, that I might be the first to come up with the solution to a problem.'

'A close run thing,' McKinnon said. 'The same question had occurred to me at the same time. It's the only answer, isn't it? Espionage history — or so I am led to believe — is full of accounts of double agents. McCrimmon's just another. His primary employer — his only really true employer — is, of course, Germany. We may find out, we may not, how the Germans managed to infiltrate him into the service of the Russians but infiltrate him they did. Sure, it was the Russians who instructed him to blow that hole in the ballast room, but that was even more in the Germans' interest than the Russians'. Both had compelling reasons to find an excuse to divert the San Andreas to Murmansk, the Russians to load the gold, the Germans to load Simons and that charge in the ballast room.'

'A tangled story,' Bowen said, 'but not so tangled when you take the threads apart. This alters things more than a little, doesn't it, Bo'sun?'

'I rather think it does, sir.'

'Any idea of the best course — I use that word in both its senses — to take for the future?'

'I'm open to suggestions.'

'You'll get none from me. With all respect to Dr Sinclair, his ministrations have just about closed down a mind that wasn't working all that well in the first place.'

'Mr Patterson?' McKinnon said. 'Mr Jamieson?'

'Oh no,' Jamieson said. 'I have no intention of being caught out in that way again. It does my morale no good to have it quietly explained to me why my brilliant scheme won't work and why it would be much better to do it your way. Besides, I'm an engineer. What do you have in mind?'

'On your own heads. I have in mind to continue on this course, which is due west, until about midnight. This will help to take us even further away from the Heinkels and Stukas. I'm not particularly worried about them, they rarely attack after dark and if we're right in our assumption that we've slipped that U-boat, then they don't know where to look for us and the absence of any flares from a Condor would suggest that, if they are looking, they are looking in the wrong place.

'At midnight, I'll ask the Lieutenant to lay off a course for Aberdeen. We must hope that there will be a few helpful stars around. That would take us pretty close to the east coast of the Shetlands, Lieutenant?'

'Very close indeed, I should say. Hailing distance. You'll be able to wave a last farewell to your homeland, Mr McKinnon.'

'Mr McKinnon isn't going to wave farewell to any place.' The voice was Janet Magnusson's and it was pretty positive. 'He needs a holiday, he tells me, he's homesick and Lerwick is his home. Right, Archie?'

'You have the second sight, Janet.' If McKinnon was chagrined at having his thunder stolen he showed no signs of it. 'I thought it might be a good idea, Captain, to stop off a bit in Lerwick and have a look at what we have up front. This has two advantages, I think. We're certain now that the Germans will sink us sooner than permit our safe arrival in any British port and the further south we go the greater the likelihood of being clobbered, so we make as little southing as possible. Secondly, if we are found by either plane or U-boat, they'll be able to confirm that we're still on a direct course to Aberdeen and so have plenty of time in hand. At the appropriate moment we'll turn west, round a place called Bard Head, then north-west and north to Lerwick. From the time we alter course till the time we reach harbour shouldn't be much more than an hour and it would take rather longer than that for the German bombers to scramble from Bergen and reach there.'

'Sounds pretty good to me,' Jamieson said.

'I wish I could say the same. It's far too easy, too cut and dried, and there's always the possibility of the Germans figuring out that that's exactly what we will do. Probability would be more like. It's too close to a counsel of desperation, but it's the least of all the evils I can imagine and we have to make a break for it some time.'

'As I keep on saying, Bo'sun,' Jamieson said, 'it's a great comfort having you around.'