The Freedom Trap [= The Mackintosh Man]

I

Limpet mines we didn’t have but, in the event, I got hold of something just as good and a lot simpler. That was in the Grand Harbour of Valletta and four days later. In the meantime we paid the bill at the Rock Hotel and flew to Malta where that diplomatic passport got me through the barriers at Luqa Airport just as easily as it had done at Gibraltar.

With nearly four days to wait we suddenly found ourselves in holiday mood. The sky was blue, the sun was hot and the sea inviting, and there were cafés with seafood and cool wine for the days, and moderately good restaurants with dance floors for the nights. Alison unbent more than she had ever done.

I found there was something I could do better than she, which did my mauled ego a bit of good. We hired scuba equipment and went diving in the clear water of the Mediterranean and I found I could out-perform her at that. Probably it was because I had lived in Australia and South Africa where the ambient waters are warmer and skin-diving is a luxury and not a penance as it is in England.

We swam and lazed the days away and danced the nights away for three days and three nights until, on the morrow, Wheeler was due to arrive. It was nearly midnight when I brought up the subject of Mr Smith. Alison took no umbrage this time but, perhaps, it was because I had been plying her with the demon alcohol. Had it been the opposition tipping the bottle she would have been wary but the hand that filled her glass was the hand of a friend and she was taken unaware. Sneaky!

She held up the wine glass and smiled at me through liquid amber. ‘What do you want to know about him?’

‘Is he still around?’

She put down the glass and a little wine spilled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s not around any more.’ She seemed sad.

I lit a cigarette and said through the smoke, ‘Divorce?’

She shook her head violently and her long hair flowed in heavy waves. ‘Nothing like that. Give me a cigarette.’

I lit her cigarette and she said, ‘I married a man called John Smith. There are people called John Smith, you know. Was he an intelligence agent? No. Was he even a policeman? No. He was an accountant and a very nice man — and Alec was horrified. It seemed I hadn’t been designed to marry an accountant.’ Her voice was bitter.

‘Go on,’ I said gently.

‘But I married him, anyway; and we were very happy.’

‘Had you been with your father before then?’

‘With Alec? Where else? But I didn’t stay on — I couldn’t, could I? John and I lived in a house near Maidenhead — in the Stockbroker Belt — and we were very happy. I was happy just being married to John, and happy being a housewife and doing all the things which housewives do, and not having to think about things I didn’t want to think about. Alec was disappointed, of course; he’d lost his robot secretary.’

I thought of John Smith, the accountant; the nine-to-fiver who had married Alison Mackintosh. I wondered how he had regarded the situation — if he ever knew about it. I couldn’t see Alison cuddling up on his knee, and saying, ‘Darling, you’re married to a girl who can shoot a man in the kneecap in impossible light, who can drive a car and fly a plane and kill a man with one karate chop. Don’t you think we’re going to have a delightful married life? Look how handy it will be when we’re bringing up the children.’

I said, ‘And then?’

‘And then — nothing. Just a stupid, silly motorway accident on the M4.’ Her face was still and unsmiling and she spoke through stiff lips. ‘I thought I’d die, too; I really did. I loved John, you see.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said inadequately.

She shrugged and held out her glass for more wine. ‘Wanting to die didn’t help, of course. I brooded and moped for a while, then I went back to Alec. There wasn’t anything else to do.’ She sipped the wine and looked at me. ‘Was there, Owen?’

I said very carefully and noncommittally, ‘Perhaps not.’

She gave me a wry look, and said, ‘You’re pussyfooting, Owen. You don’t want to hurt my feelings by saying what you think. Well, that’s commendable, I suppose.’

‘I’m not one to make casual judgments.’

‘Without knowing the facts — is that it? I’ll give you some. Alec and my mother never got on very well. I suppose they were basically incompatible, but he was away so often, and she didn’t understand his work.’

‘Was he in the same work as now?’

‘Always, Owen; always. So there was a legal separation just before I was born, and I was born in Waterford where I lived until I was ten when my mother died.’

‘Were you happy in Waterford?’

Alison became pensive. ‘I don’t really know. I can’t seem to remember much about those days; there has been so much overlaid on top since.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I don’t know if anyone would ever call Alec an ideal father. Unorthodox, maybe, but not ideal. I was a bit of a tomboy — never one for frilly frocks and playing with dolls — and I suppose he took advantage.’

I said slowly, ‘You’re a woman now.’

‘I sometimes wonder about that.’ She plucked at the tablecloth with tapering fingers. ‘So Alec trained me to be — I didn’t know what. It was fun at the time. I learned to ride a horse, to ski on snow and water, to shoot, to fly — I’m qualified on jets, did you know that?’

I shook my head.

‘It was damned good fun, every bit of it — even grinding at the languages and mathematics — until he took me into the office and I learned what it was all for. Then it wasn’t fun any more.’

‘Did he send you out on field jobs?’

‘I’ve been on three,’ she said evenly. ‘All very successful — and most of the time I was sick to my stomach. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was being in the office and sending others out into the field, and watching what happened to them. I planned too many operations, Owen. I planned yours.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘Mackintosh... Alec told me.’

‘I became the one person whom he could trust absolutely,’ she said. ‘A very valuable consideration in the profession.’

I took her hand. ‘Alison,’ I said. ‘What do you really think of Alec?’

‘I love him,’ she said. ‘And I hate him. It’s as simple as that.’ Her fingers tightened on mine. ‘Let’s dance, Owen.’ There was a hint of desperation in her voice. ‘Let’s dance.’

So we went on to the dimly lit floor and danced to the sort of music that’s usually played in the early hours of the morning. She came very close and rested her head on my shoulder so that her lips were by my ear. ‘Do you know what I am, Owen?’

‘You’re a lovely woman, Alison.’

‘No, I’m a Venus Fly Trap. Vegetables — like women — are supposed to be placid; they’re not supposed to be equipped with snapped jaws and sharp teeth. Have you ever watched a fly alight on a Venus Fly Trap? The poor beastie thinks it’s just another vegetable plant until the jaws snap closed. Most unnatural, don’t you think?’

I tightened my arm about her. ‘Take it easy.’

She danced two more steps and then a deep shudder went through her body. ‘Oh, God!’ she said. ‘Let’s go back to the hotel.’

I paid the bill and joined her at the door of the restaurant and we walked the two hundred yards to our hotel. We were both silent as we went up in the lift and along the corridor, but she held my hand tightly as we came to the door of her room. She was trembling a little as she held out her key.

She made love like a maniac, like a savage, and I had the deep scratches on my back to prove it next morning. It seemed as though all the pent-up frustrations of a warped life were loosed on that night-time bed. But when it was over she was relaxed and calm, and we talked for a long time — maybe two hours. What we talked about I’ll never remember; just inconsequentialities too meaningless to take note of — she had had time for few trivialities in her serious life.

The second time was better and she was all woman and, when it was over, she fell asleep. I had sense enough to go to my own room before she woke; I thought she would not be too pleased with herself in the sober light of day.

II

Wheeler was due that morning and we had plans to make. When she came down to breakfast I was on my first cup of coffee and rose from the table to greet her. She was a little self-conscious as she came up and tended to avoid my eye. I sat down, and said, ‘What do we use instead of a limpet?’

When I leaned against the back of the chair I felt the pain as the pressure impinged on the scratches she had inflicted. Hastily I leaned forward again and took a piece of toast.

I looked up and saw she had snapped back into professionalism as she took in what I said; personal relationships were one thing and the job was quite another. ‘I’ll check with the Port Captain when Artina is due.’

‘We don’t want to have a repetition of Gibraltar,’ I said. ‘One jump from here and Wheeler and Slade will be in Albania — home and dry. What do we do if Artina arrives in daylight and leaves in daylight?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘There’s one thing certain,’ I said. ‘I can’t invade her in the middle of the Grand Harbour in daylight and take Slade off. So what remains?’ I answered the question myself. ‘We have to make sure she stays all night.’

‘But how?’

‘I’ve thought of a way. We’ll go shopping after breakfast. Can I butter some toast for you?’

So the pair of us ate a hearty breakfast and sallied forth into the hot streets of Valletta, a heat seemingly intensified by the warm golden limestone of the buildings. The Port Captain expected Artina at midday and that was sad news. Sadder still was the information that the fuelling ship had been booked in advance and was to go alongside as soon as Artina anchored.

We went away, and I said, ‘That does it. Let’s do my bit of shopping.’

We found a ship’s chandlery and went inside to find all the usual expensive bits and pieces that go towards the upkeep of a yacht. I found what I was looking for — some light, tough nylon line with a high breaking strain. I bought two hundred feet of it and had it coiled and parcelled.

Alison said, ‘I suppose you know what you’re doing.’

‘It was the scuba gear we’ve been using that gave me the idea.’ I pointed towards the harbour. ‘How would you get to the middle of there without being seen?’

She nodded. ‘Underwater. That’s all very well, but doesn’t help you to get aboard.’

‘It will — eventually. You’re included in this operation. Come and get the gear. We want to be back on the spot when Artina arrives.’

We went to the place we had hired the scuba gear and I made absolutely certain we were issued with full bottles. Then, after a brief test in the swimming pool of the hotel, we went back to the harbour. At the swimming pool Alison suddenly drew in her breath and I turned to find that she was blushing deeply. She was looking at my back.

I chuckled. ‘They ought to issue a bottle of Dettol with you,’ I said. ‘You’re quite a woman.’

Unaccountably she became angry. ‘Stannard, you’re a... a... ’

‘Buck up,’ I said sharply. ‘We have a job to do.’

That brought her back fast and the awkward moment was over. We went down to the harbour and settled down to wait for Artina. Alison said, ‘What’s the plan?’

‘If you’ve read my record you’ll know I was in Indonesia,’ I said. ‘One of the diciest moments I ever had out there was when I was in a small launch being chased by a fast patrol boat which was popping off with a 20mm cannon. There was a mangrove swamp nearby so I nipped in there for shelter — that was a big mistake. There was too much seaweed and it got wrapped around the propeller shaft and the launch came to a dead stop. That seaweed was nearly the end of me.’

‘What happened then?’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ I nodded towards the harbour. ‘Artina is a lot bigger than the launch I had, but this nylon line is a hell of a lot stronger than strands of seaweed. When she comes in we’re going to swim out and wrap the lot around both propeller shafts. It might immobilize her and it might not, but I’m betting it will. And the beauty of it is that even when they find it there’ll be no suggestion of foul play. It’s something that could happen to any boat. Anyway, they’ll have a devil of a job freeing it once the engines have tightened it up, and I’m hoping it will take all night.’

‘It could work,’ agreed Alison, and then continued evenly, ‘I’ll do something for those scratches. This water is dirty and they might become infected.’

I looked at her and she met my eye without a tremor. ‘Good enough,’ I said, and took great pains not to laugh.

She went away briefly and returned with a bottle of something-or-other which she applied to my back. Then we sat and waited patiently for Artina to show up.

It was a long hot day. Artina was late and I began to wonder if she hadn’t by-passed Malta and headed straight for Albania. She came in at two-thirty and dropped anchor well off-shore. Again she lowered a boat but this time only the skipper came ashore. Wheeler wasn’t to be seen.

I stubbed out my cigarette. ‘This is it,’ I said, and tightened the straps of the scuba gear. ‘Can you swim as far as that?’

Alison splashed water into her mask. ‘Easily.’

‘Just stick close to me.’ I pointed. ‘We’re not going to swim right for it. We’ll pass by about twenty yards from the stern and then come in from the other side. The fueller might be there — I hope it is — so keep your head down.’

I had the skein of nylon rope strapped to my thigh; I tested to see if it was secure and then slipped into the water. I doubt if skin-divers are encouraged in the Grand Harbour, not that they would want to make a habit of swimming there — the water is none too clean and decapitation by the churning propellers of passing traffic a constant hazard. I had chosen a quiet spot where we could go into the water unobserved.

We went deep right from the start, going down to about twenty-five feet before heading on course. I knew my speed and I had estimated the distance so I kept a steady count of the seconds and minutes. The problem in this sort of exercise was to keep swimming in a straight line. Occasionally I looked back and saw Alison swimming strongly in echelon, behind and to the left.

When I estimated we had arrived at the point I had chosen I waved Alison to a halt and we swam lazily in circles while I looked about. There was an oncoming rumble and a shadow overhead as a vessel passed, her propellers flailing the water and causing eddies which jerked us about. The propellers stopped and presently there was an audible clang transmitted through the water. That would be the fueller coupling to Artina.

I waved to Alison and we went on in the new direction. As we went on towards the two boats I hoped that no one was looking over the side to see the line of bubbles breaking on the surface. But we were coming in at the side of the fueller and all the action would be where they were coupling up the fuel and water lines. If anyone had time to look over the side then that fueller was overmanned.

The light diminished as we swam underneath the two boats and I paused again before heading aft and rising to trail my fingers along Artina’s keel. We came to the stern and I stopped with my left hand on one blade of the port phosphor-bronze propeller, hoping that no damned fool in the engine room would punch the wrong button and start the engine. If those three blades started to move I’d be chopped into bloody mincemeat.

Alison swam up on the starboard side as I fumbled with the strap holding the rope to my thigh. I got it free and began to uncoil it with care. The propeller was about four feet in diameter, and the shaft was supported by struts before it entered the stern gland in the hull. I slipped the end of the rope in between the strut and the hull and coiled it around the shaft and then passed a loop around the shaft in between the propeller and the strut. When I tugged gently it held firm, so that was a start.

That rope was the damnedest stuff. At times it was like wrestling with a sea serpent — the coils floated around in the water dangerously, threatening to strangle us or bind our legs, and Alison and I must have closely resembled that remarkable piece of antique statuary, the Laocoön.

But we finally did it. We entangled those two propellers in such a cat’s cradle that when the engines started and the ropes began to tighten all hell would break loose. Most probably everything would grind to a sudden halt, but a shaft could bend and, at worst, one of the engines might slam a piston through the cylinder casing. It was a good job.

We slipped away and swam back to shore, emerging from the water quite a distance from where we had gone in. My sense of direction had become warped, but then it always does underwater. An unshaven character leaning on the rail of a tramp steamer looked at us with some astonishment as we climbed up to the quay, but I ignored him and Alison and I walked away, our back packs bumping heavily.

We went back to our original position and I lit a cigarette and looked across at Artina. The fueller had finished and was just casting off, and the skipper was returning in the tender. It seemed as though they intended a faster turnaround than Gibraltar. I wondered where the skipper had cleared for — it wouldn’t be Durazzo, the port for Tirana, although I’d be willing to bet that was where he intended to go.

The skipper climbed aboard and the companionway was unshipped immediately. There was a lot of movement on deck and even as the tender was hoisted clear of the water someone was at the winch on the foredeck ready to lift anchor.

Alison said, ‘They’re very much in a hurry.’

‘It seems so.’

‘I wonder why.’

‘I don’t know — but I expect they’ll be very annoyed within the next few minutes.’

The anchor came up and Artina moved off slowly. I hadn’t expected her to move at all and it came as a shock. Apparently 700 horse-power was more than a match for a few coils of nylon line. Alison drew in her breath. ‘It isn’t working!’

Artina turned and headed for the open sea, picking up speed so that a bow wave showed white. I lowered the binoculars, and said, ‘It was a good try.’ I felt gloomy. Albania was only 450 miles away and Artina could be there in less than two days. The only way I could think of stopping her was by a kamekazi attack in the Apache.

Alison was still watching through her monocular. ‘Wait!’ she said urgently. ‘Look now!’

Artina had swerved suddenly and unnaturally as though someone had spun the wheel fast, and she was now heading straight for the shore. She slowed and water boiled at her stern as the engines were put into reverse. Then the bubble of white water stopped and she drifted helplessly, right into the path of a big Italian cruise liner which was leaving harbour.

There was a deep booom as the liner peremptorily demanded right of way but Artina did not react. The liner altered course fractionally at the last moment and her sheer side might have scraped Artina s paintwork. From the bridge of the liner an officer in whites was looking down and I guessed that a string of choice Italian imprecations was being directed down at the hapless skipper of Artina.

The liner went on her way and Artina bobbed inertly in the waves raised by her wake. Presently a little tug put out and went to her aid and she was towed back to where she had come from and dropped anchor again.

I grinned at Alison. ‘For a moment there I thought... Well, it’s done and she’ll be staying the night. When they find out what’s happened they’ll be cursing the idiot who carelessly dropped a line in the water.’

‘There’s no chance they’ll guess it was done deliberately?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’ I looked over the water at Artina. The skipper was at the stern looking down. ‘They’ll soon find out what it is, and they’ll send down a diver to cut it free. It’ll take a hell of a lot longer for him to free it than it did for us to tangle it — those engines will have tightened the tangle considerably.’ I laughed. ‘It’ll be like trying to unscramble an omelette.’

Alison picked up her gear. ‘And what now?’

‘Now we wait for nightfall. I’m going to board her.’

III

We went into Marsamxett Harbour from Ta’Xbiex to where Artina was anchored in Lazzaretto Creek. A tug had moved her during the afternoon and put her with the rest of the yachts. We went out in a fibreglass object that resembled a bathtub more than a boat, but Alison seemed to find no difficulty in handling it and she used the oars as though she’d been trained as stroke for Oxford. More of Mackintosh’s training coming to the surface.

It was a moonless night but the sky was clear so that it was not absolutely pitch-black. Ahead loomed Manoel Island and beyond a light flashed at Dragutt Point. To our left Valletta rose, clifflike and impregnable, festooned with lights. There were no lights on Artina, though, apart from the obligatory riding lights; since it was 2.30 a.m. this was not surprising. I hoped everyone on board was in the habit of sleeping soundly.

Alison stopped sculling as we approached and we drifted silently to Artina’s stern. The rope ladder which the diver had been using was not there but I hadn’t been counting on it even though it was nine feet from the water to the stern rail. What I wanted was a grapnel, but those are hard to come by at a moment’s notice, so I had improvised. A shark hook is shaped like a grapnel, being three big fish-hooks welded together. I had wrapped it in many layers of insulating tape, not only to prevent myself from being nastily hooked but also for the sake of silence.

I looked up and saw the ensign-staff silhouetted against the sky and used that to mark the position of the rail. Holding a coil of the rope I threw up my grapnel so it went over the rail. There was a soft thud as it landed on the deck and, as I drew the line back, I hoped it would hold. It did; it caught on the rail and a steady pull told me it would be not unreasonable to climb the rope.

I bent down and whispered, ‘Well, this is it. I may come back with Slade or I may not. I may come over the side in a bloody hurry so stick around to fish me out of the drink.’ I paused. ‘If I don’t come back then you’re on your own and the best of British luck to you.’

I swarmed up the rope and managed to hook my arm round the ensign-staff, taking the strain off the shark hook. The pistol thrust into the waist of my trousers didn’t help much; as I twisted like a contortionist to get a foot on deck the muzzle dug into my groin agonizingly and I was thankful that I’d made sure there wasn’t a bullet in front of the firing pin.

I made it at last and in silence. At least nobody took a shot at me as I looked back at the water. Alison was nowhere to be seen and there was just a suspicious looking ripple where no ripple should have been. I stayed there quietly for a moment and strained my ears listening to the loud silence.

If there was a man, on watch he was being quiet in his watching. I hazarded a guess that anyone on watch would stay up forward, perhaps in the wheelhouse or comfortably in the dining saloon. To get to the stern cabins I didn’t have to go forward; the entrance to the cabin deck was by a staircase in the deck lounge, and the door to the lounge was just in front of me if the ship plans I had studied were correct.

I took out a pen-light and risked a flash. It was lucky I did so because the deck immediately in front of me was cluttered with diver’s gear — I could have made a Godawful clatter if I hadn’t seen that. I managed to navigate the booby traps safely until I got to the deck lounge door and was thankful to find it unlocked; which was just as expected because who locks doors on a ship?

The lounge was in darkness but I saw light gleaming through a glass-panelled door on the starboard side. There was just enough light spilling through to illumine the hazards of furniture so I stepped over to look through the door and I froze as I saw movement at the end of a long passage. A man came out of the dining saloon and turned into the galley and out of sight. I opened the door gently and listened; there was the slam of something heavy followed by the clink of crockery. The man on watch was enlivening the night hours by raiding the refrigerator, which suited me very well.

I crossed the lounge again and went below to the cabin deck. There were three cabins down there, all for guests. Wheeler’s master cabin was ‘midships’, the other side of the engine room, so I didn’t have to worry about him. The problem that faced me was if he had any guests, apart from Slade, occupying any of the three guest cabins.

The cabin that had been curtained in broad daylight at Gibraltar was the big stern cabin, and that was my first objective. This time the door was locked, and this raised my hopes because Slade would certainly be kept under lock and key. I inspected the lock with a guarded flash of the light. It wasn’t much of a problem; no one installs Chubb triple-throw locks on a cabin door and I could have opened one of those if I had to — it would have taken longer, that’s all.

As it was I was inside the cabin inside two minutes and with the door locked again behind me. I heard the heavy breathing of a sleeping man and flicked my light towards the port side, hoping to God it was Slade. If it wasn’t I was well and truly up that gum tree I had shown Mackintosh.

I needn’t have worried because it was Slade all right and I cheered internally at the sight of that heavy face with the slightly yellowish skin. I took the gun from my waist and pushed a bullet up the spout. At the metallic sound Slade stirred and moaned slightly in his sleep. I stepped forward and, keeping the light on him, I pressed gently with my finger at the corner of his jaw just below the ear. It’s the best way to awaken a man quietly.

He moaned again and his eyelids flickered open, and he screwed up his eyes at the sudden flood of light. I moved the pen-light so that it illumined the gun I held. ‘If you shout it’ll be the last sound you make on earth,’ I said quietly.

He shuddered violently and his adam’s apple bobbed convulsively as he swallowed. At last he managed to whisper, ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Your old pal, Rearden,’ I said. ‘I’ve come to take you home.’

It took some time to sink in, and then he said, ‘You’re mad.’

‘Probably,’ I admitted. ‘Anyone who wants to save your life must be mad.’

He was getting over the shock. The blood was returning to his face and the self-possession to his soul — if he had one. ‘How did you get here?’ he demanded.

I let the light wander to the nearest port. It wasn’t curtained, after all; plates of sheet metal had been roughly welded over the oval scuttles so that it was absolutely impossible for Slade to see outside — more security expertise on the part of the Scarperers. I grinned at Slade, and asked softly, ‘Where is here?’

‘Why — on board this ship,’ he said, but his voice was uncertain.

‘I’ve been following you.’ I watched with interest as his eyes shifted sideways to look at a bell-push by the side of his berth, and I hefted the gun so that it came into prominence again. ‘I wouldn’t,’ I warned. ‘Not if you value your health.’

‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

‘I suppose you could say that I’m in the same business as yourself, but in the other corner. I’m in counter-espionage.’

The breath came from him in a long, wavering sigh. ‘The executioner,’ he said flatly. He nodded towards the gun. ‘You won’t get away with it. You have no silencer. Kill me with that thing and you’re dead, too.’

I’m expendable,’ I said lightly, and hoped I wouldn’t have to make that statement stick. ‘Use your brains, Slade. I could have slid into this cabin and cut your throat in your sleep. It would have been messy, but silent. A better way would have been to stick a steel knitting needle through the nape of your neck and into the medulla oblongata — there’s not much blood. The fact that we’re talking now means I want to take you out alive.’

He frowned slightly and I could almost see the wheels spinning as he thought it out. I said, ‘But don’t have any misconceptions. I either take you out alive or you stay here dead. It’s your choice.’

He had recovered enough to smile slightly. ‘You’re taking a big chance. You can’t keep me under the gun all the time. I could win yet.’

‘You won’t want to,’ I said. ‘Not when you’ve heard what I have to say. My guess is that you were taken from that room we shared, given a shot of dope, and woke up in this cabin where you’ve been ever since. Where do you think you are?’

That set the wheels going round again, but to no effect. At last he said, ‘There’s been no temperature change, so I couldn’t have been taken very much north or south.’

‘This hooker has a very efficient air-conditioning plant,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t know the difference. Do you like Chinese food?’

The switch confused him. ‘What the hell! I can take it or leave it.’

‘Have you had any lately?’

He was bemused. ‘Why, yes — only yesterday I... ’

I cut in. ‘The ship has a Chinese cook. Do you know whose ship it is?’ He shook his head in silence, and I said, ‘It belongs to a man called Wheeler, a British MP. I take it you haven’t seen him.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Slade. ‘I’d have recognized him. I met him a couple of times in... in the old days. What the devil is all this about?’

‘Do you still think you are going to Moscow?’

‘I see no reason to doubt it,’ he said stiffly.

‘Wheeler was born an Albanian,’ I said. ‘And his Chinese cook does more than rustle up sweet and sour pork. They’re not your brand of communist, Slade. Right now you’re in Malta and the next scheduled stop is Durazzo in Albania; from there I guess you’ll be shipped by cargo plane straight to Peking. You’d better acquire a real taste for Chinese cooking — always assuming they give you any food at all.’

He stared at me. ‘You’re crazy.’

‘What’s so crazy about the Chinese wanting to get hold of you? What you have locked up inside that skull of yours would interest them very much — the secrets of two top intelligence services. And they’d get it out of you, Slade — even if they had to do it by acupuncture. The Chinese invented the term “ brainwashing”.’

‘But Wheeler?’

‘What’s so odd about Wheeler? You got away with it for over a quarter of a century — why shouldn’t someone else be as smart as you? Or smarter? Wheeler hasn’t been caught — yet.’

He fell silent and I let him think it out. Yet I hadn’t much time to waste so I prodded him again. ‘It seems to me that your choice is simple. You come with me willingly or I kill you right now. I think I’d be doing you a favour if I killed you because I’d hate to see you after you’d been in the hands of the Chinese for a month. I think you’d better come with me and retire to a nice, safe, top-security wing in one of Her Majesty’s nicks. At least you won’t be having your brains pulled out through your ears.’

He shook his head stubbornly. ‘I don’t know if I believe you.’

‘For God’s sake! If Wheeler wanted you to go to Moscow then why didn’t he transfer you to one of those ubiquitous Russian trawlers? In the Atlantic they’re as thick as fleas on a mangy dog. Why bring you to the Mediterranean?’

Slade looked at me cunningly. ‘I’ve only your word for that, too.’

I sighed, and lifted the gun. ‘You don’t have much of a choice, do you?’ I was getting mad at him. ‘If ever I saw a man looking a gift horse in the mouth it’s you. I haven’t followed you from Ireland to... ’

He cut in. ‘Ireland?’

‘That’s where we were held together.’

‘Lynch is Irish,’ he said thoughtfully.

‘Seaman Lynch? He works for Wheeler — he’s an IRA thug with a dislike of the English.’

‘He looks after me here,’ said Slade. ‘He’s my guard.’ He looked up and I saw that the strain of uncertainty was beginning to tell. ‘Where are we now — exactly?’

‘Anchored in Marsamxett Harbour.’

He made up his mind. ‘All right, but if I get on deck and I don’t recognize it then you might be in big trouble. You’ll be wanting silence and I might take my chances on the gun in the darkness. Remember that.’

‘How long is it since you’ve been in Malta?’

‘Five years.’

I smiled humourlessly, ‘Then I hope to God you have a good memory.’

Slade threw back the bedclothes and then paused, looking at me questioningly. There had been a creak which was not one of the usual shipboard noises. I listened and it came again.

Slade whipped the covers back over his chest. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he whispered.

I held up the gun before his eyes. ‘Remember this!’ I backed off and opened the door of the lavatory and even as I did so I heard a key snap metallically at the cabin door. I closed the lavatory door gently and used my pen-light in a quick flash to see what I’d got into. As usual in lavatories there was no back door, just the usual paraphernalia of toilet, wash basin, medicine cabinet and shower. The shower was screened off by a semi-transparent plastic curtain.

I switched off the light, held my breath, and listened. Lynch’s voice was unmistakable. ‘I heard voices — who the devil were you talking to?’

This was the crunch. If Slade was going to give me away he’d do it now, so I listened with care to what was arguably the most important conversation I was ever likely to hear.

‘I must have been talking in my sleep,’ said Slade, and my heartbeat slowed down to a mere gallop. ‘I’ve been having bad dreams and I’ve got the makings of a headache.’

‘Ach, it’s no wonder, and you being cooped up in here all this while,’ said Lynch. ‘But rest easy, you’ll soon be home.’

‘Why have we been stopped all this time?’

‘Something’s gone wrong with the propellers,’ said Lynch. ‘But I didn’t get the exact hang of it.’

‘Where are we?’

‘Now you know better than to ask that, Mr Slade. That’s top secret.’

‘Well, when will we be moving again and when do I get my feet on dry land?’

‘As to the first,’ said Lynch, ‘maybe it’ll be tomorrow. As to the last, I couldn’t rightly tell you. I’m not one of the bosses, you know; they don’t tell me everything.’ He paused. ‘But you’re looking so white and peaky, Mr Slade. Could I get you the aspirin?’

The hairs on the nape of my neck stood up and did a fandango as Slade answered. ‘No, don’t worry; I’ll be all right.’ It was borne heavily upon me that although I could hear Slade’s voice I couldn’t see what he was doing with his hands. He might be saying one thing and pointing out to Lynch that he had an unwanted visitor.

Lynch said solicitously, ‘Ach, it’s no trouble at all. We promise to get you home in good condition; that’s part of the deal. I’ll get the aspirin for you.’

I ducked into the shower stall and drew the plastic curtain just as Lynch opened the lavatory door. He switched on the light and I saw his outline quite clearly through the curtain as he stepped forward to open the medicine cabinet. I had the gun trained on him all the time and I thought that I could dispose of him and Slade, too, if it came to the push. Getting out would be another matter.

I heard the rattle of pills in a bottle and then the rush of water as a tap was turned on. It was a relief to know that Lynch actually was getting aspirin and that Slade had not sold me out. Lynch filled the glass and turned to leave — he was so close that I could have touched him by only half-extending my arm and only the curtain was between us. Fortunately he was back-lit and I wasn’t or he would have seen me had he glanced my way.

He went out, switching off the light and closing the door. ‘Here, you are,’ he said. ‘This should clear up your headache.’

‘Thanks,’ said Slade, and I heard the clink of the glass.

‘Man, but you’re sweating,’ said Lynch. ‘Are you sure it’s not the fever you’ve got?’

‘I’ll be all right,’ said Slade. ‘You can leave the light on. I think I’ll read for a while.’

‘Surely,’ said Lynch. ‘Have a quiet night, mind.’ I heard the cabin door open and close, and then the snap of the lock as the key was turned.

I was doing a fair amount of sweating myself as I waited for the trembling of my hands to stop. My stomach felt all churned up as the adrenalin sped on its appointed rounds gingering up my muscle tone and twanging my nerves like harp strings. At last I stepped out of the shower and gently opened the lavatory door.

Whether his sweating was due to a fright or fever Slade had used his wits when he had asked Lynch to leave on the main cabin light. It meant that I could see at a glance if the place was safe. Slade certainly didn’t want to be shot by accident.

He lay in bed with a book held between slack fingers and his face was the yellow colour of old newsprint. ‘Why didn’t he see you?’ he whispered.

I flapped a hand at him to keep him quiet and went to the door, still keeping the gun pointing in his general direction. I heard nothing so presently I turned and strode over to Slade. ‘Where does Lynch live? Do you know?’

He shook his head and tugged at my sleeve. ‘How the hell did he miss you?’

He found it difficult to believe that in a narrow space the size of two telephone booths one man could miss seeing another. I found it hard to believe myself. ‘I was taking a shower,’ I said. ‘How was Lynch dressed?’

‘Dressing-gown.’

That meant he hadn’t come far and he probably had been allocated one of the cabins next door to be conveniently close to his charge. ‘Have you any clothes?’ Slade nodded. ‘All right; get dressed — quietly.’

I watched Slade carefully while he dressed, principally to make sure he didn’t slip a blunt instrument into his pocket. When he had finished I said, ‘Now get back into bed.’ He was about to expostulate but I shut him up fast with a jab of the gun. ‘I want to give Lynch time to get back to sleep.’

Slade got back into bed and I retreated into the lavatory, leaving the door ajar. Slade had pulled the sheet up high and was lying on his side apparently reading his book. Everything would appear normal if Lynch took it into his head to come back. I gave him half an hour by my watch and during that time heard nothing out of the ordinary.

I stepped into the cabin and signalled Slade to rise. While he was disentangling himself from the bedclothes — it’s really surprising how difficult it is to get out of bed when fully dressed because the sheet wraps itself round one’s shoes — I jimmied the lock on the door. I had to turn my back on Slade at this point but it couldn’t be helped.

I turned and found him walking towards me slowly. When he approached he put his mouth to my ear and whispered, ‘When I get on deck I’d better see Valletta.’

I nodded my head impatiently, switched off the light, and opened the door on to the darkness of the passage. The staircase was immediately to the left and I prodded Slade up it with the gun in his back, holding his right arm. I stopped him before we got to the top and cautiously surveyed the deck lounge. All was quiet so I urged him on his way and we went out on to the after deck.

I shone the light to give Slade some idea of the obstacle race he must run to get the twenty feet to the stern rail, and off we went again. Half-way across the afterdeck he stopped and looked around. ‘You are right,’ he whispered. ‘It is Valletta.’

‘Quit chattering.’ I was edgy as I always am on the last lap. Once ashore I could turn Slade in to the Maltese Constabulary and the job was done, apart from wrapping up Wheeler and his mob, but we still had to get ashore.

We got as far as the stern rail and no further. I groped for the grapnel alongside the ensign-staff and couldn’t find it. Then shockingly a blaze of light split the darkness as the beam of a powerful lamp shone vertically down on us from the boat deck above, and a voice said, ‘That’s far enough.’

I dug my elbow into Slade’s ribs. ‘Jump!’ I yelled, but neither of us was quick enough. There was a rapid tattoo of feet on the deck as a small army of men rushed us and we were both grabbed and held. There wasn’t a damned thing I could do — two of the three men who tackled me were trying to tear my arms off so they could use them as clubs to beat me over the head, and the other was using my stomach as a bass drum and his fists weren’t padded as drumsticks are.

As I sagged and gasped for breath I was vaguely aware of Slade being dragged forward, hauled by two seamen with his feet trailing along the deck. Someone shouted and I was also hustled forward and thrust headlong through the doorway of the deck lounge. A burly black-bearded man whom I recognized as the skipper issued orders in a language whose flavour I couldn’t catch. I was unceremoniously dropped to the deck and my assailants began to draw the curtains to the windows.

Before the last of them was drawn I saw a searchlight from the bridge forward begin to search the water around Artina and I hoped Alison had got clear. Someone handed my pistol to the skipper; he looked at it with interest, made sure it was cocked, and pointed it at me. ‘Who are you?’ His English was accented, but with what I didn’t know.

I pushed myself up with wobbly arms. ‘Does it matter?’ I asked wearily.

The skipper swung his eyes to Slade who sagged against a chair, and then beyond him to the staircase which led below. ‘Ah, Lynch!’ he said, rumbling like a volcano about to explode. ‘What kind of a guard are you?’

I turned my head. Lynch was looking at Slade with shocked amazement. ‘How did he get here? I was with him not half an hour ago, and I made sure the door was locked.’

‘The door was locked,’ mimicked the skipper. ‘Te keni kujdes; how could the door be locked?’ He pointed to me. ‘And this man — he brought Slade out of the cabin.’

Lynch looked at me. ‘By God, it’s Rearden. But he couldn’t have been in the cabin,’ he said stubbornly. ‘I’d have seen him.’

‘I was in the shower, standing right next to you, you silly bastard.’ I turned to the skipper. ‘He nearly got himself killed. Not much of a guard, is he?’

Lynch made for me with blood in his eye, but the skipper got to me first, warding off Lynch with an arm like an iron bar. He dragged my head up by my hair and stuck the gun in my face. ‘So you are Rearden,’ he said, caressing my cheek with the barrel. ‘We’re very interested in you, Rearden.’

A cool voice said, ‘He’s not Rearden, of course.’

The skipper swung away and I saw the Chinese, Chang Pi-wu, who looked at me expressionlessly. Next to him stood a tall man with ash-blond hair, who, at that moment, was fitting a cigarette into a long holder. He dipped his hand into the pocket of his elegant dressing-gown, produced a lighter and flicked it into flame.

‘Stannard is the name, I believe,’ said Wheeler. ‘Owen Stannard.’ He lit his cigarette. ‘So thoughtful of you to join us, Mr Stannard. It saves me the trouble of looking for you.’