Running Blind / The Freedom Trap (46 page)

‘It’s a fueller,’ she said.
‘Artina
is taking on diesel fuel and water already. It seems that Wheeler isn’t going to waste much time here.’

‘Damn!’ I said. ‘I was hoping he’d stay the night. I’d much rather go aboard in darkness.’

‘He doesn’t seem to have any guests,’ she said. ‘And he’s in a hurry. From our point of view those are encouraging signs. Slade might very well be on board.’

‘And a fat lot of use that is if I can’t go aboard to find him. How long do you think refuelling will take?’

‘An hour, maybe.’

‘Time enough to hire a boat,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

We bickered with a Gibraltan longshoreman for the hire of a motor launch and got away with him charging not more than twice the normal rate, and then launched out into the harbour. The fueller and
Artina
were now close-coupled on
the port side, with hoses linking them. Another crew member in a peak cap was supervising—that could be the engineer.

I throttled down as we approached and we drifted by about fifty yards from the starboard side. Someone came into view, looked at us incuriously and then lifted his head to look up at the Rock. He was Chinese.

I said, ‘That, presumably, is Chang Pi-wu. Wheeler must like Chinese cooking if he takes his Chinese chef to sea. I hope the crew like Chinese food.’

‘Maybe they have their own cook.’

‘Maybe.’ I studied the Chinese covertly. Many occidentals claim that all Chinese look alike. They’re wrong—the Chinese physiognomy is as varied as any other and I knew I’d recognize this man if I saw him again. But I’d had practice; I’d lived in the East.

We drifted to the stern of
Artina.
The ports of the rearmost guest cabin were curtained in broad daylight, and I had a good idea of where Slade was lying low. It was exasperating to be so close and not be able to get at him.

Even as I opened the throttle and headed back to the shore I saw a crewman drop into the boat moored at the bottom of
Artina’s
companionway and take off. He was faster than we were and as we handed our launch to the owner I looked out and saw him returning with Wheeler and the skipper. They climbed aboard and the companionway was unshipped and stowed.

An hour later I was burning with a sense of futility as
Artina
moved off and headed out to sea. ‘Where the hell is she going now?’ I demanded.

‘If he’s going east into the Mediterranean to the Greek islands he’ll refuel at Malta,’ said Alison. ‘It would be the logical thing to do. Let’s go and find out where he’s cleared for.’

So we did, and Alison was right—not that it made me feel any better. ‘Another four days?’ I asked despondently.

‘Another four days,’ she agreed. ‘But we might have better luck at Valletta.’

‘I’d like that yacht to have an accident,’ I said. ‘Just enough to delay her for one night. You don’t happen to have any limpet mines about you?’

‘Sorry.’

I stared moodily at the white speck disappearing into the distance. ‘That Chinese worries me,’ I said. ‘He ought to worry Slade even more.’

‘Why ever should he?’

‘Communist Albania has ceased to hew to the Moscow line. Enver Hoxha, the Albanian party boss, has read the Little Red Book and thinks the thoughts of Mao. I wonder if Slade knows he’s in the hands of an Albanian?’

Alison wore a half-smile. ‘I was wondering when you’d get there,’ she said.

‘I got there a long time ago—probably before you did. It would be very nice for the Chinese if they could get hold of Slade—a top British intelligence man and a top Russian intelligence man in the same package. They’d squeeze him dry in a month and they wouldn’t care how they did it.’

I shrugged. ‘And the damned fool thinks he’s going home to Moscow.’

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 cafĂs 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.

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.