Running Blind / The Freedom Trap (50 page)

The launch came by again, going at a hell of a clip, and the boat I was holding on to rocked heavily in the swell of its passage. This provoked an outburst of rage from above. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doin’?’ the man screamed, and I pictured him as a peppery, curry-voiced retired colonel.

His wife said, ‘You’re making more noise than anyone else, George. Come back to bed!’

There was the slap of bare feet on the deck as they padded away. ‘All right; but a fat lot of sleep I’ll get,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ll see the manager tomorrow. We can’t have this happenin’ at night.’

I grinned and swam a couple of boats down the line before climbing ashore. Then I dog-trotted towards the place I’d assigned to meet Alison, hoping that she’d made it. I was worried about Alison for a number of reasons. Back in Ireland she had been distrustful of me and had wondered out loud if I hadn’t sold out to the Scarperers. Now I was distrustful of her.

If what Wheeler had said was true—that Mackintosh had blown the gaff—then I was really in trouble because Mackintosh wouldn’t do a thing like that unheedingly. But why should I believe Wheeler? What incentive did he have to tell me the truth? In that case there was only one other person who could have sold out—Alison!

What brought that line of thought up short with a jerk was the recent episode on
Artina.
If Alison had sold out then why did she rescue me? Why did she pop off with that natty
pistol of hers to wound one man, kill another, and get Stannard off the hot spot? That made even less sense. But I determined to keep a careful eye on Mrs Alison Smith in the future—providing she hadn’t been run down by that launch.

I waited for fifteen minutes before she arrived. She was exhausted—so weary she couldn’t pull herself from the water. I hauled her out and waited for a while until she recovered sufficiently to speak. Her first words were, ‘That damned boat—nearly ran me down twice.’

‘Did they see you?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t think so—they were just lucky.’

‘They nearly got me,’ I said. ‘What happened to our boat?’

‘I saw a man find the grapnel,’ she said. ‘And I knew you’d be in trouble. I went to the bows and climbed the anchor cable, and just let the boat drift.’

‘Lucky for me you did. You’re pretty handy with that popgun.’

‘Six yards—no more. Anyone could do that.’

‘Anyone wasn’t there,’ I said. ‘You were.’

She looked about her. ‘We’d better move. We could be picked up if we stay here.’

I shook my head. ‘We’re pretty safe. This harbour has so many inlets and creeks that Wheeler and his boys would have to search ten miles of coastline. But you’re right—we’d better move on. It’s a long walk back to the hotel and I want to get there before it’s light. Do you feel fit?’

Alison got to her feet. ‘I’m ready.’

It would take us, I estimated, a good hour to walk back to the hotel. We walked silently; I don’t know what Alison
was thinking but I was busy wondering what the hell to do next. At last I said, ‘Well, I’ve fallen down on this one—my instructions were to bring Slade back or to kill him. I’ve done neither.’

‘I can’t see that you could have done differently,’ said Alison.

‘Yes, I could—I could have killed Slade on that yacht but I tried to bring him out.’

‘It isn’t easy to kill a sleeping man,’ she said, and shivered. ‘It isn’t easy to kill anyone.’

I gave her a sideways glance and wondered about her. All that training must have produced something. ‘How many men have you killed?’

‘One,’ she said, and her voice caught. ‘To…night.’ She started to shake violently.

I put my arm around her. ‘Take it easy. It’s a bad reaction, but it wears off in time. I know.’ I damned Mackintosh for what he had done to his daughter. Yet at least he had made her into a professional and she would respond to the right stimulus just like one of Pavlov’s dogs. To take her mind off what she had just done I said, ‘We must leave the hotel.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But what then?’

‘I’m damned if I know,’ I admitted. ‘It all depends on how much damage we’ve done to Wheeler’s yacht. If she moves we’re finished.’

‘And if she doesn’t?’

‘We have another chance.’

‘You can’t go on board again—that won’t work twice.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I must think of something else.’ We fell into a dispirited silence as we trudged along. We were both wet and it was cold in the early hours of the morning. We were also tired, and none of this helped us to think straight.

The sun was rising as we came into Floriana and there were a few people stirring in the streets. During our long walk our clothes had pretty well dried out and we didn’t
attract undue attention. Presently we passed workmen with ladders who were stringing up rows of gay bunting across the street. ‘Those boys have started early,’ I said. ‘What’s the celebration?’

‘There’s a
festa
today,’ said Alison. ‘They’re always having them here.’

I remembered the disgruntled man who had complained about noise in the harbour. ‘They’ll be having fireworks tonight, then.’

‘Inevitably. The two go together in Malta.’

Something prickled at the back of my mind—the first stirrings of an idea. I left it alone to grow in its own good time. ‘How much money have we got?’

‘About three thousand pounds—including the five hundred I gave you.’

At least we were well equipped with the sinews of war. The idea burgeoned a little more, but I’d have to study the plans of
Artina’s
sister ship a little more closely before I could bring it into the open.

A sleepy porter gave us our keys at the hotel and we went up to our rooms. At my door, I said, ‘Come in here for a minute.’ When we were inside I poured a big lump of scotch into a tooth-glass and gave it to Alison. ‘Put that inside you and you’ll feel better. Get yourself a hot shower and a change of clothing, but make it fast. We’re evacuating—I want us to be out of here within a half-hour.’

She gave a wan smile. ‘Where are we going?’

‘We’re going to ground—just where I don’t know. But Wheeler will have his men checking the hotels; he might have started already. Just bring essentials—the money, passport and aircraft documents.’

When she had gone I followed my own advice. I knocked back a fast scotch and took a three-minute hot shower which chased away some of the aches and put some warmth in my bones again. My stomach was black with
bruises. I dressed quickly and began to assemble the things I needed, not that there was much.

Then I sat down and began to study the ship plan. Fortunately it was scaled and I was able to measure distances fairly accurately. Not only was the idea burgeoning but blossoms were appearing. It all depended on whether Wheeler was immobilized in Marsamxett Harbour for another night.

Alison came back carrying one of those big bags which magically hold about six times more than they appear to. We left the hotel by a rear entrance and five minutes later we were at Kingsgate boarding a bus for Senglea.

Alison seemed brighter and said, ‘Where are we going—and why?’

I paid the fare. ‘I’ll tell you when we get there.’ The bus was crowded and I didn’t want to talk about how I was going to kill Slade and Wheeler in public. The driver of the bus laboured under the misapprehension that his name was Jack Brabham, or perhaps he thought that the little shrine to the Virgin, so gaily decked in flowers, was a reasonable substitute for brakes. We got to Senglea in a remarkably short time.

Senglea is a peninsula jutting out into the Grand Harbour between Dockyard Creek and French Creek. Since the rundown of the Royal Navy and the demilitarization of the Naval Dockyard in Malta it seemed to be a reasonable place to find what I wanted—a boatshed, preferably with its own slipway.

It was still too early to do anything about that but the cafĂs were already open so we had breakfast, and very welcome it was. Over the bacon and eggs I said, ‘Were you seen last night—seen to be recognized again?’

Alison shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Wheeler appeared to be uncertain about whether I had assistance,’ I said. ‘Of course, he knows now—but he
doesn’t know who. I think you’re elected to do the shopping; it might not be safe for me on the streets.’

‘What do you want?’ she asked concisely.

‘I want a boatshed. I only want it for twelve hours but we can’t say so—we’ll probably have to take it on three months’ lease. I’m a boat designer and I’m working on a new type of…er…hydrofoil. I don’t want anyone—my rivals, for instance—looking over my shoulder while I’m doing it, so I want discretion and security. That’s the story.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then you push off and buy us a boat. Something about twenty feet overall and hellish fast, with big engines.’

‘Outboard or inboard?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Outboards will be cheaper, but they must be powerful. You bring the boat round to the shed.’ I looked through the window of the cafe. ‘Over there is a scrap metal yard; I should be able to get most of what I want over there, including the hire of a welding outfit.’

Alison’s brow wrinkled. ‘So you have a fast boat and a welding outfit.’ She waited patiently.

‘Then you hire a truck. Can you drive a truck?’ She gave me a look of silent contempt, and I grinned. She had probably passed her driving test with flying colours—in a Chieftain tank. I said, ‘You take the truck and you buy enough fireworks to fill the boat.’

Now I had got her attention. ‘Fireworks!’

‘Big ones—especially the ones that go bang and throw out a shower of pretty lights. None of your paltry penny bangers; I want the big professional stuff. If they’re so keen on fireworks here there should be quite a stock somewhere in this island. Think you can do that?’

‘I can do it,’ she said. ‘Now tell me why the hell I should.’

I pulled out the ship plan and laid it on the table. ‘I’ve been on board
Artina
and everything I saw fitted in with this plan, so I think we can trust it.’ I tapped with my finger.
‘The engine room, containing two 350 hp Rolls-Royce diesels which gulp a hell of a lot of fuel. Under the engine room a supply of fresh water and the ready use fuel tank which holds 1,200 gallons.’

My finger moved on the plan. ‘Forward of the engine room is Wheeler’s cabin, and farther forward are the crew’s quarters. Under that, extending for twenty feet, is a double bottom containing the main fuel supply—5,350 gallons of fuel oil. We know she’s just taken on fuel so the tanks are full.’

I did a bit of measuring with my finger nail. ‘To penetrate that tank we have to ram a hole at least three feet below the water line—preferably deeper. Her plating is mild steel, five-sixteenths of an inch thick—to punch a hole through that will need a hell of a lot of power.’

I looked up. ‘I’m going to build a ram on the boat you’re going to get me. At one time ramming was an orthodox naval tactic—all naval vessels had rams. But this is going to be a little different; it’s going to be a combination ram and fireship. The boat will be full of fireworks. When we ram the tank we let out the oil. It floats. The fireworks go off pop and set the oil on fire.’

‘So you’re going to smoke out Wheeler?’

I looked at her in silence for a moment, then I said, ‘Don’t be silly, I’m going to burn the bastard out.’

It all took time, and we had little enough of that. I was right in thinking that I could get a suitable boatshed in Senglea, but moving in quickly was something else again. A few enquiries made in the district soon turned up just what I wanted but the dickering promised to be protracted and it was ten-thirty that morning before the deal went through and only then because of the production of a hundred pounds in crisp, British fivers.

As time was getting short I sent Alison off to buy the boat, which I hoped wouldn’t prove to be as difficult and time-consuming as renting the shed. In the meantime I went to the scrap metal yard and rummaged about until I found what I wanted. I selected a few lengths of angle-iron, a lot of nuts and bolts and a steel bar, eight feet long and an inch and a half in diameter. I was also able to hire a welding outfit there, together with two full bottles of oxygen and acetylene and a pair of goggles.

As I paid out for this lot I reflected that the expense account for this lark was going to raise some Treasury official’s hair. I could imagine him querying the purchase of perhaps a quarter of a ton of fireworks and acidly scratching out a memo asking Mrs Smith for further verification. But perhaps Mrs Smith also had training in cooking the swindle sheet.

I got all my equipment to the shed and waited around for Alison. I stared across the Grand Harbour to Valletta and wished I could see through it and into Marsamxett Harbour where
Artina
was still anchored—I hoped. At one-thirty I was still waiting and coming to a slow boil. Time was wasting and I had a hell of a lot to do.

It was nearly two o’clock before she arrived and the steam was blowing out of my ears. I caught the painter she tossed, and said curtly, ‘What kept you?’

‘I had to go to Sliema. Is she what you wanted?’

I studied the boat. She was a sleek, Italian-built job with two 100 hp Kiekhaefer Mercury outboard motors. Her lines looked good and those big engines would push her along at a fair lick. Alison said, ‘I got more than thirty knots out of her on the way here.’

‘You brought her from Sliema? You must have passed
Artina.’

‘She’s still there.’ I sagged a little in relief. ‘They’re doing a lot of work on her stern. When I passed they were hoisting out one of the propellers.’

‘Were they, by God?’ I laughed. ‘Then it will be an all day job.’ I jerked my thumb at the shed. ‘There’s a cradle in there. Help me get this thing up the slip and out of sight.’

We ran the cradle down the slip, floated the boat into it, and then winched the lot into the shed. Alison looked at her watch. ‘I’ve arranged for the fireworks, too. They’ll be ready to be picked up at three.’

‘Then you’d better push off.’

She hesitated. ‘Can you manage alone?’

‘I should be able to. There’s a block and tackle up there—I can use that to take the engines out.’