A Twist Of Sand

I took the battered King's Ransom carton from the suitcase and locked the door. Mac looked interested as the key turned, but he knew he could batter me into submission with the wrench. I tipped the contents, the dull uncut stones, on to the table.

Mac made a curious gesture as he flattened the pile down with the palm of his hand.

"That's very expensive whisky," he said. It was the only time I had ever seen Mac shaky.

"Enough," I said briefly.

"You taking them out?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I'm taking them in. You and me Mac. Two hundred thousand quid's worth, if I guess right. Maybe more."

"Do you want me to open the valves?" he asked cryptically. I knew he was in on it now as much as myself.

"No, Mac," I said, as if we were discussing a minor engine defect and not the biggest thing in diamonds since Cullinan. "In a little more than twenty-four hours from now you will stop the engines and report to me that something has come adrift in the steering gear — the rudder pintles have gone, or any other bloody technicality you like. You'll think up something, or you'll put it wrong yourself."

Mac grinned. He knew exactly what I meant.

"I'll lay the Phylira against the current. The Trout current, I call it, just for old times' sake."

Mac winced. I didn't think it would touch him so deeply.

"If you've got some real whisky somewhere, I'd find it useful," was all he said.

I pulled a bottle of my special Johnny Walker Black Label from a locker. Mac took it straight.

"You've a lot of very fine whisky in this cabin," he muttered.

"The Trout current sweeps down here at anything between four and six knots, close inshore," I told him. "You'll have to leave enough way on her to cope with that. It swings and weaves through these rocks and shoals like a matelot on a bender. It'll be damn tricky, even if the weather is calm. This swell is enough in itself."

"I don't get it," said Mac. "I've stopped the engines with just enough way on to hold her against the current and I report to you on the bridge that the steering gear's amiss. What then?"

"We go over the side to inspect the fault," I said crisply.

Mac tapped the edge of the whisky glass with the wrench until it rang dully, like a bell of doom.

"What time is all this?" he said slowly.

"About three-thirty a.m." I said.

"And then?"

"I'll have this old wreck lying a bit to the nor'ard of where I intend to land," I said. "As soon as the boat hits the water, the Trout current will sweep it away from the Phylira. In two minutes we'll be lost in the darkness. I know the way after that. I'll give a course of three-one-oh degrees just before we make our ' inspection.' That'll take the Phylira well out of the way."

Mac shook his head. "They'll simply turn round and search for us. A couple of hours and it will be full daylight. They'll find us, sure as nuts."

"You're wrong, Mac," I said quietly. "The Royal Navy never found the U-boat I sank. And no one in this rotten old tub, let alone that soak Olafsen, will find you and me where we are going." I smiled grimly at his set face. "I give you my assurance of that, Mac. I know."

Mac eyed me for a long time. "So it was a U-boat then? You never said so at the court martial."

"No, Mac," I said. "And the reasons still hold good to-day. There are others also."

Mac was as sharp as quicksilver.

"The… whale noises… special machinery?"

"Special machinery," I said, looking hard at him. "A lot of men died because of that special machinery."

"But you never fired a shot," Mac protested.

I heard the harsh grate in my own voice. "I know how to kill men without using torpedoes or bullets, Mac. The sea and I. See that chart?" I deliberately put my hand across it so he wouldn't see the whorls and the depth readings. "That's a murder weapon, Mac. I used it once to kill men. It's also worth more than all those diamonds, if I get back to do what I want to do. I used it once and I'm going to use it again — and you and I will be rich men."

"You're a more ruthless bastard than I ever imagined," he said slowly. "But I'm with you. This Skeleton Coast is eating into you, Skipper. If it's as bad as I think, it'll also get you in the end. Is that the plot?"

"Not all," I said. "It's all deadly simple. Once we're clear of the Phylira, I'll take you in to land. Can we use the small boat with the engine? Is it working?"

"If it's like everything else on this ship, it isn't," he said acidly. "But I'll make it work by tomorrow night." The thought struck him.

"But the sound of the engine — they'll pick us up easily…"

I heard the harshness in my voice again. "They bloody well won't because it will be drowned by the thunder of the surf. We'll be right close in, Mac, so close that it'll probably scare the pants off you. I want that engine working — well. I don't fancy the idea of taking anything in under sail through a deadly channel at night."

Mac flicked another measure of whisky into the glass.