Medusa

I went up to the bridge. Everyone was back at their stations and the officer on the fo’c’s’le reporting the anchor up and down, the shorelights beginning to move as the ship got under way. The harbour and police launches were maintaining station on the port side and one of their officers shouting through a loudhailer, his amplified voice clearly audible and nobody paying attention, the beat of the engines increasing, the ship gathering speed. Port Mahon! Why Mahon? Why was Medusa ordered to Menorca immediately? Regardless of the Maltese.

‘Vessel putting out from Kalkara, sir. Looks like a patrol boat.’

It was Mault who acknowledged the lookout’s report, the Captain merely raising his glasses to look at it.

‘They’re signalling, sir. An order to stop.’

Gareth nodded. ‘Maximum revs as soon as you’re clear of that ferry.’

I had tucked myself as inconspicuously as possible against the rear bulkhead, between the chart table and the echo-sounder, which was clicking away over my left shoulder. I saw the ferry emerge virtually from under our bows as we sliced into its wake, the rising hum of the engines almost swamped by the surge of the bow wave as Gareth pulled open the port-side door to look back at the launches.

‘That’s not a patrol boat.’ Mault’s voice sounded high and a little tense. ‘It’s that big customs launch.’ He strode across the bridge to Gareth. ‘What happens if they open fire?’

‘They won’t.’ Gareth’s voice was firm and absolutely calm.

‘You mean they won’t dare. Then what about that cruiser?’

Gareth spun round. ‘Our orders are specific. Leave Malta immediately. Are you seriously suggesting the Russians would risk an international incident of such magnitude? To open fire on a British warship in a friendly harbour would amount to something very close to a declaration of war — against us, against Nato.’ He had spoken with sudden heat, an outburst almost. It indicated the pressure he was now under, the nervous strain. I also realised that his words were spoken for the benefit of everybody on the bridge, and thus for the ship as a whole.

He turned to the open doorway again, his back and the raising of his glasses indicating that the subject was closed. Nobody spoke after that, except for essential orders and reports, the hum of machinery, the sound of water, the shuddering and clattering of loose items, everything building to a crescendo as the two double reduction geared turbines piled on full power and the ship’s twin props reached maximum revs. We were out past Gallows Point, the end of the breakwater approaching fast and the light at the end of it swinging across us so that every five seconds we were caught in its beam. Nobody fired at us, nobody followed as we pounded past it and out to sea, where we turned to port and set course to clear Gozo and leave the volcanic island of Pantelleria to port.

Craig pulled out Chart 165, and looking over his shoulder as he pencilled in our final course past the southern tip of Sardinia, I saw on the extreme left of it the eastern half of Menorca. Six hundred miles, say thirty to thirty-four hours at full speed. Why the hurry? And what would my position be when we got there? Customs, health and immigration would come on board in the usual way when we arrived and it was very unlikely Gareth would attempt to conceal my presence.

‘If you care to come with me, sir, I’ll show you to your cabin.’ It was Petty Officer Jarvis and he had a bag in his hand. ‘I’ve looked out some clothes of the Captain’s — shirt, sweater, pyjamas, socks, that sort of thing. He thought they’d fit all right, you being about his size.’

The cabin was two decks down, just aft of the room housing the gyro compass machinery. It had two berths, both unoccupied, and when I finally turned in, lying there, conscious of the movement of the ship and unable to sleep, I couldn’t help thinking how odd it was to be wearing the pyjamas of a man who would probably cuckold me within the week, may indeed have already done so. But that hardly seemed so important now as I stared into the darkness, my mind going over and over the events of the day. I thought of Wade, that telephone conversation, the trouble he had taken to trace my background, that bastard Evans trying to implicate me, and now this ship, sent to Malta, then, just after a nasty little shooting incident, sent off on a wild dash to Mahon. Why? And we had actually left Grand Harbour at action stations with gun crews closed up. Turning it over in my mind it seemed so incredible that at length I couldn’t think of anything else.

III

Mercenary Man

Chapter One