The Black Tide

‘In international waters? Didn’t you see the flag she was flying, the colours they’d painted her in? Black, white and green, with red and two stars on the hoist, those are the Iraqi colours. I think Lloyd’s List will show the Shah Mohammed to be properly registered as an Iraqi vessel. They’re sure to have made it legal, to that extent, and if they have, then the Navy couldn’t possibly act without government authority, and you can just imagine the British government authorizing the seizure of a ship belonging to Iraq. It could upset the Arab world, spark off a major international row.’

I thought his twisted legal mind was splitting straws. ‘And if we wait,’ I said, ‘until we have evidence of the two ships meeting — what difference will that make?’

He shrugged. ‘Not a lot, I admit. But two ships meeting at a lonely group of islands does suggest a purpose. At least it’s something I can argue.’

‘But you’ve got the proof already,’ Mark insisted. ‘That’s the Howdo Stranger out there. No doubt of it. Repainted. Renamed. But it’s still the same ship, the one Dad insured and the owners claim has disappeared. It’s there. And you’ve got photographs to prove it.’

‘Given time and a court of law.’ Saltley nodded. ‘Yes, I think we probably could prove it. But I’ve got

to persuade top-level civil servants at the Foreign Office to advise the Secretary of State he’s justified in authorizing what amounts to a flagrant breach of international law. I’ve got to convince them there’s no risk to them or to the country, that what they find on board will prove absolutely the hostile and deadly nature of the operation.’ He was standing in the hatch and he leaned forward, his hands on the teak decking. ‘If you can tell me what that operation is…’ He paused, his eyes staring at me, very blue under the dark peaked cap. ‘But you don’t know, do you? You don’t know what it’s all about and you never thought to question Choffel about it.’ His eyes shifted to the stationary tanker. ‘So we wait for the Aurora B. Agreed?’ He stared at us for a moment, then, when nobody answered him, he turned abruptly and went down into the saloon.

A moment later he was back with glasses and a bottle of gin, a conciliatory gesture, for I don’t think he liked it any more than I did. We drank in moody silence, none of us doubting now that the Aurora B would appear in due course, but all wondering how long it would be before we were released from our lonely vigil.

The rest of the day proved fine and bright. We lay hove-to off the western coast of Selvagem Grande till nightfall, then shifted our station two miles to the north with the light bearing 145°. There was no sign of the tanker. I was certain she was still there, lying hove-to without lights. Saltley was certain, too, but when the moon rose and still no sign of her, he had the

sail hoisted and we back-tracked towards the position where we had originally found her.

I didn’t like it and I said so. I was certain our metal mast would show up as a clear blip on their radar screen. After a while we turned southwest towards Selvagem Pequena, reducing sail until we were moving at little more than three knots. We heard the swell breaking on the rocks before we could see the island, and then suddenly there was our tanker lying just to the south of Fora.

We turned then, heading north, back towards Selvagem Grande. ‘I think she’s seen us.’ Mark was watching through the glasses. ‘She’s under way and heading towards us.’

We hoisted the genoa again and seemed to hold

our own for a while, then she came up on us very fast,

steaming at full ahead and pushing a mountain of water ahead of her broad deep-laden bows. We altered course to starb’d as though making for the landing place on Selvagem Grande. The tanker also altered course, so that the bows were less than a cable’s length away as she steamed up abreast of us. A searchlight stabbed the night from high up on her superstructure,

Doding the water round us until it picked up the e of our sails and fixed on us, blindingly, as

be long black hull went thumping past. The stink of diesel fumes enveloped us seconds before we were picked up by the massive bow wave and flung sideways nto the suck and break of such a massive bulk being driven through the water at about fifteen knots.

For a moment all hell seemed to break loose. Toni

Bartello was flung against me so that I ended up half-bent over one of the sheet winches with a sharp pain in the lower part of my rib cage. Pamela was on her knees clinging to the guardrail and down below the crash of crockery and other loose objects flying about the saloon was almost as loud as the slatting of sails and boom. And all the time the searchlight remained fixed on us.