The Black Tide

Later we took a taxi to Gavinas, a fish restaurant built out over the sea beyond the old whaling station to the west of Funchal. We had fish soup, I remember, espada, which is the black scabbard fish peculiar to Madeira, the light vinho verde to drink and fresh strawberries to finish with. It was a strange meal, for it was part celebration, part farewell, and sitting over our coffee and Malmsey we were all of us a little subdued, Saltley and myself faced now with the problem of convincing the authorities, the other three with a voyage of some 800 miles ahead of them. And all the time the flop and suck of the waves around the concrete piers below us.

We left shortly after ten and the last we saw of the depleted crew was three faces calling farewell from the dark interior of the taxi as it drove them on from the Casino Park to the harbour. ‘Think they’ll be all right?’ Saltley murmured. ‘Mark’s taken the boat from Plymouth to the Hamble and once across the Channel, but Madeira to Gib…’ He stared dubiously at the taxi’s rear lights as it swung into the Avenida do Infante. ‘And Pamela, too,’ he muttered. ‘Mike would never forgive me if anything happened to them.’

‘They’ll be all right,’ I said.

‘He’s only nineteen, you know.’ The taxi disappeared down the hill and he turned abruptly into the hotel. ‘Well, let’s have a drink. I expect you’re right.’

It was over that drink that he suddenly said to me, ‘You may find there’s some delay when you get to Gatwick. If there is, don’t worry. These next few days could be very hectic, so any little problem you encounter may take a while to resolve.’

His words could only mean one thing. ‘You heard something — when you were on the destroyer.’

He didn’t answer and I was remembering what Pamela had said about him. ‘They’ll arrest me, is that what you mean?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But since we won’t be together on the flight home I thought it only fair to warn you.’ Which meant, of course, he wouldn’t lift a finger to help me unless it suited him and he thought I could be useful. ‘The deadline is very tight,’ he murmured half to himself. ‘If they are in the Western Approaches tomorrow evening, then I’ve got to get planes up and the ships located by the following morning.’

‘They may not be bound for the Channel.’

‘Where do you think they’re headed for — the States?’ He gave me a lopsided smile and shrugged. ‘The Americans would have them boxed in and boarded before they were within miles of the eastern seaboard, and they know it. They’ll be in the Channel tomorrow night, I’m certain they will.’

We went to our rooms shortly afterwards and in the morning he was gone. The moment of reality had

arrived. I was on my own again, and though I was prepared for it, it still came as a shock after living for several weeks in the close company of others. But then the coach arrived and for a while my thoughts were diverted by the long coastal drive to Santa Cruz and the airport with its views of the Desertas and the lighthouse standing white and lonely on the eastern tip of Madeira.

We were flying against the sun so that it was dark by the time we were over the Channel. The man next to me was sleeping peacefully to the background hum of the engines, everybody in the plane very quiet, even the stewardesses no longer rushing about. All during the flight I had been thinking over what Saltley had said the previous night, and now, over the English Channel, with a strange feeling in my guts that those tankers were somewhere down below me, I found my mind made up. If they were going to detain me at the airport — and I was certain Saltley knew something that he hadn’t passed on to me — then I had nothing to lose. I tore a page out of the inflight magazine Highlife and scribbled on a blank space: Please request press or other media representatives Gatwick to meet Trevor Rodin on arrival — 2 Iraqi tankers, Shah Mohammed and Ghazan Khan, expected English Channel imminent. Terrorists on board. Target not yet known. URGENT URGENT URGENT. Rodin. I reached up and rang for the stewardess.

She was tall and slightly flushed, her hair beginning to come adrift and a faint smell of perspiration as she leaned over the recumbent figure next to me and asked

whether she could get me anything. I handed her the slip of paper and when she had read it, she continued to stare at it, her hands trembling slightly. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’m quite sane.’

Her eyes darted me a quick look, then she hurried away and I saw her conferring with the senior stewardess beside the pantry, both of them staring in my direction. After a moment the older girl nodded and slipped through the door to the flight deck. I sat back then, feeling suddenly relaxed. It was done now. I had committed myself, and even if the captain didn’t radio ahead, the girls would almost certainly talk.

After a few minutes the head stewardess came down the aisle to me. ‘Mr Rodin?’ I nodded. ‘Would you come with me, sir. The Captain would like a word with you.’