The Black Tide

He stopped there, wiping his face with his handkerchief. ‘But the politicians, the bureaucrats, they don’t care. Nothing will be done, nothing at all until the industrial nations that demand all this oil are themselves threatened with pollution on a massive scale.’ He was looking straight at me, his eyes wide and staring, his whole body radiating an extraordinary intensity. ‘Then maybe they get tough, so the bastards can be arrested on the high seas. And if,’ he went on, his teeth showing white through his beard, ‘when the captain is arrested, he is thrown into the sea to float in his own filthy oil until he is half dead — like the

birds, eh? — like the keel-haul updated — then, I tell you, man — then there will be no more oil slicks, no more venting at sea. But not till then. You understand?’ He leaned forward, tapping my knee. ‘You worry about the Petros Jupiter. What about the Amoco Cadiz} And the Metula down in the Magellan Straits — fifty thousand tons in an area where the cold makes biological breakdown of the tarry mousse much slower. Tanker after tanker. And the venting and the leaks — they go on all the time. How much oil do you think is spilled into the sea from bilges, engine-rooms and illicit tank cleaning operations? You will not believe me, but I tell you, it is one and a half million tons of oil. Ja.’ He nodded, cracking his knuckles, an angry brightness in his eyes. ‘There must be a stop put to it.’ His mouth opened to emit a harsh barking laugh. ‘Drown them in it. That is good justice. Do you agree?’ He was deadly serious, his eyes very wide, almost staring, and fixed on mine as though conveying some unspoken message. ‘So. We have another talk some time. But when we are at sea,’ he added, glancing at his watch. ‘Now we will go to eat.’

He got to his feet, padding barefoot back into the bedroom to put on some shoes, while I sat finishing my whisky and thinking about it. Almost everybody involved in the cleaning of oiled birds had probably wished at some time it was the men responsible for the slick they were trying to clean. Rough justice, but if those responsible for a spillage were forced to swim for it in their own filth … it was politically impossible, of course. Karen had talked about it. So had others at

the Cornish cleansing station, the women mainly. But how many nations would agree to pass and enforce such a Draconian law?

It started me thinking about the ship again and Hals saying that nothing would be done until the industrial nations were faced with the threat of massive oil pollution. Was that his plan? An interesting voyage, he had said — different nationalities, different motives. ‘What’s our destination?’ I asked him.

‘You will be told soon.’

‘Do you know it?’ He didn’t answer that, his foot on the chair, bending to tie the laces of a new pair of canvas deck shoes. ‘What about the name of the ship?’ I asked.

‘They don’t have a name for it yet.’

‘But the original name?’

‘It has been painted out.’

‘Yes, but what was it?’

‘You ask too many questions.’ He came back into the day cabin, and at that moment the door of the office was swung open and a voice behind me said, ‘Captain. I told you, no one is to go on the bridge.’ It was a soft, sibilant voice, the English quite fluent. ‘Is this the man?’

I swung round to see a slight, dark figure standing in the doorway. He was bearded, with thick, curly black hair, dressed in very pale khaki trousers and tunic, a chequered scarf at his throat and a pistol holstered in his leather belt. But it was the face, the dark eyes, the birthmark just visible beneath the beard … I jumped to my feet. ‘Qasim!’ The name was

out before I could stop myself, before I had time to think what his presence meant.

I saw the sudden wariness in his eyes, the hesitation as he considered his reply. ‘We have met before?’ He sounded uncertain, his hand going, almost automatically it seemed, to the pistol in its holster.

‘The Shaft al Arab,’ I said, recovering myself. ‘Remember? You were brought on board by the Shah’s police and we took you to Kuwait.’

He thought back, frowning. ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ He nodded, his hand coming slowly away from the gun. ‘I remember now.’ He was smiling then, some of the tension going out of him. ‘You were very good to me, all of you, on board that ship. And I had had a bad time of it, you know.’

‘You made a good recovery I see.’

‘Yes, I am fully recovered, thank you. But my name is Sadeq now. Abol Sadeq.’ He came forward into the day cabin holding out his hand. ‘I am sorry. I remember your face, of course. You were the second mate, I think. But I forget your name. Excuse me.’ I told him my name and he nodded and shook my hand. ‘Of course.’ He was looking at me curiously. ‘You have lost your wife. Mr Baldwick told me. I am sorry.’ The dark eyes stared at me a moment. ‘Are you the man who is in the wheelhouse just now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not, if I’m second mate?’