Standing there on the extreme edge of the bridge wing, I suddenly realized I was exposed to the view of any hawk-eyed Arab standing guard on the deck below. I turned back to the shelter of the wheelhouse. No point in searching for that log book now. With the radio room blasted by some sort of explosive device, the log would either be destroyed or in safe keeping. Hals might have it, but more likely it was in the hands of the people who had hired him. In any case, it didn’t really matter now. The destruction of the ship’s means of communication could only mean one thing — piracy. She had been seized from her owners, either whilst on passage or else in some Middle Eastern port where the harbour authorities were in such a state of chaos that they were in no position to prevent the seizure of a 100,000-ton ship.
I had another look at the blackened fabric of the radio room. There was absolutely no doubt, it had been blasted by an explosion and that had been followed by fire. I wondered what had happened to the poor wretched Sparks. Had he been there when the explosion occurred? I didn’t attempt to break into the room, but at least there was no odour of putrefaction, only the faint smell of burnt rubber and paint. I checked the crates again, wondering why they needed to replace the radio equipment. For purposes of entering a port to sell cargo or for delivering the ship a small VHF set would be quite adequate.
Other questions flooded my mind. Why hadn’t they organized the replacement crew in advance, instead of harbouring the ship against the cliffs here? Why the delay, running the risk of her being sighted by an Omani reconnaissance plane monitoring movements through the Straits or picked out from some routine surveillance satellite photograph? Surely speed in an operation like this was essential. I moved across to the port side to see if the radar room had also been damaged.
It was then that a shadow moved by the door to the port bridge wing. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, heard the click of metal slotting home as I spun round, and a voice, with a strong accent, said, ‘Who are you?’
He was standing in silhouette against the stars. The deck guard presumably, for I could see the robes and the gun. ‘Second mate,’ I said. ‘Just checking the bridge. No need for you to worry.’ My voice sounded a little hoarse, the gun pointed at my stomach. It was some sort of machine pistol.
‘Below plees. Nobody come here.’
‘Whose orders?’ I asked.
‘Below. Below. You go below — quick!’ His voice was high and nervous, the gun in his hand jerking, the white of his eyes staring.
‘What’s your name?’
He shook his head angrily. ‘Go quick.’
‘Who gave you orders to keep the ship’s officers off the bridge?’
‘You go — quick,’ he repeated, and he jabbed the muzzle of his machine pistol hard into my ribs.
I couldn’t see the man’s face, it was in shadow, but I could sense his nervousness. ‘Is Captain Hals allowed on the bridge?’ I asked. I don’t know whether he understood the question, but he didn’t answer, jabbing the gun into me again, indicating that I should get moving.
I never saw what he looked like, for he didn’t come down with me into the lower part of the ship, simply standing at the top of the bridge companion and motioning me below with the barrel of his pistol.
Back on C deck I went straight to the captain’s office. The door was just past the central well of the stairs. There was no answer to my knock so I tried the handle. To my surprise it opened and the light was on inside. There was a desk with a typewriter on it, some papers, steel filing cabinets against the inboard bulkhead, two or three chairs. The papers proved to be invoices, and there was a radio instruction manual. The inner door leading to the day cabin was ajar and, though the light was on, there was nobody there. The decor was the same as in the officers’ mess-room, the walls grey, the furnishings and curtains orange. It looked bright and cheerful, no indication at all of any violence.
The bedroom door, outboard on the far side, was not only shut but bolted from the inside. I called out and after a moment a sleepy voice answered. ‘Ja. Who is it?’ And when I told him, he asked, ‘Is it already time for the night food?’
I glanced at my watch. ‘It’s almost twenty past seven,’ I told him.
‘Ja. It is almost time.’
I heard movement, then the door was unbolted and he emerged completely naked, his eyes barely open and his blond hair standing up in a tousled mop, so that if he’d had a straw in his mouth, he would have made a very good caricature of a stage yokel. ‘What is it you want?’ he asked, standing there with his mouth open in a yawn and scratching himself.
‘The name of the ship,’ I said. ‘I want to know what’s happened to her and why.’
He stopped scratching then, his mouth suddenly a tight line, his eyes watching me. ‘So. You want to ask questions — now, before the voyage is begun. Why?’ And when I told him I’d just come from the wheel-house he smiled, nodding his head. ‘Sit down.’ He waved me to the settle and dived back into the bedroom. ‘So you have seen our bombed-out radio room and come to the obvious conclusion, that there is an attempt at piracy and they make a balls of it, eh? But take my advice, Mr Rodin, do not leap to the conclusion that they are stupid people and incompetent. They learn their lesson very well.’
‘What happened to the radio officer?’ I asked.
‘Dead, I think.’
‘And the other officers, the crew?’
‘One, per’aps two, killed, also several wounded.’ There was the sound of water running and then he said, ‘Better you don’t ask about that.’ And after a moment he emerged in white shorts and shirt, running a comb through his damp hair. ‘You want to stay alive, you keep your mouth shut. These people are very tough.’
‘Who?’
‘You will see in good time, my friend. There are five of them and they mean business. So, if you don’t like it, better you don’t do anything quick, without proper thought. Understand?’
I nodded, conscious that his choice of words distanced himself from them. ‘Where do you come into it?’ I asked him.
He didn’t even answer that, slipping the comb into the breast pocket of his shirt, watching me all the time out of those very blue eyes. Finally he said, ‘Per’aps when we know each other better, then maybe we could talk freely. For the present, you are the second officer and I am your captain. That is all between us. Right?’
I got to my feet then. I couldn’t force him to talk. But at least I knew he wasn’t part of what had already happened. ‘On the dhow,’ I said, ‘when we were coming up from Ras al Khaimah—‘ I hesitated, wondering how to put it. Since I didn’t know what the operation was I couldn’t be sure he was opposed to it. But I wanted him to know that, if there was any question of pollution, and he was opposing it, he could count on me. ‘When you knew who I was, you talked about my wife. You said Karen should have been more political, that she should have threatened the authorities, demanded a law of the sea to control pollution. Those were your words. You meant them, didn’t you?’
‘Ja. Of course. But the Petros Jupiter, that was only a ten thousand ton spillage.’
‘But is that the reason you’re here, on this ship?’
‘What reason?’
‘Pollution,’ I said. ‘The same reason you risked your life in that tanker on the Niger.’
‘Ah, you know about that.’ He sat down and waved me back to my seat. ‘I risked my job, too. After that nobody want to employ me, not even as an ordinary seaman.’ He laughed. ‘Then I got this job.’
‘Through Baldwick?’
He shook his head. ‘I was in Dubai and I hear’ some talk…’ He reached into a locker beside the table. ‘You like a whisky?’ He poured it neat, not waiting for me to answer. ‘You know, the first bad slick I ever see, the first real pollution? It was in South Africa. I had just taken my mate’s certificate and was on leave…’ His mother was apparently from Cape Town and he had been staying with relatives, some people called Waterman, who were English South African, not Afrikaner, and very involved in the environment. ‘Victor was a marine biologist. Connie, too, but she had a baby to look after. You remember the Wafra?’