No doubt about it now, it was a ship hull-down ahead of us. I shouted to Saltley, my voice echoing Pamela’s, and the others came tumbling up on deck, The breeze was picking up and we were moving through the water at a good five knots. Nobody spoke, all of us staring intently, willing it to be the ship we were looking for. The minutes passed slowly, the hull gradually lifting above the horizon until at last we knew it was a tanker. What is more, she was hove-to; either that or she was anchored, for the bearing didn’t change.
The time was 11.17. The date February 19. Day thirty since the Aurora B had sailed. Saltley turned to Pamela. ‘I think I’d like you sunbathing on the fore-deck. A bikini if you would, Pam, and a towel so that you can wave as we go close under their stern. I’ll be down below taking pictures through the hatch.’
Mark took the helm and Saltley briefed him very precisely. What he wanted was clear photographic evidence of the name and port of registry painted on the tanker’s stern. We would then sail up the vessel’s port side and he would take shots of the name on the bows.
By the time Pamela came on deck again, stripped almost to the bare flesh and bronzed like a young Amazon, the mist was a dirty smudge astern of us, the sun shining out of a clear blue sky. There was more wind now, the boat close-hauled and slipping fast through the water, the air getting warmer. The tanker was lying with her bows pointing north. She was about three miles away, and beyond her, to the north-west, we could just see the black basalt tops of Selvagem Grande lifting above the horizon.
Through the glasses it was already possible to see that the superstructure, which had looked almost white glimmering at us through the mist, was in fact painted emerald green, the funnel white with a bright red band and two golden stars. The hull was black and as soon as all the details of the vessel were clearly visible Saltley was checking them against the photographs laid out on the cockpit seats. It was difficult to be sure about her tonnage, but everything else matched, except the colour. The Howdo Stranger had been painted in the GOD CO colours of blue hull with a blue funnel above a sand-yellow superstructure.
There was little doubt in my mind, or in Saltley’s. Every little detail of the deck layout matched, and as we closed with her, making to pass close under her stern, I knew she was about the same tonnage. ‘Don’t forget,’ Saltley said to Mark as he dived below. ‘Get right under her stern, then gybe.’
We came down on her very fast, the black hull growing, until it towered above us, massive as an iron breakwater. High up on the bridge wing there was a little knot of men watching us. I counted seven, a motley group with only one of them in any sort of uniform. Pamela was lying stretched out on the fore-deck. Two men in overalls appeared on the upper deck just below the lifeboat, one of them pointing as Pamela sat up and turned her head. Then she got languidly to her feet. They waved and we waved back, the group on the bridge watching us. I saw the flash of binoculars and then we lost them as we passed under the massive steel wall of her stern. And there close above us was the name, Shah Mohammed — Basra picked out in white and startlingly clear against the black of the hull.
A man leaning over the stern rail was joined by others, all of them waving. The yacht yawed, swinging round. ‘Duck!’ Saltley shouted. The boom came over with a crash, the sail slatting, everything in a tangle, and down below Saltley crouching out of sight, the camera with its telescopic lens directed at the ship’s name, the shutter clicking. Even with the naked eye we could see the second O of the original name just showing as a faint raised shadow in the gap between Shah and Mohammed.
Everything was very quiet, no sound of engines as we sorted out the deck, coming round on to the port tack and sailing up the side of the tanker. In repainting the hull they appeared to have used only one coat, for here and there glimpses of the old blue showed through the black, and when we reached the bows, there it was again, the shadow of the O just visible in the middle of Shah Mohammed, which was again painted white so that it stood out with great clarity.
Saltley passed up an aerosol foghorn and Mark gave three blasts as we sheered away, back on to our original course. The tanker remained silent, the same little knot of watchers now transferred to the port bridge wing. Through the glasses I could see one of them gesticulating. Then, when we were almost a mile away, the Shah Mohammed suddenly emitted two deep long-drawn-out belches from its siren as though expressing relief at our departure.
The question now was, did we head for the nearest port with the evidence we had or wait for the Aurora B to show up? I wanted to get away now. I hadn’t liked the look of the little group on the bridge wing. All the original crew must be locked up in her some-
where and the sooner she was arrested the more chance there was that they’d be got out alive. But Saltley was adamant that we must wait. ‘Who do you suppose is going to arrest her?’
‘Surely the Navy—‘
‘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.