Funchal. I needn’t have caught that charter flight. I could have waited and caught the next flight to Lisbon. No. The controllers were on strike there. I was thinking of Saltley again, wondering where he was now, and would he back me, could I rely on him as a witness for the defence if those tankers were totally destroyed?
It was past eleven when we reached Whitehall, turning right opposite Downing Street. ‘The main doors are closed after eight-thirty in the evening,’ my escort said as we stopped at the Richmond Terrace entrance of the Ministry of Defence building. Inside he motioned me to wait while he went to the desk to find out who wanted me. The Custody Guard picked up the phone immediately and after a brief conversation nodded to me and said, ‘Won’t keep you a moment, sir. 2LS’s Naval Assistant is coming right down.’
My escort insisted on waiting, but the knowledge that two such senior men had returned to their offices in order to see me gave me a sudden surge of confidence. That it was the Second Sea Lord himself who was waiting for me was confirmed when a very slim, slightly stooped man with sharp, quite penetrating grey eyes arrived, and after introducing himself as Lt Cdr Wright, said, ‘This way, sir. Admiral Fitzowen’s waiting to see you.’ The sir helped a lot and I seemed to be walking on air as I followed him quickly down the echoing corridors.
The Admiral was a big, round-faced man in a grey suit which seemed to match the walls of his office. He jumped up from behind his desk to greet me. ‘Saltley told me you could give me all the details. I was talking to him on the phone to Lisbon this morning.’
‘He’s still there, is he?’ I asked.
But he didn’t think so. ‘Told me he’d get a train or something into Spain and fly on from there. Should be here some time tomorrow. Now about those tankers.’ He waved me to a seat.
‘Are they in the Channel?’
‘Don’t know yet, not for sure. PREMAR UN — that’s the French admiral at Cherbourg — his office has informed us that two tankers were picked up on their radar surveillance at Ushant some forty miles offshore steaming north. They had altered course to the eastward just before moving out of range of the Ushant scanner. It was dark by the time we got their report and the weather’s not good, but by now there should be a Nimrod over the search area and the French have one of their Navy ships out looking for them.’ He began asking me questions then, mostly about the shape and layout of the vessels. He had pictures of the GODCO tankers on his desk. ‘So Saltley’s right, these are the missing tankers.’
I told him about the O of Howdo Stranger still showing faintly in the gap between Shah and Mohammed. ‘Salt made the same point. Says his photographs will prove it.’ He leaned towards me. ‘So what’s their intention?’ And when I told him I didn’t know, he said, ‘What’s your supposition? You must have thought about it. Some time in the early hours we’re going to have their exact position. If they are in the Channel I must know what their most likely course of action will be. You were on the Aurora B. That’s what it says here—‘ He waved a foolscap sheet at me. ‘When you were in England, before Saltley got you away in that yacht, you made what sounded at the time like some very wild allegations. All right…’ He raised his hand as I started to interrupt him. ‘I’ll accept them all for the moment as being true. But if you were on the Aurora B, then you must have picked up something, some indication of their intentions.’
‘I had a talk with the captain,’ I said.
‘And this man Sadeq.’
‘Very briefly, about our previous meeting.’ I gave him the gist of it and I could see he was disappointed.
‘And the Englishman who recruited you — Bald-wick. Didn’t he know anything about the objective?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Tell me about your conversation with the captain then.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘Pieter Hals. Dutch, I take it.’
It was the better part of an hour of hard talking before he was finally convinced I could tell him nothing that would indicate the purpose for which the tankers had been seized. At one point, tired of going over it all again, I said, ‘Why don’t you board them then? As soon as you know where they are—‘
‘We’ve no authority to board.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I didn’t care whether he was a Sea Lord or what, I was too damned tired of it. ‘Two pirated ships and the Navy can’t board them. I don’t believe it. Who’s responsible for what goes on in the Channel?’
‘Flag Officer, Plymouth. But I’m afraid CIN-CHAN’s powers are very limited. He certainly hasn’t any powers of arrest. Unlike the French.’ He gave a shrug, smiling wryly as he went on, ‘Remember the Amoco Cadiz and what the spillage from that wreck did to the Brittany coast? After that they instituted traffic lanes off Ushant. Later they insisted on all tankers and ships with dangerous cargoes reporting in and staying in a third lane at least twenty-four miles off the coast until they’re in their correct eastbound lane, which is on the French side as they move up-Channel. And they have ships to enforce their regulations. Very typically the British operate a voluntary system — MAREP, Marine Reporting.’ And he added, the wry smile breaking out again, ‘I’m told it works — but not, of course, for the sort of situation you and Saltley are envisaging.’
I brought up the question of boarding again, right at the end of our meeting, and the Admiral said, ‘Even the French don’t claim the right of arrest beyond the twelve-mile limit. If those tankers came up the English side, there’s nothing the French can do about it.’
‘But if they’re on the English side,’ I said, ‘they’d be steaming east in the westbound lane. Surely then—‘
He shook his head. ‘All we can do then is fly off the Coastguard plane, take photographs and in due course report their behaviour to their country of registry and press for action.’
I was sitting back, feeling drained and oddly appalled at the Navy’s apparent helplessness. All the years when I had grown up thinking of the Navy as an all-powerful presence and now, right on Britain’s own doorstep, to be told they were powerless to act. ‘There must be somebody,’ I murmured. ‘Some minister who can order their arrest.’
‘Both Saltley and yourself have confirmed they’re registered at Basra and flying the Iraqi flag. Not even the Foreign Secretary could order those ships to be boarded.’
‘The Prime Minister then,’ I said uneasily. ‘Surely the Prime Minister—‘
‘The PM would need absolute proof.’ He shrugged and got to his feet. ‘I’m afraid what you’ve told me, and what Saltley has said to me on the phone, isn’t proof.’
‘So you’ll just sit back and wait until they’ve half wrecked some European port.’
‘If they do come up-Channel, then we’ll monitor their movements and alert other countries as necessary.’ The door had opened behind me and he nodded. ‘In which case, we’ll doubtless see each other again.’ He didn’t shake hands. Just that curt, dismissive nod and he had turned away towards the window.
Back along the echoing corridors then to find Shut-face still waiting. A room had been booked for me at a hotel in the Strand and when he left me there with my bags he warned me not to try disappearing again. ‘We’ll have our eye on you this time.’
In the morning, when I went out of the hotel, I found this was literally true. A plain clothes man fell into step beside me. ‘Will you be going far, sir?’ And when I said I thought I’d walk as far as Charing Cross and buy a paper, he said, ‘I’d rather you stayed in the hotel, sir. You can get a paper there.’
I had never been under surveillance before. I suppose very few people have. I found it an unnerving experience. Slightly eerie in a way, a man you’ve never met before watching your every movement — as though you’ve been judged guilty and condemned without trial. I bought several papers and searched right through them — nothing. I could find no mention of anything I had told those two journalists at Gatwick, no reference anywhere to the possibility of pirated tankers steaming up the English Channel.