Алистер Маклин - Caravan to Vaccares

‘It doesn’t seem too difficult,’ Bowman observed. ‘To handle it, I mean.’

‘To you, no. But it takes a lifetime of knowledge to handle such a vessel.’

‘Could I try now?’

‘No, no. Impossible. Perhaps when we get to the sea–’

‘I’m afraid it will have to be now. Please.’

‘In five minutes–’

‘I’m sorry. I really am.’ Bowman produced his pistol, pointed with it to the starboard for’ard corner of the wheel-house. ‘Please sit down there.’

The fisherman stared at him, relinquished the wheel and moved across to the corner of the wheel-house. He said quietly, as Bowman took over the wheel: ‘I knew I was a fool. I like money too much, I think.’

‘Don’t we all.’ Bowman glanced over his shoulder. The powerboat was less than a hundred yards from the bridge. He opened the throttles wide and the fishing boat began to surge forward.

Bowman dug into his pocket, came up with the last three thousand francs of Czerda’s money that he had on him and threw it across to the man. ‘This will make you even more foolish.’

The fisherman stared at the notes, made no attempt to pick them up. He whispered: ‘When I am dead, you will take it away. Pierre des Jardins is not a fool.’

‘When you are dead?’

‘When you kill me. With that pistol.’ He smiled sadly. ‘It is a wonderful thing to have a pistol, no?’

‘Yes.’ Bowman reversed hold on his pistol, caught it by the barrel and threw it gently across to the fisherman. ‘Do you feel wonderful too, now?’

The man stared at the pistol, picked it up, pointed it experimentally at Bowman, laid it down, picked up and pocketed the money, picked up the pistol a second time, rose, crossed to the wheel and replaced the pistol in Bowman’s pocket. He said: ‘I’m afraid I am not very good at firing those things, m’sieur.’

‘Neither am I. Look behind you. Do you see a powerboat coming up?’

Pierre looked. The powerboat was no more than a hundred yards behind. He said: ‘I see it. I know it. My friend Jean–’

‘Sorry. Later about your friend.’ Bowman pointed ahead to where a freighter was riding out in the gulf. ‘That’s the freighter Canton. A Communist vessel bound for China. Behind us, in the powerboat, are evil men who wish to put aboard that vessel people who do not wish to go there. It is my wish to stop them.’

‘Why?’

‘If you have to ask why I’ll take this pistol from my pocket and make you sit down again.’ Bowman looked quickly behind him: the powerboat was barely more than fifty yards behind.

‘You are British, of course?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are an agent of your government?’

‘Yes.’

‘What we call your Secret Service?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are known to our government?’

‘I am to your Deuxième Bureau. Their boss is my boss.’

‘Boss?’

‘Chief. Chef.’

Pierre sighed. ‘It has to be true. And you wish to stop this boat coming up?’ Bowman nodded. ‘Then please move over. This is a job for an expert.’

Bowman nodded again, took the gun from his pocket, moved to the starboard side of the wheelhouse and wound down the window. The powerboat was less than ten feet astern, not more than twenty feet away on a parallel course and coming up fast. Czerda was at the wheel now, with Le Grand Duc by his side. Bowman raised his pistol, then lowered it again as the fishing boat leaned over sharply and arrowed in on the powerboat. Three seconds later the heavy oaken bows of the fishing boat smashed heavily into the port quarter of the other vessel.

‘That was, perhaps, more or less what you had in mind, m’sieur?’ Pierre asked.

‘More or less,’ Bowman admitted. ‘Now please listen. There is something you should know.’

The two boats moved apart on parallel courses. The powerboat, being the faster, pulled ahead, inside its cabin there was considerable confusion.

‘Who was that madman?’ Le Grand Duc demanded.

‘Bowman!’ Czerda spoke with certainty.

‘Guns out!’ Le Grand Duc shouted. ‘Guns out! Get him!’

‘No.’

‘No? No? You dare countermand–’

‘I smell petrol. In the air. One shot – poof.’

‘Ferenc, go and check the port tank.’

Ferenc departed and returned within ten seconds.

‘Well?’

‘The tank is ruptured. At the bottom. The fuel is nearly gone.’ Even as he spoke the port engine faltered, spluttered and stopped. Czerda and Le Grand Duc looked at each other: nothing was said.

Both boats had by now cleared the harbour and were out in the open sea of the Gulf of Aigues-Mortes. The powerboat, on one engine now, had dropped back until it was almost parallel with the fishing boat. Bowman nodded to Pierre, who nodded in turn. He spun the wheel rapidly, their vessel angled in sharply, they made violent contact again in exactly the same place as previously, then sheered off.

‘God damn it all!’ Aboard the powerboat Le Grand Duc was almost livid with fury and making no attempt to conceal it. ‘He’s holed us! He’s holed us! Can’t you avoid him?’

‘With one engine, it is very difficult to steer.’ Under the circumstances, Czerda’s restraint was commendable. He was in no way exaggerating. The combination of a dead port engine and a holed port quarter made the maintenance of a straight course virtually impossible: Czerda was no seaman and even with his best efforts the powerboat was now pursuing a very erratic course indeed.

‘Look!’ Le Grand Duc said sharply. ‘What’s that?’

About three miles away, not more than halfway towards Palavas, a large and very old fashioned freighter, almost stopped in the water, was sending a message by signalling lamp.

‘It’s the Canton !’ Searl said excitedly. He so far forgot himself as to stop rubbing the now padded flesh wound on top of his shoulder. ‘The Canton ! We must send a recognition signal. Three long, three short.’

‘No!’ Le Grand Duc was emphatic. ‘Are you mad? We mustn’t get them involved in this. The international repercussions – look out!’

The fishing boat was veering again. Le Grand Duc and Ferenc rushed to the cockpit and loosed off several shots. The windows in the wheelhouse of the fishing boat starred and broke, but Bowman and Pierre had already dropped to the deck which Le Grand Duc and Ferenc had to do at almost exactly the same moment as the heavy oaken stern of the fishing boat crashed into the port quarter at precisely the spot where they were standing.

Five times inside the next two minutes the manoeuvre was repeated, five times the powerboat shuddered under the crushing assaults. By now, at Le Grand Duc’s orders, all firing had ceased: ammunition was almost exhausted.

‘We must keep the last bullets for when and where they will do the most good.’ Le Grand Duc had become very calm. ‘Next time–’

‘The Canton is leaving!’ Searl shouted. ‘Look, she has turned away.’

They looked. The Canton was indeed turning away, beginning to move with increasing speed through the water.

‘What else did you expect?’ Le Grand Duc asked. ‘Never fear, we shall see her again.’

‘What do you mean?’ Czerda demanded.

‘Later. As I was saying–’

‘We’re sinking!’ Searl’s voice was almost a scream. ‘We’re sinking!’ He was in no way exaggerating: the powerboat was now deep in the water, the sea pouring in through gaps torn in the hull by the bows of the fishing boat.

‘I am aware of that,’ Le Grand Duc said. He turned to Czerda. ‘They’re coming again. Hard a starboard – to your right, quickly. Ferenc, Searl, El Brocador, come with me.’

‘My shoulder,’ Searl wailed.