Алистер Маклин: The Golden Rendezvous

A hand touched my shoulder and I looked round. Julius Beresford was squatting by my side.

“Never thought I’d see you again, Mr. Carter,” he said candidly. “How do you feel?”

“Better than I look,” I said untruthfully.

“And why left alone here?” he asked curiously.

“This,” I explained, “is what is known as being sent to Coventry. Captain Bullen is convinced that I gave unwarranted help or aid or some such legal phrase, to Carreras. He’s not pleased with me.”

“Rubbish!” he snorted.

“He heard me doing it.”

“Don’t care what he heard,” Beresford said flatly. “Whatever he heard he didn’t hear what he thought he did. I make as many mistakes as the next man, maybe more than most, but I never make a mistake about men. … Which reminds me, my boy, which reminds me, I can’t tell you how pleased I am – and how delighted. Hardly the time and place for it, but nevertheless my very heartiest congratulations. My wife feels exactly the same way about it, I can assure you.”

It was taking me all my time to pay attention to him. One of those crates was swinging dangerously in its slings, and if one of those crates dropped, fell on the deck and burst open to reveal its contents I didn’t see that there was going to be much future for any of us. It wasn’t a thought I liked to dwell on, It would be better to turn my mind to something else, like concentrating on what Julius Beresford was saying.

“I beg your pardon,” I said.

“The job at my Scottish oil-port.” He was half impatient, half smiling. “You know. Delighted that you are going to accept. But not half as delighted as we are about you and Susan. All her life she’s been pursued, as you can guess, by hordes of gold-digging dead-beats, but I always told her that when the day came that she met a man who didn’t give a damn for her money, even though he was a hobo, I wouldn’t stand in her way. Well, she’s found him. And you’re no hobo.”

“The oil-port? Susan – and me?” I blinked at him. “Look, sir–”

“I might have known it, I might have known it!” The laugh was pretty close to a guffaw. “That’s my daughter. Never even got around to telling you yet. Wait till my wife hears this!”

“When did she tell you?” I asked politely. When I’d last seen her about two-fifteen that morning I would have thought it the last thing in her mind.

“Yesterday afternoon.” That was even before she had made the job proposal to me. “But she’ll get around to it, my boy, she’ll get around to it.”

“I won’t get around to it!” I didn’t know how long she had been standing there, but she was there now, a stormy voice to match stormy eyes. “I’ll never get around to it. I must have been mad, I’m ashamed of myself for even thinking of it, I heard him, Daddy. I was there last night with the others in the sick-bay when he was telling Carreras that the best way of stopping the Ticonderoga was–”

A long piercing blast on a whistle brought the tale of Carter’s cowardice to a merciful end. Immediately green-shirted armed men began to appear from other parts of the Ticonderoga , from the bridge and engine-room where they had been on guard during the trans-shipment, which was now finished except for one last crate. Two of the men with guns, I noticed, were dressed in blue Merchant Navy uniforms: those would be the radio officers Carreras had introduced aboard the Ticonderoga . I looked at my watch. Six twenty-five. Carreras was cutting it fine enough.

And now Carreras himself had jumped across to the after-deck of the Ticonderoga . He said something to Captain Brace, I couldn’t hear what it was, but I could see Brace, his face hard and grim, nodding reluctantly. Carreras arranging for the transfer of the coffins. On his way back to the rail he stopped beside me.

“You see that Miguel Carreras keeps his word. Everybody safely transferred.” He glanced at his watch. “I still need a lieutenant.”

“Goodbye, Carreras.”

He nodded, turned on his heel and left as his men brought the coffins on to the after-deck of the Ticonderoga . They handled them very reverently indeed, with a tender delicacy that showed they were only too aware of the contents. The coffins were not immediately recognisable as such: in the final gesture of the consummate actor paying the minutest attention to the last detail in his role, he had draped them with three Stars and Stripes. Knowing Carreras, I was pretty sure he’d brought them all the way from the Caribbean.

Captain Brace stooped, lifted a corner of the flag on the coffin nearest him and looked down at the brass plaque with the name of Senator Hoskins on it. I heard a quick in-drawing of breath, saw that Susan Beresford, hand to her parted lips, was staring down wide-eyed at it too, remembered that she must still be under the impression that the Twister was inside, reached out and grabbed her ankle. I grabbed it hard.

“Be quiet!” I muttered fiercely. “For heaven’s sake shut up!”

She heard me. She kept quiet. Her old man heard me, but he kept quiet also, which must have taken quite a bit of doing on his part when he saw me with my hand round his daughter’s ankle. But the ability to keep expressions and emotions buttoned up must be among the most elementary training for an aspiring multimillionaire.

The last of Carreras’s men was gone. Carreras with them. He didn’t waste any time wishing us “Bon voyage” or anything of the kind, he just ordered ropes cast off and disappeared at speed for the bridge. A minute later the Campari was under way and her after-deck haphazardly packed with crates, was slewing round and heading away towards the east.

“Well,” Bullen said into the heavy silence. “There he goes, the murderer. With my ship, damn his soul!”

“He won’t have it for long,” I said. “Not even for half an hour. Captain Brace, I advise you–”

“We’ll dispense with your advice, Mister.” Captain Bullen’s voice was a series of rat-traps snapping shut, the blue eyes very frosty indeed.

“This is urgent, sir. It’s imperative that Captain Brace–”

“I gave you a direct order, Mr. Carter. You will obey–”

“Will you please be quiet, Captain Bullen?” Respectful exasperation, but more exasperation than respect.

“I think you’d better be listening to him, sir,” the bo’sun put in, gravely unhappy. “Mr. Carter was not idle last night, unless I’m much mistaken.”

“Thanks, Bo’sun.” I turned to Captain Brace again. “Phone the officer of the watch. Due west 180 degrees from the Campari and full speed. No, emergency power. Now , Captain Brace.”

The urgency in my voice got through. For a person who had just lost 150 million dollars in gold Brace reacted surprisingly quickly and well to the man who had caused him to lose it. He gave a few quick words of instruction to a junior officer, then turned a coldly speculative gaze on me.

“Your reasons, sir?”

“In number four hold of the Campari Carreras is carrying an armed atomic bomb with the time fuse running out. The Twister, the new missile stolen from the Americans a week or so ago.” A glance round the strained incredulous faces of the listeners showed that they knew what I was talking about all right; it showed equally clearly that they couldn’t believe it. “The Twister–”

“Atomic bomb?” Brace’s voice was harsh and too loud. “What damned rubbish–”

“Will you listen? Miss Beresford, am I telling the truth?”

“You’re telling the truth.” Her voice was unsteady, her green eyes jumpy and still on that coffin. “I saw it, Captain. But–”

“So,” I said. “The bomb. Armed. Due to go off in” – I glanced at my watch – “less than twenty-five minutes. Carreras knows it’s due to go off then. That’s why he’s in such a tearing hurry to get away: he imagines the Twister is aboard here. And that’s why I’m in such a tearing great hurry to go in the opposite direction: I know it’s not.”