Colin Forbes - Year of the Golden Ape

^ Ephraim reported many things – monitoring fuel consumption, boiler pressures, boiler temperatures, which boilers were fired up, which were not. He reported the speed of the engines and the speed of the ship – not always the same thing if an engine was functioning incorrectly. And he reported the degree of the tanker's pitching and rolling – which meant he was sending his own weather report.

^ In his London office, Victor Harper was never sure whether he had installed an expensive toy, or whether Ephraim might help to make voyages more profitable. And Ephraim was expensive. The signals he was constantly transmitting were received and decoded by the master computer at the International Marine Centre in The Hague; then the information obtained from the ^ Challenger ^ had to be re-transmitted to London by telex.

^ And Kinnaird was cooperating with Ephraim – without having the least idea he was doing so. Part of the ship's routine which had to continue if conditions aboard were to seem normal to the outside world, was for Kinnaird to transmit a radio message to London at regular intervals. This message confirmed the position of the ship – and included a weather report.

^ All would be well for Winter so long as Kinnaird continued 'cooperating' with Ephraim. But if for some reason Kinnaird was ordered to fake a weather report, to send to London a message pretending they were passing through quite different weather from what they were experiencing, then deep down in the guts of the ship Ephraim would become a mechanical spy, the only member of the crew who could tell London what was really happening.

^ The Armalite. 22 collapsible rifle with its 4 x 18 telescopic sight, three spare magazines and a yellow package of fifty spare rounds, lay beneath the underclothes almost at the bottom of Betty Cor-dell's suitcase. Not that it immediately looked like a rifle since the main object on view was a tortoiseshell-coloured stock which concealed inside it the dismantled elements of the weapon. The stock was fashioned of plastic foam: dropped into a pool or lake it would float.

^ Alone in her cabin, Betty Cordell picked up the package of. 22 hollow point ammunition and weighed it in her hand. It gave her a comfortable feeling, submerged for a few moments the state of terror she was adjusting to slowly. Then she replaced the package, took one last look at the stock and re-packed her case, filling it up with neat piles of underclothing until once again it had the innocent look of a woman's travelling bag.

^ Since late childhood she had owned her own gun. At her home near Pear Blossom in the southern Californian desert her father, a strange and independent character like his daughter, had trained the girl to use a weapon. 'It's a violent world we live in, pet,' he used to say. 'Look how your mother died in San Diego – and all that murdering thief got was her billfold. Twenty-five lousy dollars…'

^ From the age of eight she was brought up by her father, a farmer, and as the years went by Betty Cordell became skilled to the point of marksmanship with a rifle. She never hunted with it, never went in for competitions, but at twenty-seven she still carried it with her everywhere away from home. Sometimes, driving in the desert, she would stop, set up a line of tin cans as targets and blaze away, working off frustration. Every can was always punctured.

^ She lit a rare cigarette and stood in the middle of the cabin smoking. The huge tanker was swaying gently as it went on through the swell towards San Francisco, now less than thirty-six hours away. She was thinking that with the mags and the package of spare rounds she had enough ammunition to kill every terrorist on board. The trouble was Betty Cordell had never even shot a bird. She hated the thought of killing live things. Hearing the door open, she turned. LeCat stood in the doorway.

^ LeCat stood in the doorway holding a full bottle of red wine and behind him the armed guard was leering. LeCat shut the door in his face by leaning against it. Betty Cordell remained standing in the middle of the cabin, staring back at the terrorist with a cold expression which verged on arrogance. She had a constricted feeling in her throat. She was scared and furious with herself at the same time – furious because her heart was thumping and her legs felt weak.

^ 'There is nothing to fear,' LeCat said roughly. 'We did not expect to find a woman on board. Bui it will only be for a few days, so you might as well make the best of it. The best of it,' he repeated, looking at her closely.

^ At least her voice sounded steady, almost insolent. Hearing herself speak, she was surprised that her voice sounded so normal, thank God. I've got to deal with this, she told herself, get rid of him. Quickly. He put the bottle down on a table near the door and walked towards her. There were blobs of moisture on his upper lip below the curved moustache.

^ 'I am a bachelor,' he remarked as he stood close to her. 'My name is LeCat. I have known a lot of women – many beautiful women …'

^ His approach was so ridiculous, so ham-handed, that for one wild moment she wanted to laugh in his face. Waterfront whores, she thought cynically, that's about his taste and experience. With me he doesn't quite know how to go about it, but his bashfulness won't last for long. Then she caught a whiff of his breath. My God, he's drunk…

^ Even though he had consumed a third of a bottle of cognac, LeCat was not drunk. It was simply that his movements were a shade more deliberate than usual. Cognac he could take in generous quantities; he was still capable of hitting a moving target at a hundred yards. She moved casually sideways and stood with her back to the steward's bell. 'I was thinking of taking a bath,' she said. 'Could you please leave the cabin. Now!'

^ 'Get out of this cabin, LeCat. Get out now or I'll ask the guard to fetch Winter…'

^ 'Like myself, the guard is French. He takes his orders from me,' LeCat replied equably.

^ The longer-term significance of this remark did not strike Betty Cordell – her mind was fixed on only one objective. Survival. She lifted her head and clasped her hands behind her back, assuming a most arrogant posture. The animal likes that, she noted: a peculiar gleam came into LeCat's eyes and he wiped his lip dry with a ringer. While he was distracted her own index finger moved towards the bell-push on the wall. 'I think Winter will probably kill you,' she said.

^ ^ look of fury in his eyes, an undertone in his voice not far from hatred. Shaken by his ferocity, she felt her control going. She took a step away from him and pressed the bell hard. 'Go and get your bath,' he told her viciously. 'Do not bother to dress when you have had it…'

^ He was still standing close to her so she couldn't move towards the bathroom when the cabin door opened and Wrigley, the steward, came bustling in. A tall, stooped, middle-aged man with brisk movements, he carried a tray with a pot of coffee, cream, a cup and saucer. He stopped for a moment and frowned as LeCat glared at him over his shoulder, then, apparently noticing nothing wrong, he began chattering.

^ 'Fresh-made coffee, Miss Cordell – nice and strong the way you Americans drink it…' He began laying the things on the table. 'Better come and get it now while it's hot. Helps to keep up your strength under trying circumstances…' He glanced at LeCat. 'You may have a visitor any minute, Miss Cordell – Mr Winter was in the galley and said he'd be coming along here to see how you are getting along. Funny chap…'

^ Wrigley paused as LeCat turned his back and left the cabin. The steward glowered and made a forked, two-fingered gesture towards the empty doorway. 'Sorry about that, Miss,' he apologised, 'sometimes my feelings run away with me…'

^ 'Thank you, Wrigley,' she murmured as she picked up the pot. 'You were just in time…'