Colin Forbes - Year of the Golden Ape

^ Had a photograph been taken of the man who stepped out of the plane he might well have been mistaken for Gen. Villiers; he was bearing a black eye-patch. But at that moment Gen. Villiers was many thousands of miles away from Britain. The secret visitor, therefore, had to be someone else. He did, in fact, look very like another general whose picture had often appeared in the pages of the world's press, a certain Israeli general.

^ It was the afternoon of Sunday January 19, the day when Winter seized control of the ^ Challenger.

^ Winter took his decision to let Betty Cordell move freely round the ship immediately after the incident with LeCat. He had been appalled to find a woman on board, knowing the character of some of the ex-OAS terrorists, and now it struck him she might be safer wandering round the ship rather than locked away in her cabin. He came to the cabin to tell her his decision. 'You can roam round the ship as much as you like, but you are to report to the officer of the watch on the bridge every hour. Understood?'

^ She stood quite still, studying his unusual face, the boniness of his hooked nose, the wide, firm mouth, the steady brown eyes which were so remote and disconcerting. 'Why are you doing this?' she asked quietly.

^ He left her abruptly and a few minutes later she started moving about the ship which was still proceeding through a gentle swell. It was a nerve-wracking experience which she never got used to -walking down an alleyway while a terrorist in the distance watched the fair-haired girl coming with a pistol in his hand; turning a corner into what she imagined was a deserted passageway beyond, only to find another terrorist guard just around the corner; being followed down another alleyway by a man with a gun, who, it turned out, was merely checking to see where she was going.

^ Her mind was working at two levels – noting everything that might be copy for the story she hoped to write one day – ^ Eye-Witness Account of Terrorists' Hi-Jack – ^ and noting the precise position of all the guards, information she intended to pass to Bennett at the first available opportunity. There were no signs that the British crew were planning any resistance; outwardly they seemed still stunned by what had happened. But she detected an odd atmosphere, particularly in the engine-room.

^ A guard with a blank expression stood aside to let her go inside the engine-room – Winter, with his usual efficiency, had passed the word to the entire terrorist team that she was allowed to move round the ship freely. Stepping over the coaming she stood on the high platform, already sweating a little in the steamy atmosphere as she gazed into the bowels of the ship. The noise was appalling, like the thunder of steam-hammers, and everywhere things moved; pistons chomping, machinery which meant nothing to her. She went down the vertical ladder.

^ The steep, thirty-foot drop behind her as she descended didn't worry her – she had climbed near-precipices in the Sierras – and then she was threading her way among the machinery, seeing men she had earlier met and chatted with before the seizure of the tanker. Monk, a burly, thirty-four year old engine-room artificer, a very tough-looking character indeed, his dark hair plastered down over his large skull, nodded to her as he wiped his hands on an oily rag but he seemed abstracted, as though his mind was on something important.

^ Bert Foley, a small, bald-headed man of forty, another artificer, did speak to her after glancing up to make sure the guard on the high platform couldn't see him. 'Things might turn out better than you imagine, Miss. Have patience…' Feeling better in the presence of the British seamen, she explored further. There was something here she couldn't put her finger on, a smell of conspiracy in the air. It didn't seem possible: Winter had severed all communication between one part of the ship and another. Then she saw Wrigley, the steward, coming down the ladder into the engine-room.

^ The steward, carrying a tray with one hand while he used the other to support himself, reached the floor, hurried to the control platform where Brady, the chief engineer, was directing operations. Brady, a stocky, grey-haired man in his early fifties, took a mug of tea from the tray, helped himself slowly to a ham sandwich. Nothing strange there that she could see. She checked her watch; soon it would be time to report to the officer of the watch, to tell him the present position of every terrorist guard aboard the ship. She still couldn't rid herself of the feeling that something was going on under the surface. She climbed up on to the platform beside Brady, then pointed to a black box embedded into the control panel. 'What does that do – or do you keep your sandwiches inside it?' She was smiling; it was something to say. A man in trousers and spotless white vest standing close to the chief swung round with a startled expression.

^ It was unfortunate. The black box she had pointed to was the only outward evidence that Ephraim existed, and by now the chief had realised that the mechanical man was their only outside contact with the world – even if the communication was purely one-way.

^ 'It's like being back in my old prisoner-of-war camp,' Mackay murmured to Bennett in the chart-room. 'My own ship has become the cage. At least we've set up a communications system -the first thing to do when you're inside the cage…'

^ The system of communication between Mackay and his crew hinged on Wrigley, the steward, who was being kept constantly on the move supplying food and coffee to both the British crew and their terrorist guards. Winter had foreseen this nutriment problem; he had placed a permanent guard outside the galley to escort Wrigley as he trotted all over the ship.

^ What Winter had not foreseen was that Bennett would exploit Wrigley as a means of passing messages to anyone Mackay wished to communicate with. The messages were scribbled on small pieces of paper which Wrigley concealed under plates of sandwiches, under pots of coffee, under anything he happened to be carrying on his tray. Another development Winter neither foresaw nor noticed was the increase in the thirst of the man on the bridge; drinking far more coffee than ever before, they provided Wrigley with more opportunities to pass messages.

^ Another change in the ship's routine which went unnoticed was the frequent discussions on navigation Mackay and Bennett felt compelled to indulge in during visits to the chart-room behind the bridge. The first time this happened the guard was suspicious.

^ 'We are going to the chart-room,' Mackay informed the guard, a man called Dupont, who understood English. 'We have to check our future course…'

^ He walked off the bridge with Bennett and Dupont followed them into the chart-room. Mackay stood by the chart-table and stared at the Frenchman. 'Look, plotting a ship's course is a complex business – it calls for concentration. I can't work while you stand there pointing that gun at me. If you want us to get this ship to San Francisco you'll have to wait outside…'

^ 'You've searched this place,' Bennett pointed out, 'and you've locked the other door. Our only way out is back on to the bridge. If you don't leave us alone we're not taking this ship anywhere.'

^ Dupont, who had been with Winter on the ^ Pecheur ^ in the Mediterranean, who had been with LeCat in Paris when they tracked Sullivan up the French coast, hesitated as Mackay picked up a pair of dividers while Bennett concentrated on studying a chart. It was intimidating: both men were acting as though he were no longer there. He went back on to the bridge and took up a position where he could watch the open doorway.

^ 'Mr Bennett,' Mackay said quietly, 'the system of communication is working well. I'm not so sure about your idea of arranging for a man to go missing.'