Colin Forbes - The Heights of Zervos

'He has identified us simply as the Hydra, ownership Greek. Nothing more.'

With a supreme effort Burckhardt resisted the impulse to let his shoulders relax; both the Alpenkorps soldiers kept glancing towards him for reassurance. German soldiers, Burckhardt had noticed before, were never entirely happy at sea – the existence of the British Navy probably had something to do with their lack of enthusiasm for water-borne expeditions. He watched the destroyer still moving on her oblique course. Would her captain be satisfied with that signal? Just a routine check, Dietrich had suggested. But a moment later he had raised the unnerving suggestion that the two British soldiers might have been put on board deliberately – that the destroyer out there was expecting another flashing signal from a porthole confirming that all was well aboard the Hydra. Blast the Abwehr!

'They're signalling again!' Schnell spoke quietly, his eyes on the distant flashing light which was now less than a quarter of a mile away. Burckhardt stood quite still, resisting the impulse to pace up and down the bridge: it was vital at this moment to preserve an absolute outward calm. He felt that his feet had been glued to the deck for hours and God knew there were enough signs of tension on the bridge already. The signal lamp in Nopagos' hands wobbled slightly – if he had to carry on answering these bloody questions much longer he was going to crack. The soldier crouched behind the Greek captain was sweating profusely, his forehead gleaming from the light over the bridge. Hahnemann was lightly tapping a nervous fingernail on the butt of his machine-pistol and Burckhardt wanted to roar at him for God's sake stop it! Schnell, a highly experienced naval officer, was still holding the wheel tightly. All these little details Burckhardt took in automatically while the lamp on the British destroyer blandly went on flashing its message. Only Dietrich seemed undisturbed, almost at ease as he stared at the ceiling with the unlit cigar motionless in the centre of his mouth. He dropped his eyes and caught the colonel watching him.

"There is a Greek called Grapos aboard,' Dietrich commented. 'I think he could be dangerous if he isn't watched carefully.'

'I dealt with him myself,' said Hahnemann in a flat tone. 'He was sleeping in the saloon – he had no cabin – and I was able to knock him out before he knew I was there. He's tied up in one of the holds.' The endless strain of waiting had neutralized his natural dislike of the Abwehr man and he looked at Dietrich without resentment.

'I do have this ship under control,' Burckhardt added icily.

'Perhaps it might be better if I went below,' Dietrich said almost amiably. He glanced to his left and saw that Hahnemann was leaving the bridge as a cloud of spray broke over the bows of the Hydra. When the lieutenant had gone there was a loaded silence as the light from the destroyer continued flashing, the ferry's engines went on throbbing heavily, and the sea heaved endlessly under them. After the winking light had stopped, Schnell cleared his throat twice before speaking. 'They wish us to report where we're from, our ultimate destination and the time of arrival.'

Without hesitation Burckhardt rapped out more instructions in Greek. 'Tell them we're bound from Istanbul, that our destination is Katyra, Zervos, and our estimated time of arrival 05-30 hours.' Nopagos blinked, glanced again at the sweating soldier behind him, took a firmer grip on the lamp and began signalling. The gun muzzles of the destroyer could be clearly seen in the moonlight as the vessel remorselessly continued on course without altering direction by as much as a single degree. Burckhardt found it unnerving – why was all this interest being shown in an ancient Greek ferry which spent its life plying between Istanbul and the remote peninsula of Zervos? He kept a tight grip on himself as Dietrich's rumbling voice spoke again behind his back. 'I'm wondering now whether this signalling isn't a smoke-screen put out until they get close to us. If they were expecting their own private signal from the prisoners below the course they are maintaining would make sense – they would keep on that course until they fired the first shot across our bows. Ten minutes should tell us the worst.' And having fired this last shot across the colonel's bows he quietly left the bridge and went out on deck.

Tight-lipped, Burckhardt heard him go, relieved that at long last the Abwehr man was leaving the bridge. But secretly Burckhardt agreed that Dietrich's estimate was just about right. In the next ten minutes they should know the worst.

Sunday, April 6

As he struggled in the darkness with the ropes which bound his wrists. Prentice was bathed in sweat from his exertions. He lay in his bunk sprawled on his side, his ankles also tightly bound together while a further length of rope joined his wrists to his ankles, a rope drawn up so tautly that his knees were permanently bent. The fact that they had thought of turning out the cabin lights didn't help him either; it meant he had to work blindly by feel and this made ten times more difficult a task which already seemed insuperable. And because his hands were tied behind his back he had soon given up the attempt to fiddle with the knots he couldn't see, and a little later, when it struck him that they had probably used Alpenkorps climbing rope, he gave up his efforts to break the cords by stretching his wrists against them – a rope which could support a man dangling from a cliff face was hardly likely to weaken under the mere pressure of two straining wrists. So it seemed hope-lejs: a rope which couldn't be broken and which couldn't be untied. There was, however, one other alternative. Prentice was thin-boned and he had unusually slim wrists, so now he was concentrating all his strength on compressing his hands into the smallest possible area and then trying to pull them upwards through the loops which imprisoned him. His success to date had fallen rather short of the milder achievements of Houdini and for a few minutes he stopped struggling while he rested.

He was turned on his left side, facing inwards to the cabin, and while he rested he contented himself with straining to see the time by the light of the phosphorescent numerals of his watch on the table. Almost 12.10 AM so far as he could make out. In that case the guard would be looking in on them shortly – he checked the cabin every quarter-hour. With typical Teutonic punctuality he had, so far, arrived at precisely the quarter-hour. He lay listening for the sound of footsteps and heard only the distant murmur of voices. Twisting his head round, he called out in a loud whisper. 'All right, Ford?'

The sergeant, similarly bound in the next bunk, was just recovering from the pounding headache which had assailed him when he regained consciousness after the blow from Hahnemann's machine-pistol. From the sound of Prentice's voice he guessed that the lieutenant had enjoyed a less painful return to the land of the living, something which didn't entirely surprise him when he recalled Prentice's speedy recovery from a hangover after a night of Turkish hospitality. He wet his lips before replying. 'Fine and dandy, sir. We'll have to sue the Hydra 's owners for damages when we arrive back.'

Prentice grinned in the darkness. 'We might just do that, laddie. Now, the guard'll be looking in any minute, so pretend you're still out cold.'

'Got it, sir.' The faint hammering inside his brain was sending waves of dizziness through Ford, a sensation which wasn't improved by the Aegean waves outside which regularly lifted the ship and tilted the cabin with an unpleasant rolling motion. Combined with his dizziness, Ford had the feeling that he was turning over and over and over. It cost him a certain effort to make his enquiry. 'Making any progress, sir?'