Stella Rimington: Rip Tide

‘By the way,’ he said as he cleared their plates from the table, ‘there’s been news of our old friend from Porquerolles.’

‘Milraud?’ Liz asked in astonishment.

‘Not Antoine,’ said Martin, as he came back from the kitchen. He filled her glass with the last of the bottle of Beaune they had shared. ‘His wife, Annette. She was spotted in Versailles, of all places, but by the time we heard about it, she’d disappeared.’

‘I’m amazed she risked showing her face in France.’

‘She has always loved the high life. Hiding out with her husband in one of the new Soviet republics would have palled for her very quickly. I am just hoping that Antoine has come with her. Then we’ll get him,’ Martin said with a hint of steel in his voice.

They moved into the sitting room; Liz stood by the window, holding her glass, looking out at the little square across the street. The hour’s time difference with England meant dusk was starting to fall, and a small circle of old men were finishing a last game of boules. Small powdery explosions of dust flew up each time a player carefully tossed a heavy silver-coloured ball.

‘A little Armagnac?’ asked Martin.

‘No, thanks. I’ll just finish my wine.’

‘So you’re seeing Isabelle on Monday?’

‘Yes. We’re going to compare notes – as she said, there wasn’t much time at the conference to go into detail.’

He nodded, but didn’t ask any more questions. Early on in the relationship they’d established an understanding about discussing their work, which meant never enquiring in any detail about what the other was doing.

Now he got up and stood beside Liz at the window. The players were finished for the evening and were packing their boules away in small leather pouches. Martin put his arm round her. ‘Liz,’ he said tenderly, ‘I’ve got a suggestion to make… and I don’t want your answer right away.’

She looked up at him and smiled. ‘What is it?’

‘I was wondering,’ he began, then paused. ‘Wondering whether you’d ever think about coming to live here – in Paris, I mean, not necessarily here in this flat.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s just that I miss you so much when you’re in England.’

She drew away from him, continuing to stare out of the window. She didn’t reply.

‘I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?’

She turned back and reached for his hand. ‘No, you haven’t. You know I love being here with you. But it’s just… it’s such a big decision, Martin. I need to think about it.’

‘I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget I did, Liz. I don’t want it to spoil our weekend.’

‘I don’t want to forget about it, Martin. I just need to think about it.’

He put his arms round her again and kissed her. ‘I want you to be here all the time, that’s why I brought it up. But I know it’s selfish of me. There are other things in life that are important to you – believe me, I do understand that.’

She leaned her head against his chest. ‘There’s no other person more important to me than you are.’

He let her go and took hold of her hand. ‘Come on,’ he said with a laugh, ‘don’t let’s get too serious. I think it’s time for bed, don’t you?’

As daylight broke over the Indian Ocean, spilling light the colour of chalk on the distant horizon, Captain Jean-Claude Thibault watched the outline of the huge ship emerge slowly from the darkness. He’d known she was there, just three kilometres away across the calm waters of the Indian Ocean, but now he could see her clearly. Indeed she was impossible to miss: a container vessel, probably four hundred feet long, painted a rich maroon with a yellow stripe at her plimsoll line just above the water. Fully laden, she was low in the water as she ploughed through the sea, heading south.

Standing on the bridge of his corvette, binoculars to his eyes, Thibault could see the Greek flag flying from the stern and make out the name painted in black along one side of the snub-nosed prow: Aristides. He’d been expecting her arrival; as part of a new international protection force, his job was to see her and other vessels safely through the dangerous waters off the Horn of Africa, on their way to port in Mombasa.

As Thibault watched her moving forward at a good rate of knots, leaving very little wake behind, his First Officer, standing beside him on the bridge, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. Thibault shifted his binoculars and saw a skiff, so small that it took a moment for him to focus on it. It was close in, under the overhang of the larger vessel’s stern, hugging dangerously close to her side. He wondered momentarily if it were a dinghy let down by the Greek ship’s crew to make some repair, but dinghies didn’t look like that – a dilapidated wooden craft that couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet from bow to stern, with a mast that looked like the branch of a tree. Half a dozen figures sat huddled in the little boat, one at the stern holding the rudder of a massive outboard motor, which looked heavy enough to overturn the fragile craft.

Pirates. They must have crept up on the ship in the dark, lurking alongside until dawn began to break. They couldn’t have noticed the corvette waiting in the darkness and, if they saw it now, must be gambling on taking over the ship before it intervened. Captain Thibault watched with fascination as the men in the skiff began lifting a long thin metal ladder; it rose straight into the air like a construction crane, then tilted gently until it leaned against the side of the ship. It was being carefully extended, a segment at a time, aiming for the lowest point of the deck, at the stern. He could see the curved ends at the top of the rungs, designed to hook as tight as handcuffs over the deck rail.

Thibault gestured towards the tanker, and spoke tersely to the First Officer: ‘ En avant.’ Let’s go.

Though the corvette was small compared to the massive container ship, her engine packed a mighty punch. Within seconds she was closing in on the Aristides and her unwelcome visitors at maximum speed. Simultaneously the radio officer, Marceau, was trying to contact the bridge of the container ship, to warn them of the imminent attack. ‘They must all be at breakfast,’ he muttered after his repeated radio bursts received no reply.

When no more than two hundred yards separated the vessels, Captain Thibault gave further orders and two of his crew took up position behind the pair of.30 mm cannons mounted on the bow. Three more men armed with rifles stood by.

Ahead of them, a figure had detached itself from the huddle in the skiff and started to clamber up the ladder. He was soon halfway up, a rifle on a sling hanging from one shoulder as he climbed.

Suddenly the corvette’s radio crackled into life. ‘This is M.V. Aristides. Why are you approaching?’

The crew member did not sound alarmed; it would be evident to those on the container ship that the approaching vessel was a French patrol boat. Marceau replied sharply, ‘French Warship Tarasque. We are not your only visitors. Pirates are climbing a ladder at your stern.’

Thibault took over the microphone. ‘This is Captain Thibault, French Navy. One pirate is boarding you: stern, port side. Armed. There are others in a skiff at your stern. We’ll deal with them. Keep your crew below decks and out of range. Is that understood?’

‘Understood,’ came the confirmation.

They were less than a hundred yards from the tanker now, and Captain Thibault ordered the engines to be slowed to idling speed. He clicked a switch on a microphone, and his voice was transmitted clearly through an amplified speaker across the water.

‘This is the International Protection Force. Stay where you are, and do not attempt to board the ship.’