Desmond Bagley - The Freedom Trap

I flapped a hand at him to keep him quiet and went to the door, still keeping the gun pointing in his general direction. I heard nothing so presently I turned and strode over to Slade. ‘Where does Lynch live? Do you know?’

He shook his head and tugged at my sleeve. ‘How the hell did he miss you?’

He found it difficult to believe that in a narrow space the size of two telephone booths one man could miss seeing another. I found it hard to believe myself. ‘I was taking a shower,’ I said. ‘How was Lynch dressed?’

‘Dressing-gown.’

That meant he hadn’t come far and he probably had been allocated one of the cabins next door to be conveniently close to his charge. ‘Have you any clothes?’ Slade nodded. ‘All right; get dressed — quietly.’

I watched Slade carefully while he dressed, principally to make sure he didn’t slip a blunt instrument into his pocket. When he had finished I said, ‘Now get back into bed.’ He was about to expostulate but I shut him up fast with a jab of the gun. ‘I want to give Lynch time to get back to sleep.’

Slade got back into bed and I retreated into the lavatory, leaving the door ajar. Slade had pulled the sheet up high and was lying on his side apparently reading his book. Everything would appear normal if Lynch took it into his head to come back. I gave him half an hour by my watch and during that time heard nothing out of the ordinary.

I stepped into the cabin and signalled Slade to rise. While he was disentangling himself from the bedclothes — it’s really surprising how difficult it is to get out of bed when fully dressed because the sheet wraps itself round one’s shoes — I jimmied the lock on the door. I had to turn my back on Slade at this point but it couldn’t be helped.

I turned and found him walking towards me slowly. When he approached he put his mouth to my ear and whispered, ‘When I get on deck I’d better see Valletta.’

I nodded my head impatiently, switched off the light, and opened the door on to the darkness of the passage. The staircase was immediately to the left and I prodded Slade up it with the gun in his back, holding his right arm. I stopped him before we got to the top and cautiously surveyed the deck lounge. All was quiet so I urged him on his way and we went out on to the after deck.

I shone the light to give Slade some idea of the obstacle race he must run to get the twenty feet to the stern rail, and off we went again. Half-way across the afterdeck he stopped and looked around. ‘You are right,’ he whispered. ‘It is Valletta.’

‘Quit chattering.’ I was edgy as I always am on the last lap. Once ashore I could turn Slade in to the Maltese Constabulary and the job was done, apart from wrapping up Wheeler and his mob, but we still had to get ashore.

We got as far as the stern rail and no further. I groped for the grapnel alongside the ensign-staff and couldn’t find it. Then shockingly a blaze of light split the darkness as the beam of a powerful lamp shone vertically down on us from the boat deck above, and a voice said, ‘That’s far enough.’

I dug my elbow into Slade’s ribs. ‘Jump!’ I yelled, but neither of us was quick enough. There was a rapid tattoo of feet on the deck as a small army of men rushed us and we were both grabbed and held. There wasn’t a damned thing I could do — two of the three men who tackled me were trying to tear my arms off so they could use them as clubs to beat me over the head, and the other was using my stomach as a bass drum and his fists weren’t padded as drumsticks are.

As I sagged and gasped for breath I was vaguely aware of Slade being dragged forward, hauled by two seamen with his feet trailing along the deck. Someone shouted and I was also hustled forward and thrust headlong through the doorway of the deck lounge. A burly black-bearded man whom I recognized as the skipper issued orders in a language whose flavour I couldn’t catch. I was unceremoniously dropped to the deck and my assailants began to draw the curtains to the windows.

Before the last of them was drawn I saw a searchlight from the bridge forward begin to search the water around Artina and I hoped Alison had got clear. Someone handed my pistol to the skipper; he looked at it with interest, made sure it was cocked, and pointed it at me. ‘Who are you?’ His English was accented, but with what I didn’t know.

I pushed myself up with wobbly arms. ‘Does it matter?’ I asked wearily.

The skipper swung his eyes to Slade who sagged against a chair, and then beyond him to the staircase which led below. ‘Ah, Lynch!’ he said, rumbling like a volcano about to explode. ‘What kind of a guard are you?’

I turned my head. Lynch was looking at Slade with shocked amazement. ‘How did he get here? I was with him not half an hour ago, and I made sure the door was locked.’

‘The door was locked,’ mimicked the skipper. ‘Te keni kujdes; how could the door be locked?’ He pointed to me. ‘And this man — he brought Slade out of the cabin.’

Lynch looked at me. ‘By God, it’s Rearden. But he couldn’t have been in the cabin,’ he said stubbornly. ‘I’d have seen him.’

‘I was in the shower, standing right next to you, you silly bastard.’ I turned to the skipper. ‘He nearly got himself killed. Not much of a guard, is he?’

Lynch made for me with blood in his eye, but the skipper got to me first, warding off Lynch with an arm like an iron bar. He dragged my head up by my hair and stuck the gun in my face. ‘So you are Rearden,’ he said, caressing my cheek with the barrel. ‘We’re very interested in you, Rearden.’

A cool voice said, ‘He’s not Rearden, of course.’

The skipper swung away and I saw the Chinese, Chang Pi-wu, who looked at me expressionlessly. Next to him stood a tall man with ash-blond hair, who, at that moment, was fitting a cigarette into a long holder. He dipped his hand into the pocket of his elegant dressing-gown, produced a lighter and flicked it into flame.

‘Stannard is the name, I believe,’ said Wheeler. ‘Owen Stannard.’ He lit his cigarette. ‘So thoughtful of you to join us, Mr Stannard. It saves me the trouble of looking for you.’

‘How did you get hold of him?’ Wheeler asked the skipper.

‘Mehmet found a hook on the stern rail and a rope leading to the water. He removed it and told me. I set up a watch.’

Wheeler nodded. ‘You didn’t know whether someone was going to come on board or leave,’ he commented.

The skipper waved his hand at me and Slade. ‘We caught these two leaving. This idiot... ’ He stabbed his finger at Lynch... let them go.’

Wheeler regarded Lynch frostily. ‘I’ll talk to you later. Now get below.’

Lynch looked as though he was about to expostulate but he caught the cold glare from Wheeler’s eye and promptly turned on his heel and went away, giving me a look of dislike as he went. I was beginning to improve physically; my shoulders no longer felt totally dislocated and although my belly was one massive ache I could now breathe more or less normally.

Wheeler said, ‘Well, Mr Stannard; how did you expect to take Slade ashore? By boat? Where is it?’

‘I swam out,’ I said.

‘And you were going to swim back,’ he said incredulously. With Slade a cripple? I don’t believe you.’ He swung around to the skipper. ‘Make a search for the boat.’

The skipper didn’t move. ‘It’s being done.’

Wheeler nodded approvingly and crossed to Slade who had now sagged into a chair. ‘My dear chap,’ he said anxiously. ‘What possessed you to leave with this man? Do you know who he is? If you had left the ship he would have put you in the hands of the police. And you know what that would mean — forty years in a British gaol. What sort of tale could he have told you?’