Desmond Bagley - The Freedom Trap

‘Slade can go back to the cabin,’ said the skipper.

‘After what has just happened?’ Wheeler lifted his eyebrows.

The Chinese said, ‘He must be manacled to the bed, and a man must stay in the cabin all the time. He must not be permitted to make noise.’

Wheeler thought about it. ‘All right; what about Stannard?’

‘The forepeak; there’s a steel bulkhead with a watertight door. He won’t get out of there.’

Wheeler nodded curtly, then said to me, ‘I’m afraid your interrogation will have to be postponed until we’re away from land. The sound of a man screaming travels a long way.’ He waved his hand and I found my arm held. ‘By the way, were you responsible for what happened to our screws?’

‘What’s happened to your screws?’ I managed to grin. ‘Are they loose?’

‘Very stiff-upper-lipped,’ commented Wheeler. ‘A quip in the face of death — very British. Take him away.’

I was hustled out of the lounge, a man on each side of me. I passed Slade whose face was yellowy-grey and who looked absolutely defeated and then I was thrust out on to the stern deck. There were now lights aboard Artina and, as we went forward along the side-deck, I saw that the man on my right still carried my gun. I didn’t like the sound of that forepeak; from what I had seen of it on the plans of Artina’s sister ship it was only four feet high — a hermetically-sealed steel box. The odds were I’d die of heat-stroke or suffocation.

But relish the prospect or not, the man next to me had a gun. The fact that he wasn’t pointing it directly at me made not a ha’porth of difference — not while he gripped my arm and the man on the other side held me in a hammer-lock.

They pushed me along the deck until we were amidships and then there was a noise like a dud firecracker and the man with a gun gave a yelp and dropped it on to the deck. He stopped and looked at the blood oozing from the hole in the back of his hand, and let go of me. I’d heard that dud firecracker go off before.

I heard it go off again and saw a brief flash of light from the top of the deckhouse. The seaman who had me in the hammer-lock stumbled slightly and his grip loosened. He went down in apparent slow motion and I saw there was a dark red spot in the middle of his forehead.

‘Jump, you damned fool,’ yelled Alison, and I went over the side in an inelegant dive, arms and legs going every which way. I landed in the water with a hell of a splash and heard, two seconds later, another neater and more ladylike splash as Alison joined me.

I wasted no time in getting under the surface and swam in a circle searching for her. My hand touched her leg and she twisted in the water and grabbed my wrist. I pulled, leading her, and we swam deep and under Artina. It would be natural for anyone to look for us from the side of the ship from which we had jumped and I wanted to get away from there.

Matters were complicated by the fact that I was running out of air. Things had happened so fast that I hadn’t had time to prepare myself by taking a good lungful of air, and that wasn’t so good. I didn’t want to come up within shooting distance of the ship. I compromised by coming up for air under Artina’s stern, hanging on to her rudder with just my nose and mouth above water. Alison joined me.

I took a few deep breaths and then allowed an ear out of the water. Things were going pop on deck; men ran along the deck in a seemingly confused way and the deep rumble of the skipper’s voice held a note of menace. I prodded Alison under the chin so that her head came out of the water and whispered into her ear. ‘Swim to Ta’Xbiex — under water as far as possible. I’ll meet you at the place we left.’

She wasted no time in answering but sank under water and vanished. I took a last breath and followed her. Normally I like swimming but this was getting to be a bit too much; I like to swim in water I know to be clean. I took it easy, letting the air dribble from my mouth as the strain grew intolerable. When it finally became impossible to stay under any longer I surfaced face upwards, letting only my nose and mouth break the surface.

I cleared my lungs in four breaths and then risked a glance back at Artina. A searchlight was probing the water again but not in my direction. As I was about to go under again I heard a roar and ducked under just in time as a fast launch came hurtling in my direction. I struck out strongly to gain depth and the launch passed directly overhead, the disturbance of the wake buffeting me in the water.

Three times I had to surface before I came to the shore or, rather to the long line of yachts moored stern on to the wharf of the Lazzaretto Creek Marina. I came up under the bows of a floating gin palace, puffing and panting in an attempt to get my breath back, but I soon stopped that when I heard the pad of naked feet on the deck above.

Whoever it was seemed irritable. ‘More uproar — everyone rushin’ about in the middle of the night. What the hell do they think they’re doin’?’

A woman said, ‘I thought I heard fireworks earlier.’

‘Fireworks be damned — they’re tomorrow night. And who the hell lets off fireworks at this time in the mornin’?’

The launch came by again, going at a hell of a clip, and the boat I was holding on to rocked heavily in the swell of its passage. This provoked an outburst of rage from above. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doin’?’ the man screamed, and I pictured him as a peppery, curry-voiced retired colonel.

His wife said, ‘You’re making more noise than anyone else, George. Come back to bed!’

There was the slap of bare feet on the deck as they padded away. ‘All right; but a fat lot of sleep I’ll get,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ll see the manager tomorrow. We can’t have this happenin’ at night.’

I grinned and swam a couple of boats down the line before climbing ashore. Then I dog-trotted towards the place I’d assigned to meet Alison, hoping that she’d made it. I was worried about Alison for a number of reasons. Back in Ireland she had been distrustful of me and had wondered out loud if I hadn’t sold out to the Scarperers. Now I was distrustful of her.

If what Wheeler had said was true — that Mackintosh had blown the gaff — then I was really in trouble because Mackintosh wouldn’t do a thing like that unheedingly. But why should I believe Wheeler? What incentive did he have to tell me the truth? In that case there was only one other person who could have sold out — Alison!

What brought that line of thought up short with a jerk was the recent episode on Artina. If Alison had sold out then why did she rescue me? Why did she pop off with that natty pistol of hers to wound one man, kill another, and get Stannard off the hot spot? That made even less sense. But I determined to keep a careful eye on Mrs Alison Smith in the future — providing she hadn’t been run down by that launch.

I waited for fifteen minutes before she arrived. She was exhausted — so weary she couldn’t pull herself from the water. I hauled her out and waited for a while until she recovered sufficiently to speak. Her first words were, ‘That damned boat — nearly ran me down twice.’

‘Did they see you?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t think so — they were just lucky.’

‘They nearly got me,’ I said. ‘What happened to our boat?’

‘I saw a man find the grapnel,’ she said. ‘And I knew you’d be in trouble. I went to the bows and climbed the anchor cable, and just let the boat drift.’

‘Lucky for me you did. You’re pretty handy with that popgun.’

‘Six yards — no more. Anyone could do that.’