Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

Josep came himself, tapping on the door a few minutes later. Concepcion unlocked it and he came in with one other man who was pushing a wheelchair. The Tupamaro was masked but Josep, like Concepcion, was not. He looked stolidly down at the wounded man.

“A war hero,” he said. “Look at those ribbons on his jacket. He even has the Victoria Cross. Bad luck. All right, Jorge first. Is he dead?”

“Very.”

“Another martyr. You’ll take care of him. Put him in the wheelchair, covered with blankets. I’ll stay on guard here while you two dump him over the rail.”

The wounded man followed them with his eyes until they were gone. “Going to give me the deep six too?” he asked.

“You speak Spanish?”

“Enough. Thirty years in the Guards you see some strange places. RSM. Crack shot as your gunman found out. Do I follow him?”

“No. We are not criminals. I’ll take you to a doctor.”

“That’s good. Just pick up the phone and dial 0. The operator will send some orderlies with a stretcher.”

“I was thinking of a different doctor.”

“I thought you might be.” The RSM’s voice never changed, though the blood was soaking through his clothing and spreading out on the tiled floor. “You are not going to get away with this, not piracy on the high seas.”

“Save your strength and shut up,” Josep said. This accident would cause a small hitch in their plans, but not a major one. He had to get the man out of here, the blood and damage cleared up, one of his own people left behind as a guard. Then on to the next step. It wasn’t even twelve thirty yet. Things were going well. You had to expect casualties in war.

When they returned with the now empty wheelchair, Josep left them on guard while he found a first aid box in the other office and took the bandages from it. The RSM did not protest when he tore the man’s clothes open and applied the pressure bandages.

“You’re a Samaritan, that’s what you are,” he said, and his face turned chalky as the bandages were tightened.

“No,” Josep said. “I just do not wish any traces of blood in the corridors.” He straightened up and looked around. “Get this mess cleaned up, Concepcion. Wipe up the blood, move some charts or books to cover those bullet holes. Stay here with the door locked until relieved. I don’t think you’ll be bothered by any passengers, not tonight.”

Despite himself, the wounded man groaned when they picked him up and put him into the wheelchair. The corridors were empty, as was the elevator, and they reached Josep’s own cabin without being seen. It was deep in the ship, on Three deck, without a window or porthole and situated in the stern of the ship. The cabin was efficient but small, like a tiny sea-going motel room, and was about as close to steerage as accommodation could be aboard the QE2. About the only thing that could be said for it was that they were so deep in the ship that the rolling was less pronounced. This advantage was made up for by the powerful vibration of the engines that throbbed and shook the room and set the wall panels to buzzing.

“He is injured but he is dangerous,” Josep warned. “Be on your guard. And he understands Spanish.”

Josep hurried now, moving fast to the elevator and taking it high up to the boat deck, then walking up to the Captain’s quarters. He could feel the tension in the air when he entered the room. Captain Rapley sat on the couch, dressed now and glowering in his direction. The frightened steward was on the other side of the room next to a young ship’s officer, who had a bloody scalp and a rapidly developing black eye.

“Third Officer,” one of the armed and masked men reported. “Came to the bridge unexpectedly. They brought him down here as you ordered.”

“Good, we can use him.” Josep turned to the Captain.

“I want you to issue some orders by telephone, normal orders without trickery.”

“Go to hell.”

“Now, I will not attempt to use force on you, Captain, since I know your military record and I know that you are a very strong man. And I also know that you care about your subordinates. Do you recognize me?”

“Only that you are so ugly you don’t need an ape mask like these creatures.”

“Don’t push me too far, Captain. I am beginning to lose my patience.” He turned to the other two crew members. “Do either of you know who I am? Speak up, I want the information.”

The steward looked towards him fearfully, then at the Captain and quickly away. Josep saw the motion. “You,” he pointed. “Do you recognize me?”

“Maybe, sir, I can’t be sure. Would your picture have been in the News of the World? And an article about you?”

“Very possibly. The name?”

“Josep, sir, something like that. Something to do with the Tupper-marrows.”

“You are correct. I am Josep. We are Tupamaros. Did the article say anything more about us?”

“Lots, sir, begging your pardon, just saying what I read. You’re guerrillas, only you fight in the cities, Communists. And you kill, bomb, rob banks, that sort of thing

“Close enough. Shorn of the propaganda it is close enough. Do you understand now, Captain? Would you like to see me live up to my reputation? I won’t injure you — but I will cheerfully maim, perhaps kill your crew members. Do you believe that?”

“I do,” the Captain said coldly. “I have access to journals other than News of the World, so I know a good deal about you. What do you want?”

“Very good. I wish you to call the engine room or the engineer, or whoever it is you talk to about this sort of thing, and I want you to invent a small situation on Two deck that will require them sending up one man with an oxyacetylene torch. You will say nothing to arouse their suspicions. You will order this man to meet this officer here and we will take it from there. Understood?”

“Very clear.”

“Good. You will make the phone call from here and I will listen on the extension in your bedroom. Please do not make any foolish mistakes, Captain.”

It worked out very smoothly. The Captain was not a stupid man. Josep went with the ship’s officer to meet the engine room rating, who trundled the cutting torch out of the elevator on Two deck ten minutes later. Both crew members were horrified at the thought of cutting into the vault, but were soon convinced by the guns. The sailor pulled on his mask, popped his spark and lit the torch, then set to work next to the lock mechanism. Josep left Concepcion in charge of the situation and took the officer back to the Captain’s quarters. It was all working like clockwork and he was very pleased with himself. From the Captain’s suite it was not too far to the radio room where Diaz and his men were alert and on guard. Diaz signalled him out to the alleyway, then pulled off his mask after he had closed the door behind them.

“This thing not only stinks but I’m sweating inside of it.”

“You’re wearing them for a good reason. We change guards and change masks and they will never know how few of us there are. For propaganda reasons it is best that Concepcion and I show our faces. They respect our reputation.”

“I know all that — but it is still damned uncomfortable. Are we doing all right?”

“Could not be better. One casualty only, and the ship is ours. We can get in touch with the fishing boat now and arrange a rendezvous. I have a contact in Acapulco where the cable office is open all night. He will contact the boat by ship to shore radio. We have a simple code — and the message is already done.”

“Then let us send it and get this business finished with as quickly as possible.”

The operator was more than willing to send the cablegram. It took him a few minutes to contact Acapulco and to transmit the coded message. The contact must have been waiting in the cable office, because the answer came almost as soon as the first message had been received. He tore it off the machine and handed it to Josep, who went into the adjoining compartment to decode it. He worked quickly as well. Less than two minutes later he threw the door open and waved Diaz to him. His features were pale and drawn as though he had just looked death squarely in the face.