Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

“You’re very trusting,” Hank told him.

“There is very little trust involved where millions are at stake. They appear not to have been touched. Do you agree, Diaz?”

The Paraguayan shrugged without rising. He was almost too tired to think. Josep was not. His eyes were red with fatigue but his brain did not appear to be affected in any way.

“I have a suggestion,” he said. “We can spare no one to watch this bag. And I trust no one — that is no one person.”

Diaz nodded. “Agreed.”

“We’ll take the bag to the hospital. Your Sergeant Pradera is there, as is Concepcion. We’ll have them both moved into the same room. See that they have guns. Bring the bag and leave it there. With those two looking after it, it will be safer than any vault.”

“Agreed. You are a shrewd man, Josep. And it will be safe for each of us as well, with one person from your party there and one from mine. I agree. The bag will be guarded without sparing anyone for the job.”

“Then let us do it now, get it over with, because it is almost time for our radio contact. The last cable said it would only be a matter of a few hours before the fishing boat would be ready to put to sea.”

“Wait, before you go,” Hank said. “The room toward is still in the toilet. He can’t know that I’m involved.”

“I'll let him out,” Diaz said. “And warn him about the takeover by now. Go in front of me while I hold this gun on you.”

The frightened steward was released — and a thoroughly angry Frances as well. She led Hank off to see that he had a late breakfast, as well as a number of well-chosen words that she had been choosing for the past hours. Josep and Diaz took the bag with its precious contents down to the hospital.

There were protests — but the arrangements were made. The only room big enough for two hospital beds was the consulting room on the port side of Two deck. Under the persuasion of the guns the medical orderlies took out the desk and examination table and moved in the beds. The bag itself was put on top of the shelves of medical books and journals that covered one wall. Concepcion sat on the edge of her bed and watched.

“You have a gun?” Josep asked.

“Of course, here,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, raw. Heavy bandages were about her throat and neck and she was very pale.

“Good,” Josep said. “Lie back, regain your strength. Let no one come near the diamonds.”

She only smiled in answer and sank down against the pillows.

Sergeant Pradera was wheeled in on a gurney and it took two orderlies, with the doctor’s help to get him onto the bed. Both of his legs were encased in plaster to immobilize his knees. When the medical team had gone Diaz passed a Webley.45 caliber pistol over to him.

“The diamonds are in the bag,” Diaz said. “The bag remains there and no one is to go near it.” Pradera nodded and put the pistol under the covers by his side

“Secure. Make sure the lights are left on all the time When you say no one, you include the girl there?”

“Let me introduce you. Sergeant Pradera, Conception Valverde. She is your opposite number in the Tupamaros. You guard the bag together. Neither of you goes near it.”

“Not my problem, is it?” the Sergeant said. “It is hers.” He turned his expressionless face her way. “Touch the bag and you are dead, woman. Remember that.”

Concepcion spat with anger and turned away.

“Enjoy your stay in hospital,” Diaz said cheerily as he and Josep left. Concepcion glared after him, then swung her legs off the bed as soon as he was gone, stood and walked over to look down at the Sergeant.

“You were the one on the inside, weren’t you? Working with them every day.” Pradera nodded. “Took some guts. You didn’t talk, either, when they did that to your legs.”

“It took some guts for you to walk into the prison of La Libertad and blow away the prison governor and his guards. I know of you, Concepcion.”

She smiled, a rare expression on her always stern face and for a moment was a lovely young girl. But only for a moment. “We will get along, Sergeant. If you will watch the bag while I go to the toilet I will not be long.”

“If I am disturbed you will only have to step over the body upon your return.”

Concepcion and Pradera were the only members of the hijacking party to relax in the next hours. Only by threats of violence, and violence itself, could control of the giant ship be maintained. Tempers were drawn thin and the doctors treated a steady stream of bruised and battered people. It was only by chance that there were no bullet wounds — or deaths — as of yet.

Four hours passed. Four hours of growing tension that could end in only one way. Josep was alone with Captain Rapley in his bedroom, saying just that.

“I have no control over my crew,” the Captain said. “Not while they have guns at their heads.”

“You have moral control, Captain. You can issue them orders to cooperate, to cease this subtle resistance. My men are tired, their fingers uneasy on the triggers.”

“I’m sorry, but that is the situation. I can do no more.”

“Would you do more if I turned your ship back to you?”

“What do you mean?” the Captain snapped. “You are surrendering?”

“I did not say that. We are leaving the ship soon. We have done what we had to do.” He held up a sheet of paper. “Your radio room is shut down and guarded, but I have had your Chief Radio Officer in there and we have been exchanging cables with a shore station, though, of course not identifying this end as the QE2. I have had the answer that I have been waiting for. Another ship will rendezvous with us at this location. If you agree to set the correct course to get us to the appointed place at the correct time, and also agree to hold your crew in check until we get there, if you do that, why then the violence will be at an end.”

“Do I have any choice?”

“No. And someone will be dead very soon if you don’t make your mind up rather quickly.”

“Ml do it, of course. But I promise you that I will make every effort to see that you are apprehended as soon as possible when I am once more in command of this ship.”

“Of course. I expect no less.”

“Then it is agreed. I want to issue orders to the crew at once, then we’ll go to the bridge and I’ll set the course.”

The telephone rang, and the Captain answered it after Josep nodded permission.

“What does this mean?” he asked Josep, covering the phone with his hand. “Radar reports that we are within range of Clipperton Island.”

“Hang up. We’ll go to the bridge. Clipperton is simply the reference point where we stop and turn around. Let us go up there so you can take charge.”

Captain Rapley walked in front of Josep, so he did not see the smile of victory on Josep’s face, the outward sign that with this one last bit of trickery and deceit the entire operation would finally be able to fall into place.

The abrupt, piercing scream of the ship’s siren jerked Angus Macrahanish out of a half-doze. He was lying on his bed, reading Greenmantle, not for the first time, and sipping some good Campbletown malt now and again. This was the easiest way to pass the time until the storm died down. His wife, in the next bed, snored lightly in her sleep, rendered unconscious by a combination of lunch and large doses of dramamine. The shrill siren did not disturb her in the slightest.

“Now what the bloody hell is it?” Angus said, throwing the book down and jumping to his feet. When he stood up he realized that the ship was barely rocking, the first time in days, and that the engines had slowed, almost stopped. He went to the window and wiped off the condensation; a large rocky cliff was visible not too distant, only partially obscured by the driving rain.