Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

“Stay hidden, Terry,” I said.

The sliding doors were not locked and everyone in the room jumped as I pulled one of the great glass panes aside. I heard my own voice coming from the tape-recorder, then Angela leaned forward and used the remote control to switch it off.

They all stared at me and I had the ridiculous notion that this was a scene out of a detective play when, at the end of the last act, everyone is gathered in the drawing-room to hear the culprit revealed. They seemed frozen by my appearance, as if caught in a flash photograph, then the tableau broke as Mulder moved towards me.

“Leave him!” Bannister’s sudden command stopped Mulder, who contented himself with a threatening and derisive stare. Bannister shuddered as though he found it hard to even speak to me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came here to explain.” Rainwater dripped from my clothes on to the expensive carpet.

“You hardly need to explain.” Bannister clicked his fingers at Angela. “Rewind it, then play it to Captain Sandman.” He paused, then added with withering scorn, “VC.”

“I know what’s on the tape…” I began.

“Shut up!” Bannister shouted the command. Whatever courage he had lacked in the past was evident now; stung into the light by what he had heard on the tape.

But if Bannister was showing a new side to his character, Angela’s demeanour was as it used to be before the rainy day when we had come together in this same room. Her face was a cold, pale mask of dislike. I caught her eyes once and there was not even a flicker of recognition in them. She leaned forward and I listened to the scribbling squall of a tape going backwards, there was a click, then Jill-Beth’s eager, friendly, American voice filled the room. “Because we need your help, Nick! You’re our one chance. Persuade Bannister to take you as Wildtrack ’s navigator, and count your money!”

“And exactly what do I have to do?” My voice was much louder than Jill-Beth’s, but the microphone had worked only too well and her words were quite distinct.

“You just navigate a course that we’ll provide you.”

“What course?”

“Jesus! How do we know? That’ll depend on the weather, right?

All you have to do is keep a radio watch at the times we tell you, and that’s it. The easiest four hundred thousand you ever earned, right?”

“Right.” There was a pause before my voice sounded again. “And what happens when we reach wherever it is that we’re going?”

“Nothing happens to you. Nothing happens to the crew.”

“But what happens to Bannister?”

“Whatever Yassir wants.”

“And all this on the assumption that Bannister murdered his wife?”

“You got it, Nick. You want the hundred thousand now?” Jill-Beth’s voice sounded eager; then there was nothing but the magnetic hiss of empty tape.

Angela leaned forward, turned off the tape-recorder, and stood up. “You bastard!” She turned away from me and stalked out of the room.

“It isn’t…” I had been going to say that the truth was not what they had heard on the tape, but Bannister, goaded to fury by hearing the damning evidence once more, shouted that I was to be quiet.

Mulder took one threatening step forward and rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation. His two crewmen looked nervous, but willing.

Bannister flinched as the door slammed behind Angela, then repeated her insult. “You bastard.”

“I turned the offer down,” I said. “I only wanted to hear what they planned to do.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Don’t be such a bloody idiot!” I snapped back. “Ask the police about a poor bastard called Micky Harding who’s unconscious in hospital right now! He’s a newspaper reporter.”

“He’s lying,” Mulder said laconically.

“And how the hell did you get that tape?” I demanded.

“I followed you,” Mulder said coldly.

“Why?” I demanded. Mulder did not answer, and I pressed on in the belief that I had regained some of the initiative. “And why, for Christ’s sake, would I be wired for sound? Why in hell’s name would I risk doing that if I was on their side?”

“To make sure they wouldn’t double-cross you, of course.” Mulder’s staccato voice was bleak.

“Micky Harding’s a newspaper reporter,” I said to Bannister, “and your thug beat him half dead.” It was clear from Bannister’s face that I was wasting my words. He was a media man, and for him a tape could not tell a lie. His world lay on tape and film, and my betrayal was proven by the magnetic ribbon. He stood between me and the tape-recorder as though he feared I might try and snatch the damning spool. “I’m through with you, Sandman.”

“You know Harry Abbott,” I said to him. “Phone him up! Ask him!”

Mulder moved so that he stood between Bannister and myself.

“Why did you go to America?” Mulder challenged me.

I was surprised by the question and I hesitated. I’d told Angela the truth, but no one else.

My hesitation looked like guilt, and Mulder mocked it with a smile. “You said your mother was dying. So what about this, liar?” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a folded glossy newspaper that he tossed on to the carpet by my feet. “Front page, liar.”

It was an in-house news-sheet from Kassouli Enterprises, Inc. of New York, and on the front page, ringed in damning red ink, was the photograph of Jill-Beth and I which had been taken in Kassouli’s Cape Cod garden. At the time I’d told the photographer I was nobody, just John Brown, but the caption said that Miss Jill-Beth Kirov, daughter of Rear-Admiral Oscar Kirov, USN, had been squired to a reception at Mr Yassir Kassouli’s summer residence by Captain Nicholas Sandman, VC.

“Well?” Mulder’s voice reeked of victory.

“Who the hell sent this to you?”

“What does that matter? They sent two.” He took another copy of the news-sheet from his pocket and gave it to Bannister.

Bannister read it. I was at sea suddenly, my reasons swamped by this sudden twist. Mulder, in total control, stepped towards me.

“You’ve done nothing but lie. You saved the American girl that night and you’ve been playing her game ever since. What else have you done, Sandman? Filed down a turnbuckle? Cut some warps? I think you just lost yourself a boat, Sandman. How else is Mister Bannister to recoup his losses?”

Bannister looked up from the paper. “What were you planning to do? Kill us all at sea?”

“I was trying to save your miserable life!” I shouted past Mulder’s hulking figure.

“And where’s the hundred thousand?” Mulder demanded.

“There isn’t any money! I turned them down.”

“You pathetic little bastard.” Mulder was triumphant in his victory. “You scummy cripple. The money’s on your boat, isn’t it?”

“Get stuffed.” It was a feeble response. I tried to think of an argument that might convince Bannister of my honesty, but the evidence against me was too overwhelming.

“You want me to get the money?” Mulder asked Bannister.

“There isn’t any, you fool!” I backed towards the window.

“Stop him, Fanny!” Bannister said. “Then search his damned boat.” Fanny lunged towards me, and I twisted aside. “Now!” I snapped the word and Terry Farebrother appeared as if from nowhere. He made no sound. He must have been waiting just beside the window and he had been keyed up for this moment. If anyone in the room was astonished by his appearance they had no chance to display it before he crouched in front of Mulder who, dismissive of the much smaller man, went to push him aside.

Mulder stopped dead, then screamed. It was a horrid, almost feminine noise. Terry straightened up and I could not see what grip he was using, but I could see that Mulder was sinking to his knees.