Toby didn’t want to hear any more. Whatever went on in the owner’s stateroom, it was not his business. He wondered if Irina was using him again—teasing him—as she had done earlier. “I really think you should—”
But the girl waved her hand to silence him and continued urgently, “Then Natasha went to the sideboard. She was looking for more stuff ... you know, coke. But all she found was what looked like medication. A clear liquid in a bottle with a little plastic cup on top to make the right dose. Ivan said, ‘Help yourself,’ so she took a swig straight from the bottle. After minutes, she begin to sway and then falls on the bed asleep. He says, ‘Get her out of here,’ I rouse her a little bits, and take her to her cabin. She is spaced up.”
“Spaced out,” Toby corrected. “What was in the bottle? Why do you think it was medication?”
“It was some sort of strong cough or chest medicine. I know he takes that for his smoker’s cough, he tells me so. When I get back, Ivan says, ‘Do you think anyone would care if she went missing?’ I say, yes, Natasha has many friends. Then he says, ‘What about you, Irina? What do you care if you live or die? Life is cheap where we all come from.’ Then he opens a drawer in his nightstand and takes out a gun, an old-fashioned revolver. He points it at me, then he turns it, spins the barrel and points it at his own head. He says, ‘I go first,’ and there is a click. Then he hands the gun to me and says, ‘Your turn, Irina.’ I spin the barrel, then I point the gun at the window and pull the trigger. There is another click. He is angry. ‘Play my game or I will make you,’ he is saying. I plead with him, I am young, I am pretty, what does he want? ‘Our fate is not in our hands, but God’s,’ he says. ‘Play.’ I throw the weapon down on the bed. He picks it up and turns the mechanism and one bullet falls out. He goes to the bathroom. I go to the nightstand and take out the box of bullets. Also I find this. Then I get up and I come straight to you.”
Irina reached into a deep pocket on her nightgown and produced a small cardboard box without a lid. Toby saw that it contained ammunition, neatly packed, like gold cigarettes. She put the box down on a control panel. She reached into the pocket again and produced a piece of paper, which she held out to Toby.
Toby didn’t take the paper. He was aghast. “You can’t go rooting around in the owner’s drawers! This is not our business! It sounds like he got drunk, he got melancholy. Russians are like that, they say. You must know that too, in your line of work. Haven’t you heard of Russian roulette? Anyway, nothing happened.” Toby hoped he sounded more reassuring than he felt. Should he sound the alarm, open the doors, and get everyone off the ship?
“Yes, Hugh Grant, many big Russian men carry gun. But they never point it at themselves. Something bad is going to happen on this ship. Why is he here just himself and this Walther? This is party time of year, New Year’s Eve come soon. It all feels wrong and dangerous. And what is this on this paper?” She held out the sheet towards Toby. “So I come to you to let me go and take my chance in the night.”
“If you want to leave you’ll have to wake Scott. I don’t even have the codes to open the elevator and the hull doors.”
“No! Scott is with him like hands in gloves. Look, look, at this paper.” She thrust her hand out and stuffed the folded piece of paper into the waistband of Toby’s uniform shorts. “Please, you must ...”
Something caught Toby’s eye. On one of the monitors, there was a movement. The girl looked too. A stateroom door opened and Krigov emerged, a bathrobe wrapped around his portly body.
“He comes to look for me!” Irina whispered. “Let me out!”
“Get back to your cabin,” Toby said. “There’s nothing I can do.” He felt bad saying it, but it was the truth.
“Open the elevator. Quick!”
“No, I can’t. Unless I sound the emergency alarm.”
“Well, do that.”
“Everyone will come running, you won’t get away, and I’ll get sacked on my first night. Irina, go to Walther. He seems a straight guy.”
“He seem, but he is Krigov’s new business associate.” The girl darted a glance at the monitor. “Ivan looks for me.”
Toby said, “I’m going to call Scott. I can’t cope with this.” He reached out for the phone receiver.
At this, the girl looked even more terrified. “No! Not him! I go! I go! Mr Steward, I do not like you much at all!” With a final scared look at the monitor, the girl pulled her nightie tightly around her and flitted away to the door.
Toby pulled the piece of paper from his shorts. “Here, take this back, whatever it is. And the bullets. You’ll get
me
shot at this rate.”
The girl ignored him. She pressed the green door release. It slid open at her command and she disappeared.
Toby’s pulse raced. He stared at the monitors. In a moment, he saw Irina return to the owner’s corridor. A few minutes later, Krigov appeared and went the same way.
Toby’s brain tumbled in turmoil. There was no one he could safely call, and nothing he could safely do. He stared at the monitors, but there was no more movement or sound. He forced himself to breathe slowly. He tensed for more action. His eyes darted all over the monitors. Nothing. All seemed quiet now.
After five minutes, his curiosity got the better of him and he unfolded the piece of paper that he still held tightly in his grasp.
Its contents were indeed worrying. He decided to make a copy for the authorities. There was a PC built into the navigation station with an all-in-one printer/scanner underneath on a shelf. He slid the sheet of paper on to the platen and pressed “Start.” The machine whined and delivered his copy. He folded it up and put it in the little buttoned pocket on the backside of his shorts.
Next, he picked up the box of bullets, took it out through the bridge wing door, and flung it seaward as hard as he could. He heard the splash as it hit the water a second later.
He sat and tried to get his thoughts in order, but couldn’t. It was all too much. His eyelids drooped again and he jerked awake. He slapped his cheeks a couple of times quite hard until they stung. That helped for a bit.
However, after a further half-hour of inaction, he was more tired than ever. He got up and stepped outside on to the bridge wing again. The night air was still balmy, but it seemed to be clouding over.
He went back to the helmsman’s seat and sat down. What could he have done? What could he do now? He shook his head. He would just rest his eyes a moment.
So tired ...
Chapter 4
Some little while later, seen only by the vigilant electronic monitors, the yacht’s owner padded up the stairs to the bridge in his bare feet. He keyed in the security code and the door glided open. He looked in and saw his new British deckhand fast asleep in the helmsman’s chair, his head bent forward and his chin on his chest. A little smile, almost indulgent, played around Krigov’s lips. He stepped over to the monitor bank and pressed some buttons. After a little fast-forwarding, he found and erased the section of the recording showing Irina, and later himself, exiting his quarters. Next, his fingers played over a touch-screen panel. A square grid of sixteen numbers appeared. The owner pressed three of the numbers, which turned red as he did so. At the same time, three images blacked out on the monitor panel.
Krigov looked around. A light blinked from a shelf on the nav station. He crossed over silently, lifted the lid on the printer, retrieved the original paper, folded it and put it in his pocket. He pursed his lips and looked over at the British crewman again, as if making some decision. Finally Ivan
Nikolaevich
Krigov stepped out, past the still-sleeping deckhand, and left the bridge.
Chapter 5
Toby was awakened by a small but shrill sound like a scream. He jerked his head up with alarm. What time was it?
His eyes settled on the ship’s digital clock.
4.38am.
Bummer!
He’d been asleep the best part of an hour!
He scanned the monitors in a panic. What was that? And why no picture on No. 4 camera? The label underneath said Deck 2. That was the owner’s deck. Where had the scream come from—or was it part of a dream?
There it was again! A scream, without a doubt. From one of the monitor speakers linked to the microphones. It was obviously one of the Russian girls. He should have taken Irina more seriously. He had to do something now. But what? Call Scott? She had said no. He looked for the volume control for the microphone monitor, found it and turned it up.
Another scream of pure terror, this time at full volume, echoed around the empty bridge.
The hairs on his neck bristled. No time to think. He stood up and exited the bridge into the atrium area. But wait! He should go down the outside way, shout and raise the alarm to get help from ashore, not descend directly via the owner’s level and risk being apprehended. He backed up to the bridge, keyed the numbers in quickly and hurried out of the wing door. An outside staircase led down to Deck 2.
He peered around. Nothing. He proceeded cautiously down the stairs. His uniform Nike deckhand trainers made no sound. Thank God he wasn’t wearing the leather steward’s shoes.
He crept around the external walkway and reached Deck 2. This consisted entirely of living accommodation. He was on the level below the stateroom and entertaining area. He realised that the bedrooms were not accessible from the outside, sensibly enough. He reached the end of the exterior deck walkway. He could see where the bedrooms were, with portholes directly on the side of the yacht. Light issued from one of them.
There was no way to go lower on the outside. He began to think he should have stayed at his post and called the first officer after all, regardless of the consequences. Then he saw something which gave him an idea. The window-cleaning cradle! It was hanging at his level about thirty feet away. If he climbed over the railing here, there was a little ledge, and a line of pipes or conduits running at shoulder height above it that could be used as a handhold.
In a moment, he decided. He would jump ship and summon outside assistance. This cradle would be his exit strategy. If caught, he would say he was investigating an intruder he had seen in the cradle or some similar bullshit. He would say he had telephoned Scott, but got no response. They couldn’t touch him for that.
He stepped up on the first rung of the railing and then on to the handrail. He kept hold of a plumbing or hydraulic junction box welded on the hull, to steady himself. Then he dropped over and on to the ledge. He looked down. The dock seemed a long way below. It was certainly enough of a fall to cause serious injury or even death. He shuffled along the ledge, holding on to the pipe conduit, which made an ideal handhold.
So far, so good.
He made careful progress and was soon well on his way to the cradle. It seemed to be further away than he had imagined. No matter, he had a good head for heights and had climbed the practice mast at the Sea School with style and aplomb.
He felt moisture on his face, like a spray of mist. Then a puff of breeze, then a sudden gust of wind, completely unannounced. Above him, something clattered and fell over. Seconds later, it started to rain, gently at first, then with greater force as if someone had turned on a power shower with one of those rain heads.
Toby was soaked within seconds, and the ledge became slippery. His new trainers were OK, but it was still treacherous. The rain ran down his face. He wiped his eyes with his free hand and clung on with the other. Go back—or go on? The rain pounded off the hull like bullets ricocheting. Could he actually turn back anyway? No—he would have to reverse blind. He decided to go on. The weather would be a useful cover for his escape from this hell ship. And the rain had truly woken him up.
He edged forward. His polo shirt clung to his arms. The cradle was out in front of him. It swayed a little in the gusting wind, still some way off.
A new blast of wind tore at him. It came first from one direction and then from the opposite, like an enemy in a video game that could teleport itself in an instant. Toby clung on. The cradle swayed more alarmingly. The rain ran into his eyes. By now he was holding on with both hands to the conduit of pipes, so he couldn’t wipe the water away. He blinked his eyes furiously and tried to focus.
The rain strengthened again and now felt like a horizontal bombardment of stinging rods, reminding him of the time his best mate Rodney had turned the pressure washer on him at the car wash.
How long would this go on? Toby had heard of squalls which came up suddenly in the Tropics and petered out just as quickly.
Canvas flapped crazily somewhere above him. There was another loud clatter, as of a chair tipping over. From all around the harbour came the clink of taut wires beating against masts, like a maniac’s percussion band.
His shorts were soaked and his polo shirt clung to his frame. A fine time to be the sole entry in a wet T-shirt contest—and with no audience.
Water ran down the hull of the ship on to his ledge, turning it into a skidpan. He had to go on. This rain was not going to let up any time soon.
Through the din of the masts rattling and the canvas awnings flapping and the rain lashing, Toby could hear tree frogs. Their high-pitched chirps reached a crescendo as they gave thanks for the rain.
Toby, on the other hand, cursed to himself. He stole a glance down to the marina. Suppose someone saw him perched up here? The doziest security man could scope him out and raise the alarm double quick.
He had to reach the cradle. In mountaineer style, he moved one foot forward while keeping his two hands and other foot still. Then he moved the other foot. Then he moved his leading hand up the conduit, and finally the trailing hand. In this way, he crabbed up to the window-cleaning cradle.
The cradle lurched and bucked in front of him. There was a sort of bulkhead or girder running up and down that marked the end of his ledge. He needed to jump—not far, but far enough that if he made a mistake, he’d go straight down to the jetty below.