The Collectors - Book Four: Diamonds and Sand (The Collectors Series 4) (30 page)

             
“It was him or us.”

             
Petros checked the man. “Thank Christ he’s still breathing. Help me get him tied up and out of the way. The other one will start to wonder where he’s gone.”

             
“I suggest we wait for him to arrive.”

             
“I’ll check where we are and alter our course towards Malta. You stand back from that hatch. And when you hit him, be gentle.”

             
A strong wind blew across the bridge. A figure loomed through the doorway and shouted in Arabic. Petros, his face set in a frown, completed a position and course check before turning. He smiled as the well-built man with his muscular arms outstretched, staggered across the deck.               Bear struck the man’s head with a clenched fist.

             
“Great punch.”

             
“PK, I’ll tie this creep up and dump him with his friend. Pity we can’t speak Arabic.”

             
Petros stood at the front of the bridge and pushed the throttle hard to the stops. His eyes scanned the horizon but the sea remained empty. “Bear, stay here and touch nothing.”

             
“Where are you going?”

             
The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes gave evidence of little sleep. “Self preservation. I need to check how much fuel we have and make sure the supply is open from how many tanks we have.”

             
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

             
“I know boats. Perhaps not as plush as
Dream Chaser
but it floats and moves. When I return you can have the honour of discovering what’s for breakfast.”

             
Bear bowed. “Yes, Captain.”

             
Twenty minutes later Petros, his clothes reeking of diesel, returned to the bridge. “Fuel tanks open and I reckon we’ll make Malta with no problems. I’ll take over while you do what you do best.”

             
On the bridge, Petros relaxed and watched the choppy sea change colour as clouds drifted across the sun. He heard footsteps as Bear dragged his bulk up the companionway.

             
“Black coffee. Bread, dried meat and cheese. Mother Hubbard’s cupboard is bare. I don’t think they intended to stay out for long.”

             
“It’ll have to do,” said Petros. I’ll do until noon and take over when the sun sets.”

             
“Good plan. Eat or I’ll have seconds.”

             
“This bread tastes stale.”

             
Bear grinned. “But I placed the mouldy bits where you can’t see them. Get it eaten. A dose of penicillin won’t do you any harm.”

              With their food consumed, Bear jammed his frame between two cupboards and slept.

Petros glanced left and right.
Not a ship in sight. He checked the bonds securing the two men. Satisfied they were secure he motioned with his right hand and said, “Water?”

The conscious man nodded.

“So you understand English.”

He nodded.

Petros pointed at his unaware partner. “Why did he attack me?”

The man shrugged.

He descended the companionway, found a coffee-stained mug in a cabin, rinsed and filled it with clean water and returned to the bridge. One quick glance confirmed a still empty sea. With one hand holding on, he assisted the man to drink. “Water’s what you’ll get until we dock in Malta.”

The man
grimaced but stayed silent. The other opened his eyes, shook his head and glared at Bear.

“Water?”

The man shouted what appeared to be abuse.

“No water,” said Bear.
.

Petros stood on the port bridge wing
, rested his back against the bulkhead and stared ahead at the dark sea, the sun developing into a scorcher. At noon, he shook Bear. “Lunch time.”

Bear grunted, dragged himself
to his feet and breathed deep. “My head hurts and something smells similar to shit.”

“
Your wound is seeping. One of our passengers has soiled himself. Go and have a rummage and see if you can find a first aid kit. What passes for the captain’s cabin is under this deck.”

Bear
descended the ladder, his feet clattering on the steel, to return minutes later with a small bottle of iodine, a bandage and a plate of dried meat. “Don’t know what this is, but it tastes not unlike beef. The bread’s walking with maggots so I didn’t bother. We’re on a diet until Malta.”

“W
e should sight land tomorrow afternoon. You’ll survive until then. So breakfast included fresh bugs, wonderful.”

“The penicillin will have killed them, no problem.
”

Both men laughed and ate the
coarse cut meat.

Petros soaked Bear
’s head wound with the iodine and bandaged as best he could. “Should be okay but when we get home see a doctor, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case it’s worse than I think.”

“Rest,
I’ll watch the horizon until it gets dark.”

“I saw an old wicker chair in the cabin below
this deck. I’ll get it, jam it in a corner and snooze on the bridge wing. Any problems, give me a kick.”

Petros
woke in an instant when Bear shook his shoulder. “My shut-eye time. Give me a shake when you’re knackered”

“When the sun rises
,” said Petros

One hour followed another.
The drifting spray plastered his frame as he attempted to name the stars he could see. Tired, his eyelids drooping, he shook his head aware dawn was not far off. He swayed with the rise and fall of the craft as it carved a wake of white foam but continued to scan their course.

W
ith the hint of daylight, the sun’s rays edged over the horizon. Petros marked the grubby chart with a cross. “There or thereabouts,” he muttered. He nudged Bear with his foot. “Wakey, wakey.”

Bear rubbed his eyes and stretched. “I hate boats,
in particular smelly, noisy fishing boats with steel decks. I’m getting too old to play this game.”

“Stop complaining and take over before I fall over. And give those two a drink of water
.”

“I could toss them overboard.”

“Just give them water and shut up.”

Bear pulled himself to his feet. “Have I the time for a dump?”

“You’re full of it. Now shift your arse before I fall asleep on my feet.”

             
Ten minutes later Bear strolled to the centre of the bridge, stood beside Petros, flexing his knees as the craft punched its way through the waves. PK’s ability to sleep was uncanny. The instant his head rested on a life-jacket, his eyes closed and he slept.

***

Petros woke and saw Bear peering at him. “Problems?”

“There’s a hunk of land in front of us which if your navigation is correct might be
Malta.”

Petros checked the tim
e, 1510. They were on schedule. He steadied his thoughts. “Give me five minutes.”

“I’ll
make sure we don’t hit anything.”

“And I slept believing that’s what you were doing.”

Bear strolled to the port bridge wing chuckling. “You’re the boat person. I’m akin to Charlie, your dog. I avoid them whenever possible.”

Petros vanished below
and returned minutes later tucking his shirt into his trousers, as he leaned over the chart. “We’ll get close, turn to starboard, hug the coast and Grand Harbour should be round that headland.”

“Easy peasy.”

“For the next few hours maybe but we need to berth this wreck.” He took a quick two point eyeball fix and placed another cross on the chart and altered the auto-pilot to a new course.

“Have you been here before?”

“No.

“So what do we do?”

Petros shaded his eyes as he looked for a ship-to-shore radio. “Talk to the harbour master. There you are.”

At the rear of the bridge an ancient transmitter-receiver clung to the bulkhead. A flexible cable connected
a handset and tit. With his left hand, he turned on the power.

Using channel sixteen he
spoke, “Grand Harbour, this is Libyan fishing vessel on passage to the port facilities for dry docking and hull preservation.”

“
Channel twelve, Valletta Port Control.”

Petros
switched channels. “Port Control this is Libyan fishing vessel at fifteen miles from entrance.”

“Fishing vessel, confirm when at one mile. Out.”

“Talkative lot,” said Bear.

“Cut our friends free. We need the extra hands when we go alongside.”

Bear stood at his full height and stared at the two men. “One wrong move and you swim.” He cut the bonds. “You smell awful. One at a time, go and change your clothes. Understand?”

The uninjured man rubbed his wrists
and gave a wan smile. “I understand English. I will tell my partner. There will be no problem.”

Petros eyed him coldly. “The big man means what he says.”

“One wrong move and you’ll learn to fly
and land on water,” said Bear.

The man with
dried blood on his face and shirt, grimaced as he walked past Bear but remained silent. Fifteen minutes elapsed before he returned washed and wearing clean blue overalls.  

Bear nodded to the other who departed with haste.

Petros called port control at one mile to request permission to enter.

A female voice replied, "Libyan fishing boat
, we have no record of your docking. Please will you confirm arrangements.”

Petros cleared his throat. “Unable to confirm but request permission to enter and berth.” His fingers scratch
ed the stubble on his chin.

The female voice answered. “Permission approved. Leave St Elmo’s lighthouse to starboard and
Fort Riscasoli to port. Round Fort St Angelo and enter the channel marked with small red and green buoys. Your berth until approved is the starboard side of pontoon Alpha. You and your crew are to remain on board until harbour officials have visited.”

“Thank you
, Port Control. Is it possible for a member of the German embassy to meet us?”

“Will
pass on your request. Out.”

Petros reduced the power and switched off the auto
-pilot and stood his feet apart behind the wheel. “Bear take our friends and get ready to come alongside. Any problems hit them with a big stick.”

At a reduced speed
, he followed the instructions and in moments identified the lighthouse and fort. Ahead he determined must be Fort St Angelo. The calm water of Grand Harbour made navigating the marked channel easy. Yachts, large, small and expensive, tugged on their lines as wires slapped aluminium masts in a musical manner.

The marina was well marked and
Petros noted pontoon Alpha at two hundred metres. With reduced speed and his eyes on the flat water, he swung the wheel to port and aimed at the pontoon nearest the concrete jetty. Fifty metres remaining, he again turned the wheel to port and reversed the engine. The old vessel shuddered, groaned and the engine stopped. The bow crashed into the dock wall. Petros gazed as the rust-streaked metal folded in on itself. Stationary, the craft nestled against the pontoon supports.

Both
the crew leapt ashore and raced at full tilt towards the gated entrance. At the gate, two uniformed men apprehended them.

With the minimum of effort,
Bear wrapped a rope around a support, secured and strolled aft to repeat the procedure.

Petros wandered out to the port bridge wing, smiled and spread his arms.

Bear shrugged. “That will be expensive. Thank Christ it’s not our problem.”