The Titanic Enigma (28 page)

‘Nothing to get too excited about, I’m told,’ the man with the pipe commented.

Fortescue hadn’t heard him properly. ‘What?’

‘The berg, old chap, the officer over there,’ and he pointed towards the gathering with his pipe, ‘. . . assures us the ship is unharmed. Close call,
though.’

Fortescue said nothing, just looked down at the water again, a deep sense of foreboding growing in the pit of his stomach. Pulling away from the rail, he sped back towards the door
into the ship.

A clutch of scared passengers were squeezing out and he was obliged to stand aside to let them through, but then he plunged inside, stopped and suddenly realized he had no idea what
he was doing or where he was going. He took the stairs down to C-Deck, pulling out his key as he dashed towards C16. Turning a corner, he almost knocked over an elderly lady and her younger
companion. Apologizing, he helped to steady the lady who grunted and glared at him.

‘The ship may be going down, young man,’ she hissed, ‘. . . but there’s no need to lose one’s head.’

Fortescue caught a brief smile flickering across the younger woman’s lips. He apologized again, gave the old lady a quick bow and proceeded at a slower pace.

The door to his cabin hung open a fraction. The lock had been broken, flecks of wood lay scattered across the carpet.

Fortescue stared at the handle, transfixed, a sudden flash of fear froze him to the spot. ‘My God,’ he hissed.

He eased the door inwards, every nerve alert. Keeping close to the door, he surveyed the scene, his heart pounding in his chest.

The room had been ransacked, the bed stripped, linen and pillows strewn randomly. His desk had been swept clean of papers; a crystal inkwell lay on its side, the contents spread in a
royal-blue puddle across the inlaid leather surface. The cushions of his armchair had been pulled off, slashed open and the stuffing cast about. Then Fortescue caught sight of the safe under the
bed. It had been forced open, the door pinned back, and the metal boxes containing the isotope and his briefcase had both been taken.

Fortescue simply stared at the empty insides of the safe, at its bare, featureless walls.

He walked slowly to the centre of the cabin. A sound came from the door behind him. He whirled round. Marcus was standing a few inches inside the room.

‘Marcus!’

The man smiled and shook his head slowly. ‘The name’s Charles Grantham, John . . . Or should I say, Egbert? We all seem enamoured with pseudonyms, do we not?’ His
accent was cut-glass English.

‘What is this all about?’

The man’s smile seemed to have been painted on, unchanging as he spoke. ‘Well, you see it’s like this. Frieda and I . . . Yes, her name is Frieda. However, we are
not siblings, nor are we in the film business. And we are certainly not Swiss! We both work for Frieda’s government.’

‘Which would be based in Berlin.’

‘The German government was alerted to your work at Manchester University through a junior assistant in the Chemistry department. The young man was ordered to keep his eyes and
ears open. I then took over the project. I’ve stood closer to you than I am now, old boy. But you obviously did not notice!’

‘You’re English.’

‘Well spotted.’

‘A traitor.’

He shrugged. ‘If you insist. My mother was German actually. I loved her more than I cared for my father.’

Fortescue felt oddly calm. He was not trained for espionage or to fight. He was a scientist, an intellectual. But now, faced with a real spy, his cover blown, strangely he felt none
of the terror he might once have imagined feeling.

‘So you have the isotope and my papers?’

Grantham fixed the scientist with cold eyes. ‘Yes, we do.’

‘But you’re crazy. The isotope is deadly. Even brief exposure . . .’

Grantham had a hand up. ‘I studied physics at Cambridge, began my doctorate . . . So, please do not patronize me, I know perfectly well the capabilities of the ibnium isotope
and I also quite understand the significance of your theoretical studies. You are a very capable man, Dr Fortescue.’

‘You stole them earlier today and hid them somewhere.’

Grantham took two steps further into the room. ‘Correct.’

The ship shook. It felt like a violent tremor close to the bow had reverberated the entire length of the ship. Fortescue almost lost his footing.

‘So why come back? Why expose your real identity to me?’ Egbert asked.

Grantham took three steps closer and drew a blade from an inside pocket of his jacket.

‘What the devil?’ Fortescue’s former cool evaporated. He squinted in disbelief at the knife held waist high, shifted to one side, bracing himself.

Grantham moved quickly. Fortescue stumbled back, coming up hard against the edge of his desk. Grantham lifted the knife. Fortescue grabbed the man’s wrist but knew immediately
that his assailant was far stronger than him. He pulled back as the knife came closer and tried to push his arm forward with all his strength; but the knife kept coming, inching towards his
face.

Fortescue put his left hand flat onto the surface of the desk, his fingers wrapping the edge to give him some leverage. The crystal inkwell felt cold on his wrist and his hand almost
slipped in the ink. Acting on impulse, he let his hand move back a few inches. He grasped the inkwell, swung round and slammed its leading edge into Grantham’s left temple.

For a second, the man had no idea what had happened. He was still moving forward, the knife slipping closer to Fortescue. Egbert pulled his arm back, brought the crystal inkwell
round in a shallow arc and slammed a second blow to almost the same spot on Grantham’s head.

Grantham’s hand stopped moving, his eyes rolled upward, and he crumpled almost vertically to the floor, the knife sliding from his limp fingers.

Fortescue could not move. He was panting, gasping for air, shaking. Swallowing hard, he lowered his gaze to the body at his feet, crouched down and moved Grantham’s head back.
A huge dark patch had appeared close to the man’s left eye, the edge of it an inch from his hairline. There were flecks of ink on his jaw and across the bridge of his nose, a trickle of blood
appeared at the corner of his eye and spilled out onto his cheek.

Fortescue gazed in silence at his right hand. He still had the crystal inkwell gripped in his ink-stained fingers, his skin white in the dull electric light. A loud bang came from
somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship and along the corridor a woman screamed. He jolted upright and tried to rationalize. He let the inkwell drop, took several deep breaths, leaned down and
grabbed Grantham’s hands. Twisting him round, he dragged him towards the bed. Laying him level with the edge, the legs straight out, Fortescue managed to roll the body halfway under the bed.
He had to kneel down to finish the job, turning the dead man over twice to secure him from view.

He straightened and felt an almost obsessive need to wash his hands. Leaning over the basin with the beautiful ornate mirror positioned above it, he yanked on the hot tap and grasped
the soap. Running the water over his hands, he massaged the Pears bar, dug his nails into the orange cube and wrung his hands with the foam and the oily soap. Then he threw water over his face,
letting the hot liquid sting his eyes. He dried his hands and face, and then stared at himself in the mirror.

‘You have killed,’ he muttered, watching his lips move. A cold shiver passed down his spine. He took a deep breath, pulled an overcoat from his wardrobe and marched out
of the room.

*

The first thing he noticed was that the ship was listing to starboard. He hadn’t realized it in his room, but here in the corridor it was obvious. That could
mean only one thing. Whatever the man with the pipe had claimed up on deck, the ship was taking in water, and a lot of it. He glanced at his fob watch. It was almost one o’clock. He had no
clear idea why he was heading to B-Deck, except for some vague notion that Frieda might have returned there. She must have the boxes from the safe.

He heard another scream, a loud crack from close by. Reaching the reception area on C-Deck, he saw there were dozens of passengers clustered around the Grand Staircase. Another
jarring sound like the snap of a whip resonated around the open area.

‘Ladies and gentlemen . . . It is all right,’ came a man’s voice. Fortescue looked over and saw one of the senior officers. He had got up onto a chair and held a
megaphone in his right hand.

‘Please . . . ladies and gentlemen . . . there’s nothing to fear. That was just a distress flare.’

‘If there’s nothing to fear, why fire a distress flare?’ a man shouted. He was just a few yards to his right, a stocky man with white whiskers. Fortescue recognized
him but didn’t know his name. A couple went past Egbert headed towards the exit doors. He turned and squeezed a way through the crowd to reach the foot of the Grand
Staircase.

Up one level, he reached B-Deck. Here, a similar crowd of First Class passengers had gathered. Two more crewmen were trying to answer their questions. A woman was crying; another
sobbed into the shoulder of an older man holding her tightly. Fortescue slipped around the edge of the throng, and into the corridor leading to Frieda’s cabin.

He reached the door. It was closed.

‘Frieda? Frieda? Are you in there?’

No reply.

He banged on the wood. ‘Frieda.’

He stepped away and charged at the door, then fell back, a dreadful pain rushing down his left side. He looked around and saw a fibre extinguisher attached to a wall bracket. He
dashed over, tried to yank it from the support but found it was held fast. Crouching down, he studied the mechanism, pulled on a clip and the metal extinguisher slipped free. He lifted it, one hand
on the base, the other around the top. It was heavy but just about manageable. Staggering back to Frieda’s cabin, Fortescue raised the extinguisher to chest height and swung it round,
smashing it into the door. The wood splintered, but the panel held. Swinging the extinguisher a second time, it ploughed through the wood, punching out a hole a foot wide.

He paused for a moment to draw breath. Lifting the extinguisher a third time, he landed another, harder blow that smashed the lock. One swift kick to the handle and the door flew
inwards.

A man rushed past him in the corridor. He was wearing a life jacket and had another clasped in both hands. He barely noticed Fortescue and completely ignored the shattered
door.

Stepping inside, Fortescue surveyed the room. It was just how he had left it. The bedding was a mess. Frieda’s underwear lay scattered across the floor. Searching the cupboards
offered nothing. Under the bed, just air. He retreated back to the corridor.

Think
, he said to himself, mouthing the words silently.
OK, so Marcus – Charles Grantham – stole the boxes while I was asleep in here. Frieda left me . . . God only
knows when. Then Grantham came to kill me. Frieda would have expected him to complete the task, then what? Meet her. Yes, but where? Think, Egbert, think.
Then he had it.
Of course . . .
the storeroom where Billy had seen them. Oh God, Billy . . .

He dashed back to the reception area, down the Grand Staircase, dodging the growing hoards of panicking passengers. As he approached the turn in the stairs there came another loud
crack, another flash . . . another flare . . . The situation was clearly deteriorating

He stood in the reception of C-Deck buffeted by the other passengers clustered around the exit onto the promenade; one of the crew was giving directions.

A young officer lifted a megaphone to his mouth. A lifeboat has been lowered,’ he announced. ‘If you could make an orderly . . .’

People close to Fortescue surged forward and suddenly everyone was rushing for the doors. He was shoved to one side, his head colliding with a painting of the
Titanic’s
sister ship RMS
Olympic
. The picture slipped from its hook and crashed to the floor sending glass shards across the carpet. Fortescue pulled himself to his feet and looked around
angrily.

‘Please. Ladies and gentlemen!’ shouted the young officer with the megaphone.

‘Billy had been in a room off one of the corridors leading away from this reception area,’ Fortescue said aloud and rubbed a hand across his forehead. His fingers came up
wet with sweat. He paused for a beat feeling nauseous, leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and took several deep breaths. This was so surreal.
Focus
, he thought.
Focus. I have to
focus. I have to retrieve the isotope and the notes. Then after that worry about what the hell is happening to this damn ship.