Year of the Golden Ape (26 page)

Read Year of the Golden Ape Online

Authors: Colin Forbes

'I decided to bring it up . . .' Because you were scared, Winter thought, because you had to see what was happening. 'They've requested permission to land...'

Mackay swung round, his face grim and alert. And how are you going to cope with that, you bastard? Winter stood quite still for only a few seconds, watching the distant Sikorsky as it circled a mile ahead of the tanker which was now steaming towards it. He caught Mackay's expression and smiled bleakly, then gave the order to Kinnaird. 'Refuse permission to land. Tell them the deck-plates under the landing point were weakened by the typhoon, that we have two injured seamen aboard - not seriously - but they will need to go to hospital for a check-up when we reach Oleum...'

The Sikorsky flew over them once more, making this last run directly over the tanker at a height of one hundred feet, then it turned away and headed on a due east course until it was out of sight. 'Where would it have come from ?' Winter asked.

'Off some weather cutter, I suppose,' Mackay lied. 'How the devil would I know ?'

But he did know. There was no chance of a weather cutter being stationed so close to the Californian coast. And the machine had

flown off due east, heading straight for the United States mainland.

 

* * * *

The helicopter was coming back.

At 4.30pm on Tuesday, half an hour before dusk, Winter leaned out of the smashed window on the bridge and watched the blip coming in from the south on the starboard side, the Sikorsky returning from the trawler
Pêcheur.

During the height of the typhoon Kinnaird had exchanged frequent position messages with the
Pêcheur,
so they each knew where the other vessel was. And because the
Pêcheur
had steamed through the night over a hundred miles south of the tanker she had escaped the typhoon. Which was just as well, Winter reflected: had the trawler endured only a quarter of the tanker's ordeal the Sikorsky would undoubtedly have been ripped from her deck and hurled into the ocean.

Winter had deliberately left it as late as possible before summoning the Sikorsky to return. A helicopter sitting on the
Challenger's
port quarter would hardly have heightened an impression of normality if they had been seen and reported on by a passing ship - let alone by the genuine US Coast Guard machine which had circled them three times. Winter was still worried about that incident, as he was about the unprecedented signal from the San Francisco Port Authority. He turned round as Betty Cordell came on the bridge.

'How long before we reach San Francisco?' she asked Mackay.

'We'll be standing off the Californian coast in less than an hour,' he told her soberly. 'We are scheduled to dock at Oleum at twenty-two hundred hours. Don't count on it,' he warned her.

'What's going to happen ?'

'Ask him ...'

'What's going to happen to us?' she asked Winter coldly.

'Within forty-eight hours you are likely to be ashore - in San Francisco - with the story of your life,' he told her cynically.

'Why is your chopper coming?'

'Part of the operation ...'

Winter went down off the bridge to meet the machine when it landed. The sky had changed during the past few minutes, and now an overcast from the north was spreading itself above the tanker as it continued heading direct for San Francisco. Winter, secretive by nature, had not felt inclined to answer Betty Cordell's last question. In less than an hour he had to fly away from the tanker, leaving LeCat in sole command.

 

'So we stop her where she is now - about ten miles off the coast,' Mayor Peretti said. 'We order her to stay in her present position and send out a vessel with Marines aboard. Is that agreed, gentlemen?'

The table in the mayor's office was large and there was just room for everyone. Seated on Peretti's right, Sullivan looked round the table and marvelled. God, what a change in only a few hours. Gathered round the table was a representative of almost every law-enforcement agency in the States. Karpis of the FBI was there. Next to him sat Vince Bolan, police commissioner. Col Liam Cassidy of the US Marine Corps sat beyond him, and beyond him was Garfield of the Coast Guard and O'Hara of the Port Authority. Several other men whose functions Sullivan hadn't grasped made up the balance.

The Coast Guard helicopter which had circled the
Challenger
three times, which had flown past her twice at lower than bridge level, had no sooner landed when its cameras had been rushed to the processing laboratory where technicians waited. It was the enlarged prints taken from these films, infra-red films which had penetrated into the shadows on the bridge of the tanker, which had brought these men rushing to the mayor's office from all over the city, from the Presidio itself. The prints clearly showed men with guns standing at the rear of the bridge, guns pointed in the direction of the officers at the front of the bridge.

Sullivan had tracked a whisper all the way from Bordeaux to Hamburg, had then crossed to London, finding nothing concrete, nothing he could put his finger on, but he had gone on - all the way to Alaska, then down to Seattle and on to San Francisco. 'If only you could provide some real evidence ...' the FBI agent had said to Sullivan at the St Francis Hotel. Sullivan looked at the blown-up prints scattered across the table.

The three men with guns had come out with remarkable clarity, although the face of the tall, thin man was blurred. Was this Winter, Sullivan wondered? The face was too blurred to make any real comparison with the prints Paul Hahnemann had given to him in Hamburg of his very English visitor, Mr Arnold Ross. The pistols the men held were clear enough, so clear that Col Cassidy had guessed they could be Czech Skorpions. 'That's only a guess,' he had added, 'but goddamnit, they're pistols, that's for sure...'

The signal was drafted for immediate transmission, the signal ordering the
Challenger
to cease steaming ahead, to stay where she was. The signal ended on an ominous note.
Any further progress towards the Californian coast will be interpreted as a hostile act.

 

Dusk was gathering over the Pacific as the
Challenger
continued steaming for the coast of California at seventeen knots. The signal from the mainland had been received and Winter had shown it to Mackay, who gave no sign of elation as he read it carefully, then handed it back.

'What are you going to do now? You've been rumbled ...'

'As I expected to be, sooner or later,' Winter replied coldly. 'Our great achievement has been to get so far undetected - right under the eyebrows of America. You will maintain present course and speed, Captain Mackay...'

'You must be mad. Get it through your head, Winter - the whole operation is over, finished. Any minute now I expect to see a US destroyer on my starboard bow...'

'That is highly unlikely. As I have just said, we have done better than I expected. Do you really think I did not foresee this contingency?'

Mackay felt a
pricking of doubt. The supreme self-confidence this strange man had displayed from the moment he came on board was still there. At the front of the bridge, Betty Cordell, who had gathered the contents of the signal from their conversation, was studying Winter's cold expression to see how he took this overwhelming defeat. She couldn't understand his calmness, his detached aloofness. You might almost have thought he was seeing his plan working out...

Making a gesture to LeCat, Winter walked out on to the port wing deck where the two men could be alone. He started scrib
bling a reply for Kinnaird who was waiting, pale-faced, inside the bridge. 'That should do it,' Winter said, showing the reply to LeCat.

'Also no underwater surveillance,' LeCat suggested. 'They may try and track us with a submarine...'

Winter completed the message, handed it to LeCat to take to Kinnaird, then looked along the main deck in the fading light where the helicopter was waiting for him. The signal should be clear enough to the men waiting on the mainland. They'll get the bloody message, Winter thought.

We have had complete armed control of the Challenger for two days. We are proceeding for San Francisco Bay at a speed of seventeen knots. The British crew are hostages. Ransom of twenty million dollars is demanded for their safe release. In the event of any attempt to board this ship the twenty-eight hostages will instantly be shot. No surface ship, no aircraft, no underwater craft must approach this vessel. Any non-cooperation will be treated as a hostile act. The Weathermen.

 

Mackay was a very frightened man as he left the bridge and went down to the main deck as quickly as he could. Then he was running along the raised catwalk with the armed guard chasing him behind, shouting to him to stop. Mackay hoped he wouldn't get a bullet in the back, but he was even more scared of Winter leaving the ship. Ahead he saw Winter, close to the helicopter, turn and roar out an order in French to the guard running behind him. Had the terrorist aimed his gun ? Had Winter shouted a command not to fire? Mackay kept on running.

Winter waited for him on the main deck under the dropped helicopter blades. It was getting dark now. A misty dusk which foreshadowed the onset of night was closing round the tanker. Someone turned on the lights at the head of the foremast ready for the take-off. Mackay, breathing heavily, was startled by the sudden illumination as he reached the machine.

'You are not leaving?'

That was a damned silly thing to do - you could have got shot,' Winter snapped.

'You are not leaving the ship ?'

It was very strange. There was no hostility in Mackay's voice, only an undisguised concern and anxiety, as though he were seeing a friend leave for ever. Winter caught the note in the captain's voice and smiled. 'I should have thought you'd be glad to see me go, maybe even pray a little that my engine failed over the Pacific...'

'Tell him to get away from us.' Mackay glanced back at the guard. Winter spoke briefly in French and the guard went back along the catwalk. 'You are not leaving us with LeCat?' Mackay demanded. 'Not with that animal...'

'We have a plan which must be carried out. Part of that plan means I must leave the ship...'

'You are British,' Mackay persisted. 'All right, you have taken my ship, the one thing no master can forgive. But you are British and I have a British crew to protect. If you stay, I shall remember it if things go wrong for you - I give you my word I shall speak up...'

Winter looked hesitant, the first time Mackay had ever seen even a hint of indecision in that cold, severe face. Mackay pressed home his plea. 'And there is the American girl - you know there has been one incident in her cabin already. I warn you, Winter, if you leave this ship there will be multiple rape...'

'LeCat will have his work cut out to cope with what's coming. In any case, I have spoken to him. He knows he needs the cooperation of your crew to get the tanker into San Francisco .. .'

'We are still going into the Bay?'

'Yes.' Winter was studying Mackay's drawn face. 'Look, it will turn out all right. There will be negotiations with the authorities to secure your crew's safe release...'

'You sound very confident.'

'I'm a confident chap.' Winter grinned. 'Always have been.' He swung round as he heard a boot scrape behind him. LeCat was standing near the nose of the machine, his pistol dangling from his hand. He had come quietly down from the fo'c'sle, creeping round the far side of the machine, and now he stood watching.

Mackay was appalled. Had the Frenchman heard all they had
said? Winter climbed up inside the machine, slammed the door shut, and the slam sounded like a death sentence to Mackay.

 

LeCat sent Mackay back to the distant bridge with an armed guard. The foremast lights were switched off as soon as Winter's machine had taken off. So it was almost dark when LeCat descended alone into the carpenter's store, beaming his torch over the stacked suitcases wedged behind the table. He was sweating several minutes later when he went back up the ladder, carrying the two hundred pound case by its reinforced handle, then he transported it down on to the main deck.

Opening up the hatch cover of one of the empty tanks which had remained unfilled since the ship left Nikisiki, he went carefully down the almost vertical ladder leading to the depths of the tank. He rested for a moment on a steel platform, then went down the next ladder. Once, he caught the case a glancing blow on the ladder. Its hollow echo reverberated inside the immense metal tomb. LeCat was sweating horribly as he continued his descent. He had almost dropped his burden, dropped it from a height of twenty feet to the floor of the tank below.

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