No one had briefed Dave Armstrong on how boring life was on board a container ship. In fact, no one had briefed him on much about this operation, which saw him posing as medical assistant to the ship’s doctor on board the Aristides. A ship of this size would not normally have carried a medical assistant, but none of the officers had queried his presence. The Captain was fully in the picture and the ship’s doctor, an old Scotsman called Macintyre, had been told only that he must treat Dave, alias Tony Symes, as he would a genuine medical assistant. Dr Macintyre had been around far too long to be surprised by anything and was finding Tony Symes’ presence quite agreeable, as it allowed him to spend more time playing bridge with the other officers.
Dave had been whisked out to Athens by the RAF at a week’s notice, with just enough time for him to brush up on the First Aid course he’d taken years before. Having been closely involved with the Birmingham end of things, the extraction of Boatman and the recruitment of Tahira, he knew the operation’s background, but was far from certain what he was expected to achieve by being on board the ship. ‘Get to know the crew,’ Liz had said, ‘particularly the Pakistanis. Find out if any of them are British and learn as much as you can about where they’re going and why.’
Well, that was easier said than done. The four Pakistani crewmen had formed a tight group and spoke hardly at all to the other seamen, let alone the officers. But what concerned Dave most of all was what he was supposed to do if, as everyone seemed to be expecting, the ship was hijacked. He just hoped that Geoffrey Fane had thoroughly sorted out the back-up with the Americans and the French, and that he wasn’t going to find himself the target of ‘friendly fire’.
He had not been much reassured when he’d stopped briefly in Athens and had dinner with Bruno Mackay at a small restaurant near the embassy. Though he’d never met him before, he had heard about Mackay from Liz and was not expecting to discover a soulmate. Mackay turned out to be just as Liz had described him – the perfect suntan, the elegantly cut hair, the smart suit and the shirt cuffs with gold cufflinks on display. Mackay did a competent job, briefing Dave on the Athens end of the operation. Dave was not surprised that he made only passing reference to the murder of his agent Maria Galanos; in spite of his self-confident front, Bruno Mackay must be very embarrassed by that. They went on to discuss the leasing, loading and despatching of the UCSO aid ships by the shipping company. Mackay had obtained a copy of the crew list, which revealed a mixed bag of Filipinos, a Cypriot, Koreans and four Pakistanis. ‘These are your targets,’ said Bruno, unnecessarily, pointing to the Pakistani names.
‘Does anyone at UCSO know I’ll be on board?’
‘Absolutely not. Even their head man in London hasn’t any idea we’re putting someone on the Aristides. And we didn’t want this chap Berger to know either, since it looks like the leaks have been coming out of his office.’
For communications, Technical Ted had handed over a laptop containing gizmos which he’d assured Dave would be completely invisible to anyone looking at his machine except the most sophisticated technician. They would enable encrypted messages to be sent directly to and from Thames House. Bruno’s office in the Athens Embassy was to act as fallback communications in case the system failed.
All that sorted out, Bruno ordered another bottle of wine and said, to Dave’s surprise, ‘You’ve worked a lot with Liz Carlyle – tell me about her.’ And for the rest of the dinner Dave had ducked his probing questions about Liz as best he could, saying nothing revealing, and unsuccessfully trying to change the subject. By the end of the evening, he was left with the distinct impression that Bruno’s interest in Liz was not on his own account; he was trying to find out whether she was involved with his boss, Geoffrey Fane.
The ship had already reached the Red Sea and Dave had as yet made very little headway in getting to know the Pakistani crewmen. In the Mediterranean, two small storms had blown up and the Aristides, with no stabilisers, had been tossed about like a yo-yo. All the Pakistani crew members had been seasick for almost two days and Dave himself had had to retire to bed at one point. Even when they were well, the four men did not mingle with the other crew, and at meals occupied a table of their own. When he’d encountered them on deck and had tried to make conversation – about cricket, or the floods in Pakistan that had been on the news – they had just nodded and moved away.
But then one of them, a crewman called Fazal, had gashed his hand lashing down some containers on the deck. Dave had noticed Fazal at the beginning of the voyage, and had thought that he looked much younger and more vulnerable than the other Pakistanis. And, interestingly, when he had first come into the surgery to have his hand treated after the accident, he had answered Dr Macintyre’s questions about it in fluent English, with a definite trace of a Birmingham accent.
Now Fazal was due to come in and have his dressing changed, and Dave was hoping that he could use the opportunity to get him talking. When he suggested that Dr Macintyre might like to go and play cards, leaving Dave in sole charge for the hour the surgery was open, the Scotsman had understood at once, and made himself scarce.
Fazal turned up on time and sat down while Dave changed his dressing. ‘Tell me how it feels now,’ said Dave, assuming a medical manner. ‘Has it stopped hurting?’
‘Yeah, it’s all right.’
‘I hope you’re not putting any pressure on it.’
‘No. I’m on light duties.’
‘You don’t sound like a Pakistani.’ Dave looked up from his bandaging and smiled. ‘That sounds like a Brummie accent to me. My mum came from Birmingham; grew up near Springfield Park.’
Fazal’s eyes widened. ‘That’s where I come from.’
‘Really?’ said Dave. ‘It was all Irish back then.’
‘Not any more,’ said Fazal, with a hint of a grin.
‘What brings you here then? We’re a long way from home.’
Fazal hesitated, then said, ‘I wanted to see the world. My mum had family in Pakistan; one of them put me on to this.’
Dave pointed through the porthole, where the sandy shoreline of Saudi was still visible. ‘Didn’t you want to go there? To Saudi, I mean. Mecca and all that.’
Fazal thought about this. ‘Some day,’ he said at last. ‘But they’re not true followers of the faith. The ruling family’s corrupt.’
Dave shrugged. ‘Can’t be worse than Africa. Wait till you see Mombasa. We’ll have to bribe the harbour master before we can put the gangplank down.’ He finished off the dressing and laughed. ‘Not many followers of the true faith there, I think.’
Fazal shook his head. ‘You’re wrong.’
Dave raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’ He was about to ask Fazal if he would be meeting any of these ‘true believers’ when he saw the boy’s face freeze. Someone was standing in the doorway of the consulting room and when Dave looked round he saw it was another of the Pakistani group – an older man called Perjev, who seemed to be in charge of the others. He barked something in Urdu and Fazal looked briefly at Dave, then got up and quickly left.
It was disappointing, but at least he’d made contact with the boy and confirmed not only that he was from Birmingham, but also that he came from the Sparkhill area. At last he had something to report. And Fazal seemed vulnerable – that could be useful if things got heavy.
At the end of the hour, Dave locked up the surgery and went back to his cabin. He checked the slightly primitive security measures he set every time he left his room: a single strand of hair balanced across the handle of the top drawer in his desk; and the items in his shaving kit, seemingly a random jumble of toothpaste, razors and shaving cream, which were in fact carefully arranged.
The hair was missing, and he found it only when he got down on his hands and knees and inspected the linoleum floor. It didn’t necessarily mean anything – the draft when he opened the door could easily have blown it off. The contents of the drawer seemed fine; his laptop was where he’d left it, apparently untouched. He went across to the washbasin to look at his shaving bag. Everything was there, he saw to his relief, but then he realised something was wrong. The tube of toothpaste was the wrong way round.
Someone had been in his room.