San Andreas (25 page)

‘No.'

McKinnon said in a mild voice: ‘ “No,
sir
,” when you're talking to a senior officer.'

Simons sneered, there was a blur of movement and Simons was doubled over, making retching sounds and gasping for breath. McKinnon looked at him unemotionally as he gradually straightened and said to Patterson: ‘May I have an option as regards this man, sir? He's an obvious suspect.'

‘He is. You may.'

‘Either irons, bread and water till we reach port or a private interrogation with me.'

‘Irons!' Simons' voice was a wheeze, a McKinnon jab to the solar plexus was not something from which one made an instant recovery. ‘You can't do that to me.'

‘I can and if necessary will.' Patterson's tone was chillingly indifferent, ‘I am in command of this ship. If I choose, I can have you over the side. Alternatively, if I have proof that you are a spy, I can have you shot as a spy. Wartime regulations say so.' Wartime regulations, in fact, said nothing of the kind but it was most unlikely that Simons knew this.

‘I'll settle for the private interrogation,' McKinnon said.

A horrified Margaret Morrison said: ‘Archie, you can't—'

‘Be quiet.' Patterson's voice was cold, ‘I suggest, Simons, that you will be well advised to answer a few simple questions.' Simons scowled and said nothing.

McKinnon said: ‘You an L.T.O?'

“Course I am.'

‘Can you prove it?'

‘Like Hartley here, I haven't any certificates with me. And
you
don't have any torpedoes to test me with. Not that you would know one end of a torpedo from another.'

‘What's your barracks?'

‘Portsmouth.'

‘Where did you qualify L.T.O.?'

‘Portsmouth, of course.'

‘When?'

‘Early ‘forty-three.'

‘Let me see your pay-book.' McKinnon examined it briefly, then looked up at Simons. ‘Very new and very clean.'

‘Some people look after their things.'

‘You didn't make a very good job of looking after your old one, did you?'

‘What the hell do you mean?'

‘This is either a new one, a stolen one or a forged one.'

‘God's sake, I don't know what you're talking about!'

‘You know all right.' The Bo'sun tossed the pay-book on the table. ‘That's a forgery, you're a liar and you're not an L.T.O. Unfortunately for you, Simons, I was a Torpedo Gunner's Mate in the Navy. No L.T.O's qualified in Portsmouth in early nineteen forty-three, or indeed for some considerable time before and after that. They qualified at Roedean College near Brighton—used to be the leading girls' school in Britain before the war.
You're a fraud and a spy, Simons. What's the name of your accomplice aboard the
San Andreas
?
'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Amnesia.' McKinnon stood and looked at Patterson. ‘Permission to lock him up, sir?'

‘Permission granted.'

‘Nobody's going to bloody well lock me up,' Simons shouted. ‘I demand—‘ His voice broke off in a scream as McKinnon twisted his forearm high up behind his back.

‘You'll stay here, sir?' McKinnon said. Patterson nodded. ‘I won't be long. Five, ten minutes. We won't be needing E.R.A. Hartley any more?'

‘Of course not. Sorry about that, E.R.A. But we had to know.'

‘I understand, sir.' It was quite apparent that he did not understand.

‘You don't. But we'll explain later.' Hartley left, followed by McKinnon and Simons, the latter with his right wrist still somewhere up in the vicinity of his left shoulder-blade.

‘Ten minutes,' Margaret Morrison said. ‘It takes ten minutes to lock up a man.'

‘Sister Morrison,' Patterson said. She looked at him. ‘I admire you as a nurse. I like you as a person. But don't interfere in things or presume to pass judgement on things you know nothing about. The Bo'sun may only be a bo'sun but he operates at a level you know nothing about. If it weren't for him you'd be either a prisoner or dead. Instead of constantly sniping at him you'd be
better occupied in giving thanks for a world where there's still a few Archie McKinnons around.' He broke off and cursed in silent self-reproach as he saw tears trickling down the lowered head.

McKinnon pushed Simons inside an empty cabin, locked the door, pocketed the key, turned and hit Simons in exactly the same spot as previously although with considerably more force. Simons staggered backwards across the corticene, smashed heavily into the bulkhead and slid to the deck. McKinnon picked him up, held his right arm against the bulkhead and struck his right biceps with maximum power. Simons screamed, tried to move his right arm and found it impossible: it was completely paralysed. The Bo'sun repeated the process on the left arm and let him slide down again.

‘I am prepared to keep this up indefinitely,' McKinnon's voice was conversational, almost pleasant. ‘I'm going to keep on hitting you, and if necessary, kicking you anywhere between your shoulders and toes. There won't be a mark on your face. I don't like spies, I don't like traitors and I don't care too much for people with innocent blood on their hands.'

McKinnon returned to the lounge and resumed his seat. Ulbricht looked at his watch and said: ‘Four minutes. My word, you do keep
your
word, Mr McKinnon.'

‘A little dispatch, that's all.' He looked at Margaret Morrison and the still visible tear stains. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing. It's just this whole horrible ugly business.'

‘It's not nice.' He looked at her for a speculative moment, made as if to say something, then changed his mind. ‘Simons has come all over cooperative and volunteered some information.'

‘Cooperative?' Margaret said incredulously. ‘Volunteered?'

‘Never judge a man by his appearances. There are hidden depths in all of us. His name is not Simons, it's Braun, “au”, not “ow”.'

‘German, surely,' Patterson said.

‘Sounds that way but he
is
RN. His passport is a forgery—someone in Murmansk gave it to him. He couldn't be more specific than that, I assume it must have been a member of what
must
now be that espionage ring up there. He's not an L.T.O., he's an S.B.A., a Sick Bay Attendant, which ties in rather nicely with the chloroform used twice and the drugging of Captain Andropolous.' He tossed two keys on the table. ‘I'm sure Dr Sinclair will confirm that those are the dispensary keys.'

‘Goodness me,' jamieson said. ‘You have not been idle, Bo'sun, and that's a fact. He—Braun—must have been most communicative.'

‘He was indeed. He even gave me the identity of Flannelfoot number two.'

‘What!'

‘Remember, Margaret, that I said to you only a few minutes ago that I would be proved wrong about something before the trip was over. Well, it hasn't taken long for me to prove I was right about that. It's McCrimmon.'

‘McCrimmon!' Jamieson was half out of his seat. ‘McCrimmon. That bloody young bastard!'

‘You are sitting—well, more or less—next to a young lady.' McKinnon's tone of reproof was mild.

‘Ah! Yes. So I am. Sorry, Sister.' Jamieson sat again. ‘But—McCrimmon!'

‘I think the fault is mainly mine, sir. I've been on record as saying that although he was a criminal, I regarded him as a trustworthy criminal. Serious flaw in judgement. But I was half right.'

‘I can accept that it was McCrimmon.' Patterson's tone was calm and if he was upset it wasn't showing. ‘Never liked him. Truculent, offensive, foul-mouthed. Two terms in Barlinnie, the maximum security prison outside Glasgow. Both for street violence. I should imagine that the feel of an iron crowbar in his hand is nothing new to that man. The Royal Navy would never have accepted a man with his record. One can only assume that we have lower standards.' He paused and considered. ‘We pull him in?'

‘I wonder. I'd love to have a little chat with him. Point is, Mr Patterson, I don't think we'd get any useful information out of him. Men who hired him
would be far too clever to tell a character like McCrimmon any more than he needed to know. They certainly wouldn't tell him what their plans, their end was. It would be a case of “just do so-and-so and here's your cash”. Also, sir, if we leave him loose, we can watch every move he makes without his knowing that we are watching. It's quite possible he has something more up his sleeve and if we can watch him in the act of what he's doing it might give us some very valuable information indeed. What, I can't imagine, but I have the feeling that we should give him that little more rope.'

‘I agree. If he's bent on hanging himself, just that little more rope.'

Lieutenant Ulbricht had found them a star to steer themselves by. He was on the bridge with McKinnon as the San Andreas headed due west at full speed, Curran at the wheel. Cloud cover was patchy, the wind light and the sea relatively calm. Ulbricht had just caught a brief but sufficient glance of the Pole Star and had established that they were in almost exactly the same place as they had been at noon that morning. He had remained on the bridge where he seemed to prefer to spend his time except, the Bo'sun couldn't help noticing, during those periods when Margaret Morrison was off duty.

‘Think we've shaken him now, Mr McKinnon? Three and a half hours, maybe four, since we
may
have shaken him.'

‘Nor hide nor hair of him and that's a fact. But because we can't see him, as I keep on saying, doesn't mean that he's not there. But, yes, I do have this odd feeling that we may have slipped him.'

‘I have a certain regard for your so-called odd feelings.'

‘I only said “may”. We won't know for certain until the first Condor comes along with its flares.'

‘I wish you wouldn't talk about such things. Anyway, it's possible that we may have lost him
and
that the Focke-Wulf may fail to find us. How long do you intend to maintain this course?'

‘The longer the better, I should think.
If
they have lost us, then they'll probably reason that we're heading back on a course to Aberdeen—as far as we know, they have no reason to believe that we have reason to believe that they know we're heading for Aberdeen and would therefore opt for some place else. So they may still think that we're on a roughly south-south-west course instead of due west. I have heard it said, Lieutenant Ulbricht, I can't remember who it was, that some Germans at some times have one-track minds.'

‘Nonsense. Look at our poets and playwrights, our composers and philosophers.' Ulbricht was silent for some moments and McKinnon could imagine him smiling to himself in the darkness. ‘Well, yes, maybe now and again. I sincerely hope that this is one of those times. The longer they
keep combing the area in the direction of Aberdeen and the longer we keep heading west the less chance they will have of locating us. So we keep this course for an hour or two more?'

‘Yes. Longer. I propose that we maintain this course throughout the night, then, shortly before dawn, lay off a course directly for Scapa Flow.'

‘Sounds fair enough to me. That'll mean leaving the Shetlands on our port hand. May even have a glimpse of your islands. Pity you couldn't drop in in passing.'

‘There'll come a day. Dinner-time, Lieutenant.'

‘So soon? Mustn't miss that. Coming?'

‘May as well. Curran, get on the phone and ask Ferguson to come up here. Tell him to keep a constant look-out on both wings. 360 degrees, you understand.'

‘I'll do that. What's he supposed to be looking out for, Bo'sun?'

‘Flares.'

McKinnon met Jamieson just after they'd entered the mess-deck and drew him to one side.

‘Our traitorous friend been up to anything he should not have been up to, sir?'

‘No. Guaranteed. Chief Patterson and I had a discussion and we decided to take all the engine-room staff into our confidence—well, all except one, Reilly, who seems to be the only person who talks to him. Reilly apart, McCrimmon would win any unpopularity contest without trying, he's the
most cordially detested person in the engine-room. So we spoke to each man individually, told them the score, and told them not to discuss the matter with any other member of the crew. So he'll be under constant supervision, both in the engine-room and in the mess-decks.' He looked closely at McKinnon. ‘We thought it a good idea. You don't seem quite sure?'

‘Whatever you and Mr Patterson decide is okay by me.'

‘Dammit.' Jamieson spoke with some feeling. ‘I suggested to the Chief that we talk to you but he was sure you'd think it a good idea.'

‘I really don't know, sir.' McKinnon was doubtful. ‘It
seems
a good idea. But—well, McCrimmon may be a villain but he's a clever villain. Don't forget that he's gone completely undetected and unsuspected so far and would have kept on that way but for a lucky accident. Being a crude, violent and detestable person with a penchant for crowbars doesn't mean that he can't be sensitive to atmosphere, to people being over-casual on the one hand and too furtively watchful on the other. Also, if Reilly is on speaking terms with him shouldn't he be under observation too?'

‘It's not all that bad, Bo'sun. Even if he does suspect he's under observation, isn't that a guarantee for his good behaviour?'

‘Either that or a guarantee that when—if—he does something he shouldn't be doing he's going to make damn sure that there's no one around when
he does it, which is the last thing we wanted. If he believed he was still in the clear he might have betrayed himself. Now he never will.' McKinnon looked at their table. ‘Where's Mr Patterson?'

Jamieson looked uncomfortable. ‘Keeping an eye on things.'