Solomons Seal (22 page)

The newscast ended, and I went at once to Holland's cabin. He wasn't there, but then I heard his voice coming from behind the closed door of the signals office opposite. I pushed it open to find him sitting with Shelvankar at the desk, his face pale and bloodless, his hand trembling as he held the microphone to his mouth. ‘I tell you, I'll have to think about it. Over … ' He listened for a moment, then he said, ‘I know there's a lot of money in it, but it's me they're after. They don't know anything about you. They don't know you're involved. You should have told me. It's a hell of a shock. I don't know what's best to do. I'll just have to think. Over …' And after a long pause, he nodded. ‘Well, if you're sure they'll stick to that if they are picked up. But I'll keep tuned to Brisbane. If there's nothing new comes through before we meet up, we can discuss it then, decide what we do. Over and out.'

Slowly he put down the microphone and switched off the VHF. ‘You heard the news, did you?' He jerked his head at Shelvankar, and the little Indian sidled out. The muscle on his jaw was moving, his eyes as scared as when I had first seen him. ‘Well, come in and shut the door. I don't know what the hell to do. Bloody stupid business. I never handled contraband, anything
like that before. But guns …' He half buried his head in his hands. ‘Christ! Everybody on the ship must have heard it.' He dropped his hands, raising his head to stare at me again. ‘What are you going to say if they question you?' He was like a man under sentence appealing for some way out.

‘That's what I came to tell you.' His eyes went blank, knowing what I was going to say. Then the door opened, and Perenna came in.

She closed it behind her, standing there, her face set as she stared down at him. ‘That settles it,' she said. ‘You'll have to get rid of them.'

He seemed to brace himself, shaking his head. ‘He's already at the rendezvous, waiting. I was talking to him on the radio when that news flash came through.' And then, speaking much faster: ‘All they know is that two trucks were loaded off the beach. They don't know there was anything in them, and Hans says there's no way they can find out. The drivers will say they were empty. He'll take just the crates. I put the trucks ashore at Kieta. Empty trucks. The District Commissioner can't make much of that. It's not a crime. We're always putting empty trucks ashore in the islands.'

‘You're going to tell them that?' She stared at him in disbelief. ‘What about Roy here? What about me? Do you expect us to swear those trucks were empty?'

‘Hans says once those cases are on board his RPL there's no way anybody can prove—'

‘And you trust him? Well, I don't.' She was leaning forward, half bending over him, her voice urgent. ‘For God's sake, have some sense. You're the one who's
implicated, not Hans. You'll never have a moment's peace …'

‘What the hell do you suggest, then?'

‘Get rid of them. I've said that all along.'

‘But I can't. He's out there, waiting for them. Waiting to take them off me.'

They went on arguing about it, taking no notice of me as I stood watching through the porthole, the sun gradually overtaken by rain clouds, the sea losing its sparkle as though reflecting their mood. Behind me the murmur of their voices, and the sun disappearing, the sea all grey to the horizon; I thought I could see the vague silhouette of a small vessel lying broadside on to us against the drab backcloth.

Holland suddenly gave in. ‘All right,' he said. ‘If that's what you want … ' He got up abruptly and went through into the wheelhouse. I followed him. I saw Luke give him a startled look as he pushed past him, reaching for the handle of the engine-room telegraph and slamming it to Stop. The engine pulse died, and he disappeared out on to the bridge wing, hurrying down the ladder to the catwalk, calling to Teopas to get the bow doors open and the ramp lowered to sea level. It began to rain, big drops hitting the deck and drying instantly.

Gradually we lost way until we were lying stationary. The bow doors were open, the ramp coming down; soon I could see the length of the tank deck to the sea beyond. The men were hauling the crates out of the trucks, piling them at the top of the ramp, and Holland climbing the ladder to the
catwalk. I had lost sight of the other ship, rain moving towards us across the sea in a solid mass, and when it reached us, the scene up for'ard was almost obliterated as the downpour hammered our steel plates with a noise like a waterfall.

Work stopped, black bodies glistening with water huddled for shelter under the Haulpaks, and Holland standing just inside the doorway leading to the bow door control gear. McAvoy suddenly appeared in the wheelhouse and stood staring at the scene, swaying slightly and blinking his eyes. ‘Thought we were on a reef, in the surf.' He was leaning close to me to make himself heard, his breath smelling of whisky.

The full weight of the cloudburst lasted only a few minutes; then the rain eased, and the crew got back to the job of hauling the crates out on to the ramp. Whether Teopas realised his skipper was going to jettison them or whether he felt the bow door thrusters were his responsibility, I don't know, but whatever it was, he was suddenly scrambling up the ladder to the catwalk. All the crates were out now, the canvas flaps of the two trucks being fastened down again, and Holland and his coxs'n facing each other, both of them talking urgently. Finally, with an angry gesture, Holland made to push past him through the watertight door that led to the control panel. Teopas flung him back so that he fell against the steps leading to the upper foredeck. I heard Perenna give a startled cry and turned to find her looking wildly round. Then she wrenched a fire axe from the wall and was out in a flash, tumbling down the ladder to the catwalk.

I followed, calling to her. I can't remember what I said, but I was suddenly scared that the sight of her with that axe in her hand would start a riot. By the time I reached the catwalk she was already facing Teopas, the axe poised in her hand as though she were going to throw it at him, and he stood there, staring at her, his big mouth hanging open, his eyes rolling. ‘Get back,' she screamed at him. ‘Get back down!' She indicated the ladder down into the tank deck, the axe swinging, the blade with its red paint bright in the falling rain, and the way she held it, balanced and purposeful, I thought, She knows how to use it, and my God, she might.

Teopas must have thought so, too. The muscles of his body had tensed momentarily for a quick rush at her, but then he thought better of it. ‘Cargo not bilonging you, misis. Bilonging Buka pipal's Cooperative. You understand?'

‘No, I do not understand.' Then she was talking to him in Pidgin, something about guns, all the time moving slowly nearer him, step by step. Holland had picked himself up, but he didn't do anything, just stood there. Suddenly Teopas moved, pushing past him up on to the foredeck, moving fast and shouting orders to the crew below as he crossed to the starboard catwalk and flung himself back down the vertical ladder on that side to rejoin his men on the tank deck.

All this time, Holland had stood quite still as though unable to move, staring at his sister. She yelled at him to get the ramp down to the full stretch of the chains, but he seemed incapable of movement, while
down on the tank deck Teopas and the crew were hauling the crates back, stacking them on the solid deck, clear of the ramp.

And then a shot rang out. The rain had stopped, and the sound of the shot was very loud in the stillness.

On the tank deck the crew froze into immobility, all eyes turned to the port bridge wing where McAvoy stood above me, gazing down at them, smoke curling from the muzzle of a heavy revolver gripped in his hand. I don't know what he said. He spoke to them in their own tongue. But there was no doubt about the way he said it. He might be a drunk, but he had years of command behind him, and the ring of authority that demanded instant obedience was there in his voice. I saw Teopas's shoulders sag, a shut look on his face and resignation in every line of his body. The crew, too. It wasn't the gun. They could have handled that in weaker hands. It was the man, the powerful, biting anger in his voice, the knowledge that he'd seen war, been one of the old-time Holland Line skippers – that, drunk or sober, he was still a Master.

It was a very strange moment, everything in limbo, all of them staring at him. Holland and his sister, too. He held them like that for a long minute, gazing down at them, his eyes moving from face to face, resting on each man individually till they were all of them avoiding his gaze. ‘Coxs'n. There will be no more trouble. You will obey orders. Understand?' And when Teopas had been forced to nod his head in silent acknowledgement, he turned to Perenna. ‘Bring that axe back here please, Miss Perenna.' And when she
had brought it, he handed it to Luke. ‘Put it back where it belongs.' Slowly he pushed the revolver into the waistband of his trousers. He was gripping the rail, his shoulders beginning to droop. ‘Captain Holland. Your ship.' And he was gone, back into the wheelhouse, staggering a little, but his face still set, one eyebrow raised as he glanced fleetingly at me as though to say why the hell hadn't I done something, his bloodshot eyes shining balefully.

It was only then, when he had gone, that I became aware of the sound of engines and turned my gaze to the open end of the tank deck. The bows of the RPL were just coming into view. She was less than two cables off and already turning, a slab-sided, ugly, flat-iron of a vessel streaked with rust. No chance now of getting rid of those crates, everybody watching as she manoeuvred to come in bows-on to us, looming larger and uglier every minute until she was hanging motionless off the end of the tank deck, her bow ramp coming down to drop with a hollow clang on our own ramp.

They had two light trucks and some motorcycles on board, and over their loudhailer a voice boomed in English, ‘I see you're all ready for us. Get the crates across fast. We may not be able to hold our position long. Move, Teopas! Move!'

Holland shouted something, but the crew were already galvanised into action, grabbing at the crates and man-handling them across the grinding steel ramps. He scrambled down the ladder, pushed past the men and walked quickly on to the open deck of the lighter, heading for the squat wheelhouse aft. Perenna
followed him, but more slowly. I watched her as she climbed down the ladder and walked slowly, almost reluctantly, out through the open bows on to the deck of the other ship. There she stopped suddenly, standing very still as though rooted to the spot. And then I saw him, red hair like hers, standing at the starb'd rail by the wheelhouse door of the RPL, talking to Jona Holland; a short, energetic man in white shirt and shorts, his body leaning forward, his sunglasses catching the light as he turned and stared at her down the length of the ship.

The way they faced each other, both of them quite still, both of them staring; even from that distance I was conscious of something – lust, hate, I don't know what – sensing it only as a current running between them. They were like that for what seemed a long, breathless minute, and then he had turned abruptly to question her brother, and she was moving resolutely between the trucks, climbing in slow motion up the ladder to the bridge deck. They didn't shake hands, the three of them standing there, talking heatedly, and a man watching them from the wheelhouse, a black man, wrinkled face framed in one of the windows. Hans Holland jerked his head, a peremptory gesture of command, and they went inside.

I had only once seen an RPL, and that from a distance. I had never been on one. I walked along the catwalk to the for'ard ladder and climbed down into the tank deck. Two crates had already been shifted on to the lighter as I crossed the ramps. It was much smaller than an LCT, less than a third of the length,
the bows square, everything very basic – a utilitarian motorised barge. The original grey showed through patches of different coloured paint, the flat steel sides of the cargo deck flaked and pitted by long years of work in the salt and heat of equatorial islands. The motorcycles roped to the sides were Japanese Hondas, four of them and all brand new. But the two small trucks were old American Dodges. It was very hot enclosed in those steel walls, the ramps grinding and the velvet-black backs of the men labouring over the crates glistening with sweat.

Perenna appeared on the bridge ladder, climbed down and walked past me without a word, a blank, set look on her face. She was like a person in a trance; I don't think she even saw me. After watching her cross the ramps, still walking slowly, still locked in her thoughts, I turned back to the trucks, squeezing between them with the intention of seeing what they carried.

‘You there. Who are you?' The voice, an Australian accent, came from above me. ‘What are you doing there?'

I came out from behind the truck, looking up to see him standing at the top of the ladder, his red hair bright against the flaking white paint of the wheel-house. ‘Hans Holland?' I asked.

He came down the ladder at a run, squeezing past the first truck to stand facing me, the sunglasses hiding his eyes, but his mouth a hard line in a hard, tough face. ‘Who are you?' he asked again. I gave him my
name, and he said, ‘The name doesn't matter. What's your job? What are you doing on that ship?'

‘Passenger, acting as first officer.'

‘Passenger? I wasn't told of any passenger.' He was worried, and he didn't believe me. ‘What the hell would a passenger know about running an LCT?' I started to explain, but he cut me short. ‘Get off this ship. You've no business—' He checked himself. ‘No, you wait there.' And he raced back up the ladder, shouting for Jona.

I stayed there, wondering what he would do now that he knew I was witness to the contents of those crates. Somebody was shouting from across the ramps. The RPL was slewing, Teopas calling for more power, the plates vibrating against the soles of my feet as the engine revs increased. Then he was back, smiling now and more relaxed. ‘So you're a trained LCT officer and looking for a job out here. That right?' I nodded. ‘Stick around, then. I'll see you later, on Bougainville.' He tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Maybe I could use a trained landing craft man. Not easy to find now.'