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Authors: Colin Forbes
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and squaring his shoulders as the moan of the wind took on a higher note, rasping his face with its icy blast. Macomber had experienced the wind from the plains of Hungary, a wind which swept straight in from the depths of faraway Siberia, but as he slammed the door shut he thought he had never felt a more penetrating chill.
The deck was deserted. No sign of Volber. But the boat was still there, the vessel he had seen through the porthole from his dining-room table. She was moving along a course parallel to the Hydra 's, ploughing through the rising seas perhaps three kilometres to starboard. The deck was lifting sufficiently for him to hold onto the rail as he made his way to the stern, his face muscles drawn tight and not from the bitter wind which froze his skin. Taking out his Monokular glass, which was small enough to conceal inside the palm of one hand, he looked back along the deck. Lifeboats, the snow melted and gone during the day, swung slowly on their davits, reproducing the movement of the sea. A thin trail of smoke floated from the Hydra 's funnel, was caught up by the wind and thrown into a spiral. There was no sign of life anywhere. He aimed his glass, saw the other ship as a blur which merged in one long glowworm of light, focused, brought the lights forward as separate portholes, noted the white funnel and the unidentifiable flag which whipped from the masthead. For perhaps a minute he stood motionless, one part of his mind on the lens, the other part alert for the slightest sound which might warn him that he was no longer alone on that empty deck, a sound which might warn him of the attempt on his life he had feared ever since coming aboard. Then he closed the glass, pocketed it and checked his watch once more. 10.10 PM. Yes, it was the Rupescu , the vessel which had got up steam as soon as the Hydra had made preparations to leave the Golden Horn. Shoulders hunched against the wind, he made his way back along the unstable deck and went down into the warmth which met him as soon as he opened the door. Inside his own cabin he took off his hat and coat, lit a fresh cigar, put the Luger within easy reach and settled down to wait. Assassins often preferred to operate at night.
'It was the big German,' Ford said as he closed the cabin door and re-locked it. 'I caught him on the staircase at the far end -he still had his coat and hat on and he was going up on deck. I don't like it.'
'Don't like what?' Prentice withdrew his hand from where it had rested near the pillow which concealed his Webley .455 revolver, and began studying the patience cards spread out over his bunk.
'The feel of this old tub - those Jerries being aboard and not talking to each other. They come from the same country and they haven't said a blasted word to each other from what I've seen.'
'Perhaps they're English in disguise - that would explain the non-fraternization.' He picked up a card, placed it over another. 'Not been formally introduced, you see.'
Ford lit the last of his army issue cigarettes, the ones he could only smoke when they were alone, and started thudding a heel against the woodwork as he sat down on his bunk. Prentice looked up and stared pointedly at the thudding heel until Ford stopped the noise, then went back to his game. 'You could always get some kip,' he suggested hopefully.
'Couldn't sleep a wink,' the staff-sergeant told him emphatically. 'Not with those Jerries aboard creeping all over the shop when it's long past their bedtime.' He got up and went over to the porthole, pulling the curtain aside with a jerk. 'That ship's still there, too. Wonder why it's keeping so close to us?'
Prentice slammed down a card and lit a Turkish cigarette quickly while he watched the sergeant who continued staring out of the porthole in his shirt-sleeves. 'Ford, there are things called sea-lanes. Ships are liable to follow them. If you've ever crossed the Channel you'll see quite a few ships not far from each other the whole way
The deck was deserted. No sign of Volber. But the boat was still there, the vessel he had seen through the porthole from his dining-room table. She was moving along a course parallel to the Hydra 's, ploughing through the rising seas perhaps three kilometres to starboard. The deck was lifting sufficiently for him to hold onto the rail as he made his way to the stern, his face muscles drawn tight and not from the bitter wind which froze his skin. Taking out his Monokular glass, which was small enough to conceal inside the palm of one hand, he looked back along the deck. Lifeboats, the snow melted and gone during the day, swung slowly on their davits, reproducing the movement of the sea. A thin trail of smoke floated from the Hydra 's funnel, was caught up by the wind and thrown into a spiral. There was no sign of life anywhere. He aimed his glass, saw the other ship as a blur which merged in one long glowworm of light, focused, brought the lights forward as separate portholes, noted the white funnel and the unidentifiable flag which whipped from the masthead. For perhaps a minute he stood motionless, one part of his mind on the lens, the other part alert for the slightest sound which might warn him that he was no longer alone on that empty deck, a sound which might warn him of the attempt on his life he had feared ever since coming aboard. Then he closed the glass, pocketed it and checked his watch once more. 10.10 PM. Yes, it was the Rupescu , the vessel which had got up steam as soon as the Hydra had made preparations to leave the Golden Horn. Shoulders hunched against the wind, he made his way back along the unstable deck and went down into the warmth which met him as soon as he opened the door. Inside his own cabin he took off his hat and coat, lit a fresh cigar, put the Luger within easy reach and settled down to wait. Assassins often preferred to operate at night.
'It was the big German,' Ford said as he closed the cabin door and re-locked it. 'I caught him on the staircase at the far end -he still had his coat and hat on and he was going up on deck. I don't like it.'
'Don't like what?' Prentice withdrew his hand from where it had rested near the pillow which concealed his Webley .455 revolver, and began studying the patience cards spread out over his bunk.
'The feel of this old tub - those Jerries being aboard and not talking to each other. They come from the same country and they haven't said a blasted word to each other from what I've seen.'
'Perhaps they're English in disguise - that would explain the non-fraternization.' He picked up a card, placed it over another. 'Not been formally introduced, you see.'
Ford lit the last of his army issue cigarettes, the ones he could only smoke when they were alone, and started thudding a heel against the woodwork as he sat down on his bunk. Prentice looked up and stared pointedly at the thudding heel until Ford stopped the noise, then went back to his game. 'You could always get some kip,' he suggested hopefully.
'Couldn't sleep a wink,' the staff-sergeant told him emphatically. 'Not with those Jerries aboard creeping all over the shop when it's long past their bedtime.' He got up and went over to the porthole, pulling the curtain aside with a jerk. 'That ship's still there, too. Wonder why it's keeping so close to us?'
Prentice slammed down a card and lit a Turkish cigarette quickly while he watched the sergeant who continued staring out of the porthole in his shirt-sleeves. 'Ford, there are things called sea-lanes. Ships are liable to follow them. If you've ever crossed the Channel you'll see quite a few ships not far from each other the whole way
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