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let the men that followed him regroup. Then he stepped through onto the bridge. Jetson was standing beside the instrument panel and discussing something with the helmsman. The radio operator was in his shack at the back of the bridge. He was leaning back in his swivel chair with his full attention on the paperback novel he was reading. But if he were alarmed it would take him only an instant to reach out and punch the red alarm button on the bulkhead beside him. That would begin a series of electronic measures which would automatically sound the ship’s alarm bells and broadcast a distress radio call which would be picked up by every marine listening station from Perth to Cape Town, and from Mauritius to Bombay. Rogier held the Tokarev behind his back as he walked into the radio shack.
    ‘Hi, Tim!’ He smiled at the operator as he looked up from his book.
    ‘Rogier, what the hell are you doing up here? You know this station is out of bounds.’
    Rogier pointed past his shoulder. ‘Why is that red light flashing, Tim?’ he asked and Tim swivelled his chair quickly.
    ‘What red light?’ he demanded, and Rogier brought the pistol out from behind his back and shot Tim at the point where his top vertebrae joined his skull. The bullet blew out between his eyes in a bright burst of blood and brain matter which splattered over the radio panel. Tim toppled out of the chair and slid to the deck. Rogier turned swiftly and found that his men already had their guns on Jetson and the helmsman.
    ‘By Christ, Moreau. You have murdered that man . . .’ Jetson’s voice shook with shock and outrage. He started towards Rogier. Rogier lifted the pistol and shot him in the centre of his chest. Jetson clasped the wound with both hands and stood swaying slightly.
    ‘Are you mad?’ he whispered, shaking his head in awed disbelief.
    ‘You must kill the officers immediately. They are the ones who will organize any resistance,’ Rogier’s grandfather had ordered him, so Rogier shot Jetson twice more in the chest and then watched with professional interest as he staggered backwards into the control panel and collapsed in a huddle.
    ‘Secure the crew. They can be useful later as bargaining chips,’ his grandfather had ordered. Rogier nodded to his men and they pinioned the helmsman’s arms behind his back and bound his wrists together with a heavy-duty nylon cable tie. Rogier went past him to the control panel of the yacht and moved the engine telegraphs to the ‘Stop’ position. The vibration of the engines through the deck under his feet died away and he felt the subtle change in her motion as the Amorous Dolphin lost her forward way.
    ‘Sit down.’ Rogier turned to the helmsman. ‘Don’t move until you are told to do so.’
    ‘For Christ’s sake, Rogier . . .’ the helmsman pleaded, but Rogier shoved the pistol into his ribs and with his arms still pinioned the helmsman dropped hurriedly to the deck and sat in the spreading puddle of Jetson’s blood. It soaked into his breeches.
    Rogier left one of his men on guard and led the rest of them to the lower deck. He stopped outside the door to the captain’s suite. In his capacity as a ship’s steward he had his pass key to let himself into any cabin which was not doubled-locked. Rogier had brought Franklin his coffee at 6 a.m. daily, so he knew from experience that the captain never double-locked. The door slid open quietly and Rogier stepped into the sitting room of the suite. He switched on the desk light and saw that the door to the bedroom was open a crack. There was the sound of heavy snoring from the cabin beyond. He crossed the sitting room and looked through into the bedroom. Franklin lay on his back on his bunk, on top of the bedclothes. He wore only a pair of boxer shorts. His paunch was protuberant, pale and covered with grey and straggly hair. His mouth hung open and the regular snores sawed up his throat. Rogier went to him and held the muzzle of the Tokarev half