The shock of sudden immersion smashed the breath out of me and the boat, as it rolled, caught me a painful blow on the leg. I splashed and struggled, got my head to the surface and glanced round. As I shook the water from my face to look round, something slid powerfully by me. A hand grasped at my sleeve, gripped tightly, and I felt myself being drawn rapidly through the bitterly cold water.
I tried to turn my head to look up and as I did so, my other arm was grabbed. Two men were holding me, each by one arm; between them sat another. I stared up at his face in astonishment. The last time I'd seen it was in the Scanda Hotel in Gothenburg. He wore seaman's clothing now but the eyes behind the rimless glasses were the same. I was looking up at Pavel Marasov, the polite Russian press attaché !
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Marasov bent close and low to make his voice audible above the engine's noise. 'Where is it, Sellers?' he yelled.
I shook my head. Already my teeth were chattering. The water moving by me as I was dragged along was sucking the warmth from my body.
`Where?' he repeated.
Ì don't know.' It was difficult even to speak as water from the boat's bow washed at me.
`Then where is Anderson?'
Ì don't kn — ' My mouth filled suddenly with water. I began to choke and was roughly hauled higher. 'I don't know,' I shouted.
Marasov stared at me. I was trembling now with the brutal cold. I managed to say, 'We'
re looking.'
He continued to stare at me for a long moment, while the water raced by. I gaped up at him helplessly. Then he bent closer. 'Find him, Sellers. Find him. Find the transparency. Nobody must see it, understand? Work alone! Stay away from those men. If you do not, the girl Hay will not be seen again.'
I gasped, 'Is she . . . is she . . okay?'
`So far,' he said. 'Remember what I say.'
The best I could manage was an awkward nod of my head. The engine noise diminished suddenly and I could feel that the way was coming off the boat. Marasov said, his voice louder now that it no longer competed with the revving engine, 'Stay away from the American, and the other, the man Willingham. I cannot save you again.'
While I was still gaping at him the grip on my arms was released. I sank suddenly, my mouth filled with water, and I choked again. When I surfaced, and after I'd finished coughing, I realized I was only a few feet from a stretch of rocky shore. I swam weakly towards it and hauled myself out of the water. I was desperately cold, teeth chattering so hard it hurt, body trembling violently. Looking around, I managed to make sense of my whereabouts. I was at the south end of the Lerwick harbour a good distance from the small boat harbour where we'd been knocked into the water. And I was in trouble. There had seemed to be no wind when I walked with Elliot and Willingham down the hill from the police station. But now I realized the air was anything but still. It flowed slowly around me, working with the water in my soaking clothes to chill me to the bone. And there was no prospect of dry ones. Also, the police were on the streets, Elliot and Willingham would already have swum ashore and put out an alert on me. Then there was Marasov. For a moment I began to think about Marasov, but there were priorities more urgent than that. Elliot's phrase came into my mind. My grade A class one problem was dry warm clothes! I made myself walk up towards the road. It was absolutely quiet now. Nothing moved. I looked furtively around me and began to move quietly back towards the town. Up a side street I saw suddenly the familiar end of a phone box, checked quickly that none of the local bobbies was visible, and hurried towards it.
Money or no money, Lincoln didn't like answering the , phone in the wee small hours. He sounded irritable even as he spoke his own name.
I said, 'It's John Sellers.'
Òh Christ. At this time?'
Ì need a boat. First thing in the morning. When can I get one?'
Ì have a boat. Where do you want to go?'
`Not sure yet. But early.'
`There's a hire charge, Sellers. Especially to you.' `Never mind that. What kind of boat is she?'
`Converted lifeboat. Cabin cruiser now. She's good. What time?'
Èight,' I said.
Bloody hell!' Then he sighed audibly. 'All right.' `Where is she?'
`Hays Dock. North end. See you there at eight.' What's her name? Just so I'll know.'
`Katrina.'
I said, 'Sorry to disturb.'
Ì'm used to it,' he said wearily. 'But what the hell happened to you earlier. I waited half an hour!'
`Sorry,' I said. 'I had to move. Buy you a large Scotch sometime.'
`You'll do more than that.' He hung up.
Hays Dock. North end of town. I was a long way from it, a good half mile, and my chances of walking there unobserved, in still dripping clothes, along the deserted quayside, were nil. I'd have to lengthen the journey, work my way round the back of the town. Oh, Christ!
I climbed a bit, sticking to shadows as much as possible, then slowly worked my way north like a hunted cat through a network of alleys, slithering from hiding place to hiding place. And about halfway, climbing a narrow passageway just below the police station, I suddenly found myself with a good view of the harbour. I didn't care about the harbour at that second. I didn't care about anything but getting out of the murderous cold. But something caught my eye. An
absence, not a presence. Something missing that ought to have been there: where was Anderson's boat? Not the one he owned now; she was still on her mooring. But the other one, the one he'd sold. That one had disappeared!
I got going again, and made suddenly incautious by the need to move fast, nearly ran into one of the coppers. Fortunately my senses were temporarily sharper than his and I managed to make myself part of the shadows until he'd gone by. Then I hurried on. When I finally reached Hays Dock, I groaned. The boat was there, sure enough, but she was moored twenty yards out and this time there was no convenient dinghy to hand. I forced myself to enter the water again and swam slowly out to her. My clothes weighed me down like lead ingots, the cold and my own weariness had drained the strength from my limbs; it was no more than swimming one length of a small pool, but it felt like swimming the Channel. As I came under the bow I saw her name was Catriona, but spellings didn't matter. This was the one. I scrambled up the three steps of the waist ladder into the stern well and found the cabin door locked. Too bad. Sorry, Lincoln. I kicked it in and scrambled inside.
There were curtains, but they were flimsy and I didn't dare use a light. I searched in the semi darkness until I found some sweaters, dampish but a great deal drier than my own clothes, in one of the lockers. There were also, thank God, spare trousers and sailing boots, plus oilskins, a duffel coat, and what have you. I stripped, towelled myself down with the duffel coat, then dressed quickly. I felt a bit better, now, but badly weakened. I rummaged round, then, trying to make out what made the thing go, and came to the conclusion Lincoln must do pretty well, because Catriona had been nicely converted. There was a push-pull fuel switch, self-starter, a simple throttle, forward-astern lever. It ought to be simple. The starter seemed to make a tremendous noise and didn't fire her first time. I stuck my head out and looked round apprehensively, but all remained quiet so I tried again. She caught this time and the engine chugged beneath my feet with quiet efficiency. I slid up on deck, slipped the mooring chain, wincing even at the sound of the little splash, then hurried below and set her moving slowly ahead. My instincts told me full steam ahead; logic said nice and slow. I stuck with logic and thought about whether anyone would notice, or even worse, might think the movement of the boat worth reporting. In seaports, they say, there are eyes everywhere. I came slowly out of the dock mouth.