Malik waited for Batista to bring Helen out. As soon as he appeared with her, they took off down the path to where the boat was tied up. Malik lifted Helen on board and Batista helped her down into the small cabin amidships.
Before slipping the painters and moving off, Malik aimed the Uzi at the diesel tank of Maclean’s boat, emptying the magazine into it. Then he tossed the machine gun into the water.
Twenty minutes later, on board the Freeport gunboat, Inspector Eustace looked through his binoculars in the fading light and saw a spiral of smoke curling upwards from one of the small islands. It bent its head in the evening breeze and drifted out towards the setting sun.
Chapter 14
The knock on Marsh’s cabin door was short and perfunctory. Marsh was lying on his bunk reading a yachting magazine, although his mind was not wholly absorbed by what he was reading but more on what he had threatened at the debrief. He wondered if he really had the courage to carry his threat through. Marsh was not by choice a brave, fearless fighter of a man, although his unquestionable courage in working beneath the ocean surface was undeniable; but he was wise enough to see the folly of standing up to someone like Malik in a physical confrontation, which is surely what he believed this whole thing could lead to.
The Taliba was sailing on a course that took them in a south easterly direction, away from the site of their first dive. Naturally Marsh was not privy to Khan’s plans, but the ship had turned on to the new heading immediately after the dive. About the same time, Batista and Malik had left in the helicopter. That had been twenty four hours ago. Now the helicopter had returned. He wondered idly why the two men had left the ship for that short time. Not that it mattered; it was none of his business.
He began to think about their new heading and from the feel of the wind buffeting the ship; it seemed that they were heading towards the growing hurricane. He wondered if this was the change in schedule Khan had referred to when he asked de Leon about the freighter. The strengthening wind was beginning to affect the smooth passage of the ship as it moved across the growing wave tops.
He put the magazine to one side and swung his legs off the bed. He pulled a pair of shorts on and went to the door. He was not surprised to see Malik standing there because he was usually the errand boy.
“Mister Khan wants to see you on the bridge,” he told Marsh, and waited.
Marsh picked a tee shirt up off the bed, slipped it over his head and followed Malik out of the cabin.
On the bridge, Khan waited a little impatiently, not because of the deteriorating weather, but because of the recent turn of events. They had not been of his choosing but the elimination of the two men guarding Helen Walsh could only add to the preponderance of police now looking increasingly closer at any link he might have with their murders. On the brighter side though, he hoped the turn of events would lead to a lessening of Marsh’s truculence.
Khan turned as he heard Malik open the door and step onto the bridge with Marsh.
“We have something for you,” he said sharply to Marsh, and pointed to Captain de Leon’s cabin behind the bridge.
Marsh hesitated at first but then he walked over to the cabin and opened the door. At first he saw nothing, so he stepped inside. Helen was sitting on a chair, her head bowed. She looked up and turned towards the door. As her eyes fell on Marsh she stood up quickly, her hand flying up to her mouth in a gasp. Marsh just stared for a moment, then closed the door behind him and went over to her. He barely had time to clear the threshold and she was in his arms.
They said nothing, just held each other tight, blotting out the memory of what had been and what might come. Their circumstances were not of their choosing, but they both needed the warmth and pleasure of each other’s contact. Marsh held her so tightly he wondered if she would cry out in pain. Soon he had to release her, push her back gently and look into her eyes.
He could see pain there, but not from him. The pain had been inflicted deep within her, in her soul. Her face looked drawn and frightened. He could see the extensive scratches and bruising on her exposed flesh as he held her at arm’s length.
“In God’s name, what did they do to you?” he asked softly.
“The man who did this is dead.” She shivered. “Oh Marsh, it was horrible.” She buried her head in her hands and began sobbing fitfully. He pulled her in close again and held her tight until her tears stopped.
Suddenly the cabin door opened and Khan stepped into the room with Malik. Marsh turned towards him.
“Was there any need for this, Khan?”
“No,” Khan agreed. “But the man responsible has paid for it. As you can see, I’ve kept my word; your woman is safe now, which means we can continue with our work and you will make the dive.” He turned to Malik. “Take them aft.” Then he turned and walked away without another word.
Francesini had been weighing up all the pros and cons until his head was busting open and had finally managed to doze off when the phone rang. He opened his eyes, slightly disorientated because of his strange surroundings. He reached for the phone and plucked it from its cradle, held it to his ear and sank back on to his pillow.
“Sir? This is Cooke.”
At first he didn’t recognise the voice at the other end of the line, but that was probably because he hadn’t expected to hear from him.
“Cooke? Oh, Bob. Hi!” It was the young man who worked in the photographic intelligence section at C.I.A. headquarters. “What can I do for you?”
“Is this a secure line, sir?” Cooke asked.
Francesini smiled and shrugged, looking round the hotel room. Not exactly five stars he thought to himself.
“Didn’t know I was coming here myself until a couple of hours ago. You can say what you like, so long as it isn’t a State secret.”
“Thank you, sir. Well, it’s like this. You know the ship we’ve been keeping an eye on?” Francesini was pleased he hadn’t mentioned the Taliba by name. Cooke carried on before waiting for a response. “Well, the helicopter left the ship yesterday with two men on board. It returned today with three people; one of them a woman. I enhanced the image and she looked to be in some distress. Does this mean anything sir?”
Francesini sat up immediately. Helen Marsh; it had to be Helen Marsh!
“Mean anything?” he repeated. “Cookie, if we get through this unscathed, I’m going to recommend you for a medal. Do me a favour and fax me the photo to this hotel. Do it now, will you?” He searched round for the hotel information booklet and found the hotel’s fax number. He read it out to him and put the phone down. The he got dressed and went down to the hotel reception to wait for the photograph to come through.
Marsh leaned on the aft rail with Helen. The Taliba was in open water. The Bahamian Islands had long since disappeared into the distance behind them and could no longer be seen. It was now early morning and the Atlantic Ocean looked unwelcoming and threatening. But for the two of them it seemed to offer a haven of tranquillity; an escape from the events that had happened to them. The wind that Marsh had been concerned about had all but disappeared, although he knew from questioning the captain that the wind was approaching from a southerly direction and they had sailed through the rim of a low pressure system.
The night before, the two of them had talked long into the night. They had talked of what had happened to Helen, what had happened to Marsh. They had talked of their fears and their futures, if they had one. Helen had told Marsh how she convinced Sweeting Maclean that she was the wife of an Obeah man. Marsh had commented that it was ‘powerful medicine’.