“Nothing.” Bull was one of the chief advisers to the International Maritime Bureau, the Interpol of the sea. There was little that escaped him if it happened in shipping. And his specific area of expertise was the Middle East — so if anyone outside Heritage Mariner might have helpful information, it would be he.
“Anything on the general situation coming through the Office?” Bill meant the Foreign Office.
“Nothing. The Corps is quiet, too.” The Diplomatic Corps.
“Intelligence?” It was a faint hope.
“If they know anything, it hasn’t filtered down to us yet.”
There was an uncomfortable, almost threatening silence for several long seconds.
Then, “Any projections, Bull?”
Bull was prepared for the question: “Right. The situation as I understand it is this. Your tanker Prometheus has a complement of about forty. English and American officers; Hong Kong Chinese stewards; mixed bag of general purpose seamen — everything from Palestinian to Pakistani. Mixed bag of hostages; lots of governments over lots of barrels.”
“Right. Most of the G.P. seamen are Muslims, though.”
“The same religion as the terrorists, you mean? Unlikely to be much help. I assume most of your people are conservative, ordinary Sunni Muslims. The terrorists are likely to be Shi’ite fundamentalists. Very different kettle of fish: like looking at Ireland and saying Protestants and Catholics are both Christians.”
“I see what you mean…”
“Right. Anything else about the crew? Any specific diplomatic levers so to speak? Oh yes, Bob Stark, your American chief engineer.”
“His father is John Stark, senator from…”
“I know. But I was thinking of his uncle, Walter. Officer commanding the U.S. Navy’s Sixth Fleet, currently on maneuvers in the Gulf of Oman.”
“That make much difference?”
“Not in the short term, but you never know. They’re forbidden in the Gulf at the moment, for diplomatic reasons though. Can’t go past Hormuz except in the most exceptional circumstances unless the President gives them the direct order. And anyway…”
“Yes?”
“As I understand it, your ship is still off Kharg Island. This puts her firmly in Iranian waters. There have been no pronouncements from Tehran so far, but I would assume both our chaps and the Americans will play it safe until someone fairly senior over there makes the position pretty clear.”
“And that means?” There was a frosty tone in Bill’s voice: he could see where this was leading.
“If Khadaffi had them, then you might stand a chance. But I really can’t see anyone getting too gung ho with the Iranians, especially at the moment; I understand there’s the usual power struggle going on between various branches of the Irani armed forces. But even if there weren’t, one has only to think of President Carter…”
That uncomfortable silence fell on the lines again.
“But you think it’s random, Bull?”
“Don’t quite follow…”
“Were they after any ship or were they after our ship?”
“Have you had any demands? Any contact?”
“Nothing.”
“Probably is random in that case. I mean, it’s possible you have enemies that powerful, I suppose, but I’d say that unless you hear anything specific, assume you’re the victim of a sort of diplomatic traffic accident.”
The background noise on the phone lines whispered; Bill remembered reading somewhere that people had contacted the dead down unused phone lines.
Then Bull tried to lighten things a little, “But what does my goddaughter say? I can’t imagine either Robin or Richard short of ideas. I was just saying a couple of days ago, when the Bureau next goes shopping for advisers…”
“They’re out of touch, Bull. Gone off the face of the earth.”
“Not like you to be so fatalistic, Bill. Getting a bit tired?”
“Maybe just a tad. They left for the Seychelles last week. Silhouette Island. Went sailing on some kind of yacht three days ago, that’s all anyone knows.”
“Well that’s all right then.”
“I don’t follow you, old man.”
“If they’re at sea, they’re bound to be fine. Directly descended from Neptune and Amphitrite, those two, the oceans love them.”
Unconsciously Bill touched the wood of his desk. Bull had always believed in pushing his luck to the limit; Bill was more careful. “Even so,” he countered, “they’re not much help at the moment.”
“I take your point. Look, if they were there, I suspect at least one of them would get the first flight out to the Gulf they could. It’s the obvious thing to do. It’s what I would do. Leave someone in charge of the office and see what things are like on the ground. Got anyone there you can trust?”
“Helen’s here.”
“God! That’s lucky. I thought she was in Grimaud this weekend. There you are then. Get out to the Gulf yourself. You’ll feel better in the thick of it anyway, if I know you. Now I know you’ve got your own offices out there, but the High Commissioner in Bahrain’s the son of a very dear friend…”
Sir William was back in Helen’s office a few minutes later. “Yes,” she agreed. “It’s the obvious thing to do; and you’re the obvious one to send. If anyone’s going out, it has to be someone with seniority to make decisions, someone with enough contacts to be sure of what’s going on, someone with weight…” She trailed off, exhausted. She hated being right. She hated knowing that he had to go. Talking herself into letting him.
He stood, helpless. There was nothing he could do but wait for her to finish. He didn’t like it any more than she did. He was long past boys’ own adventures now, in spite of what Bull had said. He could have done with some peace and quiet. They both could. He checked his watch. Coming up for four o’clock. They should have been wined and dined and well tucked down in his great four-poster bed at Cold Fell…
“There’s a flight at ten from Heathrow,” she said at last. “It’ll get you to Muharraq airport at eight tonight, Bahrain time.”
Muharraq. He paused at the top of the Boeing’s steps, shocked as always by the brutal impact of the heat. It was dark — had been for hours — and the yellow security lights of the international airport gave everything a sulfurous glare that went well with the temperature: it was like a minor hell. In the distance, beyond the buildings on his right, he could see the great flares blossoming from the rigs out on the Gulf. The whole world seemed to have ignited around him. He breathed in the thick atmosphere and it seemed to fill him instantly, pushing a trickle of sweat out of every single pore in his body. Even with his jacket off, he was nearly overwhelmed by it. Within two steps he had to move the carefully folded garment — the flesh on his arm beneath it was prickling with the heat. Thankfully it was only a short walk through the oil-smelling, shower-humid evening to the blessed coolness of the air-conditioned arrivals area. Once again, shock. Just as he had forgotten how hot the real air on this island could be, he had also forgotten how inhumanly cold the conditioned air felt in contrast. He quickly donned the soggy jacket that had been such an encumbrance only a second or two ago and buttoned up at once. Even then, he shivered as though in the grip of a Cumbrian winter.
Passport, baggage collection, and customs were formalities that hardly distracted him. He was through into the great new arrivals hall within minutes, looking dazedly around, his thought processes slowed by exhaustion and jet lag, not knowing who — if anybody — would be there to meet him. Bull’s man from the High Commission, most likely, though the Diplomatic Service was kept pretty busy out here, what with receptions and parties and dinners and functions…