The cafes opposite the Vieux Port were still busy with afterdinner customers who were sitting outside, taking advantage of the gentle night air. The quay on the other side of the road was almost deserted, quiet enough to hear the creak of rigging as the boats rode the swell in their moorings. The Figatellis were leading the way, and they had almost reached the speedboat before Sam noticed a car parked on its own at the end of the quay. The headlights flashed once, then again. The others stopped to watch as Sam went over.
The back window slid down, and Sam was able to make out the familiar face of Francis Reboul. “I shall wait here until you come back,” he said. He reached out of the window and grasped Sam’s hand. “Good luck, my friend. Good luck.”
Eighteen
“Not too fast, Jo. We’d like to get there dry.” Sam wiped the spray from his face and looked at his watch. He looked across at Daphne. She was in profile, and with her head held back and her redoubtable bosom, she made Sam think of a clipper ship’s figurehead. She turned toward him and smiled. “What an adventure,” she said, and then her face became serious. “I’ve been thinking, dear. Suppose someone asks us the name of this disease that we’re looking for. What would we say?”
“Thank God you reminded me. I’m sorry-I should have told you earlier. The technical name is tropical spastic paraparesis. I came across it a few years ago when I was in Africa. We used to call it the Congo flux, and it’s really nasty: drowsiness, fever, convulsions, vomiting, and death.”
“Splendid,” said Daphne.
“The curious thing about it is that it’s spread by breath. If someone who is infected breathes on clothes or a handkerchief or a pillow, the virus stays contagious for several hours. In its early stages it’s invisible. You don’t know you’ve got it until the first symptoms appear.”
“Is there a cure?”
“Induced total bodily evacuation, but that only works if you catch it within forty-eight hours.”
Daphne nodded. “That should give them something to think about, if they ask. Oh, look! Isn’t that pretty.”
They had passed the tip of the island of Ratonneau and turned back into the Baie du Grand Soufre. There, at the end of the bay, The Floating Pound lay at anchor, lights blazing, a floating symbol of the capitalist dream come true. The Figatellis murmured their appreciation. “See that?” said Jo to his brother. “The helicopter parked on the stern? That is some piece of equipment. Tres serieux.”
Sam leaned forward. “Now, Jo. Once we’re on board, I’d like you to park somewhere you can keep an eye on the helicopter. If anyone wants to make a quick getaway, that’s what they’ll try to use.” Jo nodded, cut the engine until the boat was just making way, and glided closer to the yacht. They could see a crew member, in silhouette against the light flooding out from the main stateroom, take a final drag on his cigarette before flicking the butt over the rail and going back inside.
The speedboat eased gently up to the main gangway and came to a halt, riding easily on the swell. “OK,” said Sam. “Here we go. Give them a shout.”
Flo took the megaphone and requested permission to come aboard. They waited. No response.
“They don’t understand French, obviously,” said Daphne. “Here-let me have that.” She took the megaphone and stood up, bracing herself against the speedboat’s movement.
“Ahoy! The Floating Pound! Ahoy!” Her voice, a powerful instrument, bounced off the sea and echoed against the side of the yacht. “Medical emergency! I repeat, medical emergency!”
A figure appeared from a door behind the main stateroom and peered down at the speedboat.
“You there! Young man! I say again: this is a medical emergency. Now lower the gangway so the doctor can come aboard. Look sharp!”
A second figure appeared, and after a brief consultation the steps were lowered. A surprisingly nimble Daphne, followed by Sam and Flo, led the way on to the deck. She looked the two young crew members up and down, and clearly found them lacking in stature. “I need to speak to someone in authority at once,” she said. They looked back at her, bleary-eyed and uncertain. “At once!”
The first test of Sam’s disguise was about to take place. He adjusted his face mask and glasses and reminded himself that he didn’t understand English, while a gnomelike figure, squinting in the half-light, came across the deck toward him.
“What’s all this?” Ray Prendergast was not pleased. To obtain some relief from the increasingly tense atmosphere on the boat, he had settled down to watch an old favorite, the vintage DVD in which John Wayne single-handedly conquers Iwo Jima. And now this. He thrust his head toward Sam. “Who the hell are you? And what are you doing here?”
Sam looked at Daphne and shrugged, the picture of incomprehension. She took a step toward Prendergast and looked down at him from her superior height. “This gentleman is Dr. Ginoux. He unfortunately doesn’t speak a word of English, but I can interpret for him. And I’m afraid we have some most disturbing and unpleasant news.” She turned to Sam and, in rapid French, repeated what she had just said. Sam nodded, and waved a hand for her to continue.
“There is a strong possibility that two of the deckhands on a boat that arrived here recently from the Ivory Coast are infected by tropical spastic paraparesis. This is a viral disease that culminates in a slow and painful death unless it is discovered and treated in its early stages. It is also extremely contagious.” Daphne paused to assess the effect her words were having on Prendergast, and was encouraged to see that his belligerent expression had been replaced by a frown.
She continued. “The quarantine authorities here in the port are treating this as an emergency, and have instructed us and several other medical teams to inspect all vessels that have recently arrived from ports outside France.”
Prendergast’s belligerent expression returned. “Wait a minute. This boat has come from England. We haven’t been anywhere near the bloody Ivory Coast.”
“I’m sorry, but the authorities are quite clear about this. It’s possible, for instance, that some of your crew members may have had some contact with crew members from the infected vessel. Could you guarantee that no fraternization has taken place?”
Prendergast was silent.
“Of course you couldn’t,” said Daphne, “which is why, I’m afraid, we must inspect every cabin for traces of contagion. Fortunately, this can be done quite quickly by Dr. Ginoux. Now, if we could start with the master’s cabin and work our way back, I think that would cause the least possible disruption.”
Prendergast stopped chewing his lip. “I’ll have to talk to the owner.” He ducked back into the stateroom, leaving them on deck.
Daphne caught Sam’s eye, and gave him a wink. “So far, so good, dear,” she whispered. Flo, who had been quietly pacing the deck, came over to ask if he should go with them as they went through the cabins.
“Yes, definitely,” said Sam. “When we find Elena, we’re going to need you and your gun.”
Five minutes turned into ten before Prendergast came back, this time with Lord Wapping, his bulk draped in a maroon silk dressing gown, brandy snifter in hand. He glanced briefly at Sam and Flo before turning his attention to Daphne. “You’re the one who speaks English, right?” Daphne inclined her head. “Well then,” said Wapping, “let’s be sensible about this. I’m sure we don’t have to get everybody out of bed at this time of night. I’m quite happy to sign something that says you’ve carried out the inspection, and then we can all get our kip.” He took a sip of his brandy, looking at Daphne over the rim of his glass.