Fortescue said nothing, just looked down at the water again, a deep sense of foreboding growing in the pit of his stomach. Pulling away from the rail, he sped back towards the door into the ship.
A clutch of scared passengers were squeezing out and he was obliged to stand aside to let them through, but then he plunged inside, stopped and suddenly realized he had no idea what he was doing or where he was going. He took the stairs down to C-Deck, pulling out his key as he dashed towards C16. Turning a corner, he almost knocked over an elderly lady and her younger companion. Apologizing, he helped to steady the lady who grunted and glared at him.
‘The ship may be going down, young man,’ she hissed, ‘… but there’s no need to lose one’s head.’
Fortescue caught a brief smile flickering across the younger woman’s lips. He apologized again, gave the old lady a quick bow and proceeded at a slower pace.
The door to his cabin hung open a fraction. The lock had been broken, flecks of wood lay scattered across the carpet.
Fortescue stared at the handle, transfixed, a sudden flash of fear froze him to the spot. ‘My God,’ he hissed.
He eased the door inwards, every nerve alert. Keeping close to the door, he surveyed the scene, his heart pounding in his chest.
The room had been ransacked, the bed stripped, linen and pillows strewn randomly. His desk had been swept clean of papers; a crystal inkwell lay on its side, the contents spread in a royal-blue puddle across the inlaid leather surface. The cushions of his armchair had been pulled off, slashed open and the stuffing cast about. Then Fortescue caught sight of the safe under the bed. It had been forced open, the door pinned back, and the metal boxes containing the isotope and his briefcase had both been taken.
Fortescue simply stared at the empty insides of the safe, at its bare, featureless walls.
He walked slowly to the centre of the cabin. A sound came from the door behind him. He whirled round. Marcus was standing a few inches inside the room.
‘Marcus!’
The man smiled and shook his head slowly. ‘The name’s Charles Grantham, John… Or should I say, Egbert? We all seem enamoured with pseudonyms, do we not?’ His accent was cut-glass English.
‘What is this all about?’
The man’s smile seemed to have been painted on, unchanging as he spoke. ‘Well, you see it’s like this. Frieda and I… Yes, her name is Frieda. However, we are not siblings, nor are we in the film business. And we are certainly not Swiss! We both work for Frieda’s government.’
‘Which would be based in Berlin.’
‘The German government was alerted to your work at Manchester University through a junior assistant in the Chemistry department. The young man was ordered to keep his eyes and ears open. I then took over the project. I’ve stood closer to you than I am now, old boy. But you obviously did not notice!’
‘You’re English.’
‘Well spotted.’
‘A traitor.’
He shrugged. ‘If you insist. My mother was German actually. I loved her more than I cared for my father.’
Fortescue felt oddly calm. He was not trained for espionage or to fight. He was a scientist, an intellectual. But now, faced with a real spy, his cover blown, strangely he felt none of the terror he might once have imagined feeling.
‘So you have the isotope and my papers?’
Grantham fixed the scientist with cold eyes. ‘Yes, we do.’
‘But you’re crazy. The isotope is deadly. Even brief exposure…’
Grantham had a hand up. ‘I studied physics at Cambridge, began my doctorate… So, please do not patronize me, I know perfectly well the capabilities of the ibnium isotope and I also quite understand the significance of your theoretical studies. You are a very capable man, Dr Fortescue.’
‘You stole them earlier today and hid them somewhere.’
Grantham took two steps further into the room. ‘Correct.’
The ship shook. It felt like a violent tremor close to the bow had reverberated the entire length of the ship. Fortescue almost lost his footing.
‘So why come back? Why expose your real identity to me?’ Egbert asked.
Grantham took three steps closer and drew a blade from an inside pocket of his jacket.
‘What the devil?’ Fortescue’s former cool evaporated. He squinted in disbelief at the knife held waist high, shifted to one side, bracing himself.
Grantham moved quickly. Fortescue stumbled back, coming up hard against the edge of his desk. Grantham lifted the knife. Fortescue grabbed the man’s wrist but knew immediately that his assailant was far stronger than him. He pulled back as the knife came closer and tried to push his arm forward with all his strength; but the knife kept coming, inching towards his face.
Fortescue put his left hand flat onto the surface of the desk, his fingers wrapping the edge to give him some leverage. The crystal inkwell felt cold on his wrist and his hand almost slipped in the ink. Acting on impulse, he let his hand move back a few inches. He grasped the inkwell, swung round and slammed its leading edge into Grantham’s left temple.
For a second, the man had no idea what had happened. He was still moving forward, the knife slipping closer to Fortescue. Egbert pulled his arm back, brought the crystal inkwell round in a shallow arc and slammed a second blow to almost the same spot on Grantham’s head.
Grantham’s hand stopped moving, his eyes rolled upward, and he crumpled almost vertically to the floor, the knife sliding from his limp fingers.
Fortescue could not move. He was panting, gasping for air, shaking. Swallowing hard, he lowered his gaze to the body at his feet, crouched down and moved Grantham’s head back. A huge dark patch had appeared close to the man’s left eye, the edge of it an inch from his hairline. There were flecks of ink on his jaw and across the bridge of his nose, a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his eye and spilled out onto his cheek.
Fortescue gazed in silence at his right hand. He still had the crystal inkwell gripped in his ink-stained fingers, his skin white in the dull electric light. A loud bang came from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship and along the corridor a woman screamed. He jolted upright and tried to rationalize. He let the inkwell drop, took several deep breaths, leaned down and grabbed Grantham’s hands. Twisting him round, he dragged him towards the bed. Laying him level with the edge, the legs straight out, Fortescue managed to roll the body halfway under the bed. He had to kneel down to finish the job, turning the dead man over twice to secure him from view.