The Wrecking Crew (Janac's Games) Read online

  Anna looked away, closed her eyes, her face draining. Nothing would ever be the same. Whatever happened, to either or both of them, it would be different after this. Last time had been bad. This was worse.

  Janac pulled a packet of Lucky Strike out of the top pocket of his shirt and a Zippo lighter from the packet. A cigarette flared, he exhaled noisily. Anna looked round and he offered one to her. Smoke drifted over her on the listless air. She shook her head.

  ‘So tell me,’ he resumed after another slow drag, ‘were you married to him then?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Fortunately for you, this morning I have a little more time — but not much. You will tell me what I want to know.’ He pulled his feet in under the bench and sat up straight. His grey eyes bored straight through her. She could feel the sweat in her palms, and tightened her arms round her knees, her babies. ‘How about we start with how you met?’ he continued.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  ‘It was eight years ago. I was doing a single-handed round-the-world race in a sixty-foot yacht.’ She saw Janac’s eyebrows go up, and the tiniest smile twitched her lips before she continued in a clipped monotone.

  She had hit something in the Southern Ocean — a container, or a whale perhaps. It had taken the rudder off and shifted the stock so that the bearing had leaked badly. Then a storm came in, and she pumped almost nonstop for five days. The boat was rolled twice, lost its mast, and was going down when help arrived in the shape of a container ship.

  The skipper positioned his vessel across the waves, with Anna’s boat in the lee. Then Phil Hamnet descended a rope ladder, swam across and found her below. She was so exhausted she had strapped herself to a bunk to prevent herself slipping under the rising water. She was barely conscious, but Hamnet got her into a sling, and in a ten-metre swell, subzero temperatures and forty knots of breeze, his crew hauled them both to safety.

  Her rescuer was there when she woke two days later, miraculously transported from a living hell to a world of crisp linen sheets and regular mealtimes. They had been together ever since.

  As Anna finished the story, Janac stood quickly, ground the cigarette butt under his boot and moved away to examine the contents of another pot over the fire. He ladled some coffee into a mug and lifted another enquiringly towards Anna. She shook her head. He noted again the fetching bob of dark hair, the sad brown eyes. His jaw tightened the tiniest fraction. Yes, a pretty and spirited woman. ‘This was before he lost his own ship?’ he asked. ‘Where were you when that went down?’ He strolled back towards her.

  Anna watched him. ‘I was sailing at a regatta. In Hawaii.’ She had got off the plane from the States at midnight and found an answer-phone message at home saying Phil’s boat wasn’t reporting. It had been the second-longest night of her life, thanks to the idiot who had left the message but no number to call back.

  ‘And when they found him?’ Janac prompted her, sitting back on the bench and putting the coffee on the floor beside him.

  ‘I was at home.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  Anna closed her eyes momentarily. ‘The ship had gone down in a hurricane, late in the season. It was Phil’s second command — an old grain carrier, eight crew. The cover failed on a forward hold. They made it into the lifeboat, got blown around for two days before the storm backed off. By then all of the food and most of the water had been lost or spoilt.’

  ‘And when he got back, did you talk about what had happened?’

  Anna shook her head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’ The coffee was still on the floor, untouched.

  ‘Maybe a little — after the stories came out in the media.’

  ‘Ah yes, the media. I checked some old news reports — and you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. In fact, according to the enquiry, one of the crew didn’t make it onto the lifeboat. Leaving seven men, who — after the storm subsided and the trade winds pushed back in — were a good seven days away from drifting anywhere near a shipping lane.

  ‘We can imagine that some of them were already in a bad way — dehydrated, weak with seasickness. The lifeboat’s awash in puke and piss and shit. Shared out evenly, the water that remains won’t keep them all alive for seven days — not even close. But it might keep two or three of them going long enough to be rescued. A moral dilemma: some should die so others might live. So far so good. But what I really want to know is: what did Hamnet do next?’

  Janac waited, motionless, but for a moment only. His indulgence stretched little further than his own speeches. ‘Please.’ The word had rarely been used with less sincerity. ‘Don’t make this unpleasant for yourself.’

  Anna looked away under the withering gaze, unconsciously resting her good hand on her belly. During the previous two days she’d had plenty of time to think about the information Janac might demand. The price of her life was apparently Phil’s silence, but what was the cost of that silence? Ships? Cargoes? More lives? She knew better than anyone how Phil might balance such things and make a decision. But if she told Janac about that, what impact might it have on Phil’s chances of saving her? It seemed better to say less rather than more — but, as she had already discovered, saying nothing was not an option.

  ‘Phil told me —’ She hesitated. ‘Phil told me that they all talked about it. They decided to draw lots. Four would leave the lifeboat, the other three would share the remaining water equally. As the ship’s master, Phil was ultimately responsible, but he always said that they discussed it.’ She looked back. ‘That was it. He wouldn’t tell me any more. They were picked up after eight days. Three of them survived and Phil was one of them. But you know that.’

  Janac reached for the coffee mug and sipped. ‘Indeed. And then the media picked it up.’ The searching eyes flicked back onto her face, but his voice was a little softer, his tone neutral. He didn’t think he was going to have to beat this out of her. ‘The speculation was that there had been a fight, that someone had been killed with a flare gun. And we can imagine that those who picked the short straw might have decided not to go quietly. They would have had nothing to lose by trying to take the water by force.’

  Anna’s eyes were locked on his, which were no longer menacing but almost mesmerising. She twitched at the fly again, but this time the movement was an automatic reflex — she barely noticed it. ‘He never talked about that. He only said that they all supported the original decision.’

  ‘I think not. The media thought your husband was a murderer, and I agree.’

  ‘No,’ she bit back. ‘All that talk of criminal charges, but nothing happened. Phil kept his licence and went back to sea.’

  Janac smiled, stood up and walked to the rail, flicking the remains of his coffee into the water. ‘And then I came along.’ he said. He remained staring out at the mangroves. ‘What Hamnet does next is of some importance to both of us. We can assume he’s clear of the area, and if he’s found some trousers he’ll already be close to a phone. Will he keep his mouth shut to keep you alive? Or will he report what’s happened to stop me doing it again? He must balance the lives of men he doesn’t know, and ships that are insured, against the woman he married. And his children.

  ‘The distinction is important: saving those we know against saving those we don’t. People will go to vast effort and expense to rescue two or three men trapped on a mountain, or in a crippled yacht, when logically they could save many more lives by investing the money in a clean water supply for an African village. But those villagers rarely have names or faces, or distraught wives and mothers giving tearful interviews in a familiar language. It’s an empathy with those at risk that seems to change it for people. It seems to remove rationality from the moral equation and leave it driven by emotion.’

  A shrug, a mirthless smile. ‘So, normally, I would have to say we’re in with a good chance — and it would be a shame if my expensive equipment became useless on its first outing. Unfortun
ately, your husband may be rather more rational in these matters than the average. Lives were in the balance in the lifeboat and he decided on a coherent plan to save the greatest number. Even when it meant the deaths of people he knew. Deaths he would be responsible for as the ship’s skipper.’

  Janac turned, walked slowly back to the fire and dropped the mug beside it. ‘Quite how far he was prepared to go to defend and enforce that decision — those deaths — is still a question without an answer. An important one.’ He turned, and the stare was cold, appraising.

  Anna had remained motionless throughout this speech, and now she gazed back at Janac impassively. It seemed, she thought, that even with the information he had he was no closer to understanding what Phil might do.

  Janac nodded at her pregnant form. ‘How long?’

  ‘Little less than a month,’ she answered automatically.

  Janac nodded. ‘We’re moving out of here. You’re going north, somewhere more permanent, with rather less primitive facilities. The boat will be here in an hour. It’s a long trip — be ready.’ He swung on his heel, and left.

  Chapter 8

  Hamnet pulled hard on the rope, heaving on the turns so the fibres bound tight. He wiggled the tiller and the whole boat shook — it was firmly lashed in place. He fired the engine up with a quick whip of the starter, and then stepped out into the warm water, fine mud squishing between his toes. He pushed the bow offshore, then leaned over and clunked the outboard into gear. He watched critically as the dinghy accelerated, eyeing the white wake as it cut through the dark water. It was straight enough. He sloshed out of the sea and collapsed onto the wet mud.

  His shorts and shoes, a plastic bottle and some scraps of dried fish lay beside him. He’d half filled the bottle by wringing rainwater into it, although he wasn’t sure about its previous contents. He pulled on the shorts and shoes before sniffing the bottle — nothing, just water. He drank slowly. It tasted fine. He scratched and wriggled — he’d been bitten alive while asleep.

  The whine from the outboard was already faint. Hamnet watched the boat recede, veering a little to the right now. With luck the tides of the Selat Bangka would sweep it miles clear before it was found.

  He had run the boat aground as the storm had broken around him, stumbled ashore with the painter and collapsed gratefully in the mud. Now he must move inland fast. He nibbled tentatively at a piece of dried fish, then, suddenly and painfully hungry, swallowed it whole. Another mouthful of water washed it down.

  The land was open, dotted with palm trees and scrubby bushes. The morning smelt wet and fresh and he was filled with a new hope. This was the beginning of the search. He needed clothes, then a phone. He had landed the boat between Muntok and a much smaller group of four lights just to the east. He set off to look for a road linking the two settlements, and soon a thin strip of badly potted dirt road glistened palely through the trees in the orange light. Keeping to the scrub, he turned right towards what he hoped would be a village.

  Hamnet hadn’t gone more than a couple of kilometres before he heard voices. He edged cautiously towards the road, eyes scanning the remaining cover. He saw the roadside stall first — a sad-looking wooden affair, with Coke and Marlboro signs hanging unevenly from rusty nails. Then, lounging on the wooden steps, a young Western couple: colourful T-shirts, tie-dyed trousers, idle talk and laughter. They weren’t speaking English, but he didn’t recognise the language. Parked off the road beside the stall was a lightly loaded Honda trail bike, half-empty panniers draped over the seat. To one side was an open backpack, in which he could see an assortment of clothes. Hamnet smiled — a shirt and some new shorts or trousers were all he needed to rejoin the world.

  He skirted carefully through the scrub. The back door of the stall was open, screened by plastic strips that stirred sluggishly in the light morning breeze. He couldn’t see inside. He had ten metres of open ground to cross. He swept his eyes over the dirt for anything that he might kick or scuff noisily. The ground was drying fast, but there was nothing that would crack underfoot. He listened to the rhythm of the voices, waiting until the tempo of the conversation picked up a little. Then he stepped out, strode quickly to the pack, pulled on the drawstring to close it and picked it up.

  There was laughter from the front of the stall — so close. And then silence. Hamnet hesitated, waiting for the conversation to resume. The sound of movement. He started to back away quickly, ready to drop the bag and run. Another laugh — the young woman, light and happy. A second later and he was back under cover. He turned and retreated a couple of hundred metres before swinging left, loping along at an easy jog for another five minutes and stopping next to a large palm tree. There was no sign of pursuit.

  He swung the bag onto the ground and slumped beside it. He leaned against the tree, wiped the sweat from his eyes and stared at the pack. He shook his head and pulled the top open with a reluctant hand. There was a wash kit, a guidebook and a map, a bottle of water, which he emptied in seconds, a couple of big, loose men’s shirts and some jeans. There was also a handful of dollars and rupiahs wrapped in a bikini — emergency money. This was an emergency, he thought, but guilt prickled — more so when he found some letters stuffed into the leaves of a paperback. An Amsterdam address established that the couple were Dutch. At least he couldn’t read the writing. He shoved everything back in, pulled the drawstring, rolled the pack onto his back and headed east once more.

  The shaded stream, with its clear water and stony bottom, was exactly what he was looking for. He investigated the wash kit, daubing after-sun onto his burned and blistering skin and treating the cuts and bites that had spread like a rash across his body with antiseptic lotion. He found a mirror and blade and scraped at his chin. It was an improvement, but his eyes told the truth. One of the shirts was a good fit, the jeans a little loose. He rolled up the legs and found a scarf to use as a belt. He swapped his trashed shoes for a pair of espadrilles. He thumbed through the guidebook but learned little: there were some decent beaches on the other side of the island, and a map told him the village up ahead was called Belolaut. He pocketed the cash, put the remaining clothes and toiletries back into the bag along with the books, letters and his own cast-offs, and stashed it in a hollow under a dead tree.

  He moved closer to the road again but continued to parallel it, keeping to the scrub. Before long he could see the village. He skirted round onto the beach and approached from the shore. A naked child watched him from the shade of a stand of fishing floats. The village was just a scattering of run-down wooden houses set around a muddy beach, on which lay a handful of fishing boats. There was a simple bar — a one-room shack with a few tables tucked under a canopy of palm leaves. The barman was fixing a fishing net when Hamnet found him round the back of the building. Hamnet held his hand up to his face, finger and thumb extended in imitation of a phone. The man ran his eyes over him, then nodded. He went inside and reappeared with an ancient payphone, which he placed on the nearest table. The instructions were in Dutch.

  Hamnet looked at the instrument doubtfully. It obviously wasn’t going to take any of the money he had. The barman rubbed his fingers together to indicate he wanted payment up front.

  ‘Singapore?’ said Hamnet.

  The man shook his head. ‘Palembang, Jakarta.’

  Hamnet looked back at the machine. There was one chance. He pulled out the stolen cash. The man picked out five hundred-rupiah notes, then, apparently satisfied, returned to his net. Hamnet punched in the Indonesian access number for his phone card. If that didn’t work he would have to go into Muntok. The ‘ping bong’ and fluted American tones of the computerised voice were a powerful flashback to a past life. They had been the prelude to countless transcontinental phone conversations with Anna. He held until he got a real operator, then asked for directory enquiries. Two minutes later he had the number he wanted. Another minute while the operator connected him — silence broken only by the occasional clunk and crackle. Hamnet glanced around him a
nd wiped the sweat from his forehead. Finally the phone began to ring.

  ‘Dubre,’ a voice answered.

  Hamnet leaned on the rough wooden table, closed his eyes involuntarily. It was the bouncy confidence he needed to hear. Dubre had been the loss investigator for the sinking of the grain carrier. He had been the one fixed point in the whirlwind of the aftermath. They had become friends.

  ‘Hello? Dubre.’

  Hamnet tried unsuccessfully to speak. He coughed and tried again. ‘Dubre, it’s Phil Hamnet.’

  ‘My God, Phillip, are you all right? You’re all over the TV and newspapers. What the devil happened?’

  ‘First off, this conversation goes no further than the two of us. Promise me that, or I ring off right now and I’m gone for ever.’

  A momentary hesitation, then, ‘Alrighty.’

  ‘You read any reports on the Shawould?’

  ‘Yes. As I say, it’s everywhere.’

  ‘What do they say?’

  ‘Confused — boat on the beach, crew dead, you and Anna missing . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Is Anna OK?’

  ‘She’s alive.’

  Dubre waited for Hamnet to say more. When he didn’t, Dubre continued: ‘There’s some speculation in the English papers about your role in this.’

  ‘I bet,’ replied Hamnet. ‘What’s the gossip on the insurance?’

  ‘The tattle I get from the floor is that they think it was an accident and you got looted by some locals. They’re expecting your body to turn up any day.’

  ‘They going to pay?’

  ‘I expect so. The murders confuse it, but robbery and looting — well, it’s common enough in this area.’

  ‘I heard you’re freelance now — you have some kind of incentive deal with the underwriters. That true?’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Then I know something that could make you a lot of money, Dubre. Things are not what they seem out there.’