polished veneer. He no longer believed in love. What had remained of that he left on the floor of a divorce court somewhere. Yet this feeling of compassion felt very much like the other thing. It was disturbing.
You are not going to make a total arsehole of yourself again, are you, Cross? he asked himself as he watched her run to the helicopter that waited in the middle of the courtyard with its rotors turning slowly. She scrambled up the ladder and the engine of the big machine roared as it rose into the air and swivelled around to face the coast. It lowered its nose and bore away swiftly.
You haven’t answered the question, Cross , the little voice inside him whispered. He grinned without humour and replied to himself, No! But it will be interesting to find out if she is human.
R ogier carried the tray containing Mr Jetson’s dinner up to the bridge. On a spotlessly white linen cloth he laid out the dishes and silver on the small table against the stern bulkhead. Then he stood by attentively as Jetson ate quickly, not seating himself to savour the meal but continuing to pace back and forth as he chewed. His eyes continually swept the darkening horizon ahead and then darted to the radar repeater. There was a tiny contact glowing on the screen. The bearing was 268 degrees. The range was showing as 3.8 nautical miles.
‘Helmsman, keep a sharp eye on that vessel.’
‘Very well, Mr Jetson.’
‘What do you make of her, Stevens?’
The helmsman squinted at the horizon. ‘Looks like one of them Arab dhows. Plenty of them in these waters, sir. They do say that they use the trade winds to cross the ocean clean as far as India. Been doing that since the time of Christ, or so they say.’
Rogier had been following the conversation without seeming to do so. He turned his head to gaze out of the window on the port wing of the bridge and he narrowed his eyes and studied the gunmetal-grey, choppy surface of the sea to the east. The setting sun was at their backs, but it still took him a few moments to pick out the tiny grey pyramid of canvas that was surely the sail of his uncle Kamal’s dhow. Even from the height of the bridge it was hull down, and it seemed to be on a parallel course to their own. Then Rogier saw the distant lateen sail spill its wind as the dhow briefly hove to.
Uncle Kamal is launching his attack boats at last , he told himself. Then the sail filled once more and the dhow went on the other tack and pointed down into the south. It began to merge into the dusk until at last it disappeared from their view.
Jetson walked back to the radar screen. ‘They have altered course thirty degrees into the south. I doubt they are making more than fourteen knots and at that speed and heading they are shaping to pass us twenty miles astern.’ Then he glanced at Rogier. ‘Thank you, steward,’ said Jetson. ‘You can clear away the dinner dishes now.’
Rogier stacked the dishes and carried them down to the scullery. When he had finished washing up he called across to the chef, ‘All done, Cookie. Can I knock off now?’ The chef was sitting at his own small table next to his pantry with a crystal wine glass and an open green bottle placed in front of him.
‘What’s the big hurry, Rogier? Come and drink a glass of this excellent Château Neuf with me.’
‘Not tonight, Cookie. I am beat. I can hardly keep my eyes open.’ He left quickly, before the chef could prevail on him further.
In his cabin he made an apology to Allah and the Prophet. ‘You know that there are desperate matters afoot. Please forgive me that I will miss the evening prayer. After I have obeyed your call to jihad I will make full recompense tomorrow evening.’ Then he dressed in his casual dark clothing and went up to the aft deck. He stood at the rail and stared back along the ship’s wake. He could see nothing but the black swells running away into the darkness. The chase boats were designed to sit low in the water. Hidden in the
You are not going to make a total arsehole of yourself again, are you, Cross? he asked himself as he watched her run to the helicopter that waited in the middle of the courtyard with its rotors turning slowly. She scrambled up the ladder and the engine of the big machine roared as it rose into the air and swivelled around to face the coast. It lowered its nose and bore away swiftly.
You haven’t answered the question, Cross , the little voice inside him whispered. He grinned without humour and replied to himself, No! But it will be interesting to find out if she is human.
R ogier carried the tray containing Mr Jetson’s dinner up to the bridge. On a spotlessly white linen cloth he laid out the dishes and silver on the small table against the stern bulkhead. Then he stood by attentively as Jetson ate quickly, not seating himself to savour the meal but continuing to pace back and forth as he chewed. His eyes continually swept the darkening horizon ahead and then darted to the radar repeater. There was a tiny contact glowing on the screen. The bearing was 268 degrees. The range was showing as 3.8 nautical miles.
‘Helmsman, keep a sharp eye on that vessel.’
‘Very well, Mr Jetson.’
‘What do you make of her, Stevens?’
The helmsman squinted at the horizon. ‘Looks like one of them Arab dhows. Plenty of them in these waters, sir. They do say that they use the trade winds to cross the ocean clean as far as India. Been doing that since the time of Christ, or so they say.’
Rogier had been following the conversation without seeming to do so. He turned his head to gaze out of the window on the port wing of the bridge and he narrowed his eyes and studied the gunmetal-grey, choppy surface of the sea to the east. The setting sun was at their backs, but it still took him a few moments to pick out the tiny grey pyramid of canvas that was surely the sail of his uncle Kamal’s dhow. Even from the height of the bridge it was hull down, and it seemed to be on a parallel course to their own. Then Rogier saw the distant lateen sail spill its wind as the dhow briefly hove to.
Uncle Kamal is launching his attack boats at last , he told himself. Then the sail filled once more and the dhow went on the other tack and pointed down into the south. It began to merge into the dusk until at last it disappeared from their view.
Jetson walked back to the radar screen. ‘They have altered course thirty degrees into the south. I doubt they are making more than fourteen knots and at that speed and heading they are shaping to pass us twenty miles astern.’ Then he glanced at Rogier. ‘Thank you, steward,’ said Jetson. ‘You can clear away the dinner dishes now.’
Rogier stacked the dishes and carried them down to the scullery. When he had finished washing up he called across to the chef, ‘All done, Cookie. Can I knock off now?’ The chef was sitting at his own small table next to his pantry with a crystal wine glass and an open green bottle placed in front of him.
‘What’s the big hurry, Rogier? Come and drink a glass of this excellent Château Neuf with me.’
‘Not tonight, Cookie. I am beat. I can hardly keep my eyes open.’ He left quickly, before the chef could prevail on him further.
In his cabin he made an apology to Allah and the Prophet. ‘You know that there are desperate matters afoot. Please forgive me that I will miss the evening prayer. After I have obeyed your call to jihad I will make full recompense tomorrow evening.’ Then he dressed in his casual dark clothing and went up to the aft deck. He stood at the rail and stared back along the ship’s wake. He could see nothing but the black swells running away into the darkness. The chase boats were designed to sit low in the water. Hidden in the
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