As the afternoon wore on, the storm kept worsening steadily. Waves that before had been as tall as houses now loomed vertically like mountains of water, peaking high above the deck of the Svalgaard Andromeda and smashing thousands of tons of water over her bows with a violence that made the ship quiver from stem to stern and every man aboard catch his breath with fearful antic.i.p.ation. The news from the bridge was grim: the latest weather update from the GMDSS reported that the severe tropical storm that had been lashing the Somali coast was now being upgraded to a full-blown cyclone. And from the readings, it looked as if the Andromeda was heading right into it.

a.s.suming the role of captain, Trent ordered the engine room to crack on under full power while he deviated course to try to outflank the storm. But it was moving so fast and erratically that it was impossible to antic.i.p.ate where the cyclone might hit.

Sometime after 4 p.m., Jeff Dekker and Tuesday climbed up to the bridge to relieve the exhausted Trent and Lang. Ben had last been seen heading out onto the main deck to check on the fixings holding the fore and aft cargo cranes in place, lest they be torn loose by the incredible wind and start swinging destructively about.

In the galley, plates and cutlery were crashing all over the floor with the wild motion of the ship, and Murphy was squawking and flapping about in a panic. Jude helped Hercules clear up the mess and stow everything safely in place. As he worked, he was feeling unsettled and restless, and not just because of the storm. He couldn't get Pender out of his head. Who was he? Jude wanted to know more. It suddenly occurred to him that, with all that had been happening, n.o.body had thought to search the cabin where the three mystery pa.s.sengers had been accommodated.

Jude told Hercules he was going to the head, which was what they called the ship's toilets. Instead, he crept unnoticed up the ladder way to E Deck and made his way to the cabin down the hall from O'Keefe's quarters.

That was where Jude made his discovery.

Pender had apparently been in such a tearing rush to get off the ship with his prize that he'd left a number of items behind. On the bed lay an abandoned holdall containing some clothes and toiletries. There was a yellowed old Wilbur Smith paperback lying propped open on the floor. And a phone.

He found it under a bunk, where it had either been kicked by accident or had slid across the floor with the motion of the ship. Jude fished it out and examined it with a thumping heart. It looked like a normal Motorola cellphone, except for its unusually chunky size and the thick antenna attached to the casing. Jude quickly realised what it was. A satellite phone.

Jude turned it on and the logo IRIDIUM flashed up on its screen. It took him only a few moments to find a menu listing all the recent calls that had been made from it. There had been only two and both to the same number, with the international prefix code for the USA. Jude redialled the number and pressed the phone to his ear. He wasn't sure if the phone could work in such weather conditions, but he had to try. After a hissing pause, he heard a variety of electronic and static noises as the signal was bounced off the satellite.

His heart jumped as the connection was made. The dial tone was faint, and he had to clamp his hand over his other ear to hear it above the howl of the wind outside and the rain that crackled like fire against the cabin window. After five rings, there was an answer. It was a recorded answerphone message. A man's voice, speaking with an American accent.

'This is Eugene Svalgaard's phone. I'm not here right now, so do the thing and I'll get back to you.'

Jude cancelled the call, thinking, Svalgaard, as in Svalgaard Line? Confused, he racked his brain to recall the reading he'd done about the company before heading out to Oman. Its founder, Aksel Svalgaard, a young Danish emigre to New York in the early twentieth century, had ruthlessly built his empire from tiny beginnings in the 1920s. Having grown to become the fifth-largest shipping line in America, it was currently run and owned by his grandson, Eugene Svalgaard. The name had stuck in Jude's mind. He was certain of it.

And Eugene Svalgaard was in communication with Pender? How could that be possible? Jude was thinking he must be getting it wrong. Maybe the lines had got crossed somehow.

He was about to try the number again when the sat phone rang in his hand. After a moment's hesitation, he pressed the reply b.u.t.ton and held the phone to his ear without speaking.

'Pender? Is that you?'

The connection was poor, but there was no question that it was the same voice Jude had heard on the answerphone message. Eugene Svalgaard, CEO of the shipping line, owner of the Andromeda.

Jude was afraid to speak.

'Talk to me, Pender,' said the voice, sounding irritable and agitated. 'What the h.e.l.l's going on out there? h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? Jesus, it's a G.o.dawful connection.'

Jude knew he had to reply if he was to understand what this was all about. He deepened his voice and put on a pa.s.sable imitation of Pender's accent, hoping that the crackly interference and bursts of white noise would cover up for him. 'Where are you?'

After a delay for the satellite, the voice replied: 'I'm about to leave for Mombasa. Got some business to take care of in Rome on the way. I'll be there to meet you and take delivery as planned. Why are you calling? Is there a problem? h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?'

Jude cut him off, hardly believing what he'd just heard. He had to go and find Ben and tell him about this. It was incredible.

Clutching the phone, he rushed from the cabin and hurried back down below, zigzagging and slamming into bulkheads as the floor pitched under his feet. The first person he ran into was Condor, who was bent double in a pa.s.sage and looking as if he was about to expire from seasickness. 'Have you seen my- have you seen Ben?' Jude asked breathlessly.

Condor hadn't.

Neither had Allen, the next person Jude found. Then, a moment later, Lang said he had seen the crazy English guy go out on deck and hadn't seen him come back. That had been just a few minutes ago, Lang reckoned, though he couldn't be sure.

Jude reached the A Deck hatchway and tore it open. The wind screamed in his ears and he was instantly soaked all over again as he staggered out on deck. He glanced up at the windows of the ship's superstructure behind him, lit up like a tower block behind the curtain of rain, and wanted to be back in the safety of indoors. Out in the open was no place to be. It was as dark as night out there. The gale was frighteningly strong, s.n.a.t.c.hing the air from his lungs and threatening to uproot the hair from his scalp. He ventured a few steps from the hatchway, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, 'Ben!'

No reply. Jude battled the wind a few more steps, until he reached the first container stack. The giant cargo crane was a towering black shape against the darkness, like the silhouette of a prehistoric monster disturbed from the deep. He yelled at the top of his voice, 'BEN! WHERE ARE YOU?'

Dread began to grip him. n.o.body could survive out here long without getting swept overboard. What if-?

Jude sensed a presence behind him. He turned, clutching the locking bar of the nearest container for support against the gale. 'Ben?' he said, relief flooding through him.

The figure that stepped out of the shadows wasn't Ben.

A sudden flash of lightning snaked and writhed from the sky and glinted off something long and pointed in Scagnetti's hand. His clothes and hair were plastered to him and his muscled arms were gleaming from the rainwater. He came on a step. Another lightning flash; Jude saw the expression on Scagnetti's face, the ragged teeth bared like a snarling dog's.

'Give it to me, Limey boy,' Scagnetti yelled. 'Hand it over. I want it, you hear me?'

Jude's blood turned to ice. Gerber had warned him about Scagnetti. Jude knew what he wanted.

'Don't be stupid, Scagnetti. Put the knife down.'

'Give me that diamond,' Scagnetti shouted over the wind, coming on another step. 'Or I'll spill your guts all over this f.u.c.kin' deck.' He raised the switchblade and twirled it between his fingers.

Jude let go of the container and held up both hands to show they were empty. 'I don't have it!' he yelled back.

'I've heard you say that before, you lying f.u.c.k!' And before Jude could back away, Scagnetti reached out with the knife faster than a striking cobra. Jude felt the steel bite his hand. A third fork of lightning split the darkness, its strobing white dazzle illuminating the deck. Jude saw the blood streaming from his lacerated palm. He clenched his fist over the cut and staggered back. He was level with the base of the crane now, glancing around him for some place to run, but couldn't see a thing through the sheeting rain.

Scagnetti kept coming. 'I hate people like you,' he shouted. 'f.u.c.kin' rich boys, you're all the same. Want everything for yourself. Well, not this time. Give it to me! It's mine!'

Scagnetti didn't see the shadow that detached itself silently from the darkness, until it was right beside him.

Chapter 30.

Ben stepped out from behind the crane and placed himself between Jude and this man who wished him harm. That wasn't going to happen. Not today, not ever, not while Ben lived and breathed.

Ben patted the zipped pocket of his combat vest where the hard lump of the diamond nestled. 'You want it?' he said calmly, just loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the wind. 'It's right here. Come and get it.'

Scagnetti hesitated, and for a moment he seemed to deflate as his confidence wavered. But only for a moment. He was the one with the knife. Ben's hands were empty. In Scagnetti's world, that meant just one thing. It meant I win. If this guy facing him wasn't afraid of that, he soon would be.

Scagnetti tossed his head, flicking his straggly wet hair out of his eyes. He lowered his stance like the big knife fighter he was, feet braced, knees bent, arms spread, playing the blade in sweeps and circles. 'You got it, huh? Then do yourself a favour, a.s.shole. Hand it over or I'm gonna carve you up real bad.'

'It's not a fair fight,' Ben said. 'You with a knife.'

Scagnetti laughed. 'Not so f.u.c.kin' tough now, are ya?'

'I mean it's unfair on you, Scagnetti.' Ben took a step closer to him. 'You should have brought a gun if you meant to tangle with me.'

'Yeah? That a fact?'

Ben nodded. 'Yes. It is.'

Scagnetti moved in quickly and lashed out with the blade, low and fast. He was a good mover, even on a badly rolling deck slick with seawater. Footwork was everything in knife fighting, and Ben could see he was practised. He was the kind of sc.r.a.pper who was tough and mean and wily, with years of experience and many a bloodied bar-room floor to his account. He plied the knife with dexterity, never taking his eyes off Ben, shifting his body weight from side to side, ready to feint and jab, duck and slash. A dangerous man with a blade. Hard to beat.

So Ben took a whole five seconds, instead of three, to break his scrawny neck.

The blade flashed towards Ben's chest. Ben sidestepped the stab and palmed Scagnetti's arm away from him, tried to get control of the knife hand but missed, and had to withdraw fast to avoid the knife as it thrust at his throat. Scagnetti was quick, all right, but he wasn't quick enough to dart out of the way of the low kick that Ben aimed hard and square at an imaginary point about eight inches behind Scagnetti's right knee.

A hard blow is one that connects forcefully with a vital part of the body. A crippling blow is one that goes right through. Which Ben's boot did, with a crunch that folded Scagnetti's right leg in the opposite direction to which nature had intended. Scagnetti would have screamed in pain, but in the same moment he had no air to expel from his lungs because Ben had crushed his larynx with a brutal elbow strike while seizing Scagnetti's knife arm and dashing it against the side of the container stack. The knife whipped away across the deck. Ben beat Scagnetti's head twice into a container's steel edge. Disarming a man like this wasn't enough, because he would always find a way to come back at you. Brain damage wasn't enough either, because his mind was already deranged. A man like this, you had to end it; and end it decisively and without hesitation. That was exactly what Ben was trained to do. And exactly what he intended to do. No hesitation, no pity.

The secret of a good neck break, one that ensured instant death, wasn't the side-to-side movement you saw in movies. It was a combination twist in two planes, sideways and up at an angle. Ben supported Scagnetti's limp weight in his arms, placed one hand behind his head and gripped his chin with the other, and snapped it clean. Scagnetti never made a sound.

Then Ben flipped him over his shoulder and carried him to the rail and dumped him over the ship's side. Five seconds from the first knife jab, Scagnetti's broken body was engulfed in the leaping, crashing waves and vanished forever.

It was as if the storm G.o.ds had been animated into a renewed frenzy by the violence of their fight to the death, drawing in the primal energy and ramping it up to redirect it ten thousandfold stronger. The deafening scream of the wind seemed to have peaked to a new crescendo an octave higher in pitch. The sea was like a wild animal driven berserk, as if all the rage and fury of the world had concentrated itself in the forces of the storm. The deck heaved and juddered under Ben's feet as he turned to Jude.

'I'm sorry,' he wanted to say, but he wasn't sorry. Jude was clinging to the container stack, looking at him with wide eyes in a face that looked ghostly-pale through the murk and the driving rain. Ben started going over to him. Then suddenly, he was pitching forwards as the world seemed to tilt at an impossible angle under him.

For a disorientated fraction of a second he thought that Scagnetti's spirit had arisen from the waves, and come back to attack him, possessed with some inhuman power. In the next, cold water filled his ears and nose and the ma.s.sive wave that had broken over the deck of the Andromeda lifted him off his feet and slammed him headlong against the container stack. His shoulder connected with bone-crushing force into something hard, jolting pain through his body. He gasped, sucked water, couldn't breathe. Couldn't cry out for Jude or see where he was. Then the deck under him was tilting the other way and he was sliding backwards in a torrent of white foam, scrabbling for a hold but powerless against the primal force that was enveloping his body and drawing him back. It was going to suck him under the rail and drag him down into the depths. He kicked and struggled and reached out in desperation for something to hold onto, but his clawing hand found nothing but water. The fear was a pure, burning white light inside him. As the certainty of death closed over him, he thought of nothing but Jude.

He felt a hand close around his own, gripping tightly.

' ... en!'

Jude's voice, a million miles away through the roaring in his ears.

' ... ng on! I've ... you!'

Ben felt Jude's other hand grip his arm. He kicked against the slippery deck with all the strength he had, and now he suddenly had a foothold against the power of the receding wave. He gasped and blinked the stinging salt.w.a.ter from his eyes and looked up, and saw Jude's face looking back at him.

'I've got you!' Jude yelled. 'Hang on!' Jude was stretched across the impossibly tilting deck with one foot hooked underneath the bottom edge of the container stack and both arms reaching out with a death grip on Ben's left hand and arm.

Ben opened his mouth to speak, but his voice was lost in the ripping, cracking, groaning, buckling and rending of metal as the crane above them came shearing loose from its mountings and started to topple. Its forty-foot jib swung like a giant arm over the containers as it fell, its momentum carrying it with unstoppable force straight into the windows of the ship's superstructure. The crane buried itself into the Andromeda's bridge as if it had been made of paper mche, ripping through steel and gla.s.s. Wreckage and flailing cables crashed down over the deck. Then the crane ripped itself free as the ship went into another wild tilt, toppled over and smashed down into the container stack, hanging far out over the edge of the deck.

Its unbalanced weight was too much for the ship to bear.

The Andromeda began to capsize.

As the deck rose into a near-vertical incline, Jude lost his grip and both he and Ben slid helplessly towards the rail. But it was the angle of the slope that saved them from being crushed like insects as the container stack ripped loose of the deck and separated into its individual steel boxes that came bouncing and tumbling down over their heads like loose bricks into the ocean. The wind was screaming all around them now, coming from everywhere at once, more water than air. They were in the eye of the cyclone and there was no force on earth that could stand up to it.

Ben's feet hit the rail as he slid to the edge of the deck. He clung on with his legs and braced himself to avoid slipping through its bars. He wouldn't let go of Jude. No matter what, he'd never let go.

As if in slow motion and with a terrible deep grinding groan, dragged under by the wrecked crane, the Andromeda kept rolling over until her superstructure overhung the ocean at a crazy angle, the whole side of her ma.s.sive hull submerged so deep beneath the waves that the port rail was engulfed in foam.

Ben's head went under the surface. All he could hear for a few seconds was the bubbling roar of the water in his ears. Jude was right there with him, eyes wide and gaping into his under the water. So close, yet so infinitely beyond Ben's power to save him.

n.o.body is ever so utterly alone as when death is near and at that moment it was so near that Ben could taste it. Jude's fingers felt like iron claws locked onto Ben's left hand. Ben could feel every joint in his body stretching as the sea tried to drag him down, but he clung on as he'd never clung to anything in his life. For an instant, his head broke the surface. He spouted water and gasped for air but then the ship gave another lurch as it rolled over further still, and he was plunged back deeper under until his lungs seemed about to burst. Just when he was on the point of drowning he heaved himself free of the boiling foam and managed to s.n.a.t.c.h more air but then he realised that his left hand was empty.

Jude wasn't there any more.

'-ude!' Ben's scream tore his throat, but it was soundless in the insane wail of the cyclone.

The giant wave that finally broke the back of the foundering Andromeda took its time coming. It seemed to pause above the capsized vessel before it hit, frozen like a mountain face as it gathered its power.

Ben had time to stare up at the sheer wall looming high overhead and say 'Come on, then, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d', before a million tons of water crashed down and smashed him under like a fist and everything dissolved into blackness.

Chapter 31.

Thirty-seven paces long by twenty-two wide. Those were the exact dimensions of the vast antique Oriental rug that graced the centre of the mosaic floor in Eugene Svalgaard's hotel room. The measurements would remain lodged in his head for a long time to come, after having spent the entire morning pacing up and down and round and round its edge like a mental health patient in the grip of an obsessive-compulsive neurosis. His diary had been wiped clean for the day; all meetings cancelled, the business conference that was his sole reason for being here in Rome in the first d.a.m.n place now completely unimportant to him.

Eugene halted at the window and glared out at the view beyond his private sun deck, over Via Vittorio Veneto to the splendid panorama of the city and its hallowed and ancient monuments.

What a s.h.i.t pit. He couldn't wait to get out of the place.

'd.a.m.n it all,' Eugene muttered. 'd.a.m.n and h.e.l.l and blast and-' He'd never been much for strong language, but now the occasion seemed to merit nothing less and he could feel the urge rising up from deep inside his restless being like a trapped bubble desperate to escape.

'FUUUUCK!!' He screamed it at the top of his voice, as if he wanted every living soul in Rome to hear it.

There. He felt a little better now, though only a little. His heartbeat still fluttering and his face flushed, he threw his squat frame down into an antique armchair for a few moments before he jumped restlessly up again and resumed pacing the living room.

Needless to say, this wasn't any ordinary hotel room, because nothing Eugene Svalgaard possessed, or merely rented for a single night whether of the bricks-and-mortar, automotive, airborne or fleshly variety was ever remotely ordinary. When in Rome, his natural inclination was to take the palatial Villa La Cupola suite that occupied the whole two uppermost floors of the Westin Excelsior. It was the largest hotel suite in Italy and reputed to be the grandest in all of Europe, complete with its own private cinema and wine cellar, magnificently frescoed vaulted ceilings and enough priceless cla.s.sical artwork to outfit a modestly sized gallery. Eugene had booked the suite complete with the five optional extra bedrooms. He had no intention of using them, but he'd taken them anyway, just because he could, without even blinking at the $20,000-dollar-a-night price tag.

But as much as Eugene Svalgaard appreciated and expected the best of everything, at this moment he could have been cooped up in the city's most pitiful hovel, and barely have noticed the difference. The lavish lunch prepared for him by one of Rome's top chefs in the suite's own private kitchen had gone cold, and he didn't care about that either, oblivious of the hunger pangs that emanated from somewhere deep inside his forty-eight-inch waistline. The fact was, very little in his life mattered to him right now; and that which did matter was in the process of going very horribly wrong.

How, how, how could this have happened to him? He'd had it all sewn up. Everything had been going his way. And now, catastrophe.

Eugene contemplated the downturn in his fortunes like a defeated general surveying the devastation of the battlefield. The worst of it all was not even knowing what was happening over there, three and a half thousand miles away where what should have been one of the milestone moments of his life had suddenly turned into a nightmare.

Out of all the vast fleet of cargo ships of the Svalgaard Line, everything hinged on just that one vessel, the Andromeda. The disaster had taken shape so bewilderingly fast, within a matter of hours. First the total loss of radio contact with the ship, which was most certainly not part of his carefully hatched plan. Then yesterday's weird call from Pender on the sat phone, with Pender not sounding like himself at all and then hanging up abruptly without saying why he was calling.

Then, just to deepen Eugene's anxiety still further, there had been the email at six that morning from Sondra Winkelman at the Svalgaard Line head offices in New York, reporting the ominous news that not only were the company still unable to make contact with Andromeda, far worse, according to their sources the tropical storm tearing up the Somali coast had developed into one of the biggest cyclones seen in those seas for a decade. A decade! Of all the cursed bad luck in the world, this had to land on him now.

Getting straight on the phone to Sondra before breakfast 2 a.m. there, but the old harridan was getting well enough paid to work around the clock for him Eugene had learned to his horror that a fresh communique from navy destroyer USS Zumwalt, which had been patrolling the east coast of Africa and forced to retreat to port by the violence of the storm, reported sightings of large amounts of shipping wreckage floating across a wide area of the Indian Ocean in the wake of the cyclone. So far, there seemed to be no clear evidence that the Andromeda was among the victims, but fears in New York were rising. They'd lost vessels at sea before. It was every shipping company's worst nightmare though Sondra Winkelman could have no idea what the loss of the Andromeda would mean for her boss.

'If O'Keefe doesn't resume radio contact in another few hours, we'll have no choice but to mount a search and rescue operation,' Sondra had insisted over the phone.

'Fine, fine. Keep me posted,' Eugene had replied, gut-punched and becoming numb all over. But there had been no more from her since.

Of course, Eugene didn't give a d.a.m.n about the Andromeda herself, or her crew, or her worthless captain. O'Keefe was nothing but a washed-up drunkard whom Eugene would have fired already if he hadn't been useful to his plan. The ship and cargo were fully insured against losses. Let them wind up on the bottom of the ocean, for all Eugene was concerned.