LITMIR.BIZ

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just a little by late morning, the great globs of black and slate-grey cloud rushing northwards, leaving a wash of translucent white with the brush strokes clearly visible. But, just as the heavens were being re-painted sky-blue, a swirling mist began wafting around the life raft, shutting out the horizon and coating Roger with tiny beads of water.

      Several ships had slipped by in the fog, only the penetrating tones of their foghorns signalling their presence and, by late afternoon, he had convinced himself that a particularly close horn was that of a lighthouse. It must be a bay or inlet, he thought, deceived by the calmness of the water, and dreamed of a wide sandy beach garnished with bare-breasted nymphets and a hundred hamburger joints. The prospect of hamburgers jerked him awake—food, I need food, must have food. “There must be food inside,” he mused and sat on the edge of the giant rubber ring with his feet dangling speculatively into the opening, weighing the pros and cons of venturing inside, into a water-filled paddling pool.

      His stomach won, and a minute later he was floundering helplessly as his bulk dented the flimsy bottom and a deluge of water knocked his feet from under him. His thrashing flushed him further from the inflated rim and, within seconds, he was drowning again: His weight, sodden coat, the water, and gravity, conspiring to drag him under the canopy toward the centre. He sank to his chest and sat forlornly in the middle with only his head and shoulders above the water, the canopy draped over him like a huge deflated parachute.

      Once the water, and his mind, had calmed, he used his hands as flippers to inch back toward the opening, then his right hand collided with the box of emergency rations and he clung to it thankfully as he clambered back onto the roof and collapsed, exhausted.

      The blanket of fog hanging motionless above the sea intensified hour by hour. By early evening the cold white swirling mist of the morning had become a uniform grey wall. Night appeared to fall several hours earlier than it should otherwise have done and Roger slept.

      Night was also falling in the Dutch port where preparations were being made to keep tabs on the truck bound for Istanbul. A knot of officers, English and Dutch, stood around the rear of the trailer receiving instructions, then Detective Constable Wilson dropped a bombshell. “Sorry, Guv,” he said, “but I’m not volunteering to go in that.” He hesitated momentarily, adding, “With all due respect,” a fraction too late to have any sincerity, and he kept his eyes on the ground, away from Superintendent Edwards.

      “I wasn’t asking for volunteers,” snarled Edwards, his clenched teeth chattering in anger as he hissed, “Come with me.”

      Turning his back, he strode smartly away, leaving Wilson looking to his colleague for support. D.C. Smythe pulled a face— you’re on your own mate, and an embarrassed silence built with the possibility of a showdown. Edwards broke the spell. “Wilson,” he barked, the single word somehow encompassing the phrase, “Come here you bastard.”

      “Yes, Sir,” Wilson replied, half running to catch up with his senior officer.

      Edwards turned on him as soon as they were out of the group’s earshot. Making eye contact he flew at him, “You will go in the truck you little snot,” he spat. “How dare you show me up in front of the captain.”

      “But, Sir …” Wilson tried to explain.

      “Don’t you ’but’ me you little runt.”

      “Sir, I have an important engagement,” he managed, before Edwards could stop him.

      “Nothing, I repeat, nothing is more important than this case to you, and your career, at this moment,” he said, adding with venom. “Do I make myself abundantly clear?”

      Wilson wouldn’t give up; couldn’t afford to give up, “Sir, I promised my wife …”

      Edwards cut in with a sneer, “You promised your wife what? I bet you promised you wouldn’t get pissed, or wouldn’t get a dose of AIDS from a whore in Amsterdam. Wouldn’t have stopped you though would it?” He paused for breath and a change of tone. “That reminds me, I still haven’t found out what you and the others were doing when Bliss lost LeClarc on the bloody ship. Where were you? How come Bliss was the only one on deck? What was Sergeant Jones doing when he fell over? Trying to hold up the bar was he? Or, do you expect me to believe Bliss lost him all on his own?”

      Wilson spluttered, “We were …”

      “I should warn you mister, I’ve already spoken to Sergeant Jones. Just in case you were thinking of telling me porky pies.”

      “I’m not sure what we were doing,” Wilson replied hesitantly after a few moments of prudent thought.

      Superintendent Edwards, an experienced interviewer, knew the signs; knew very well that Wilson remembered precisely where he was and what he was doing at the material time. “I’ll tell you what Mister Wilson,” he began, offering a backhanded compromise, “you get in that truck with Smythe and the others, and by the time you return I’ll have forgotten all about what went wrong on the ship.” Still staring, he raised his eyebrows, “Do we understand each other?”

      Wilson understood. “Yes, Sir.”

      Edwards marched stiffly back to the truck with Wilson, slack-shouldered, in his wake. “Now Captain,” said Edwards as if they had never been away, “please continue with the briefing.”

      Fifteen minutes later, unaware he was carrying three passengers, the driver gunned the huge truck life and, after warming the engine for a few minutes, dropped the rig into gear. Destination—Istanbul.

      “What do you think, Michael?” asked the captain as they watched the big rig rocking violently as it rolled over the railway lines on its way out of the port, carrying Detectives Wilson and Smythe together with Constable Van der Zalm.

      “We shall soon find out,” replied Edwards. “The driver may be lying, especially if he was paid enough—or scared enough. He was certainly nervous, but wouldn’t you be if you were arrested in a foreign country; particularly if you hadn’t done anything wrong?”

      The captain nodded, “I suppose I would … That reminds me, you haven’t spoken to King yet.”

      The truck swung hard to its right just outside the dock and accelerated toward Rotterdam. An unmarked dark green police car, waiting out of sight just beyond the dock perimeter, took up its position and the two-vehicle convoy set off.

      “David King?” Superintendent Edwards enquired of the lone occupant in the cell.

      King was tempted to say, “No,” just to be awkward, but nodded without getting up. “What?” he replied defiantly.

      “I’m Superintendent Edwards, New Scotland Yard. I’d like to have a few words with you.”

      King studied him critically, rising slowly—thoughtfully—saying nothing. Edwards turned to the captain, still standing in the cell doorway. “It’s O.K. Jost. I’ll call if I need anything.”

      Edwards swung on the substantial wooden door, heard the solid clunk of the lock dropping into place behind him, and turned to face King, now standing a good six inches taller than he.

      “Sit down please, Mr. King,” he said, feeling ill at ease under the weight of King’s stare.

      “I’ll stand,” replied King coldly.

      Edwards dropped to the bench. “Sit down,” he instructed with a wave of the hand, somehow managing to make his order sound like an invitation.

      King stood defiantly, and an uncomfortable feeling prickled the back of Edwards’ neck. “I really think it would be better if you sat,” he persisted, forcing himself to stay seated.

      “I said I’ll stand.”

      “Sit,” he commanded, as if ordering a dog.

      King glared, “Do you always get your own way?”

      Edwards, realizing he was at a severe disadvantage, pressed his hands firmly on the bench and started to rise, “I’m here to ask the questions,

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