The Corners of the Globe by Robert Goddard

I going? The bottom of Scapa Flow?’
    ‘Just open the envelope.’ Fontana levelled the gun. The clarity and calmness of his gaze left Max in no doubt that he meant what he said.
    Max opened the envelope and slid the file out onto the table.
    ‘Good. That’s it, sure enough. How’d you get Schmidt to hand it over?’
    ‘Does it matter?’
    ‘I guess not. The boss said you’d be able to pull it off and he was right. OK. Take your coat off. And your jacket.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I need to check if you’ve pocketed any of the contents of the file.’
    ‘What will I be doing while you’re checking?’
    ‘Take them off, Max.’
    ‘OK.’ Max raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. He shrugged his coat and jacket off his shoulders. As he pulled them down towards his waist, he reached into the outer coat pocket, where his fingers closed round the handle of Schmidt’s revolver.
    ‘
Take it
,’ Schmidt had said. ‘
I think you may need it. I think Lemmer may not trust you as much as you suppose
.’ How right he had been. Lemmer could have sent Fontana after the file. But Schmidt would never have surrendered it to such a man. The secret of Max’s success was that he was not loyal to Lemmer. And Lemmer must have known that from the outset. In fact, he had been counting on it.
    ‘You can stand up now,’ said Fontana.
    Fontana intended to shoot him. Probably not here, in the cabin, but up on deck, where the blood could easily be washed away, after Max’s body had been thrown over the side with something heavy tied to it. Yes. That was how Fontana meant to arrange it. He was only following orders, after all. It would be nothing personal.
    But this would be. Max swung the gun towards Fontana as he jumped to his feet and fired. Fontana jerked back. The bullet missed him, piercing one of the wooden risers on the companionway behind him.
    Then Fontana fired. But the boat lurched to starboard as he did so and the bullet flew wide, sinking harmlessly into the panelling of the rear wall of the cabin. His feet entangled in the bench, Max was thrown across it by the motion of the boat. A second bullet splintered the edge of the table and narrowly missed him.
    Wylie must have wrenched the wheel in surprise when he heard the first shot. Now he pulled it back to port to compensate. Max rolled under the table as Fontana stumbled forward into the cabin. He rolled again, onto his stomach, took aim at Fontana’s right knee and fired.
    The bullet hit. Max heard the fracturing of bone in the instant before Fontana cried out in pain. The leg gave way beneath him. He hit the floor hard, but kept hold of his gun and focused on Max as he squeezed the trigger. Max fired in the same moment, his head still and upright, whereas Fontana was lying on his side, his shoulder twisted under him, pain coursing up from his knee. He missed. Max did not.
    He crawled out from beneath the table, watching Fontana’s eyes for signs of life. There were none. Max scrambled to his feet and started up the companionway. With a gun to his head, Wylie would cooperate. He owed Fontana nothing. He was a smuggler, not a spy, and a pragmatist to boot.
    But the wheelhouse was empty. The boat was chugging forward slowly under its own steam, with the wheel lashed to hold its course.
    Max took in the scene for no more than a second. As he started to turn away, something hard struck his wrist, causing him to cry out and drop the gun. It fell to the deck with a thump. He saw a moving shadow reflected in the glass ahead of him and swung round just in time to raise his arms and block the descending blow.
    He was driven back against the wheelhouse. Wylie was armed with a gaff, but Max wrestled it to the horizontal, the hook clear of his face. The shaft, though, pressed at his throat as he scrabbled for a hold.
    He was grateful for the days he had spent in the gymnasium in Glasgow. He felt the pressure easing as he strained to push the gaff away from him. And in Wylie’s