since soon after the Second World War. His involvement in the affair could hardly have been more personal.
“Walt,” Richard said, shaking the American’s broad hand while Robin went on tiptoe to kiss his weathered cheek. Then the admiral’s eyes met those of their escort and the young officer was gone at once.
“Sit down, sit down. My steward’ll be in with coffee in a moment. I’d like to invite you to lunch, but if I did, God knows it’d be a long flight back to Katapult. ”
Richard sat, suddenly almost overcome by the sensations of being back aboard a great steel-sided ship. Katapult for the last few days had been all rush and hiss, theslightest vibration of sleek multihull through water, the rumble of her sails and the song of the wind in her stays. Mississippi was all throb and thrust—that corkscrew stagger in place of Katapult ’s leap, the distant, unvarying rumble of the engine, the insistent, immediate throb of everything around him.
A sharp tap on the door preceded the entry of a lean young man bearing a trayful of cups and saucers. He swayed easily across to the admiral’s desk as Mississippi shuddered, apparently quite at ease while she dipped and heaved back; but when Robin accepted her coffee, she noticed a drop or two had been spilled and the simple fact of this brought to her mind Twelve Toes Ho, chief steward on Prometheus, a man who had never, to her knowledge, spilled a drop of anything he had ever carried. A man now, with all the others, held captive like her father. Perhaps even alongside her father. Her cheeks flushed with ill-contained rage. Her hands shook.
“Right,” said Admiral Stark as the steward closed the door. “Update. No change in your situation that I’m aware of. Helen Dufour at Heritage House in London still has no news of your father, Robin. Nobody has, not even the Archbishop of Canterbury, and he has his ear pretty close to the ground, so I’m told. Nobody knows where Bill is or who’s holding him. Beirut still seems the best bet, but the PLO isn’t talking and not even the Shi’ites are claiming any responsibility. We just have to hang on in there and wait.”
“But it has to be tied to the taking of Prometheus !” exploded Robin. “Nothing else makes any sense!”
“I agree with that,” snapped Richard. “We’ve been over and over this endlessly. It has to be part of a concerted effort. Blackmail of some kind.”
“But who by?” asked the admiral, his quiet drawl gentle, soothing the English couple’s too-evident anger.“And to what end? What have you got that someone wants that badly? Who wants to hurt you and your company like this?”
“It could be anything, it could be nothing.” Robin now, reiterating parts of conversations shared with Richard, Hood, and Weary during the long haul north to Rass al Hadd. “If it was just one of them—either Prometheus or my father—then it might be bad luck. Nothing aimed specifically at us at all. But both together—there has to be a pattern.”
“Any more news about Prometheus ?” asked Richard as soon as Robin fell silent.
“Nary a word. She’s been moved down the Gulf away from the shipping at Kharg Island. The last report I had was that she was in that little bay just north of Bushehr. Anchored in five to ten fathoms, according to my charts.” He gestured to the desk and Richard suddenly realized the chart was laid out there, ready to be consulted. But he had a chart of the Gulf in his head as accurate as any on paper. As he got up, he said, “That’s what, two hundred miles due north of Bahrain?”
“One hundred and eighty-five miles due north of Manama Harbor,” said Robin, already at Walt’s shoulder, poring over the chart that was so much more up-to-date than the one in Katapult ’s cabin: and it did have Prometheus ’s present whereabouts precisely plotted on it, observed Richard as he joined them. Just on the edge of the bay there, under the eyes of the little Iranian
“Walt,” Richard said, shaking the American’s broad hand while Robin went on tiptoe to kiss his weathered cheek. Then the admiral’s eyes met those of their escort and the young officer was gone at once.
“Sit down, sit down. My steward’ll be in with coffee in a moment. I’d like to invite you to lunch, but if I did, God knows it’d be a long flight back to Katapult. ”
Richard sat, suddenly almost overcome by the sensations of being back aboard a great steel-sided ship. Katapult for the last few days had been all rush and hiss, theslightest vibration of sleek multihull through water, the rumble of her sails and the song of the wind in her stays. Mississippi was all throb and thrust—that corkscrew stagger in place of Katapult ’s leap, the distant, unvarying rumble of the engine, the insistent, immediate throb of everything around him.
A sharp tap on the door preceded the entry of a lean young man bearing a trayful of cups and saucers. He swayed easily across to the admiral’s desk as Mississippi shuddered, apparently quite at ease while she dipped and heaved back; but when Robin accepted her coffee, she noticed a drop or two had been spilled and the simple fact of this brought to her mind Twelve Toes Ho, chief steward on Prometheus, a man who had never, to her knowledge, spilled a drop of anything he had ever carried. A man now, with all the others, held captive like her father. Perhaps even alongside her father. Her cheeks flushed with ill-contained rage. Her hands shook.
“Right,” said Admiral Stark as the steward closed the door. “Update. No change in your situation that I’m aware of. Helen Dufour at Heritage House in London still has no news of your father, Robin. Nobody has, not even the Archbishop of Canterbury, and he has his ear pretty close to the ground, so I’m told. Nobody knows where Bill is or who’s holding him. Beirut still seems the best bet, but the PLO isn’t talking and not even the Shi’ites are claiming any responsibility. We just have to hang on in there and wait.”
“But it has to be tied to the taking of Prometheus !” exploded Robin. “Nothing else makes any sense!”
“I agree with that,” snapped Richard. “We’ve been over and over this endlessly. It has to be part of a concerted effort. Blackmail of some kind.”
“But who by?” asked the admiral, his quiet drawl gentle, soothing the English couple’s too-evident anger.“And to what end? What have you got that someone wants that badly? Who wants to hurt you and your company like this?”
“It could be anything, it could be nothing.” Robin now, reiterating parts of conversations shared with Richard, Hood, and Weary during the long haul north to Rass al Hadd. “If it was just one of them—either Prometheus or my father—then it might be bad luck. Nothing aimed specifically at us at all. But both together—there has to be a pattern.”
“Any more news about Prometheus ?” asked Richard as soon as Robin fell silent.
“Nary a word. She’s been moved down the Gulf away from the shipping at Kharg Island. The last report I had was that she was in that little bay just north of Bushehr. Anchored in five to ten fathoms, according to my charts.” He gestured to the desk and Richard suddenly realized the chart was laid out there, ready to be consulted. But he had a chart of the Gulf in his head as accurate as any on paper. As he got up, he said, “That’s what, two hundred miles due north of Bahrain?”
“One hundred and eighty-five miles due north of Manama Harbor,” said Robin, already at Walt’s shoulder, poring over the chart that was so much more up-to-date than the one in Katapult ’s cabin: and it did have Prometheus ’s present whereabouts precisely plotted on it, observed Richard as he joined them. Just on the edge of the bay there, under the eyes of the little Iranian
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