The QE2 Is Missing

Concepcion had no time to remember the order against shooting and only her own reflexes saved her life. She had entered the office an instant after Jorge, so that deadly gun muzzle had to swing back to cover her. In that fraction of a second she clamped down her own trigger and put a two-second burst of fire into the man.

He went over and back down and she rushed over and had to kick the gun away from his scrabbling fingers. Then she stamped on his hand. He made no response other than flopping over onto his back and glaring up at her. The burst of bullets had climbed across his body and torn up the bulkhead behind him. Two of the bullets had hit him. One in the upper chest and the other in his midriff. Blood seeped into his clothing but he ignored it just as he ignored his crushed hand.

“I don’t know what bloody stupid game you’re playing at,” he growled. “But you’re not getting away with it.”

Concepcion kept the gun pointed down at him as she pulled the phone towards her and quickly dialled a number.

“Yes?” Josep said.

“Cashier’s office secured. One man, a fat fool, he resisted. Jorge is dead. I had to shoot this one.”

“Is he dead too?”

“No. Wounded. Badly I hope. Should I finish him off?”

“Not yet. Watch him. Lock the door. I’ll send help.”

Josep came himself, tapping on the door a few minutes later. Concepcion unlocked it and he came in with one other man who was pushing a wheelchair. The Tupamaro was masked but Josep, like Concepcion, was not. He looked stolidly down at the wounded man.

“A war hero,” he said. “Look at those ribbons on his jacket. He even has the Victoria Cross. Bad luck. All right, Jorge first. Is he dead?”

“Very.”

“Another martyr. You’ll take care of him. Put him in the wheelchair, covered with blankets. I’ll stay on guard here while you two dump him over the rail.”

The wounded man followed them with his eyes until they were gone. “Going to give me the deep six too?” he asked.

“You speak Spanish?”

“Enough. Thirty years in the Guards you see some strange places. RSM. Crack shot as your gunman found out. Do I follow him?”

“No. We are not criminals. I’ll take you to a doctor.”

“That’s good. Just pick up the phone and dial 0. The operator will send some orderlies with a stretcher.”

“I was thinking of a different doctor.”

“I thought you might be.” The RSM’s voice never changed, though the blood was soaking through his clothing and spreading out on the tiled floor. “You are not going to get away with this, not piracy on the high seas.”

“Save your strength and shut up,” Josep said. This accident would cause a small hitch in their plans, but not a major one. He had to get the man out of here, the blood and damage cleared up, one of his own people left behind as a guard. Then on to the next step. It wasn’t even twelve thirty yet. Things were going well. You had to expect casualties in war.

When they returned with the now empty wheelchair, Josep left them on guard while he found a first aid box in the other office and took the bandages from it. The RSM did not protest when he tore the man’s clothes open and applied the pressure bandages.

“You’re a Samaritan, that’s what you are,” he said, and his face turned chalky as the bandages were tightened.

“No,” Josep said. “I just do not wish any traces of blood in the corridors.” He straightened up and looked around. “Get this mess cleaned up, Concepcion. Wipe up the blood, move some charts or books to cover those bullet holes. Stay here with the door locked until relieved. I don’t think you’ll be bothered by any passengers, not tonight.”

Despite himself, the wounded man groaned when they picked him up and put him into the wheelchair. The corridors were empty, as was the elevator, and they reached Josep’s own cabin without being seen. It was deep in the ship, on Three deck, without a window or porthole and situated in the stern of the ship. The cabin was efficient but small, like a tiny sea-going motel room, and was about as close to steerage as accommodation could be aboard the QE2. About the only thing that could be said for it was that they were so deep in the ship that the rolling was less pronounced. This advantage was made up for by the powerful vibration of the engines that throbbed and shook the room and set the wall panels to buzzing.

“He is injured but he is dangerous,” Josep warned. “Be on your guard. And he understands Spanish.”

Josep hurried now, moving fast to the elevator and taking it high up to the boat deck, then walking up to the Captain’s quarters. He could feel the tension in the air when he entered the room. Captain Rapley sat on the couch, dressed now and glowering in his direction. The frightened steward was on the other side of the room next to a young ship’s officer, who had a bloody scalp and a rapidly developing black eye.

“Third Officer,” one of the armed and masked men reported. “Came to the bridge unexpectedly. They brought him down here as you ordered.”

“Good, we can use him.” Josep turned to the Captain.