Mightier Than the Sword (The Clifton Chronicles 5)

“Has Doherty passed you within the last few minutes?”

“Damn,” said Crann. “I knew I’d seen that bastard swaggering up the Falls Road. He went into seven zero six.”

“Hartley,” said the colonel as he charged on down the corridor, “you and Crann keep an eye on Doherty. Make sure he doesn’t leave his cabin. If he does, arrest him.” The colonel banged on the door of cabin 742. Sergeant Roberts didn’t need a second knock. He opened the door within seconds, and greeted Colonel Scott-Hopkins with “Good morning, sir,” as if his commanding officer regularly woke him in the middle of the night, dressed in his pajamas.

“Grab your tool kit, Roberts, and follow me. We haven’t a moment to waste,” said the colonel, once again on the move.

It took Roberts three flights of stairs before he caught up with his commanding officer. By the time they reached the stateroom corridor, Roberts knew which of his particular skills the colonel required. He dashed into the chairman’s cabin, and peered closely at the vase for a moment before slowly circl

ing it.

“If it’s a bomb,” he said finally, “it’s a big one. I can’t begin to guess the number of lives that will be lost if we don’t defuse the bugger.”

“But can you do it?” asked the captain, sounding remarkably calm. “Because if you can’t, my first responsibility is for the lives of my passengers. I don’t need this trip to be compared with another disastrous maiden voyage.”

“I can’t do a damn thing unless I can get my hands on the control panel. It has to be somewhere else on the ship,” said Roberts, “probably quite near by.”

“In his lordship’s cabin would be my bet,” said the colonel, “because we now know that it was occupied by an IRA bomber called Liam Doherty.”

“Does anyone know which cabin he was in?” asked the captain.

“Number three,” said Harry, recalling the old man who had been moving a little too quickly. “Just along the corridor.”

The captain and the sergeant ran out of the room and into the corridor, followed by Scott-Hopkins, Harry, and Giles. The captain opened the cabin door with his passkey and stood aside to let Roberts in. The sergeant walked quickly across to a large trunk in the middle of the room. He tentatively raised the lid and peered inside.

“Christ, it’s due to detonate in eight minutes and thirty-nine seconds.”

“Can’t you just disconnect one of those?” asked Captain Turnbull, pointing to a myriad different colored wires.

“Yes, but which one,” said Roberts, not looking up at the captain as he cautiously separated the red, black, blue, and yellow wires. “I’ve worked on this type of device many times before. It’s always a one-in-four chance, and that’s not a risk I’m willing to take. I might consider it if I were on my own in the middle of a desert,” he added, “but not on a ship in the middle of the ocean with hundreds of lives at risk.”

“Then let’s drag Doherty up here posthaste,” suggested Captain Turnbull. “He’ll know which wire to cut.”

“I doubt it,” said Roberts, “because I suspect Doherty isn’t the bomber. They’ll have a sparks on board to do that job, and God knows where he is.”

“We’re running out of time,” the colonel reminded them, as he stared at the second hand’s relentless progress. “Seven minutes, three, two, one…”

“So, Roberts, what do you advise?” asked the captain calmly.

“You’re not going to like this, sir, but there’s only one thing we can do given the circumstances. And even that’s one hell of a risk, remembering we’re down to less than seven minutes.”

“Then spit it out, man,” rapped the colonel.

“Pick the fucking thing up, throw it overboard, and pray.”

Harry and Giles ran back to the chairman’s suite and took up positions on either side of the vase. There were several questions that Emma, who was now dressed, wanted to ask, but like any sensible chairman she knew when to remain silent.

“Lift it gently,” said Roberts. “Treat it like a bowl full of boiling water.”

Like two weight lifters, Harry and Giles crouched down and slowly raised the heavy vase from the table until they were both standing upright. Once they were confident they had it firmly in their grasp they moved sideways across the cabin toward the open door. Scott-Hopkins and Roberts quickly removed any obstacles in their path.

“Follow me,” said the captain, as the two men stepped into the corridor and edged their way slowly towards the grand staircase. Harry couldn’t believe how heavy the vase was. Then he remembered the giant of a man who’d carried it into the cabin. No wonder he hadn’t hung around for a tip. He was probably on his way back to Belfast by now, or sitting by a radio somewhere waiting to hear the fate of the Buckingham, and how many passengers had lost their lives.

Once they reached the bottom of the grand staircase, Harry began to count out loud as the two of them mounted each step. Sixteen steps later, he stopped to catch his breath, while the captain and the colonel held open the swing doors that led out onto the sundeck, Emma’s pride and joy.

“We need to go as far aft as possible,” said the captain. “That will give us a better chance of avoiding any damage to the hull.” Harry didn’t look convinced. “Don’t worry, it’s not too far now.”

How far is not too far, wondered Harry, who would happily have dumped the vase straight over the side. But he said nothing as they progressed inch by inch toward the stern.