Mightier Than the Sword (The Clifton Chronicles 5)

“It will have to be me,” said Giles, “as I’m the only other worm in the barrel.” Dobbs looked suitably embarrassed. “I’ll try and bump into him before he has his meeting with you, chairman, and see if I can sort something out. Let’s hope he’s a Democrat.”

“Thank you, Giles,” said Emma, who still hadn’t got used to her brother addressing her as chairman.

“How much damage did the ship suffer in the explosion?” asked Peter Maynard, who hadn’t spoken until then.

All eyes turned to the other end of the table, where Captain Turnbull was seated.

“Not as much as I originally feared,” said the captain as he rose from his place. “One of the four main propellers has been damaged by the blast, and I won’t be able to replace it until we return to Avonmouth. And there was some damage to the hull, but it’s fairly superficial.”

“Will it slow us down?” asked Michael Carrick.

“Not enough for anyone to notice we’re covering twenty-two knots rather than twenty-four. The other three propellers remain in good working order and as I had always planned to arrive in New York in the early hours of the fourth, only the most observant passenger would realize we’re a few hours behind schedule.”

“I bet Representative Rankin will notice,” said Knowles unhelpfully. “And how have you explained the damage to the crew?”

“I haven’t. They’re not paid to ask questions.”

“But what about the return journey to Avonmouth?” asked Dobbs. “Can we hope to make it back on time?”

“Our engineers will be working flat out on the damaged stern during the thirty-six hours we’re docked in New York, so by the time we sail, we should be shipshape and Bristol fashion.”

“Good show,” said the admiral.

“But that could be the least of our problems,” said Anscott. “Don’t forget we have an IRA cell on board, and heaven knows what else they have planned for the rest of the voyage.”

“Three of them have already been arrested,” said the captain. “They’ve been quite literally clapped in irons and will be handed over to the authorities the moment we arrive in New York.”

“But isn’t it possible there could be more IRA men on board?” asked the admiral.

“According to Colonel Scott-Hopkins, an IRA cell usually comprises four or five operatives. So, yes, it’s possible that there are a couple more on board, but they’re likely to be keeping a very low profile now that three of their colleagues have been arrested. Their mission has clearly failed, which isn’t something they’ll want to remind everyone back in Belfast about. And I can confirm that the man who delivered the flowers to the chairman’s cabin is no longer on board—he must have disembarked before we set sail. I suspect that if there are any others, they won’t be joining us for the return voyage.”

“I can think of something just as dangerous as Representative Rankin, and even the IRA,” said Giles. Like the seasoned politician he was, the member for Bristol Docklands had captured the attention of the House.

“Who or what do you have in mind?” asked Emma, looking across at her brother.

“The fourth estate. Don’t forget you invited journalists to join us on this trip in the hope of getting some good copy. Now they’ve got an exclusive.”

“True, but no one outside this room knows exactly what happened last night, and in any case, only three journalists accepted our invitation—the Telegraph, the Mail, and the Express.”

“Three too many,” said Knowles.

“The man from the Express is their travel correspondent,” said Emma. “He’s rarely sober by lunchtime, so I’ve made sure there are always at least two bottles of Johnnie Walker and Gordon’s in his cabin. The Mail sponsored twelve free trips on this voyage, so they’re unlikely to be interested in knocking copy. But Derek Hart of the Telegraph has already been digging around, asking questions.”

“‘Hartless,’ as he’s known in the trade,” said Giles. “I shall have to give him an even bigger story, to keep him occupied.”

“What could be bigger than the possible sinking of the Buckingham by the IRA on its maiden voyage?”

“The possible sinking of Britain by a Labou

r government. We’re about to announce a £1.5 billion loan from the IMF in an effort to halt the slide of sterling. The editor of the Telegraph will happily fill several pages with that piece of news.”

“Even if he does,” said Knowles, “with so much at stake, chairman, I think we ought to prepare ourselves for the worst possible outcome. After all, if our American politician decides to go public, or Mr. Hart of the Telegraph stumbles across the truth, or God forbid, the IRA have a follow-up planned, this could be the Buckingham’s first, and last, voyage.”

There was another long silence, before Dobbs said, “Well, we did promise our passengers this would be a holiday they would never forget.”

No one laughed.

“Mr. Knowles is right,” said Emma. “If any of those three outcomes were to materialize, no amount of free trips or bottles of gin will save us. Our share price would collapse overnight, the company’s reserves would be drained, and bookings would dry up if prospective passengers thought there was the slightest chance of an IRA bomber being in the next cabin. The safety of our passengers is paramount. With that in mind, I suggest you all spend the rest of the day picking up any information you can, while reassuring the passengers that all is well. I’ll be in my cabin, so if you come up with anything, you’ll know where to find me.”