“It ain’t right, leaving them behind like that. Not after what they’ve sacrificed.”

Bell was unmoved. He said, “Ask Jake Hobart what he thinks.”

* * *

—

Bell spent the last evening at sea with Ragnar Fyrie in his cabin playing chess on a metal board with wooden pieces embedded with magnets in their bases so that no matter how rough the sea, they remained in position. He’d gone over his plan with the whaling captain and had even written out what he wanted sent by telegraph to the Van Dorn office in London. Fyrie had no problem with keeping the miners aboard with a deception and said he’d have one of his men slip away to deliver the telegraph dispatch.

“There is one thing I would ask in return,” Fyrie said without taking his eyes off the board on his desk.

Bell, always reluctant to agree to terms before hearing them, asked, “What would that be?”

“I’ve seen you writing in a journal. I assume it’s for an official report you will turn over to your employer.”

“Mostly, it’s my personal observations, but some of it will make it into Joseph Van Dorn’s hands if for no other reason than reimbursement of money I’ve spent on this mission. It is not an inconsiderable sum.”

“I believe you would call that an understatement.”

“And then some.”

“I would ask, Isaac, that you do not mention me, my crew, or this ship in your report. I’ve seen Brewster scribbling in a diary too, and I ask that you review it and make certain he doesn’t describe his time aboard the Hvalur Batur either.”

“I believe I know the reason why, but would you mind telling me?”

“We sank a French ship. It doesn’t matter that they fired first. We put them on the bottom with significant loss of life. There will be repercussions. I don’t know what the spy managed to convey that night on the radio, but I doubt it was detailed enough to name the ship or crew. There is no need to identify this ship in anything official if the spy failed to identify it himself. Our anonymity remains intact.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I can see reasons to mention us but plenty of reasons not to. I’m sure there’s a Lloyd’s office in Aberdeen or even Edinburgh. I’ll have Ivar fetch their agent to the ship so we can make plans to have her scrapped. It’s a clean slate after that.”

Bell nodded. “Perfectly reasonable, especially considering the cost you and your crew have paid on this journey. I’ll edit my report to my Army liaison and Old Man Van Dorn. Whatever story I fashion, I will make sure that Joshua Brewster’s diary jibes with it. Fair enough?”

Fyrie was visibly relieved. “An outfit like the Société des Mines has a long memory. And an even longer reach. I wish to avoid both, thank you.”

“Least I can do.” Bell made his move on the chessboard. “Check. Mate in three.”

Fyrie saw his king was trapped with no means of escape. He ceremoniously tipped it over. “I am glad this is our last night at sea,” he said with a wry smile as he deposited the pieces in a chamois pouch. “I grow tired of losing to you.”

“Chess is a lot like what I must do to earn my living—think two and three steps ahead of my adversary.”

29

Aberdeen was one of the busiest commercial fishing ports in Great Britain, and no matter how often they increased the size of the anchorage at Victoria Dock or Albert Basin, there never seemed to be enough room for all the ships and boats. A smoky pall hung over the city because the normal sea breeze that blew pollution away from its center had stalled. The smell from the town’s paper mills was as ripe as sewage, and the normally bright gray granite of the city’s main buildings looked funereal under streaks of soot and ash.

Bell was accustomed to London reeking and being dim from coal smoke and factory pollution, but a coastal town like this usually enjoyed a more agreeable atmosphere. He supposed that after he’d been sailing the pristine Arctic, any sign of man’s intrusion in the natural world was bound to be a shock. That thought made him grin—at himself. He’d been aboard so long, he no longer noticed the whale oil stench that permeated every inch of the ship and every fiber of his wardrobe.

The Hvalur Batur was forced to lay at anchor beyond the breakwater and out of the way of the flow of traffic coming down the River Dee. Following a visit from a harbormaster to confer with Captain Fyrie, the chief engineer had managed to leave with Bell when he did without the miners becoming aware. He had several telegrams to send on behalf of Isaac Bell and orders to get word to the Lloyd’s representative that a claim was going to be put in for the whaler.

It wasn’t until after nightfall that a different harbormaster approached in a motor launch to tell them that berthing had been arranged. Fyrie was allowed to take his ship in without need of a professional pilot. He’d left it to Bell to tell the miners that the ship was under a quarantine temporarily due to a consumption scare.

“I don’t care if the docks are teeming with diseased leprechauns,” Walter Schmidt griped. “I’ve had enough of this.”

&n

bsp; Schmidt was descended from German immigrants, so his speech was accented with his native tongue. He was a general laborer, and while not particularly big, he had unimaginable stamina. Everyone agreed he’d worked harder than anyone at the mine. Also, at night he would sit in the mess and entertain the men with a handheld concertina. He sang such haunting songs that it didn’t matter if the words were in German, the sense of love and loss rang clear.

“I know how you must feel,” Bell said placatingly. “I want off too, and I wasn’t stuck in Russia for four months. But it’s out of my hands. The Scottish authorities aren’t going to release any foreign crews or passengers without a quarantine and a follow-up health check. This is nonnegotiable, you might as well relax. Captain Fyrie is arranging to have some fresh food brought down, so at least we have that. Okay?”

Tags: Clive Cussler Isaac Bell Thriller
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