sweep of disturbed water across the estuary. Then suddenly there was a
tremendous boil under her counter, and Nicholas saw the bronze flash of
her single screw sweeping slowly through the brown water. Faster and
still faster it turned, and despite himself Nicholas thrilled to see her
come alive. A ripple formed under her bows, and almost imperceptibly
she began to creep forward, overcoming the vast inertia of her weight,
gathering steerage way, under command at last.
The harbour tugs fell back respectfully, and as the mighty bows lined up
with the open sea she drove forward determinedly.
Silver spouts of steam from the sirens of the tugs shot high, and
moments later, the booming bellow of their salute crashed against the
skies.
The crowds had dispersed and Nicholas stood alone in the wind on the
high bridge and watched the structured steel towers of Golden Dawn s
hull blending with the grey and misted horizon. He watched her turn,
coming around on to her great circle course that would carry her six
thousand miles southward to Good Hope, and even at this distance he
sensed her change in mood as she steadied and her single screw began to
push her up to top economic speed.
Nicholas checked his watch and murmured the age-old Master's command
that commenced every voyage.
Full away at 1700 hours, he said, and turned to trudge back along the
bridge to where he had left the hired Renault.
It was after six o'clock and the site was empty by the time Nicholas got
back to Sea Witch. He threw himself into a chair and lit a cheroot
while he thumbed quickly through his address book. He found what he
wanted, dialled the direct London code, and then the number.
Good afternoon. This is the Sunday Times. May I help you? Is Mr.
Herbstein available? Nicholas asked.
Hold on, please. While he waited, Nicholas checked his address book for
his next most likely contact, should the journalist be climbing the
Himalayas or visiting a guerrilla training camp in Central Africa,
either of which were highly likely - but within seconds he heard his
voice.
Denis/he said. This is Nicholas Berg, how are you? I've got a hell of
a story for you. Nicholas tried to bear the indignity of it with
stoicism, but the thick coating of pancake make-up seemed to clog the
pores of his skin and he moved restlessly in the make-up chair.
Please keep still, sir! the make-up girl snapped irritably; there was a
line of unfortunates awaiting her ministrations along the bench at the
back of the narrow room. One of them was Duncan Alexander and he caught
Nicholas eye in the mirror and raised an eyebrow in a mocking salute.
In the chair beside him, the anchorman of The Today and Tomorrow Show
lolled graciously; he was tall and elegant with dyed and permanently
waved hair, a carnation in his button-hole, a high camp manner and an
ostentatiously liberal image.
I've given you the first slot. If it gets interesting, I'll run you
four minutes forty seconds, otherwise I'll cut it off at two.
Denis Herbstein's Sunday article had been done with high
professionalism, especially bearing in mind the very short time he had
