Nicolson felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. With a queer sort of detachment he saw that his hand was no longer resting loosely against the ship's side but was bar-taut, each separate tendon standing out rigidly from the back of his hand. In spite of all the water he had drunk, his mouth felt suddenly as dry as a kiln. But he managed to keep his voice steady enough.
'What kind of bad joke is this?'
'I agree.' The other bowed slightly, and for the first time Nicolson could see the unmistakable slant, the tight-stretched skin at the corner of the eyes. 'For you it is not funny at all. Look.' He gestured with his free hand, and Nicolson looked. The Stars and Stripes was already gone and, even as he watched, the Rising Sun of Japan fluttered up and took its place.
'A regrettable stratagem, is it not?' the man continued. He seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly. 'As is also the boat and, alas, the passably Anglo-Saxon appearance of my men and myself. Though specially chosen on account of this last, I can assure you we are not especially proud of it. All that, however, is by the way.' His English was perfect, with a pronounced American accent, and he obviously took pleasure in airing it. 'There has been much sunshine and storm in the past week. It is most considerate of you to have survived it all. We have been waiting a long time for you. You are very welcome.'
He stopped suddenly, teeth bared, and lined up his pistol on the brigadier, who had spiling to his feet with a speed astonishing in a man of his years, an empty whisky bottle swinging in his hands. The Japanese officer's finger tightened involuntarily on the trigger, then slowly relaxed when he saw that the bottle had been intended not for him but for Van Effen, who had half-turned as he had sensed the approaching blow, but raised his arm too late. The heavy bottle caught him just above the ear and he collapsed over his thwart as if he had been shot. The Japanese officer stared at Farnholme.
'One more such move and you will die, old man. Are you mad?'
'No, but this man was, and we would all have died. He was reaching for a gun.' Farnholme stared down angrily at the fallen man. 'I have come too far to die like this, with three machine-guns lined on me.'
'You are a wise old man,' the officer purred. 'Indeed, there is nothing you can do.'
There was nothing they could do, Nicolson realised helplessly, nothing whatsoever. He was conscious of an overwhelming bitterness, a bitterness that he could taste in his mouth. That they should have come so far, that they should have overcome so much, overcome it impossibly and at the expense of five lives, and then that it should all come to this. He heard the murmur of Peter's voice behind him and when he turned round the little boy was standing up in the sternsheets, looking at the Japanese officer through the lattice screen of his crossed fingers, not particularly afraid, just shy and wondering, and again Nicolson felt the bitterness and the angry despair flood over him almost like a physical tide. Defeat one could accept, but Peter's presence made defeat intolerable.
The two nurses were sitting one on either side of him, Lena's dark, sooty eyes wide with terror, Gudrun's blue ones with a sadness and despair that all too accurately reflected his own feelings. He could see no fear in her face, but high on the temple, where the scar ran into the hairline, he could see a pulse beating very quickly. Slowly, involuntarily, Nicolson's gaze travelled all round the boat, and everywhere the expressions were the same, the fear, the despair, the stunned and heart-sickening defeat. Not quite everywhere. Siran's face was expressionless as ever. McKinnon's eyes were flickering from side to side as he looked swiftly over the lifeboat, up at the M.T.B. and then down into the lifeboat again ? gauging, Nicolson guessed, their suicidal chances of resistance. And the brigadier seemed almost unnaturally unconcerned: his arm round Miss Plenderleith's thin shoulders, he was whispering something in her ear.
'A touching and pathetic scene, is it not?' The Japanese officer shook his head in mock sorrow. 'Alas, gentlemen, alas for the frailty of human hopes. I look upon you and I am almost overcome myself. Almost, I said, but not quite. Further, it is about to rain, and rain heavily.' He looked at the heavy bank of cloud bearing down from the north-east, at the thick curtain of rain, now less than half a mile away, sweeping across the darkening sea. 'I have a rooted objection to being soaked by rain, especially when it is quite unnecessary. I suggest, therefore???'
'Any more suggestions are superfluous. Do you expect me to remain in this damned boat all night?' Nicolson swung round as the deep, irate voice boomed out behind him. He swung round to see Farnholme standing upright, one hand grasping the handle of the heavy Gladstone bag.
'What ? what are you doing?' Nicolson demanded.
Farnholme looked at him, but said nothing. Instead he smiled, the curve of the upper lip below the white moustache a masterpiece of slow contempt, looked up at the officer standing above them and jerked a thumb in Nicolson's direction.
'If this fool attempts to do anything silly or restrain me in any way, shoot him down.'
Nicolson stared at him in sheer incredulity, then glanced up at the Japanese officer. No incredulity there, no surprise even, just a grin of satisfaction. He started to speak rapidly in some language quite unintelligible to Nicolson, and Farnholme answered him, readily and fluently, in the same tongue. And then, before Nicolson had quite realised what was happening, Farnholme had thrust a hand into his bag, brought out a gun and was making for the side of the boat, bag in one hand, gun in the other.
'This gentleman said we were welcome.' Farnholme smiled down at Nicolson. 'I fear that he referred only to myself. A welcome and, as you can see, honoured guest.' He turned to the Japanese. 'You have done splendidly. Your reward shall be great.' Then he broke once more into the foreign language ? Japanese, it must be, Nicolson was sure ? and the conversation lasted for almost two minutes. Once more he looked down at Nicolson. The first heavy drops of the next rain-squall were beginning to patter on the decks of the M.T.B.
'My friend here suggests that you come aboard as prisoners. However, I have convinced him that you are too dangerous and that you should be shot out of hand. We are going below to consider in comfort the exact methods of your disposal.' He turned to the Japanese. 'Tie their boat aft. They are desperate men ? it is most inadvisable to have them alongside. Come, my friend, let us go below. But one moment ? I forget my manners. The departing guest must thank his hosts.' He bowed ironically. 'Captain Findhorn, Mr. Nicolson, my compliments. Thank you for the lift. Thank you for your courtesy and skill in rendezvousing so accurately with my very good friends.'
'You damned traitor!' Nicolson spoke with slow savagery.
'There speaks the youthful voice of unthinking nationalism.' Farnholme shook his head sadly. 'It's a harsh and cruel world, my boy. One has to earn a living somehow.' He waved a negligent, mocking hand. 'Au revoir. It's been very pleasant.'
A moment later he was lost to sight and the rain swept down in blinding sheets.
CHAPTER TWELVE
For what seemed a long time no one in the lifeboat spoke or moved, except to ride with the slight rolling of the boat: oblivious of the cold driving rain they just stared blankly, stupidly, at the spot where Farnholme had been standing before he had disappeared.
It probably wasn't a long time, it just seemed that way, it was probably only a matter of seconds before Nicolson heard Miss Plenderleith call him by name and say something. But in the swish of the heavy rain in the sea and frenetic drumming on the torpedo boat's deck, her voice was only a meaningless murmur. He turned and stooped, the better to hear, and even in that moment of shock her appearance caught and held his attention. She was sitting on the port side bench, her back as straight as a wand, her hands clasped primly in her lap, her face quiet and composed. She might have been sitting in her drawing-room at home, but for one thing: her eyes were flooded with tears and, even as he watched, two large drops trickled slowly down the lined cheeks and fell on to her hands.
'What's the matter, Miss Plenderleith?' Nicolson asked gently. 'What is it?'
'Take the boat farther back,' she said. Her eyes stared sightlessly ahead, and she gave no signs of seeing him. 'He told you. Farther back, at once.'
'I don't understand.' Nicolson shook his head. 'Why do you want us???'
He broke off abruptly as something hard and cold struck painfully at the back of his neck. He whirled round and stared up at the Japanese who had just prodded him with the barrel of his machine-gun, at the smooth, yellow face shining in the rain.
