Night Over Water

Young Percy Oxenford stood there.

Eddie was relieved. He had half imagined that some of Gordino’s gang would be waiting there with machine guns.

Captain Baker stared at Percy and said: “Where did you come from?”

“There’s a ladder next to the ladies’ powder room,” Percy said. “It leads up into the tail of the plane.” That was where Eddie had inspected the rudder trim control cables. “You can crawl along from there. It comes out by the baggage holds.”

Eddie was still holding Ollis Field’s gun. He put it in the navigator’s chart drawer.

Captain Baker said to Percy: “Go back to your seat, please, young man, and don’t leave the passenger cabin at any time during the remainder of the flight.” Percy turned to go back the way he had come. “Not that way,” Baker snapped. “Down the stairs.”

Looking a little scared, Percy hurried through the cabin and scuttled off down the stairs.

“How long had he been there, Eddie?” asked the captain.

“I don’t know. I guess he probably heard the whole thing.”

“There goes our hope of keeping this from the passengers.” For a moment Baker looked weary, and Eddie had a flash of insight into the weight of responsibility the captain carried. Then Baker became brisk again. “You may return to your seat, Mr. Field. Thank you for your cooperation.” Ollis Field turned around and left without speaking. “Let’s get back to work, men,” the captain finished.

The crew returned to their stations. Eddie checked his dials automatically, although his mind was in turmoil. He observed that the fuel tanks in the wings, which fed the engines, were getting low, and he proceeded to transfer fuel from the main tanks, which were located in the hydrostabilizers, or sea-wings. But his thoughts were on Frankie Gordino. Gordino had shot a man and raped a woman and burned down a nightclub, but he had been caught, and would be punished for his horrible crimes—except that Eddie Deakin was going to save him. Thanks to Eddie, that girl would see her rapist get away scot-free.

Worse still, Gordino would almost certainly kill again. He was probably no good for anything else. So a day would come when Eddie would read in the papers of some ghastly crime—it might be a revenge murder, the victim tortured and mutilated before being finished off, or perhaps a building torched with women and children burned to death inside, or a girl held down and raped by three different men—and the police would link it with Ray Patriarca’s gang, and Eddie would think: Was that Gordino? Am I responsible for that? Did those people suffer and die because I helped Gordino escape?

How many murders would he have on his conscience if he went ahead with this?

But he had no choice. Carol-Ann was in the hands of Ray Patriarca. Every time he thought of it he felt cold sweat dampen his temples. He had to protect her, and the only way he could do that was to cooperate with Tom Luther.

He looked at his watch: it was midnight.

Jack Ashford gave him the plane’s current position, as best he could estimate it: he had not yet been able to shoot a star. Ben Thompson produced the latest weather forecasts: the storm was a bad one. Eddie read off a new set of figures from the fuel tanks and began to update his calculations. Perhaps this would resolve his dilemma: if they did not have enough fuel to reach Newfoundland, they would have to turn back, and that would be the end of it. But the thought was no consolation to him. He was no fatalist: he had to do something.

Captain Baker sang out: “How goes it, Eddie?”

“Not quite done,” he replied.

“Look sharp—we must be close to the point of no return.”

Eddie felt a bead of sweat drip down his cheek. He wiped it away with a quick, surreptitious movement.

He finished the arithmetic.

The remaining fuel was not enough.

For a moment he said nothing.

He bent over his scratch pad and his tables, pretending he had not yet finished. The situation was worse than it had been at the start of his shift. Now there was not enough fuel to finish the journey, on the route the captain had chosen, even on four engines: the safety margin had disappeared. The only way they could make it was to shorten the journey by flying through the storm instead of skirting it; and even then, if they should lose an engine, they would be finished.

All these passengers would die, and he would too; and then what would happen to Carol-Ann?

“Come on, Eddie,” said the captain. “What’s it to be? On to Botwood or back to Foynes?”

Eddie gritted his teeth. He could not bear the thought of leaving Carol-Ann with the kidnappers for another day. He would rather risk everything.

“Are you prepared to change course and fly through the storm?” he asked.

“Do we have to?”

“Either that, or turn back.” Eddie held his breath.

“Damn,” said the captain. They all hated turning back halfway across the Atlantic: it was such a letdown.

Eddie waited for the captain’s decision.

“Heck with it,” said Captain Baker. “We’ll fly through the storm.”

PART IV MID-ATLANTIC TO BOTWOOD

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Diana Lovesey was furious with her husband, Mervyn, for board ing the Clipper at Foynes. She was, first of all, painfully embar rassed by his pursuit of her, and afraid people would think the whole situation highly comical. More important, she did not want the opportunity to change her mind that he was giving her. She had made her decision, but Mervyn had refused to accept it as final, and somehow that cast doubt on her determination. Now she would have to make the decision again and again, as he would keep asking her to reconsider. Finally, he had completely spoiled her pleasure in the flight. It was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime, a romantic journey with her lover. But the exhilarating sense of freedom she had felt as they took off from Southampton had gone for good. She got no pleasure from the flight, the luxurious plane, the elegant company or the gourmet food. She was afraid to touch Mark, to kiss his cheek or stroke his arm or hold his hand, in case Mervyn should happen to pass through the compartment at that moment and see what she was doing. She was not sure where Mervyn was sitting, but she expected to see him at every moment.

Mark was completely flattened by this development. After Diana turned Mervyn down at Foynes, Mark had been elated, affectionate and optimistic, talking about California and making jokes and kissing her at every opportunity, quite his usual self. Then he had watched in horror as his rival had stepped on board the plane. Now he was like a punctured balloon. He sat silently beside her, leafing disconsolately through magazines without reading a word. She could understand his feeling depressed. Once already she had changed her mind about running away with him: with Mervyn on board, how could he be sure she would not change it again?

To make matters worse, the weather had become stormy, and the plane bumped like a car crossing a field. Every now and again a passenger would pass through the compartment on the way to the bathroom, looking green. People said it was forecast to get worse. Diana was glad now that she had been feeling too upset to eat much at dinner.

She wished she knew where Mervyn was sitting. Perhaps if she knew where he was she would stop expecting him to materialize at any moment. She decided to go to the ladies’ room and look for him on the way.