Chapter 11 - Cub Goes Alone

From the top of steep steps in the heart of a Faroese village, Cub Peters, carefully wrapped up against the cold, surveyed the night view. He had come over from Torshavn that morning on the ferry, a stomach heaving experience on restless waves, and was now braving the evening before returning to the tiny room he had been able to rent for the night.

So far it had been a wearisome and frustrating business. He had wandered about Torshavn without any clear idea of what it was he expected to find or if anyone here would contact him. Drawing a blank in the capital, he had tried Klaksvik, enjoying a long bus ride beneath towering peaks, tumbling their waters down to the fjord below, and a brief ferry trip past a hilly island populated only by hardy sheep, still finding something to graze on even this late in the year.

They found more than Cub who, whilst adding to his notes on the scenery to support his cover story, discovered nothing else of interest and returned to Torshavn in a mood of gloomy pessimism. An uncomfortable voyage from there to Suduroy, the Southernmost island – two hours or more on a hostile North Atlantic - had also resulted in disappointment and another unpleasant trip back. At least this morning's journey had been short.

It was a peaceful enough spot, he decided, gazing across the water at the speckle of village lights on the hill opposite and following them round deeper into the fjord. Here a bend merged the lights of both sides as if it was all land there when, in fact, there were several kilometres of water to go. He amused himself for a moment, trying to discern where the divide came but gave it up after a number of attempts and concentrated instead on the harbour below him.

Snow was on the way, he understood, but only a few fishing vessels were at anchor. The others would be toiling on the seas until conditions really did become impossible. Not for nothing was every settlement he had seen built around a harbour. As he watched, a boat rounded the green light that marked the end of the breakwater and tied up on the quay. The quiet places of the earth, the Air Commodore had said. None, surely, could be more peaceful than this.

He would have been convinced that nothing criminal was or could be going on in these innocent islands had it not been for the continuing sense of being watched, that had not left him since that first day. If anything it had intensified. For one who had lived on his wits as a teenager under Nazi occupation until his meeting with Gimlet, such awareness was almost second nature. During those dark days of war his life had depended on it.

Now that instinct was fully awake. When he had gone to Klaksvik, a small red Volkswagen had followed the bus. It was parked by the ferry when he returned and dutifully escorted him back to Torshavn. In Klaksvik a tall, dark-haired bearded man had watched his every move. On the journey to the south, when he was not being sick, he had been engaged in conversation by a fellow passenger, eager to know about his project and where he was proposing to go. In both the towns in Suduroy, he had been aware of watchers. And it was still going on. If he was right, it indicated that the enemy was uneasy.

Also strange was that he had been turned out of his apartment in Torshavn, ostensibly because it was needed for someone else. When he had arrived, however, he had been assured that there was little demand this time of year and he was welcome to leave some of his luggage there while he explored the other islands.

It was cold weather for standing still so he began to descend the steps to the harbour. It had rained earlier and the road still glistened slightly under the streetlights. A stroll along the breakwater by the boats would help his thoughts, he considered, and he made his way to where they were anchored.

He was almost by the green light now, staring down the fjord at other lights, green and red, which would mean much to a sailor but not a lot to him. Hearing voices, he turned to find that two men had come to join the fishing boat that had just arrived. Its skipper had jumped ashore to talk to them but the conversation was in Faroese and he took little notice of it. He concentrated instead on the pattern of lights, twinkling in the dark beside the water, and then began to make his way back. As he came alongside the boat, its skipper called to him.

'Do you have a light?' he said in English.

'Sorry, I don't smoke,' replied Cub. 'You speak English then.'

'A little, yes.'

'How did you know I was British?'

The man smiled.

'This is a small village,' he said.

'Have you finished fishing for the day?' Cub asked, conversationally.

'But no – I have come to collect my crew. We are about to start. Come with us.'

'Not just now,' Cub said, suddenly alert, but before he could say or do anything else, he was given a tremendous push in the back that sent him on to his knees, half-sprawling towards the boat. Before he could recover, he felt his arms clutched by the two men behind him and he was dragged on board and down into a tiny cabin. He struggled but the men were brawny and soon he had his hands tied and a rough handkerchief around his mouth. His gun was removed and then they left him, bound and gagged and with a dead fish inches from his nose.

After their previous experience, Gimlet and Copper stayed especially alert during their drive through the country lanes. Copper reported the evening's events as he drove, prompting Gimlet to put through a phone call to Air Commodore Raymond, just returned from Gibraltar, once they had arrived at Freddie's.

'At least that's put him in the picture,' he said when he returned to where Freddie was pouring coffee. 'Should ensure that Miss Worralson doesn't get caught in the same way Miss Lovell was.'

'You seem to be having an exciting time,' said Freddie, handing him a cup. 'I'll keep my curiosity under wraps but if you need any assistance, let me know.'

'I'll do that,' Gimlet promised. 'You've been a useful staging post as it happens. Best keep your eyes open, though. Certain people may assume that your contact with me means that you are already assisting and that might be dangerous.'

Freddie raised his eyebrows.

'Like that, is it?' he said. 'Touch of the old days, what.'

'You can say that again,' growled Copper.

'And you think Villiers-Silver is involved,' began Freddie and then stopped himself. 'Sorry old boy, I'm probing,' he said, contritely. 'Change the subject. Going hunting over Christmas?'

'Too busy I expect,' said Gimlet. 'You'll be in the thick of it over at Wongerford, I suppose.'

'Yes. There's a meet on Boxing Day. Looking forward to it. Haven't had a ride for months.'

'Take care, then,' warned Gimlet. 'You may be watched.'

'I'll keep an eye out. Had plenty of practice during the war. Should be able to spot anyone up to that sort of game. Want me to do anything about it if it happens?'

'Just let me know,' requested Gimlet. 'It might give us a lead, as well as causing them to waste some time and resources.'

He drained his cup.

'Now we'd better be moving on. Thanks for the coffee, Freddie. I'll look you up in Sussex one day.'

'Come hunting with me. Always welcome.'

'Thanks a lot.'

'And take care, old man. This sounds like a particularly nasty bunch you're after.'

'They are,' said Gimlet. 'They are.'

The drive back to Lorrington was uneventful, except that icy patches were forming on the road and only Copper's skill at the wheel prevented them from going into a skid in places. Gimlet's servants had kept a warm fire going and Gimlet and Copper sat by this, discussing what had happened.

'A pity,' Gimlet assessed. 'Trapper had to act, of course, but it lets Villiers-Silver know that we are aware of this other house of his and are suspicious of him, at least through his chauffeur. He would have had no evidence of this at all before.'

'There is this about it,' said Copper. 'At least we know for sure 'e's involved.'

'Yes, and Trapper's certainly trumped their hand, giving us the lead and now rescuing Miss Lovell. We underestimated them there and it's caused us to play the card earlier than we would have liked. Can't be helped.'

It was three in the morning before Trapper rang to say that he and Frecks had safely arrived.

'Sounds as if Miss Worralson will have quite a reception committee when she lands,' Gimlet said, when he had rung off. 'Air Commodore Raymond, Miss Lovell and Trapper and now an old friend of Miss Worralson, Bill Ashton. Hmm – Ashton, eh. Wonder if he's related to Freddie.'

'Good,' affirmed Copper. 'That should stop them getting their hands on 'er.'

'They wouldn't recognise Trapper, you said.'

'No. Trapper reckoned he made sure they didn't see 'is face.'

'That could be useful. We'll both be known but Trapper can work as an independent agent and still be unsuspected.'

'Cub too, 'opefully.'

'Yes,' mused Gimlet, stifling the beginnings of a yawn. 'I wonder how he's getting on. I'll be glad to have some news of him.'

Cub had lain in his uncomfortable position for about an hour, when he heard footsteps behind him and felt his gag being removed.

'Call out as much as you wish,' the skipper's voice invited. 'No-one will hear you.'

'Who are you? Why have you done this?' queried Cub, though he thought he knew the answer. When it came it was enigmatic.'

'You know very well why. Now, if I untie you, will you promise to behave? You are welcome to swim ashore but we are some kilometres away from land and you would either drown or freeze.'

This was unexpected, though what the man said was undoubtedly true.

'Okay,' Cub agreed. 'Anything to get away from this fish,' he added.

The other man laughed.

'I had forgotten about that,' he confessed. 'That was a wee bit mean of me, I suppose.'

The touch of Scottish was hardly surprising with Scotland only 200 miles away. Cub rubbed his wrists vigorously once he was free to restore the circulation properly and then followed his captor on deck, astonished at this latest treatment. It didn't accord with his earlier expectations.

The sea was not as rough as he had feared, he discovered, and the others were seated on boxes enjoying coffee. A mug was thrust at him and he accepted it gratefully, the hot liquid bringing needed warmth to his chilled body.

Some lights had been rigged, swaying precariously at times, and by these he studied the two men, black-browed and bearded beneath their fishermen's hats, and their skipper, fair and lean like a Viking Chief. Replace the faded cap with a horned helmet and the effect would be complete. Another crewman was on the bridge. Beyond their vulnerable circle of light was a huge expanse of blackness, sea and sky indistinguishable, with only a few specks breaking through on the port side to indicate a Faroese village and another to starboard to show a vessel.

'One of yours,' grunted the Viking, evidently the only one who spoke English.

Cub, trying to take stock, gulped down the rest of his coffee.

'Thanks!' he acknowledged. 'Now, why have you done this? Am I being shanghaied? What's it all about?'

'Why are you here?'

'I'm researching for a book.'

'So,' said the Viking, suspiciously, 'if that is true, why do you need this?'

He produced Cub's little Mauser 38 and flourished it in the air.

'It's a dangerous place,' said Cub sarcastically. 'People grab you by the harbour and drag you on to ships.'

'You have a licence?'

'Yes.'

'For what reason?'

'Killing vermin on my father's farm.'

'For how many years have you carried this?'

'Since the war.'

'The war! You were too young.'

'I was stranded in France for a while. You aged quickly with Nazis all around you.'

This was not the kind of interrogation Cub was expecting and he was further surprised when it stopped, instead of being the prelude to more. The man simply shrugged and put the gun away.

'We'll hand this over,' he said.

'To whom?' asked Cub. 'Where are you taking me?'

'You'll soon find out.' He held out a steaming pot. 'More coffee?'

Still puzzled, Cub nodded.

A fifth crewman now appeared with a radio message for the captain. Soon afterwards the engines stopped and they anchored for a while. The cloud cover relented to admit a few stars but the moon was new, a mere silver curve like the opening of a parenthesis. Lights approached, suggesting that they had arrived at a rendezvous. Perhaps there would be more answers now.

Cub could dimly make out the other vessel as it hove to and, soon after, a small boat chugging towards them. A rope ladder was lowered and a short, stocky figure appeared, a peaked cap crowning his head. The newcomer exchanged a few muttered words with the skipper and gazed seriously at Cub's gun, which he took charge of. The skipper turned to Cub.

'You go with him,' he said.

Cub shrugged his shoulders and moved towards the rail.

'Thanks for the coffee,' he said ironically as he began his descent.

Below, hands reached up to help him into the motorboat. They sat for a moment, rocking in a sudden swell, before the stocky man, having completed his conversation with the skipper, joined them. No-one spoke during the short dark passage between the ships, a blank journey from one tiny cluster of lights to another. The ship he had left was under way again, he noticed, and apparently returning the way it had come. But there was no time for thought. Seconds later he was clambering up the side of the other vessel to be confronted by a small group of stern-looking men at the top and, within minutes, the ship was moving.

Cub was taken below to a small cabin, which boasted two bunks. He settled on the lower one while the stocky man and two taller companions sat on chairs, facing him. He had already noted that this vessel was much larger than the first with more cabins and crew. He had been able to see very little when coming aboard but had formed the impression that this was not a fishing boat.

'You will answer some questions, please,' said the stocky one, politely.

'What about?' said Cub. 'Why? Who are you?'

Far from answering questions, he had just asked three, he reflected, wryly. The response astonished him.

'This is a Fishery Protection patrolboat,' was the reply. The man flashed an ID card at Cub to confirm this. 'My name is Jens Joensen and I am in command of this ship.'

Cub gaped.

'Fishery protection!' he repeated, incredulously. 'What on earth has that got to do with me?'

'Your passport please,' said Jens.

'You're lucky I have it on me,' observed Cub, handing it over. 'When I came out for a walk, I didn't realise your friends were going to take me for a ride.'

'They were anxious about your activities – as I am.'

'What activities? All I've done is travel about.'

'Noting, no doubt, the pattern of our patrols and ways to send signals to your trawler friends at sea.'

So that was it. His face must have been a picture under Jens' steady gaze. It was all a huge mistake. Unless this was simply a ploy to get him to reveal the real purpose of his visit and Jens was being paid by others besides his ostensible employers. But it made sense. With the Scandinavian countries becoming more and more antagonistic towards British fishing boats, intruding on their domain, it must be hard for someone in Jens' position to see anything else but fish as a motive for being here.

'You're completely wrong,' he said, truthfully. 'I don't know how you got hold of that idea.'

Jens was studying his passport. He exclaimed briefly at the name and showed it to the others. One of them made a brief comment, which Cub thought he could understand. He didn't speak the language but had learnt German and French during the war and also picked up a smattering of Danish. It seemed to him the man had said jokingly, 'some relation, perhaps.' At any rate his name had clearly caused some interest.

'So, Mr Peters,' said Jens, handing the document back, 'for which fishing fleet are you working?'

Cub shook his head, helplessly.

'My only interest in fishing is with a rod and line by a quiet stream,' he said. 'Apart from that and the fact that I eat the final product from time to time, I have no other connection. Now, if I've done something illegal, tell me what it is and charge me. If not, then let me go. I already have enough to complain about to my government and yours as it is.'

Jens shrugged.

'Fish are very important here,' he explained. 'I have almost unlimited discretion in what I do to ensure the protection of our stocks.'

'Well I'm not threatening them. I can't for the life of me work out why you think I am.'

'Ha, you did not know that we were warned.'

'Warned!'

'We have had some successes lately. We were told you British would come and spy on us so you could signal your fishing boats and prevent them being caught when they contravene international law.'

'How were you warned?'

'It was reported to the owner of one of our fishing fleets a few weeks ago. So, since then, we have been keeping an eye on anyone from Britain who comes here.'

'I thought I was being watched,' Cub confirmed, suddenly alert and thinking hard. That Jens was genuine he now had no doubts but that was by no means the case with the source of his information.

'How do you know this fishing fleet owner has got it right? Who is he? What was his source? Are all British tourists likely to be subjected to this treatment?'

'You ask too many questions,' said Jens smiling. 'You should be answering.'

'I've nothing to answer,' Cub responded, 'so what happens now?'

'We think you would enjoy Christmas much more back in your own land,' Jens said seriously. 'The weather here is scheduled to be rough and unpleasant.'

'Is that a threat?'

'It may be difficult for you to find lodgings,' Jens said, with apparent inconsequence.

'So that's why I can't stay in Torshavn any more,' Cub cried, indignantly. 'You're telling people I'm in the pay of a trawler company.'

Jens smiled.

'I'm glad you appreciate the position,' he confirmed. 'Now you will be in need of some sleep. We shall have to lock the door, you understand, but you will not be ill-treated and you will probably be put ashore tomorrow.'

With that, they left and Cub heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. The bunk was not uncomfortable and he realised he was tired, unsurprisingly after his active evening. There was much to think about but sleep was his first priority and that came quickly.

Some hours later, Cub awoke and, for a few seconds, wondered where he was until, sitting up, he bumped his head on the bunk above. It was a light that had awakened him, he decided, moving cautiously out of bed and over to the porthole. The ship was using a powerful searchlight and, craning his neck, he could make out the lines of a large fishing boat, caught in its beam.

'Looks as if Jens has a catch,' he murmured and, putting clothes on to protect him from an icing chill, he settled down, intrigued, to see what was going to happen. Jens was booming out a command through his megaphone, presumably to hove to, since the other ship immediately stopped its engines. The order had not been given in Faroese, he was sure, but that was hardly surprising, since only the people fishing legitimately would speak the local language. At least it wasn't an English ship he was boarding.

The motorboat was lowered and Jens and six others went over. The vessel was in full view now and Cub could see her name. He drew in his breath as he realised it was Russian and found himself hoping, for Jens' sake, that it was a genuine trawler or the patrol might be biting off more than it could chew. One of the smallest nations in the world could hardly pick an argument with the Soviet Union, he mused, even with Danish support. That the seven men were armed, he was sure but it could still be a risky undertaking.

There was nothing unduly sinister in finding a Russian trawler in these waters, he told himself, any more than a British one. He wondered wryly if there was a Russian tourist locked up in one of the other cabins. Instinctively unwilling to turn on his light and thus betray his wakefulness, he groped in his pocket for the small diary he carried. Finding a pencil he opened it at an empty page, confirming this by placing it against the porthole, and copied down the name of the trawler, taking care with the Cyrillic characters. Then he slipped diary and pencil back into his pocket and, though now very cold despite his clothes, continued to observe.

He was relieved when he saw the boarding party coming back. The searchlight remained on and Cub noted the trawler skipper leaning over the rail watching them. Not till they were aboard and the light had been switched off did Cub slide back into his bunk and the welcoming warmth.

He was wakeful now, though, and his mind was active. He was certainly learning more here than if he had been left to spend his night quietly in the room he had booked. When the searchlight went on again about twenty minutes later, he had still not dropped off. This time it was a Faroese vessel and Jens just exchanged a quick word of greeting across the waves before turning the light off again. Cub, though, was quick enough to jot down this boat's name, too – to what purpose he didn't know but it would do no harm to have a record. Back in the bunk again, he tossed and turned for a while but he was asleep before any further encounters could be made and, if there were any more, they went on without his knowledge.

It was still dark when Cub woke again but he sensed it was morning and this was confirmed when he heard the door being unlocked and the light was switched on. Nearly nine o'clock, his watch said.

'You will breakfast with the captain,' said the burly seaman who entered. He escorted Cub to the toilet facilities and then to the dining area where Jens was awaiting him.

'I'm sorry it is so late,' he apologised. 'There are sometimes things to do in the night.'

'So I noticed,' Cub admitted. 'Your searchlight woke me up a couple of times.'

'Do not worry, we stopped none of yours. They either fished where they should or kept out of our way.'

'Wouldn't bother me if you had,' Cub confessed freely. 'If they're breaking the law, you have a right to catch them.'

'I hope you mean that,' said Jens, shrewdly.

'Certainly. I'm sure we'd take a dim view of it if your ships came poking round our shores, emptying all our fishing beds. But then,' Cub added, disarmingly, 'I'd be bound to say that anyway.'

Jens laughed.

'If you are not what we suspect, then I must apologise for treating you the way we have. I can take no chances, though, you understand.'

'But why kidnap me? You could have had this interview just as easily on shore.'

'And would have done. Captain Simmonsen acted on impulse, you see. I am happy to apologise for that. It was never our intention that you should come to sea with us. We'd rather keep this little incident private if we can.'

'Are you bribing me to silence with a healthy breakfast?' Cub smiled.

'I'm trying to,' said Jens, returning the smile. 'I've warned Captain Simmonsen that he could be in trouble if his actions are reported so he and his crew will say nothing and your host in the village thinks you were called away suddenly to Torshavn for the night, so we have covered our tracks.'

A steward appeared with two hot breakfasts. An appetising aroma filled the air. Cub sniffed appreciatively. Jens laughed.

'You are welcome to the meal in any case,' he said. 'We owe you that. I'm sorry we had to lock you up but we couldn't have you wandering about the vessel as you pleased.'

'Thank you,' acknowledged Cub and, choosing his words carefully to give no undertaking he wasn't willing to fulfil, ' I promise not to complain about my treatment.'

Despite the roll of the vessel, he began to eat with some relish.

'By the way,' he asked between mouthfuls, 'if it wasn't a British ship you stopped last night, whose was it?'

'He was just outside the limit,' said Jens, not answering Cub's exact question. 'He had probably been fishing inside but was aware of us in time. Unless we catch them inside, we have no evidence. And we have to – how do you say – play the game?'

'Yes,' Cub confirmed and continued to enjoy his meal, whilst remaining alert to the probing of his questioner. Jens asked about his gun and his wartime experiences, causing Cub to answer evasively, aware that a connection with Gimlet was best kept under wraps.

'This gun is a mystery,' Jens mused, apparently to himself. He poured Cub some coffee. 'You would not need it for research but you would also not need it for spying on our activities. Your trawlermen are not so ruthless – it would be outside the rules.'

Cub ate and made no reply.

'And you have a permit,' Jens continued. 'Yet you did not come here to shoot our rats, I think.'

Cub reached for the coffee, wary of where this was leading.

'You are not a bank robber, I suppose,' Jens went on. 'And why would you come here for that in any case? You would never be able to get away. So perhaps you need this weapon for defence, ha? Against whom? This is one of the safest places in the world. People leave their doors unlocked so the postman can put the mail on the kitchen table. Why would you be in any danger here? Unless, of course . . .' He paused dramatically. Cub gulped down some coffee. 'Unless you are working as some kind of agent for someone.'

'Just research,' said Cub, truthfully he thought, since it was only the nature of his interest that he kept hidden.

'But then,' concluded Jens with a laugh, 'if you are an agent, you are not likely to tell me anyway.'

'No,' agreed Cub.

Jens applied himself to his breakfast again.

'But who would you be seeking?' he queried between chews. 'You have made no contacts while you have been here.'

'Except you,' corrected Cub, now concerned at the acute reasoning of the other, which had come very close to the truth.

Jens laughed.

'Ah yes – and what have you learnt from me?'

'That the Faroes has an efficient fishery patrol,' Cub smiled. 'Incidentally, am I the only British person here at the moment? Are you watching others also?'

'They are not behaving in as suspicious a manner. Someone coming, moving around, observing, noting, probing. That's who we were warned to look out for.'

'Yes, I can see how I might fit that bill.'

'Whatever you are, you will be on a plane to Denmark tomorrow. From there you will find a connecting flight back to England. Your tickets have all been arranged.'

Jens gulped down the rest of his coffee and stood up.

'As I said earlier, none of this will be reported. Your voyage and our meeting have officially never taken place.' He paused at the door. 'I'm interested only in the fishing boats, you understand.'

'And foreign ones at that,' added Cub. 'I'd imagine your own ships would be pleased to see you working on their behalf.'

'Not always. Not last night, for instance . . .'

Jens stopped himself, aware that he might have been indiscreet.

'There are still some mysteries out here,' he remarked.

'Such as why a local fishing boat should want to avoid you?'

Jens smiled.

'You have answered very few of my questions,' he said. 'I will not answer any more of yours.'

He gave Cub a piercing glance. The ship lurched suddenly as it hit a wave more boisterous than its fellows. Jens steadied himself with the easy motion of one accustomed to a temperamental ocean.

'We may meet again,' he said seriously, and left, leaving Cub to finish his meal and wonder if he should have risked confiding in him more.

'We may at that,' he murmured, thoughtfully.