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‘Purpose of visit?’
One of the young men pointed at his divebag. His expression indicated it was a pretty daft question, given that the divebags bore the logo of a famous scuba-equipment company. It is, however, a mistake to mock a customs officer. The official’s face remained impassive but he had in a long career intercepted quantities of exotic smoking or injecting material coming in from the Fa
r East. He gestured to one of the divebags.
There was nothing inside but the usual scuba gear. As he was zipping the bag back up, he ran his fingers into the side pockets. From one he drew a folded card, looked and read it.
‘Where did you get this, sir?’
The diver was genuinely puzzled.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before.’
A few yards away another customs man caught the rising tension, indicated by the exemplary courtesy, and moved closer.
‘Would you remain here, please?’ said the first, and walked through a door behind him. Those ample mirrors in customs halls are not for the vain to touch up their make-up. They have one-way vision and behind them are the duty shift of one of the arms of British internal security – in this case Scotland Yard’s Special Branch.
Within minutes both divers, with their luggage, were in separate interview rooms. The customs men went through the luggage fin by fin, mask by mask and shirt by shirt. There was nothing illegal.
The man in plain clothes studied the now unfolded card.
‘It must have been put there by someone, but not by me,’ protested the diver.
By now it was nine-thirty. Steve Hill was at his desk in Vauxhall Cross when his private and very unlisted phone rang.
‘To whom am I speaking?’ asked a voice. Hill bristled.
‘Perhaps I should ask the same question. I think you may have a wrong number,’ he replied.
The MI5 officer had read the text of the message stuffed into the diver’s kitbag. He tended to believe the man’s explanation. In which case . . .
‘I am speaking from Heathrow, Terminal Three. The internal security office. We have intercepted a passenger from the Far East. Stuffed into his divebag was a short handwritten message. Does Crowbar mean anything to you?’
To Steve Hill it was like a punch in the stomach. This was no wrong number; this was no crossed line. He identified himself by service and rank, asked that both men be detained and said that he was on his way. Within five minutes his car swept out of the underground car park, crossed Vauxhall Bridge and turned down the Cromwell Road to Heathrow.
It was bad luck on the divers to have lost their whole morning, but after an hour’s interrogation Steve Hill was sure they were just innocent dupes. He secured for them a full with-trimmings breakfast from the staff canteen and asked them to rack their brains for a clue as to who had stuffed the folded note into the side pocket.
They went over everyone they had met since packing the bags. Finally one said: ‘Mark, do you remember that Arab-looking fella who helped you unload at the airport?’
‘What Arab-looking fellow?’ asked Hill.
They described the man as best they could. Black hair, black beard. Neatly trimmed. Dark eyes, olive skin. About forty-five, fit-looking. Dark suit. Hill had had the descriptions from the barber and the tailor of Ras-al-Khaimah. It was Crowbar. He thanked them sincerely and asked that they be given a chauffeured ride back to their Essex home.
When he called Gordon Phillips at Edzell and Marek Gumienny over breakfast in Washington, he could reveal the scrawl in his hand. It said simply: ‘IF YOU LOVE YOUR COUNTRY, GET HOME AND RING XXXXXXXXXXX. JUST TELL THEM CROWBAR SAYS IT WILL BE SOME KIND OF SHIP.’
‘Pull out all the stops,’ he told Edzell. ‘Just scour the world for a missing ship.’
As with Captain Herrmann of the Java Star, Liam McKendrick had chosen to bring his vessel round the various headlands himself and hand over after clearing the strait between the islands of Tawitawi and Jolo. Ahead was the great expanse of the Celebes Sea, and the course directly south for the Strait of the Makassar.
He had a crew of six: five Indians from Kerala, all Christians, loyal and efficient, and his first officer, a Gibraltarian. He had handed over the helm and gone below when the speedboats swept up from astern. As with the Java Star, the crew had no chance. Ten dacoits were over the rails in seconds and running for the bridge. Mr Lampong, in charge of the hijack, came at a more leisurely pace.
This time there was no need for ceremony or threats of violence unless instructions were obeyed. The only task the Countess of Richmond had to perform was to disappear, with her crew and for ever. What had lured her to these waters in the first place – her valuable cargo – would be a total write-off, which was a pity but could not be helped.
The crew were simply marched to the taffrail and machine-gunned. Their bodies, jerking in protest at the unfairness of death, went straight over the rail. There was not even any need for weights or ballast to send them to the bottom. Lampong knew his sharks.
Liam McKendrick was the last to go, roaring his rage at the killers, calling Lampong a heathen pig. The Muslim fanatic did not like being called a pig and made sure the Liverpudlian mariner was riddled but still alive when he hit the sea.
The Abu Sayyaf pirates had sunk enough ships to know what to do. As the bilges began to flood below the cargo the raiders left the Countess and bobbed on the water a few cables away until she reared on her stern, bow in the air, and slid backwards to tumble slowly to the bottom of the Celebes Sea. When she was gone the killers turned and raced for home.
