Mightier Than the Sword Read online

  When she looked around at her colleagues, none of them was smiling. Most of them had faced crises in their lives, but nothing on this scale. Even Admiral Summers’s lips were pursed. Emma opened the blue leather folder in front of her, a gift from Harry when she’d first been appointed chairman. It was he, she reflected, who had alerted her to the crisis, and then dealt with it.

  “There is no need to tell you that everything we discuss today must remain strictly confidential, because it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to suggest that the future of the Barrington shipping line, not to mention the safety of everyone on board, is at stake,” she said.

  Emma glanced down at an agenda that had been prepared by Philip Webster, the company secretary, the day before they set sail from Avonmouth. It was already out of date. There was just one item on the revised agenda, and it would certainly be the only subject discussed that day.

  “I’ll begin,” said Emma, “by reporting, off the record, everything that took place in the early hours of this morning, and then we must decide what course of action to take. I was woken by my husband just after three…” Twenty minutes later, Emma double-checked her notes. She felt she had covered everything in the past, but accepted she had no way of predicting the future.

  “Have we got away with it?” the admiral asked, once Emma had called for questions.

  “Most of the passengers have accepted the captain’s explanation without question.” She turned a page of her file. “However, we’ve had complaints from thirty-four passengers so far. All but one of them have accepted a free voyage on the Buckingham at some time in the future, as compensation.”

  “And you can be certain there will be a whole lot more,” said Bob Bingham, his usual North-Country bluntness cutting through the outwardly calm demeanor of the older board members.

  “What makes you say that?” asked Emma.

  “Once the other passengers discover that all they have to do is write a letter of complaint to get a free trip, most of them will go straight to their cabins and put pen to paper.”

  “Perhaps not everyone thinks like you,” suggested the admiral.

  “That’s why I’m on the board,” said Bingham, not giving an inch.

  “You told us, chairman, that all but one passenger was satisfied with the offer of a free trip,” said Jim Knowles.

  “Yes,” said Emma. “Unfortunately an American passenger is threatening to sue the company. He says he was out on deck during the early hours of the morning and there was no sight or sound of the Home Fleet, but he still ended up with a broken ankle.”

  Suddenly, all the board members were speaking at once. Emma waited for them to settle. “I have an appointment with Mr.—” she checked her file—“Hayden Rankin, at twelve.”

  “How many other Americans are on board?” asked Bingham.

  “Around a hundred. Why do you ask, Bob?”

  “Let’s hope that not too many of them are ambulance-chasing lawyers, otherwise we’ll be facing court actions for the rest of our lives.” Nervous laughter broke out around the table. “Just assure me, Emma, that Mr. Rankin isn’t a lawyer.”

  “Worse,” she said. “He’s a politician. A state representative from Louisiana.”

  “One worm who’s happily found himself in a barrel of fresh apples,” said Dobbs, a board member who rarely offered an opinion.

  “I’m not following you, old chap,” said Clive Anscott, from the other side of the table.

  “A local politician who probably thinks he’s spotted an opportunity to make a name for himself on the national stage.”

  “That’s all we need,” said Knowles.

  The board remained silent for some time, until Bob Bingham said matter-of-factly, “We’re going to have to kill him off. The only question is who will pull the trigger.”

  “It will have to be me,” said Giles, “as I’m the only other worm in the barrel.” Dobbs looked suitably embarrassed. “I’ll try and bump into him before he has his meeting with you, chairman, and see if I can sort something out. Let’s hope he’s a Democrat.”

  “Thank you, Giles,” said Emma, who still hadn’t got used to her brother addressing her as chairman.

  “How much damage did the ship suffer in the explosion?” asked Peter Maynard, who hadn’t spoken until then.

  All eyes turned to the other end of the table, where Captain Turnbull was seated.

  “Not as much as I originally feared,” said the captain as he rose from his place. “One of the four main propellers has been damaged by the blast, and I won’t be able to replace it until we return to Avonmouth. And there was some damage to the hull, but it’s fairly superficial.”

  “Will it slow us down?” asked Michael Carrick.

  “Not enough for anyone to notice we’re covering twenty-two knots rather than twenty-four. The other three propellers remain in good working order and as I had always planned to arrive in New York in the early hours of the fourth, only the most observant passenger would realize we’re a few hours behind schedule.”

  “I bet Representative Rankin will notice,” said Knowles unhelpfully. “And how have you explained the damage to the crew?”

  “I haven’t. They’re not paid to ask questions.”

  “But what about the return journey to Avonmouth?” asked Dobbs. “Can we hope to make it back on time?”

  “Our engineers will be working flat out on the damaged stern during the thirty-six hours we’re docked in New York, so by the time we sail, we should be shipshape and Bristol fashion.”

  “Good show,” said the admiral.

  “But that could be the least of our problems,” said Anscott. “Don’t forget we have an IRA cell on board, and heaven knows what else they have planned for the rest of the voyage.”

  “Three of them have already been arrested,” said the captain. “They’ve been quite literally clapped in irons and will be handed over to the authorities the moment we arrive in New York.”

  “But isn’t it possible there could be more IRA men on board?” asked the admiral.

  “According to Colonel Scott-Hopkins, an IRA cell usually comprises four or five operatives. So, yes, it’s possible that there are a couple more on board, but they’re likely to be keeping a very low profile now that three of their colleagues have been arrested. Their mission has clearly failed, which isn’t something they’ll want to remind everyone back in Belfast about. And I can confirm that the man who delivered the flowers to the chairman’s cabin is no longer on board—he must have disembarked before we set sail. I suspect that if there are any others, they won’t be joining us for the return voyage.”

  “I can think of something just as dangerous as Representative Rankin, and even the IRA,” said Giles. Like the seasoned politician he was, the member for Bristol Docklands had captured the attention of the House.

  “Who or what do you have in mind?” asked Emma, looking across at her brother.

  “The fourth estate. Don’t forget you invited journalists to join us on this trip in the hope of getting some good copy. Now they’ve got an exclusive.”

  “True, but no one outside this room knows exactly what happened last night, and in any case, only three journalists accepted our invitation—the Telegraph, the Mail, and the Express.”

  “Three too many,” said Knowles.

  “The man from the Express is their travel correspondent,” said Emma. “He’s rarely sober by lunchtime, so I’ve made sure there are always at least two bottles of Johnnie Walker and Gordon’s in his cabin. The Mail sponsored twelve free trips on this voyage, so they’re unlikely to be interested in knocking copy. But Derek Hart of the Telegraph has already been digging around, asking questions.”

  “‘Hartless,’ as he’s known in the trade,” said Giles. “I shall have to give him an even bigger story, to keep him occupied.”

  “What could be bigger than the possible sinking of the Buckingham by the IRA on its maiden voyage?”

  “The possible sinking of Britain by a Labou