Night Over Water - Ken Follett [208]
With his heart in his mouth, Harry went down the ladder into the bow compartment.
The men were trying to catch a rope that the skipper was throwing to them, and all their attention was directed outward, so they did not see him at first.
He sidled across the compartment.
When he was halfway across, the young one caught the rope. The other man, the little one, half turned—and saw Harry. He put his hand in his pocket and got his gun out just as Harry reached him.
Harry felt sure he was about to die.
Desperately, without thinking, he stooped, grabbed the little man’s ankle and heaved.
A shot rang out, but Harry felt nothing.
The man staggered, almost fell, dropped his gun and seized hold of his buddy for support.
The younger man lost his balance and let go of the rope. For an instant they swayed, clutching at one another. Harry still had hold of the little man’s ankle, and he jerked it again.
Both men fell off the platform and plunged into the heaving sea.
Harry let out a whoop of triumph.
They sank below the waves, came up again and began to struggle. Harry could tell that neither of them could swim.
“That’s for Clive Membury, you bastards!” Harry shouted.
He did not wait to see what became of them. He had to know what had happened on the passenger deck. He dashed back across the bow compartment, scrambled up the ladder, emerged into the flight cabin, then tiptoed down the staircase.
On the bottom step he stopped and listened.
Margaret could hear her own heartbeat.
It sounded in her ears like a kettledrum, rhythmic and insistent, and so loud that she fancied other people must be able to hear it too.
She was more frightened than she had ever been in her life. And she was ashamed of her fear.
She had been frightened by the emergency splashdown, the sudden appearance of guns, the bewildering way people such as Frankie Gordino, Mr. Luther and the engineer kept changing their roles, and the casual brutality of these stupid thugs in their awful suits; and most of all she was frightened because quiet Mr. Membury was lying on the floor dead.
She was too frightened to move, and that made her ashamed.
For years she had been talking about how she wanted to fight Fascism, and now the opportunity had arrived. Right here in front of her, a Fascist was kidnapping Carl Hartmann to take him back to Germany. But she could do nothing about it because she was paralyzed by fear.
Perhaps there was nothing she could do, anyway; perhaps she would only get herself killed. But she ought to try, and she had always said she was willing to risk her life for the cause and for the memory of Ian.
Her father had been right to pour scorn on her pretensions of bravery, she realized. Her heroism was all in her imagination. Her dream of being a motorcycle courier on the battlefield was mere fantasy: at the first sound of gunfire she would hide under a hedge. When there was real danger, she was completely useless. She sat frozen still as her heart pounded in her ears.
She had not spoken a word while the Clipper splashed down, the gunmen came aboard, and Nancy and Mr. Lovesey arrived in the seaplane. She had remained silent when the one called Kid saw the launch drifting away, and the one called Vincini sent Kid and Joe to help tie it up again.
But when she saw Kid and Joe drowning, she screamed.
She had been staring fixedly out the window, looking at but not seeing the waves, when the two men drifted into view. Kid was trying to keep afloat, but Joe was on Kid’s back, pushing his friend under as he tried to save himself. It was a horrible sight.
When she screamed, Mr. Luther rushed to the window and looked out. “They’re in the water!” he yelled hysterically.
Vincini said: “Who—Kid and Joe?”
“Yes!”
The skipper of the launch threw a rope, but the drowning men did not see it: Joe was thrashing around in a blind panic and Kid was being held underwater by Joe.
“Do something!” Luther said. He was on the verge of panic himself.
“What?” said Vincini. “There ain’t nothing we can do. Crazy bastards don