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Greek tanker – Greece is supposed to be an ally, if you remember – and the crew would be Greek. Well, Greek, Cypriot, Lebanese, Hottentot if you like. Can’t expect them all to look like Shetlanders. I didn’t see any of them carrying a pot of gold.’
    â€˜No. But some of them – the uninjured ones, I mean – were carrying suitcases.’
    â€˜And some of them were carrying overcoats and at least three of them were wearing ties. And why not? The Argos spent six hours there wallowing around after being mined: time and enough for anyone to pack his worldly possessions or such few possessions as Greek seamen appear to have. It would be a bit much I think, Archie, to expect a crippled Greek tanker in the Barents Sea to have aboard a crewman with a bag of gold who just happened to be a trained saboteur.’
    â€˜Aye, it’s not a combination that one would expect to find every day. Do we alert the hospital?’
    â€˜Yes. What’s the latest down there?’ The Bo’sun invariably knew the state of everything aboard the San Andreas whether it concerned his department or not.
    â€˜Dr Singh and Dr Sinclair have just finished operating. One man with a broken pelvis, the other with extensive burns. They’re in the recovery room now and should be okay. Nurse Magnusson is with them.’
    â€˜My word, Archie, you do appear to be singularly well-informed.’
    â€˜Nurse Magnusson is a Shetlander,’ the Bo’sun said, as if that explained everything. ‘Seven patients in Ward A, not fit to be moved. Worst is the Chief Officer of the Argos , but not in danger, Janet says.’
    â€˜Janet?’
    â€˜Nurse Magnusson.’ The Bo’sun was a difficult man to put off his stride. ‘Ten in recuperatingWard B. The Argos survivors are in the bunks on the port side.’
    â€˜I’ll go down there now. Go and alert the crew. When you’ve finished, come along to the sick-bay – and bring a couple of your men with you.’
    â€˜Sick-bay?’ The Bo’sun regarded the deckhead. ‘You’d better not let Sister Morrison hear you call it that.’
    Bowen smiled. ‘Ah, the formidable Sister Morrison. All right, hospital. Twenty sick men down there. Not to mention sisters, nurses and ward orderlies who –’
    â€˜And doctors.’
    â€˜And doctors who have never heard a shot fired in their lives. A close eye, Archie.’
    â€˜You are expecting the worst, Captain?’
    â€˜I am not,’ Bowen said heavily, ‘expecting the best.’
    The hospital area of the San Andreas was remarkably airy and roomy, remarkably but not surprisingly, for the San Andreas was primarily a hospital and not a ship and well over half of the lower deck space had been given over to its medical facilities. The breaching of watertight bulkheads – a hospital ship, theoretically, did not require watertight bulkheads – increased both the sense and the actuality of the spaciousness. The area was taken up by two wards, an operating theatre, recovery room, medical store, dispensary, galley – quite separate from and independent of the crew’sgalley – cabins for the medical staff, two messes – one for the staff, the other for recuperating patients – and a small lounge. It was towards the last of these that Captain Bowen now made his way.
    He found three people there, having tea: Dr Singh, Dr Sinclair and Sister Morrison. Dr Singh was an amiable man of ‘Pakistan’ descent, middle-aged and wearing a pince-nez – he was one of the few people who looked perfectly at home with such glasses. He was a qualified and competent surgeon who disliked being called ‘Mister’. Dr Sinclair, sandy-haired and every bit as amiable as his colleague, was twenty-six years old and had quit in his second year as an intern in a big teaching hospital to volunteer for service in the Merchant Navy. Nobody could ever