Night of Terror
By: Desmond Bagley
Synopsis:
The sea and its secrets always fasinated the Trevelyan brothers. It is
on an expedition to a remote Pacific atoll that Mark dies – a natural
death Mike is told. There was no love lost between the two brothers.
But the circumstances surrounding Mark’s death were suspicious enough
to force Mike to Investigate – even without the series of violent
attacs on him that followed. There were just two clues – a notebook in
code, and a lump of rock – enough to trigger off a hazardous
expedition, and a violent confrontation far from civilisation.
DESMOND BAGLEY was born in 1923 in Kendal, Westmorland, and brought up
in Blackpool. He began his working life, aged 14, in the printing
industry and then did a variety of jobs until going into an aircraft
factory at the start of the Second World War.
When the war ended he decided to travel to southern Africa, going
overland through Europe and the Sahara. He worked enroute, reaching
South Africa in 1951.
He became a freelance journalist in Johannesburg and wrote his first
published novel, The Golden Keel, in 1962. In 1964 he returned to
England and lived in Totnes, Devon, for twelve years. He and his wife
then moved to Guernsey in the Channel Islands. Here he found the ideal
place for combining his writing with his other interests, which
included computers, mathematics, military history, and entertaining
friends from all over the world.
Night of Error was written in 1962. It was withheld from publication
by the author as he wished to make certain revisions. As other ideas
took precedence this task was postponed. Now, twenty years later
incorporating the author’s revisionary notes, Night of Error takes its
rightful place in Desmond Bagley’s list of novels.
CONDITIONS OF SALE This book is sold subject to the condition that it
shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or
otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form
of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on
the subsequent purchaser.
And when with grief you see your brother stray, Or in a night of error
lose his way, Direct his wandering and restore the day To guide his
steps afford your kindest aid, And gently pity whom you can’t persuade:
Leave to avenging Heaven his stubborn will, For, remember, he’s your
brother still.
JONATHAN SWIFT For STAN HURST, at last, with affection
Preface
The Pacific Islands Pilot, vol. II, published by the Hydrographer of
the Navy, has this to say about the island of Fonua Fo’ou, almost at
the end of a long and detailed history: In 1963, HMNZFA Tui reported a
hard grey rock, with a depth of 6 feet over it, on which the sea
breaks, and general depths of 36 feet extending for 2 miles northwards
and 1-1/2 miles westward of the rock, in the position of the bank. The
eastern side is steep-to. In the vicinity of the rock, there was much
discoloured water caused by sulphurous gas bubbles rising to the
surface. On the bank, the bottom was clearly visible, and consisted of
fine black cellar lava, like volcanic cinder, with patches of white
sand and rock. Numerous sperm whales were seen in the vicinity.
But that edition was not published until 1969.
This story began in 1962.
Chapter One
I heard of the way my brother died on a wet and gloomy afternoon in
London. The sky was overcast and weeping and it became dark early that
day, much earlier than usual. I couldn’t see the figures I was
checking, so I turned on the desk light and got up to close the
curtains.
I stood for a moment watching the rain leak from the plane trees on the
Embankment, then looked over the mistshrouded Thames. I shivered
slightly, wishing I could get out of this grey city and back to sea
under tropic skies. I drew the curtain decisively, closing out the
gloom.
The telephone rang.
It was Helen, my brother’s widow, and she sounded hysterical.
“Mike, there’s a man here – Mr Kane – who was with Mark when he died.
I think you’d better see him.” Her voice broke. “I can’t take it,
Mike.” “All right, Helen; shoot him over. I’ll be here until
five-thirty – can he make it before then?” There was a pause and an
indistinct murmur, then Helen said, “Yes, he’ll be at the Institute
before then. Thanks, Mike.
Oh, and there’s a slip from British Airways – something has come from
Tahiti; I think it must be Mark’s things. I posted it to you this
morning – will you look after it for me? I don’t think I could bear
to.” “I’ll do that,” I said. “I’ll look after everything.” She rang
off and I put down the receiver slowly and leaned back in my chair.
Helen seemed distraught about Mark and I wondered what this man Kane
had told her. All I knew was that Mark had died somewhere in the
Islands near Tahiti; the British Consul there had wrapped it all up and
the Foreign Office had got in touch with Helen as next of kin. She
never said so but it must have been a relief – her marriage had caused
her nothing but misery.
She should never have married him in the first place. I had tried to
warn her, but it’s a bit difficult telling one’s prospective
sister-in-law about the iniquities of one’s own brother, and I’d never
got it across. Still, she must have loved him despite everything,
judging by the way she was behaving; but then, Mark had a way with his
women.
One thing was certain – Mark’s death wouldn’t affect me a scrap.
I had long ago taken his measure and had steered clear of him and all
his doings, all the devious and calculating cold-blooded plans which
had only one end in view – the I put him out of my mind, adjusted the
desk lamp and got down to my figures again. People think of scientists
especially oceanographers – as being constantly in the field making
esoteric discoveries. They never think of the office work entailed and
if I didn’t get clear of this routine work I’d never get back to sea.
I thought that if I really buckled down to it another day would see it
through, and then I would have a month’s leave, if I could consider
writing a paper for the journals as constituting leave. But even that
would not take up the whole month.
At a quarter to six I packed it in for the day and Kane had still not
shown up. I was just putting on my overcoat when there was a knock on
the door and when I opened it a man said, “Mr Trevelyan?” Kane was a
tall, haggard man of about forty, dressed in rough seaman’s clothing
and wearing a battered peaked cap.
He seemed subdued and a little in awe of his surroundings. As we shook
hands I could feel the callouses and thought that perhaps he was a
sailing man – steam seamen don’t have much occasion to do that kind of
hand work.
I said, “I’m sorry to have dragged you across London on a day like
this, Mr Kane.” “That’s all right,” he said in a raw Australian
accent.
“I was coming up this way.” glorification of Mark Trevelyan.
I sized him up. “I was just going out. What about a drink?” He
smiled. “That’ud be fine. I like your English beer.” We went to a
nearby pub and I took him into the public bar and ordered a couple of
beers. He sank half a pint and gasped luxuriously.
“This is good beer,”he said. “Not as good as Swan, but good all the
same. You know Swan beer?” “I’ve heard of it,” I said. “I’ve never
had any.
Australian, isn’t it? “Yair; the best beer in the world.” To an
Australian all things Australian are the best. “Would I be correct if
I said you’d done your time in sail?” I said.
He laughed. “Too right you would. How do you know?” “I’ve sailed
myself; I suppose it shows somehow.” “Then I won’t have to explain too
much detail when I tell you about your brother. I suppose you want to
know the whole story? I didn’t tell Mrs Trevely an all of it, you know
some of it’s pretty grim.” “I’d better know everything.” Kane
finished his beer and cocked an eye at me. “Another?” “Not for me
just yet. You go ahead.” He ordered another beer and said, “Well, we
were sailing in the Society Islands – my partner and me – we’ve got a
schooner and we do a bit of trading and pick up copra and maybe a few
pearls. We were in the Tuamotus – the locals call them the Paumotus,