The Golden Rendezvous

The Golden Rendezvous
Alistair MacLean

A timeless classic of modern-day piracy from the acclaimed master of action and suspense.Aboard the SS Campari, all is not well.For Johnny Carter, the Chief Officer, the voyage has already begun badly; but it’s only when the Campari sails that evening, after a succession of delays that he realises something is seriously wrong.A member of the crew is suddenly missing and the stern-to-stern search only serves to increase tension. Then violence erupts and suddenly the whole ship is in danger. Is the Campari a victim of modern day piracy? And what of the strange cargo hidden below the decks?

ALISTAIR MACLEAN

The Golden Rendezvous

Copyright (#ulink_9fa56de1-cbd2-505f-8fd7-c3a814a37d69)

Harper An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. 1962

Copyright © Devoran Trustees Ltd 1962

Alistair MacLean asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780006162599

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007289448

Version: 2015-04-17

Dedication (#ulink_49462c9b-1e7a-5fc9-a782-a3cb08283168)

To A. A. Lamont

Table of Contents

Cover (#u7f4c51a3-7d27-5479-a3ce-02b728064a71)

Title Page (#u07434c8e-e912-5a23-af5a-2a962a5bfb47)

Copyright (#u28e94887-8e89-5443-ada0-b58f28231822)

Dedication (#u921620a6-40e8-53b5-873b-1a1709273be4)

I: Tuesday Noon–5 p.m. (#u804ae15d-49fd-54c5-9ef1-b86968c9633b)

II: Tuesday 8 p.m.–9.30 p.m. (#udf71c58f-31a3-5c12-a214-6be96c79f72e)

III: Tuesday 9.30 p.m.–10.15 p.m. (#ud7550ba2-35c4-5601-963e-54bd39b41054)

IV: Tuesday 10.15 p.m.–Wednesday 8.45 a.m. (#u986b3e33-c94e-5994-b3be-0bbef32acb31)

V: Wednesday 8.45 a.m.–3.30 p.m. (#litres_trial_promo)

VI: Wednesday 7.45 p.m.–8.15 p.m. (#litres_trial_promo)

VII: Wednesday 8.30 p.m.–Thursday 10.30 a.m. (#litres_trial_promo)

VIII: Thursday 4 p.m.–10 p.m. (#litres_trial_promo)

IX: Thursday 10 p.m.–Midnight (#litres_trial_promo)

X: Friday 9 a.m.–Saturday 1 a.m. (#litres_trial_promo)

XI: Saturday 1 a.m.–2.15 a.m. (#litres_trial_promo)

XII Saturday 6 a.m.–7 a.m. (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

I. Tuesday Noon–5 p.m. (#ulink_fa0b1e57-daf0-50b2-abfe-d7f287a372b4)

My shirt was no longer a shirt but just a limp and sticky rag soaked with sweat. My feet ached from the fierce heat of the steel deck plates. My forehead, under the peaked white cap, ached from the ever-increasing constriction of the leather band that made scalping only a matter of time. My eyes ached from the steely glitter of reflected sunlight from metal, water and white-washed harbour buildings. And my throat ached, from pure thirst. I was acutely unhappy.

I was unhappy. The crew were unhappy. The passengers were unhappy. Captain Bullen was unhappy and this last made me doubly unhappy because when things went wrong with Captain Bullen he invariably took it out on his chief officer. I was his chief officer.

I was bending over the rail, listening to the creak of wire and wood and watching our after jumbo derrick take the strain as it lifted a particularly large crate from the quayside, when a hand touched my arm. Captain Bullen again, I thought drearily, and then I realised that whatever the captain’s caprices wearing Chanel No. 5 wasn’t one of them. This would be Miss Beresford.

And it was. In addition to the Chanel she was wearing a white silk dress and that quizzical half-amused smile that made most of the other officers turn mental cartwheels and handsprings but served only to irritate me. I have my weaknesses, but tall, cool, sophisticated and worldly young women with a slightly malicious sense of humour is not one of them.

“Good afternoon, Mr. First Officer,” she said sweetly. She had a soft musical voice with hardly a hint of superiority or condescension when talking to the lower orders like myself, “We’ve been wondering where you were. You are not usually an absentee at apéritif time.”

“I know, Miss Beresford. I’m sorry.” What she said was true enough: what she didn’t know was that I turned up for apéritifs with the passengers more or less at the point of a gun. Standing company orders stated that it was as much a part of the ship’s officers’ duties to entertain the passengers as to sail the ship, and as Captain Bullen loathed all passengers with a fierce and total loathing, he saw to it that most of the entertaining fell to me. I nodded at the big crate now hovering over the hatchway of number five hold, then at the piled-up crates on the quayside. “I’m afraid I have work to do. Four or five hours at least. Can’t even manage lunch today, far less an apéritif.”

“Not Miss Beresford. Susan.” It was as if she had heard only my first few words. “How often do I have to ask you?”

Until we reach New York, I said to myself, and even then it will be no use. Aloud I said, smiling: “You mustn’t make things difficult for me. Regulations require that we treat all passengers with courtesy, consideration and respect.”

“You’re hopeless,” she laughed. I was too tiny a pebble to cause even a ripple in her smiling pool of self-complacency. “And no lunch, you poor man. I thought you were looking pretty glum as I came along.” She glanced at the winch-driver then at the seamen manhandling the suspended crate into position on the floor of the hold. “Your men don’t seem too pleased at the prospect either. They are a morose-looking lot.”