19 - The Power Cube Affair (18 page)

"Hmm!" Barnett scratched his jaw dubiously. "There's a duty destroyer standing by at Harwich will do for the hold up. That's routine. We've had a bit of trouble with illegal entry lately, as you may have heard. But for the other—just a minute!" He strode back to his desk, rummaged among the paper and snatched at one form. "This might be it. Squadron of M.L.s—motor launches—out on exercise at the moment, due in at Parkestone Quay in about an hour and a half."

"Take your word for it. How long will it take us to get to Harwich, starting now?"

"Under four hours, sir," the Marine sergeant spoke up, "With a fast car and a good driver."

"We can lay that on, I think," Barnett offered. "See to it, Chitty."

"Sir!" The sergeant saluted and strode away.

"Four hours!" Kuryakin looked at his watch. "Say six- thirty. Where will
Oberon
be then?"

Back at the map Barnett made brief estimates. "Four hours at nine knots will put her about here, just north of Margate, in the estuary. If you leave Harwich about seven—nineteen hours—you'll have a couple of hours of daylight. But
Oberon
may run in somewhere for the night."

"Yes." Solo scraped his jaw. "This could be tricky. We need to get the drop on her just at dusk. How close can you follow her movements?"

"Put the finger on her any time. Coastguard Shackletons will do that for us."

"And can you radio that information to the destroyer?"

"Nothing to it."

As they went out they heard Barnett dictating, "Signal to
Trojan
, Harwich. Rendezvous at nineteen hours at Cork Buoy with M.L."

"That's more like the Royal Navy as I've heard of it," Solo murmured, as they went down in the elevator. "They can move when the heat's on."

Out in the forecourt, conspicuous among the other vehicles there, stood a large and sleek black Daimler, a pennant drooping from its right front fender and a tiny uniformed Wren sitting at the wheel. Solo stared, went across to it.

"I'm Napoleon Solo," he said. "Are you waiting for us?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know what's required?"

"You want to go to Harwich, sir, in a hurry."

"Fair enough. Come on, Illya. Miss—?"

"Wren Heston, sir."

"Ah. Yes, well, do you have maps I can look at?'

She reached into a door pocket and produced a flat bundle for him. The two men sat back as the car growled into life and wheeled out into the road. Solo unfolded the map thoughtfully.

"Let's not give Beeman credit for impossibilities. Say he could snatch Nan within half an hour of her leaving home. Eight A.M. He still has to get her to the yacht. Barnett said she had come out of Dungeness. Let's find that, first."

"South coast. Work back from Folkestone."

"Ah. Yes, there's an airfield. And there's one at Croydon. So If Uncle Henry has a private charter plane, he could make it with time to spare."

He folded the map again, struggling with it as the powerful car swooped to avoid a lesser road user, swung into a major road, and began to roar in earnest.

"Looks like we have a second Stirling Moss here," he murmured. "I think we're going to be on time, Illya."

They were. As they crested the hill just outside Dovercourt and flew down the far side into Parkestone Quay, with the river Stour stretching out beyond, it was fifteen minutes short of six-thirty. They bounced over the level crossings and sighed to a halt on the quayside.

"Much obliged." Solo stooped to grin at the driver. They moved away, striding along the planking, casting curious eyes over the tied up craft. "That looks like ours." Kuryakin pointed to where a low lying vessel hugged the woodwork. It was one of three. They approached the gangway and a seaman in jersey and sea boots came to intercept them.

"Looking for M.L. one-oh-four. We're expected. Solo and Kuryakin."

"That's her, the outboard one. Ask for Lieutenant Woods."

Woods proved to be a chunky youngster with a straggle of beard and a wry grin, with a uniform jacket over his sweater.

"No rest for the wicked," he said, offering his hand. "I gather you two have something special in mind?"

"You could say that. How quiet are your engines?"

"Motors!" Woods corrected patiently. "Depends what you call quiet. Hold on a bit." He moved away to the cabin superstructure, spoke into a voice pipe, and came back. "Is this something hush-hush, then?"

"In a way. About those—motors?"

"They're running now. Did you hear them start up?" Solo, who hadn't heard or felt a thing, nodded approvingly. "That's fine. You know about the rendezvous with
Trojan
?"

"Yes. Ready when you are."

"Let's go. You'll hear all about it when we talk to her skipper."

The commanding officer of
Trojan
was Lieutenant Commander Hope, a tall, lean man with a sad expression. The two agents gathered with him, his first, and Lieutenant Woods, in the destroyer's tiny wardroom, and Solo put the proposition to them.

"
Oberon
's a privately owned yacht. The man who owns it on paper is called Green. The real owner, his boss, will also be aboard. A very rich and powerful man, who can— and will, given half a chance—cause trouble. Also aboard is a young woman, very much against her will. Just to give you the right kind of picture, if this is fumbled and the big man gets even a hint that Mr. Kuryakin or myself are involved—too early—she is as good as dead. So what we would like is this. First to find
Oberon
. Ideally, just as it's getting dark. Then, this destroyer closes up on one side and makes a fuss. You know, lights and hailings and talk. While the launch, with us two aboard, sneaks around the other side in the gloom, and we get aboard and take a quick look, before anybody can get rid of the evidence."

"Sounds all right," Hope murmured, "except that I'd like it better if we found
Oberon
in daylight, while we can still see enough to be certain. Then we can lay off until dark and close in. Better than conducting a search in the dark. It's blowing up a bit."

"So long as they don't see us first and take fright."

"They won't. Do you have a script?"

"It would be better if you wrote your own lines," Kuryakin suggested. "They will sound more authentic that way. What we would like is a first class impersonation of a bumbling brass hat going by the rule book. At no time must they suspect that this is anything more than a routine stop and check. Not—repeat not—a search. If they get that idea then the lady is over the side with her throat cut instantly."

"Wouldn't want that." Hope caressed his jaw and looked unhappy. "There's been something of a shake-up lately, with small boats bringing in Pakistanis and the like. That gives us a cover story. We'll work out the rest as we go. How about you, Woods?"

"Looks like a gift, our bit. We keep station with you until you find the yacht; then, just on dusk, we come alongside, pick up you two, and then deliver you to the blind side. Just a point. Is anything likely to go off with a loud bang, or shells, anything like that?"

"Hardly. These people are killers, but they do it quietly."

"All right, let's get moving. Stations for leaving harbor, Number One!" First Lieutenant Willis went away. There came the keening of whistles, shouted commands, the tramp of feet, and the destroyer began to move, to bite a white bone of spray at her bows. A seaman came to conduct Solo and Kuryakin to the bridge, where Hope stood well back while others did all the operating.

"Full speed," he told them, "until we sight the beggar, and then we can relax. I'll have a word with Cox'n Armitage about the performance, and there'll be no bother there. But I don't care for your bit, just the two of you. Never know what you might run into."

"That's really the point," Kuryakin explained. "This has no legality at all, so we can't ask anyone else to take the risk with us."

"Let me worry about that. I'm responsible too. I'd like to appoint a man to go with you." The little ship was clear of the river mouth now and nosing into running seas, tossing the spray high over her bows. "No need to hang about here," Hope decided. "We'll go below and eat."

Later, with the inner man properly taken care of, Hope introduced them to a chunky youngster with vast shoulders and a wide grin. "Sub-Lieutenant Walker," he sighed, "is the navy's east coast champion at anything that calls for violence, like chucking weights about. Or people."

"You care for being shot at?" Solo demanded, and the grin stayed.

"Has to be a first time for everything. Count me in."

There came a messenger from the bridge to say they had a blip on radar that looked like the target they were after, and ten minutes later Hope was able to be positive with the aid of binoculars. "That's her all right. Now, signalman, flash the M.L. 'Do not—repeat not—acknowledge by flash. Come alongside, starboard, immediately.' That's it, gentlemen. Nothing to do now but wait for dusk. And rehearse a few things."

FOURTEEN

"LET'S GET One thing straight," Solo said firmly. He and Kuryakin were huddled in the tiny wheelhouse of the launch alongside Woods, with Sub-Lieutenant Walker on the far side. "You come after us, to pick up any bits we may leave. Don't stick your neck out. If anybody is to get shot at, it is us, right?" On their port side the gray green bulk of
Trojan
heaved and wallowed in the sea as both vessels crept slowly closer to the target. Woods murmured gently into his voice pipe, regulating the speed by small amounts so that the launch held level with the destroyer but on the blind side. The only light was a feeble glow over the rev counters. All at once a loudspeaker gave voice into the gloom.

"Yacht ahoy. Ahoy there. What ship?"

"That's us," Woods murmured, and said into the pipe:

"Half-astern starboard, half-ahead port." The launch shivered and swung away from the cover of the destroyer's side, driving into the waves and thumping down on them as she picked up speed. The two agents held on tight, knowing that they were now describing a large circle that would bring them around the stem of that yacht over there and up on her port side. Meanwhile
Trojan
was busy with the performance. Light clusters blazed, all aimed at
Oberon
, and the upper deck was a mass of moving forms. The amplified voice kept hailing, but the breeze whipped away the words. Woods had the motors into full speed now and the launch was lifting like a race horse.

"Rolls-Royce engines?" Kuryakin wondered, and Woods grinned.

"We still call them motors, though. Nice, aren't they?"

He hauled on the wheel steadily, then cut the speed in half. The gentle shudder died away in inaudibility. "Won't be long now," he said. "Better get ready to jump. I'm slowing down."

They could see
Oberon
now, rapidly looming closer. The launch wallowed, drifted with the sea until it was running parallel and no more than three feet away from the yacht's side. Three men stood, knees bent, eyes on the heaving deck edge. The launch sank, rose level—they sprang in unison, grabbed hold and fell forward flat. The launch heeled away into the dark. Out there, broken by the breeze, came the stentorian voice:

"—will send a boarding party. You will drop a gangway, please."

The three rolled urgently together. Walker pointed in the gloom.

"That looks like a cabin superstructure, there."

They rose to their knees, scurried forward with the lurch of the deck, and went down prone again, to listen. Over head a familiar voice sounded on the yacht's bullhorn.

"Good evening. May I ask the meaning of this intrusion? What do you expect to find?"

"That's him!" Solo hissed. "Confirmation, if we needed it." Walker put out a hand to tap his shoulder.

"This one's empty. Try further aft. Ventilators."

They crept, using all the available cover. They heard Hope now and the yarn he had prepared.

"—reason to believe—stolen vessels—used to import illegal immigrants. Intend to inspect your certificates of ownership, logbooks, registration. Formality only, but we have our duty—"

"This looks more like it." Kuryakin snuggled his ear close, plugged the other ear with a finger. Solo did likewise. They heard a voice.

"—said you'd never get away with it, didn't I? And that was Nan Perrell's voice, furious and uncowed.

"My dear lady"––it was Green, definitely––"this interruption is probably fortuitous. For your sake, it had better be. One false move by you and you die instantly"

Walker growled, and Solo tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Easy now," he whispered. "That's just a sample." They went back a bit, to a pair of double doors. Walker shoved them open and hung over, head down, to peer, came up again.

"Companionway. All clear. Down?"

"Down!" Solo muttered, and led the way swiftly. There was no sign of anyone about. He put his head to a doorway. Nothing. On a bit more and another door, and he heard a murmur. Stooping, he could see through a key hole. He saw directly along the polished length of a table. Glasses and bottles, and a wooden framework to support them against the lurching of the sea, and Green, lounging back against cushions, his head turned to address someone out of sight.

"Take a look," Solo invited. "That's the chap we want. Assume he has a gun and will use it. We want to get in there, fast!"

"Let me," Walker suggested, backing off the width of the corridor. "When ready—I'll go straight through the door."

"Right!" Solo nodded. "You keep down. In and down, flat. We will take care of him. On three. One—two—thee!"

Walker launched himself like a thunderbolt, the door bursting and yielding like so much cardboard. Solo went into a flying dive over his bent back, slapped the polished table with both hands and slid swiftly, heedless of the glassware, his hands outstretched and grasping, to get Green by the throat. He grabbed and squeezed furiously, remembering the foulness this gray little man had been responsible for. He was dimly aware of someone else struggling at his side and the table heeling and canting, and then the fury abated a trifle and he slackened some of his grip.