The Cauldron (63 page)

He doubted whether they could see him, tucked away as he was under the lee of the outer harbour. Behind him rose a row of whitewashed houses with grey tiled roofs. There were no lights on in any of the houses at that time of night.

Occasionally he would slip inside the control cabin, where he had earlier closed the curtains. He sat by a small gap he'd left between them, smoking a king-size while he watched. Then he returned to the outside world and his fishing rod.

How would I try to sneak aboard that ship if I were Moloch? he mused. The best bet, he decided, was to take out a large craft filled with a party of hired revellers. In this way Moloch could conceal himself among the crowd.

Holding the fishing rod, he settled down to wait. So many men would eventually have found such a vigil getting on their nerves. Not so Marler, accustomed to his own company. Patiently, he waited.

Someone else, not two miles away from where Marler waited, was having more trouble controlling his impatience. Seated in the Ford Escort, he kept the engine running to maintain some degree of warmth inside the car. Moloch had an urgent desire to get out, to walk up and down the ramp, but he forced himself to resist.

What infuriated him was the time the men aboard the launch were taking to get the engine to start. If Brand had been aboard, he reflected, he'd have got it started at once - because Brand would have checked the engine beforehand, would even have had a second launch in reserve.

'I'm the richest man in the world.' he said to himself, 'and here I am, parked in an old car in the cold, unable to do anything but sit and stare.'

He wished he had brought Heather Lang's hamper with him, but in his haste to leave Mullion Towers he had forgotten about its existence. He felt hungry when he recalled seeing Drayton cutting ham sandwiches in the kitchen while the doctor examined Heather. He was also beginning to feel very thirsty - and not a damned thing inside the car to drink.

He comforted himself by clasping the briefcase nestling in his lap. Inside was the equivalent of many times the value of the Crown jewels. And still he had to wait for the launch to start moving. Already it was the longest night he could remember.

I'll sack the man in charge of that launch, he thought viciously. Put him ashore without any money at some place like Naples.

Earlier he'd had the radio on, turned low, but had then decided it might give away his presence. Reluctantly he had turned it off. The only sound then was the gentle splash of the sea swishing at the bottom of the ramp. It did nothing to curb his growing impatience.

'No sign yet of Moloch going aboard,' said Newman, standing on the front. 'Unless he's already aboard. It could have happened while we were driving from Nansidwell.'

'I don't think so.' said Tweed. 'If mat was the case the vessel would have started moving by now.'

Paula was walking up and down the front, stamping her frozen feet to get the circulation moving again. Her gloved hands were inside the pockets of her fur coat. There was no one else about. Since arriving they had seen no traffic pass along the road behind them.

Newman started banging his gloved hands together, his field glasses looped round his neck. It was surprising how cold it was at that hour. He put it down to the fact that they were standing on the edge of the motionless sea.

And, he said to himself, the real trouble is we were in California just long enough to get used to the heat.

Only Tweed seemed unaffected by the waiting, by the cold. He stood in his raincoat quite still, like a Buddha contemplating eternity. It reminded him of the old days when he was in hostile territory in a foreign land, waiting in the night for a certain figure to emerge from a building.

'Sooner or later it will happen,' he said as Paula returned. 'And when it does I expect all hell to break loose.'

'It would make a change.' Paula commented.

'Wait until you experience it.' Tweed warned. 'It could be a little too dramatic for your liking...'

50

Moloch could hardly believe it. The launch was proceeding to the ramp, its engine chugging over happily. He flashed his lights again, turned off the motor, left the car. Standing at the top of the ramp he glanced round. No one else was in sight. He pulled his cap down further over his high forehead, marched down to the water's edge, his briefcase in his right hand, the cuff attached to his wrist.

The launch edged its way in, paused close to the ramp so that Moloch could step aboard. Brushing aside a helping hand, Moloch sat down on a seat near the stern. He looked up from under the peaked cap. There were only two other men aboard.

'Morton, are you in charge of this fiasco?'

'Yes, sir. I wouldn't call it a fiasco. Had a bit of trouble getting the engine to fire.'

So, later, it would be Morton who was put ashore at Naples without a penny in his pocket. He'd find he was marooned in a tough city.

'Why only two to crew this launch?' Moloch demanded.

'Orders were we had to make sure we were not conspicuous, sir.'

'Can the other crewman handle this launch?'

They were already moving towards the exit from the harbour and the open sea. The launch was not moving with any speed, but this at least Moloch approved of. A craft rushing back to the
Venetia
might have attracted attention.

'No, he can't,' Morton replied as he handled the wheel, guiding it past the huge repair dock. "This is Gunner. He's called that because he handles one of those special weapons we have aboard under canvas.'

'I see.'

Moloch did see. It meant that if anything had happened to Morton his mate, Gunner, would have been useless handling the launch. Brilliant organization! Once again he found himself missing Joel Brand. Now, huddled in his seat, he was gazing round to see if anyone was observing their departure. The harbour had a sinister stillness. Even a large freighter at anchor was showing no sign of movement. The scene reminded Moloch of a frozen tableau. Only port and starboard lights indicated this was a real harbour.

'Is the skipper ready to sail?' he asked.

'Has been for several hours. Once you're aboard we can sail the seven seas. I don't even know our destination.'

"Then the skipper has kept his mouth shut. Any sign of the ship being watched?'

'None at all, sir. At this time of night most folk are in their beds. Frankly, begging your pardon, I wish I was.'

Moloch kept a retort which sprang to his mind to himself. He needed this cretin to get him safely aboard. By now the launch had reached the exit and the
Venetia
came into view. It seemed to Moloch further out than he had expected. Which was probably a good thing - it meant the ship could sail into the open sea more swiftly.

He watched the huge vessel coming closer and closer. As the launch drew near, a staircase was slung over the starboard side to receive its master. In the moonlight it looked to be the most beautiful vessel in the world. As the launch bumped alongside the landing stage Morton warned his passenger to wait until the launch was securely moored.

As if I'd take a chance now, Moloch said to himself.

He reached up to adjust his cap which was tight round his head. The skipper, a Greek, was waiting to help Moloch on to the platform at the foot of the steps.

'Welcome aboard, sir. We are ready to sail when you give the order. The Harbour Master has been informed of our destination.'

'Good.'

Moloch stepped on to the platform, aided by the skipper. He had reached the top of the staircase when he decided he could stand wearing the tight cap no longer.

Reaching up with his left hand, he took hold of it, tossed it into the water. Then he hurried to his stateroom. The moment he entered the luxurious apartment he tore off the shabby raincoat, threw it into a valuable Ali Baba pot which served as a trash bin.

Now, for the first time in hours, he felt safe. But until the vessel sailed he kept the briefcase chained to his wrist. On an antique table, laid with a fine lace cloth, was an array of the finest drinks. The engines were humming, causing a faint vibration, as the skipper entered the room.

'A double Scotch, sir? With ice?'

'Just straight. No ice, no water.'

He was glad to get away from the iniquitous American habit of serving drinks with icebergs. They had, of course, no idea that it killed the taste of the drink.

"Thank you.' he said to the skipper. 'Pity you couldn't join me.'

'Never on duty, sir. There is the menu. A waitress, very good-looking, will come to take your order when you press the bell. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must hurry to the bridge.'

Aboard his powerboat, Marler had watched with interest then with growing disappointment as the launch came into view, headed for the
Venetia
. Through his monocular glass he had studied the three men inside the craft. At the stern was huddled an obvious working man, wearing a scruffy raincoat and an old peaked cap. Presumably a member of the crew being taken aboard.

Later, still watching through the monocular, he frowned as he saw the staircase lowered over the side of the big yacht. A stocky man in a blue blazer and a nautical cap was descending the staircase to receive the new arrival. To Marler he had all the appearance of being the skipper.

Why all the ceremony? he said to himself.

But for this incident, he might have lowered his glass. Instead, he continued to focus it on the launch's arrival at the platform. He followed the ascent of the crew member up the staircase, then stood very still. Through the glass he saw the cap being thrown over the side, exposing the face of the man who had worn it, the high forehead, the pale face.

He had a flashback to Grenville's party in California, to the time when he had stayed in the background, watching Moloch sitting at a corner table. He gave a low whistle.

"That was clever, chum. You damned near got away with it.'

'Vincent Bernard Moloch has just boarded the
Venetia
,' Tweed reported to his companions as he held the field glasses glued to his eyes. 'He arrived dressed as a workman, but then got overconfident at the last minute. He threw his cap overboard and I had a clear view of him.'

'He's going to get away,' Paula protested. 'I can hear the very faint hum of the engines starting up.'

'We'll just have to go after him in Beirut.' Newman responded.

'Not a healthy place these days, the Lebanon,' Tweed warned.

'Then, as Paula said, he's slipped through our clutches. Bet he never returns to Britain.'

'No, he won't,' Tweed agreed. 'He'll make the Thames Valley the new Silicon Valley of the world - which will give him even more power.'

'It's so frustrating,' Paula snapped. 'After all the risks we took in California.'

'And over here.' Newman reminded her.

'So evil triumphs.' Paula groaned. 'I feel so helpless -just standing here and watching him sail away.'

'Unless, of course.' Tweed remarked, the glasses still pressed against his eyes, 'my secret weapon works c'

Inside the control cabin of the powerboat Marler had started up the engine. He was careful not to make any dramatic dash towards the
Venetia
, which would have attracted attention immediately.

Instead he manoeuvred the powerboat out into the open sea slowly, chugging along at a sedate pace. At that moment he had a bit of luck. Another powerboat, driven by a young man who had two girls on board, came racing round Rosemullion Point, tearing towards the harbour, close to the
Venetia
.

The girls aboard were waving bottles, clad only in skimpy swimsuits despite the cold. As they were passing the yacht they threw the empty champagne bottles against the hull. One of them waved her fingers in a suggestive gesture at members of the crew peering over the rails.

'Stoned out of their skulls.' Marler said to himself.

But he took advantage of the diversion to edge his powerboat closer to the yacht. He was still careful to keep his distance. His approach had so far gone unnoticed -the crew were too interested in the girls aboard the racing powerboat, now zigzagging across the water, leaving behind a snake of ruffled surf.

Marler cut his engine out. Leaning down, he extracted from the golf bag the Armalite rifle it had concealed. Attaching the sniperscope, he then inserted an explosive bullet into the weapon, laid it along a banquette, and waited.