"If you took Sellingham's job it would give you a good cover to nose around," he added thoughtfully. "Do you want to go?"
"I'm interested in three things," said Blake. "Sellingham's assignment, providing it's in everyone's interest; an academic mystery surrounding yesterday's murder of a man in a bathysphere; and this so called revolution which is brewing up."
"I'll tell you what I know fromm H.M.G.," Craille decided. "The man running this revolution - the rebel leader, Callas - is no communist. He's to overthrow the present government for one good reason and one alone: it needs overthrowing. On the other hand there's mo shortage of communists in that part of the world, and some of them have already jumped on Callas's bandwagon."
"Communist agents?" demanded Blake.
"No," Craille shook his head. "Not yet. But what we've been reliably informed by a country with which Great Britain enjoys a treaty relationship, that communist agents are in the area. When they'll show their hand is anyone's guess, but-"
"What's your guess?" Blake wanted to know.
Craille looked bleak. "Soon. The government of Doctor Nonales is going to be toppled, and everyone knows it. The day can't be far off and when it comes it will be the signal for the communists to move in - or try to. So far the only thing preventing them is Nonales himself. Nonales has a powerful secret police force."
Craille lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of his old one. "I don't care what becomes of Nonales," he said drily. "And I don't care if Callas takes over. But I do care what the communists will try to do - and I also care about a little piece of paper which is in Nonale's hands…"
"A paper?"
Craille nodded. "A list compiled by his secret police. A list of communist agents in the Caribbean. Before Nonales is brought low I want a copy of that list. It musn't be lost when the government falls - because the next government that takes over will need it. And so will I."
"You'd like me to get it?"
"No less. Would you accept the assignment?"
"Blake make his customary pause for last minute thoughts, but he hardly needed to think about it. "I accept the assignment."
"Good!" Craille pulled open a drawer. "I want you to take a good look at this." He produced a cardboard file and opened it in front of Blake on the desk. "This man is one of the biggest Soviet fish we've come across for a long time, and he's known to be somewhere in the Caribbean. He's the only big operator the Russians have got there, outside Cuba, and he may be the man at the centre of things."
Blake opened the file at its front page and studied a photograph of a man whose face reminded him of an eagle.
It was a broad and solid face, topped by thinning hair. What gave it the eagle quality was a hooked, beak-like nose and a pair of strangely compelling eyes. The eyes were hypnotic and malevolently calm.
Underneath the photograph it said:
KRASKI, JAKOB
Real name believed to be Borodin. see pp 12-31 of File "B" and for espionage, see pp 43-65.
ORG.: Reportedly formerly employed by both GOSUDARSTVENNOYE POLITICHESKOYE UPRAVLENIYE - (G.P.U., State Political Department); and: - MINISTERSTVO GOSUDARSTVENNOI BEZOPASNOSTI - (M.G.B., Soviet Ministry of State Security).
SPECIAL OBSERVATIONS: This man is not only a very important Master Spy in the Soviet Network: His abnormal degree of personal power and the freedom of action which the Soviet authorities have constantly allowed him, indicate that he is one of their most trusted employees. He is believed to hold a very high rank in the Party hierachy. (Compare photograph above with man in group shot, p. 43, taken at time of 40th Party Conference in Moscow).
There followed a detailed physical and psychological description of the man which Blake memorised as he read it; then an analysis of Kraski's special skills.
The remaining seventy pages were a case history. As Blake skimmed through them he whistled softly.
"An impressive record, isn't it? Craille demanded in his cracked voice. "And we've reason to believe the Soviets are grooming him for bigger and better things!"
"How d'you know he's in the Caribbean?" Blake asked.
"The last report we had was from an agent in Brazil. Kraski was seen there several times and the last news we had of him he was using the cover of a marine engineer, making enquiries about jobs; it seemed he was trying to work his passage to Jamaica under the name of Harben."
"Harben?" Blake echoed.
"Harben," repeated Craille, "Jules Harben."
"If Jakob Kraski turns up in Maliba," said Craille grimly. "I want him dealt with. Dealt with-" he rasped "-by any means!"
"And if he doesn't?"
"If he doesn't, then your job is purely Intelligence. I want you to get me a complete run-down on communist infiltration, using Sellingham's assignment as your cover - and then, using any mean's you like, I want that list of Soviet agents!"
Craille paused. "I don't know whether you'll succeed in all three items, but if you succeed in only one, the trip will be worthwhile. The usual conditions apply to your assignment. Bring back the goods and the Western World will have cause to be grateful to you."
Blake smiled. "What happens if I don't come back?"
"The Western World will give you a decent orbituary."
5. SOUTHERN DEPARTURE
Eighteen hours later, armed with two letters by Sir Gordon Sellingham, a wallet full of American dollars and Maliban currency and a detailed mental record of his instructions from Craille, Sexton Blake fastened his safety belt as the Comet IV airliner prepared to land at Maliba.
The flight through the long night had been uneventful, but Blake had had a great deal to think about.
Before leaving London he had barely had time to brief Paula Dane on his movements, write a couple of notes for Edward Carter and book his passage on the plane. Everything had depended upon his reaching Maliba as soon as possible, while the scanty information available was still fresh.
Now, as the island of sugar-cane, palm trees and coral white beaches loomed up on a sea of blue in the path of the aircraft, he was conscious that he had a lot to do - and that a lot depended on it.
Brilliant sunshine shone down on the tropical world beneath, and the sea was a dazzling sapphire blue.
It looked deceptively calm. Blake wondered what the next few hours would bring.
The Airliner was soon landing.
Its wheels bumped once, gently, at the end of the airport's main runway, then it settled - taxi-ing…
The passengers disembarked into a sultry atmosphere of Caribbean summer. Heat embraced them, soaking immediately into every pore as they stepped from the air-conditioned coolness of the jet-liner.
The airport buildings were modern, white and dazzling, giving an extra glare to the morning heat as they were cleared through customs beneath the watchful eyes of armed guards.
Outside the rear of the buildings Blake saw another reminder that all was not well in the Republic of Maliba - soldiers in olive drab uniforms manned machine guns at the perimeter of the parking area where sandbag emplacements and barbed-wire had been hastily thrown up. The airport was a forbidden zone to Maliba citizens… and a strategic keypoint to anyone planning insurrection.
Ironically, the uniforms worn by the troops were American; as were the jeeps and machine-guns. A smooth, gleaming American-built airline bus stood waiting to whisk the latest arrivals from the airport to the island's capital.
Soon they were aboard, and a warm breeze was fanning the detective's face as he sat behind the driver getting his first view of the island's scenery.