Vaughan watched with interest for a couple of minutes, then closed the outer steel door, turned the dial up to maximum and went up the stairs quickly.
A mile the other side of Gloucester, he pulled up at a phone box and dialled World Wide Exports in London.
"Hello, sweetie, I'm afraid things didn't go according to plan at all here. Our friends are now on their way to Dorset."
"That's a great pity. What are you going to do about it?"
"I think I'd better handle things personally from now on. I'll see they get the usual transportation, but somehow, I don't think they're going to manage to raise a landfall."
"That sounds promising. I'll pass the message along."
"You do that. I'll follow in another boat to report personally. Should be there for breakfast."
"I'll let him know."
The line went dead and Vaughan moved out, whistling softly, got into the Spitfire and drove rapidly away.
10
Upton Magna was a fishing village which in other times had enjoyed a considerable importance, but now its population had dwindled to little more than two hundred and there were few boats in the small harbour.
Bragg's boatyard was out on the point beside an old stone jetty, a collection of dilapidated clapboard buildings, untidy stacks of ageing timber and a line of boats hauled clear of the water that looked as if they never expected to sail again.
It was just after half past nine when Vaughan entered the village and drove along the main street. There was a small, whitewashed public house about half way along with a car park behind. He left the Spitfire there, well out of sight in the shadows, and went the rest of the way on foot.
There was a light at the window on the right of the front door of the house directly underneath the faded board sign that carried the legend George Bragg-Boat-builder-Yachts for hire. He went up the steps to the rickety porch and peered in through the window.
The room was half office, half living quarters and hopelessly cluttered and untidy. Beyond the wooden reception desk beside the entrance, George Bragg was reading a newspaper at a table which seemed to be covered with a week's accumulation of dirty dishes.
He was well into his sixties, a great bear of a man with a grizzled untidy beard. He got to his feet and, to Vaughan's surprise, reached for a crutch. He picked up an enamel mug and hobbled to the coffee pot on the stove, his right foot dragging awkwardly in a plaster cast.
Vaughan pushed open the door and went inside. Bragg turned quickly in surprise, still holding the mug in one hand and the coffee pot in the other.
"I wasn't expecting you, Mr. Smith."
"What happened to the foot?" Vaughan said.
Bragg shrugged. "Bloody silly, really. Tripped and fell over a pile of scrap on my way through the yard the other night."
"Tanked up to the eyeballs as usual no doubt," Vaughan said. "How bad is it?"
"I've broken a couple of bones."
"Good! As it happens that suits me very nicely. Is the Pride of Man ready for sea?"
"As always, just like you ordered. Are you taking her out?"
He was a man stamped with failure. It showed clearly in the broken veins on his face, the bleary drink-sodden eyes, but he was desperately eager to please this strange, dark young man with the white face who was the one thing which had stood between him and ruin for almost two years.
"Not this time," Vaughan said. "But some people will be arriving within the next hour at the outside. Two men and a girl. They'll give you the usual password and they'll expect to be passed on."
Bragg looked dubious. "I'd like to oblige, but I'm not too sure I could make the trip with this foot of mine."
"As I said before, that suits me fine. The foot gives you an excuse not to go. Make it seem even worse than it is. One of the men is a small boat expert anyway-an ex-petty officer in MTBs. He could probably sail the Pride of Man round the world if he had to."
"You mean you actually want these people to go out on their own?"
"That's right. They'll ask you for a route and destination and you'll give it to them." He smiled. "They won't get there, of course, but there's no reason why they shouldn't travel hopefully for a while."
"What about you?"
"As far as you're concerned I don't exist. I'm going down to the boat now to arrange things. I'll come back along the shore, just in case they turn up early." He produced his wallet, took out five ten pound notes and dropped them on the table. "Fifty now and fifty after they've gone-okay?"
Bragg scooped up the money and stuffed it into his hip pocket. "Fine by me, Mr. Smith. I'll handle it just the way you said."
"See that you do," Vaughan said and the door closed behind him.
Bragg hobbled across to a cupboard by the sink, opened it and took out a bottle of whiskey. There was little more than an inch left in the bottle when he held it up to the light and he cursed softly. He swallowed what there was, tossed the bottle into a corner and sat down at the table to wait for what was to come.
Vaughan went down the stone steps and jumped for the desk of the Pride of Man, wet with rain in the sickly yellow light of the single lamp at the end of the jetty. There was no time to waste and he went straight below, peeling off his raincoat as he descended the companionway.
He opened a locker beneath one of the padded bench seats and took out an aqualung and several other pieces of skin-diving equipment which he laid on the centre table.
He knelt down and reached inside the now empty locker. There was a sudden click and the base of the cupboard lifted right out to disclose a secret compartment. There were several interesting items inside. A Sterling sub-machine gun, two automatic rifles, several grenades and half a dozen limpet mines in a straw filled box, each about the size of a dinner plate.
They were harmless until activated, but it was only the work of a minute or so to prime the fuse on one of them. He checked his watch, saw that it was just coming up to ten o'clock and turned the time switch through four complete revolutions. He stripped to his underpants quickly, pulled on the aqualung and went on deck.
He lowered himself over the side, clutching the mine to his chest with one hand, paused to adjust the flow of air from his aqualung and sank beneath the surface.
The water was bitterly cold, but there was no time to worry about that and he worked his way along to the stern of the boat. At that depth there was enough diffused light from the lamp on the jetty to enable him to see what he was doing and he chose a spot close to the propeller, the limpet mine's powerful electromagnets fastening instantly to the steel hull. He smiled through the visor of his mask and surfaced, well satisfied.
As he crossed the deck to the companionway, a van turned into the yard and halted by the house. As he watched, the lights and engine were switched off and he went down to the saloon quickly.
He replaced the skin-diving equipment in the locker, dressed hurriedly and went back on deck, pulling on his raincoat. As he paused in the shadows, he heard low voices at the end of the jetty as someone approached and went along the lower boardwalk quickly, jumped down to the beach and hurried into the darkness.
It was quiet and still when Chavasse cut the Ford's engine and they sat there in the darkness of the boatyard, rain drumming on the roof of the van.
"Well, this is it. The end of the line with any kind of luck."
"It looks like the last place God made," Youngblood said and then the front door opened suddenly beside the lighted window and Bragg appeared, leaning on his crutch.