He hurried, stumbling through the grass, anxious now that he was so close, and slowing only when he got to the ditch and the hedge towering above it. He had to move with the utmost care now, not to make any noise. He didn’t risk jumping, slithering instead down one side and then clawing up the other. He was glad the ditch bottom was clean and summer-dried.
Wincing against the sudden snap of a twig beneath his feet, he parted the foliage. Fear stabbed into him when he realized the driveway was empty of lorries. Then he saw the solitary car, and the pendulum swung: if they were moving her, they would be more likely to use the car than the lorries. The lorries had to be for the guns.
He was at the side of the house, the drive and the road beyond to his left, the house almost immediately in front, the rear and the outbuildings to his right. He moved sideways, following the hedge, conscious as he moved that the garden curved to provide even greater concealment from the house. The bank rose again and had it not been so dark Deaken guessed the view of the surrounding countryside would have been impressive. The hedge was sparse here and he had no difficulty pushing through. Deaken bent against the slope of the hill, not wanting to drop noisily downwards into any unseen dip; lights in an upstairs room guided him through the gloom of the garden. His toe stubbed against the edge of the patio at the rear of the house and he slowed further, edging his feet forward, tensed against any noisy collision. At the house he pressed his ear against a darkened downstairs window, listening for sounds. Everything seemed quiet, deserted.
A double door was alongside. Deaken pressed against it to lessen any sound, then cautiously turned the handle. There was the faintest sound, the creak of wooden frames parting from wooden surrounds, and then the door gave.
The Russian looked regretfully around the luxury room at the Bristol Hotel and then for the last time out over the harbour, towards the glittering outline of the Scheherazade. He left abruptly, carrying his own luggage down into the foyer. He paid his bill and went through the ritual of assuring the receptionist that he had enjoyed his stay and would come again, wishing it were true. On the front he paused, savouring the warm, scented, nighttime air, and then got into the rented car for the journey along the Corniche. He had purposely left three hours before his flight, wanting to enjoy the drive. He was looking forward to going home.
37
It was the old part of the commercial docks, scheduled for redevelopment and therefore being run down, some wharves and their container sheds already abandoned, cranes like decaying skeletons where they had been half disassembled for their scrap-metal value. Marinetti drove, only using sidelights, even though many of the road lights were out and hadn’t been replaced, foot depressed lightly on the throttle so there was only the faintest hum from the engine.
“Could fight a war with cover like this,” said Marinetti.
“We aren’t going to fight anything or anyone until we get the boy back,” reminded Grearson.
“Twenty,” identified Marinetti
Grearson strained, just able to pick out the berth number painted on the slanted roof of the wharf shed. It had to be one of the last operational moorings in this part of the docks, he decided. Only three of the five arc lights set into the shed roof were working and in front of them three cranes stood sleeping.
“No stevedores,” said Marinetti.
“It’s supposed to be engine trouble, with engineers not needed until tomorrow,” reminded Grearson, remembering the instructions that had been relayed by Evans from the Hydra Star.
Marinetti reversed the vehicle into a shed a full berth away from that designated for the returning freighter, manoeuvring it into the shadow of a high wall. He killed the lights and then wound down the window.
“Put yours down too,” he ordered the lawyer.
“What for?” said Grearson.
“Noises,” said the soldier. “You can always hear before you can see.”
Grearson did what he was told. Far beyond the waiting berth there was the glow of the active section of the docks and he could just detect the distant whine of machinery and the water slapping gently against the sea wall. Unseen in the darkness there was a scuffling movement and Grearson shifted uncomfortably, knowing it was foraging rats.
Marinetti saw the lorries first. “There!” he said softly, pointing.
Leiberwitz was in the lead lorry, with Kahane and Greening beside him in the cab. Katz, Sela and Habel were in the second vehicle immediately behind.
“It’s not here yet,” said Kahane unnecessarily.
“It’s not scheduled for another two hours,” said Leiberwitz. He had got in the parting shot but the anger still burned through him over the confrontation with Levy.
“Nice and quiet,” said Greening. “It’ll be easy to unload.”
Kahane peered at his watch. “Wonder how long it’ll be before Shimeon gets here?”
“Depends how difficult it is for him to get out of bed,” said Leiberwitz.
“Haven’t we had enough of that?” said Kahane wearily.
“He doesn’t seem to.” said Leiberwitz.
All three reacted nervously to the noise, then relaxed when they realized it was Katz and Sela, who had drawn up behind in their lorry and were now standing on the dock.
Leiberwitz wound down the window.
“What happens if Levy doesn’t show up?”
“We go ahead,” said Leiberwitz.
“That isn’t what was agreed,” said Katz.
“Have you got a better idea?”
There was no challenge from either Katz or Kahane.
Katz moved away from the lorry, going farther towards the water’s edge. From their vantage point Marinetti said, “I count five but 1 think one stayed in that second lorry.”
“Tewfik?” said Grearson.
“No,” said Marinetti. “The arrangement set out on the tape was a clever one. 1 don’t think it was a bluff. It would be too much of a risk for them to take, bringing him with them.”
“I wonder if there’s been any contact with the ship,” said the lawyer.
“More people,” hissed Marinetti, ignoring the question.
“Where?” said Grearson, squinting into the darkness.
“In the shadows, by the shed. See that broken crane,” said Marinetti. “They’re very good-they know how to use cover.”
Swart was in the lead car with four men, the rest of the group in the one that followed. They had had to move too quickly for any consultation with Muller, and Swart was uneasy at having to make the decision on the spot. And Deaken’s disappearance was an additional complication. The order had been to stop the lawyer doing anything that might embarrass his father. He was glad that at least he had covered the house where the woman was being held. He gazed across the intervening water towards the lorries and the men beside them.
“This is where we intercept,” said Swart.
“What about the French authorities?” asked one of the men in the back.
“They’ve let out two shipments,” said Swart. “I’m not risking a third.”
Where the Israelis expected the ship to dock, Katz, who was nearest the water, realized that what he had imagined to be stationary navigation lights were moving. He hurried back to the first lorry and said, “Something’s coming.”
“Where’s Shimeon?” said the loyal Kahane nervously.
“Where do you think!” said Leiberwitz. He never gave up.
“He said to wait,” insisted Kahane.
Aboard the freighter, Harvey Evans stepped from the bridge ladder onto the foredeck. The assembled men turned at his approach and Sneider said, “Looks quiet enough ashore.”
“There’s plenty of time yet,” said Evans.
“Wonder where Marinetti is?” said Melvin, peering towards the deserted dockside. “Unless he’s got the boy, there won’t be any action.”