‘Not bombers?’
‘What would happen if they breached the Haringvliet darn?’ ‘Of course. Well, no point in trying any longer. Perhaps we should both have a brief rest before lunch.’
Vasco gave van Effen and George a brief resume of what had happened.
Van Effen said: ‘So you’ve convinced Samuelson of his total invulnerability and ensured that we will have two fewer hard men to cope with abroad the dam. Whom did you notify?’
‘Rotterdam police.’
‘I think, George, that we may make a policeman of him yet. Well, another hour or so before lunch.’
‘Snooze for me,’ Vasco said. ‘Four jonge jenevers in succession are too much for my delicate constitution.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Dutch hospitality. You know what it’s like.’
Lunch was more than adequate but less than convivial. Samuelson tried to maintain a cheerful facade but he was deeply worried about the fate of his nuclear devices and his worry was palpable with the result that the last half hour of the meal was consumed in almost total silence.
Over coffee, Samuelson said to van Effen: ‘Do you think it possible that Ylvisaker and his men could have been seized by the authorities, army or police?’ I unlikely. I don’t see how they could have been. Your is total. Even if they had been, the question is, would Ylvisaker his men have talked?’
‘About the Haringvliet dam? No. Until we got here today only Riordan, Agnelli, Daniken and O’Brien were privy to the plans.’ Samuelson smiled faintly. ‘Your famous need-to-know maxim, Mr Danilov.’ ‘One does not want to sound cynical or callous, but what the hell are you worrying about, then?’
‘As you can see,’ the TV announcer said, ‘the weather is as atrocious as ever with correspondingly poor visibility, such as one would expect as dusk approaches. The rain is extremely heavy and the wind, between Force eight and nine, has backed to the north-west. We have four cameras in position — one near Hoorn and one near Volendam, on the west side of the Markerwaard and one on the opposite shore near Helystad. This one, I’m afraid, is virtually useless: in spite of its lens hood the rain is driving straight into the lens. We have a fourth camera in a helicopter and we understand they are having a very rough time indeed. The time is 1.58. Our first shots will be taken from the helicopter.’ A white-capped, storm-tossed sea appeared on the screen. Detail was blurred and shifting, because the helicopter was being, it was clear, severely buffeted about, hence making it impossible to maintain a steady camera direction. Another voice took over from the studio announcer.
‘Helicopter camera here. I can assure you that my friend in the studio was not exaggerating. The conditions are abominable and I have to confess that the only person who is not sick is, most fortunately, the pilot. We are flying at seven hundred metres, give or take fifty metres every time this damn machine is going up or down, which we hope is a safe height if the nuclear explosion and its accompanying water spout should occur, which God forbid, directly beneath us. It is now precisely 2 p.m. and — his voice rose almost by an octave — there goes! There it goes! Me and my big mouth.
It is directly beneath us!
The camera lens had been extended to maximum zoom. The surface of the Markerwaard boiled whitely and erupted a great column of water climbing vertically skywards toward s the helicopter’s camera.
‘Would you look at that?’ the excited voice went on. ‘Would you just look at that?’ It seemed rather a superfluous question, as, unquestionably, almost every eye in the Netherlands was looking at nothing else. ‘And the air is full of spray. Our pilot is moving as quickly as possible to the north-west — we want to get out of this area as quickly as possible. We are making poor time in this north-west gale, but he is clearly hoping that that same gale will blow the spout and spray away from us. So do Van Effen looked at Samuelson. He appeared to have gone into some kind of trance. The only sign of movement came from his hands. His fingers were interlocked but his thumbs were revolving slowly around each other. The studio announcer appeared. ‘I am afraid the helicopter’s lenses are clouded by that spray. We regret that none of the other three cameras are in visual contact. The detonation appears to have occurred almost exactly in the centre of the Markerwaard.’ The helicopter commentator’s voice came again. ‘Sorry about that. What with the spray and rain we are at the moment quite blind. We are still moving steadily north-west. Wait a minute, wait a minute. We have eyes again.’ The spout was collapsing on itself. The camera, zoom half retracted, was only momentarily on the spout, then began panning the surrounding area. A circle of water could be seen moving steadily outwards from the centre. ‘That,’ the commentator said ‘must be the expected tidal wave. Doesn’t look much like a wave to me, but, then, from this altitude it is impossible to gauge the height of the water.’
The picture faded to be replaced by the studio announcer. ‘We are trying to — wait, wait, we have Volkendam.’
A camera, at full zoom, showed a swell of water, little more than a ripple, it seemed, rapidly approaching the shore-line. A commentator said: ‘I agree with my colleague in the helicopter. This is hardly my idea of a tidal wave. However, I understand those tsunami tend to increase in height as the water shallows. We shall see.’
There wasn’t, in fact, much to sec. With the wave less than a hundred metres from land, the commentator estimated its height as just under a metre, which was pretty much in accordance with the scientists’ predictions. Samuelson gestured for the set to be switched off. ‘A few wet feet, no more,’ he said. ‘And not a life lost. An impressive performance, wouldn’t you say, Mr Danilov?
‘Most impressive.’ True, probably not a life had been lost. Not that day. But the years to come might well record a different story: the radio-active fall-out would have fallen or would be falling over the already flood-beleaguered Flevolands. But it hardly seemed an appropriate moment to point this out to Samuelson.
Samuelson said: ‘Romero, radio the message to the Haringvliet dam. Emphasize the need for absolute radio silence. Where the devil are those two who went in search of Ylvisaker and his friends?’Nobody knew where the devil they were. ‘Five good men lost to me. Five!’
‘It’s annoying, Mr Samuelson,’ Vasco said. ‘And worrisome. But it can have no effect on the outcome. We have seventeen men. With the element of total surprise in our favour I could guarantee to take the Haringvliet with only four men.’
Samualson smiled. ‘That’s a comfort. We leave in twenty minutes.’
They left in twenty minutes. All the soldiers were armed, all carried either rucksacks or satchels. Neither van Effen nor George were armed, at least not visibly, but they, too, carried satchels, both crammed with gas grenades. In addition, van Effen had taken the precaution of taking his Yves Saint Laurent aerosol,
As they climbed aboard the gunship, van Effen said to Samuelson: ‘Gas, not guns?’
‘Gas, not guns.’
Twelve
The gunship touched down on the Haringvliet darn roadway at 2.38 p.m. Romero Agnelli, dressed as a major and in nominal command of the party, was the first down the steps. A fair-haired, youngish man with horn-rims detached himself from a small group of observers, hurried forward to greet Agnelli and shook him warmly by the hand.
‘Damned glad to see you, Major, damned glad. Have you seen what those devils have just done in the Markerwaard?’
‘That we have,’ Agnelli said sombrely. ‘That we have.’ ‘How seriously do you take this threat to the Haringvliet?’ ‘Well,’ Agnelli said reasonably, ‘there’s no threat now. Quite frankly, I don’t take it seriously at all, but, as soldiers, ours is not to reason why. Quite frankly again, the country is in a state of near panic and ninety-nine per cent of all intelligence reports and agitated phone calls we receive turn out to be groundless. This, I say, may be the hundredth, although, as I say, I don’t believe it.’ He took the man’s arm and led him a few steps from the helicopter as soldiers followed down the steps and others opened the loading doors. ‘May I have your name, sir?’ ‘Borodin. Max Borodin. Manager. What on earth are those things they are unloading?’