“Let’s hope I draw a congenial skipper on Saturday.”
“They’re all decent types. Well, now, what else can I do for you? Quarters comfortable, and all that?”
“Couldn’t be cosier.”
“Then I’ll be running along. Sure you don’t need a little company for later this evening?”
Brook laughed. “Another time, Stark. I have some paper work to do tonight.”
“That’s the Yank in you,” said Stark, grinning. “The only thing that can keep a Stateside bloke from chasing skirts is business.”
“It doesn’t work that way with you?”
“’Arf ’n’ ’arf, you might say. I try to mix the two whenever possible.” He was still chuckling as he lumbered off. Brook was relieved to see him go.
Jan Quackernack turned his little Japanese sedan toward the gateway of his own house, switched the lights to dim, and got out of the car to open the gate. He was a tall thin man, all arms and legs, who had some difficulty extricating himself. He was swarthy, as some Dutchmen are; his long face was usually either saturnine or anxious, depending on his mood.
It was not unusual for Quackernack to arrive home after dark; he was a man of late working habits, as everyone knew who took the trouble to telephone his office.
He had represented the Half Moon Oil Company in Japan for two years, and he put himself out to be accepted by the international community and his Japanese associates. His two boys, nine and twelve, were receiving a sound education in the international school; his wife Heidi, as plump and blonde as he was thin and dark, kept herself happy with afternoon teas and flower-arrangement classes. Quackernack had hesitated before latching onto Aleksei Krylov, the Soviet attaché, because he was not sure that his friends would approve; he was not the sort to rock boats. But when he saw how the yachting crowd took to Krylov, he struck up an acquaintance and was soon sailing with the Russian at Katori Spa. What muttering there was about the Russian came from the Americans — they were on to him, they would say darkly but even they acknowledged Krylov’s skill on the water.
Quackernack unlocked his gate. He was already savoring his wife’s dinner; she was a splendid cook, and she would not hear of the Japanese cook’s preparing the Dutch meals her husband loved. A nip or two of the Holland gin from the stone bottle (Quackernack loved the cheesy odor that made most non-Hollanders shudder); then the delicious dinner; then an evening with the phonograph and the Concertgebouw Orchestra of Amsterdam... life was good.
A blur of shadow came out of the deeper shadows. He turned to face it in surprise. It was a Japanese in shabby clothing, with the twisted towel on his head. Quackernack could not see the face, but the man was short and muscular.
He began to say in Japanese, “What do you want?” when the blur was on him. Hands flashed. He instinctively raised his arms.
That was his last memory for some time. Something that felt like an ax struck the side of his neck, and he fell.
The shabby man leaned over, took Quackernack’s compliant arm and, using both hands, snapped it across his thigh. It made a sound like ice breaking in the spring thaw. He dropped it, rose, and walked off without looking back.
In the public telephone booth a few minutes later the operator made his connection, and the shabby man dutifully dropped a number of ten-yen pieces in the depository.
“Yes?”
“Everything’s hunky-dory and chop suey,” said the shabby man.
“Then he won’t be sailing Saturday.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Thanks, Benny,” said Brook, and hung up.
Chapter 5
It was going to be a fine day for sailing, Brook decided at the clubhouse window. The mischievous fifteen-knot wind that had been predicted by noon was just beginning to tinker with the sea. The sky was clear and small; cumulus mobiles overhung the horizon.
Brook sipped his coffee. He stood at the end of the teakwood bar unnoticed by the score or more of belly-uppers who were gathered in their sailing clothes before the race. He had never been able to explain his talent for making himself invisible in a crowd; it was part of him, like the Cheshire Cat’s face. Once he had discussed the matter with a fellow-agent, an ex-actor, who had argued rather loftily that it was simply a state of mind: if Brook became unaware of himself he would not seem to be there to others. Brook remembered thinking that the argument had all the real force of a debater’s point. No, it had to be something else. He had once even considered discussing it with Holloway, but had sensibly decided against it.
The sailors made an animated group; there was ozone in the air as well as spirits. It was remarkable what a polyglot bunch they were, all talking English with the accents of a dozen different tongues.
He sensed a stir — no more than a hesitation — as a big man came into the bar. Brook recognized him immediately. It was Aleksei Krylov. A boyish smile was on the Russian’s lips, the effect helped along by the gap between two of his upper front teeth. His face was strongly Slavic; good muzhik features, Brook supposed they would be called in Russia. But it lacked the dourness of the typical Soviet face, that look of waiting for a blow to fall which even the highest specimens in the Kremlin seemed to have. Krylov’s was all candor, peace, and joy. His dark hair was curly with unkemptness, as if in rueful resignation to the inevitable. Here, you instantly felt, was a big eager puppy of a man on whom you would turn your back with complete trust.
Like everyone else in the bar the Russian intelligence agent wore sailing clothes. In his case it was a polo shirt and khaki shorts which revealed manly arms and legs covered with a shag bleached by the sun.
The pulsebeat pause broke into waves; there were calls of greeting. Hi, Alex!.. What d’ye say, old boy?... Krylov grinned and waved back. He walked to the bar.
Brook spotted Krylov’s shadow, a man with Brook’s talent for melting into backgrounds. He wore a dark suit that might have been a chauffeurs uniform or an undertaker’s working clothes. He was short and squat. His lumpy, yellowish face had all the character of a washed potato. The eyes were a pale blue-green. As Krylov moved smiling into a place made for him at the bar, this man was suddenly seated in a wicker armchair to one side of the room, the gloomy side, leafing through a yachting magazine. He began to read something with the air of an aficionado.
Brook sipped as Krylov traded banter with the men beside him. When the Russian’s coffee arrived he dug out a pack of Russian cigarettes, selected one, crimped the long cardboard tube, put it to his boyish lips, and lit up. He smoked Russian style, holding the cigarette with the thumb, forefinger, and middle finger from beneath. Brook had no doubt that he could smoke American style with equal facility.
The dumpy man in the wicker chair continued to watch Krylov from behind the magazine.
Brook watched him, too.
From the pantomime — Brook was too far away to hear the conversation — he caught Krylov’s discovery that he would be without a crewman in the morning’s race. Krylov stared at the blackboard, frowned his boyish frown, then looked about the room.
Brook set his cup down and elbowed his way to Krylov’s side. “Good morning. Are you Mr. Krylov?”
“Yes?” The Russian agent sounded friendly enough, but there was no amiability in his blue eyes. No hostility either, of course; he was too well-trained for that. What he was doing was sizing Brook up; you did that automatically.
“I’m Pete Brook. New around here, but I’m aching to get into the race. I hear you’ve lost your crewman.”
“Yes,” Krylov said. A little warmth had crept into his pleasant voice; it said, I don’t know what your game is, Amerikanski, but I’m going to play it. “My man inconsiderately had his arm broken last night by a street ruffian. You are experienced, Mr. Brook?”