Выбрать главу

“What device?” Marsh asked.

Khan held up his hand. “Later. The device will be lowered into the well head to a depth of one thousand feet. Once it is secure in the well, Zienkovitch will recap the well head and you will all return to the surface.”

“What’s the device?” Marsh asked again. “Was that what you were lifting when you asked me to leave the sea gallery?”

Khan then breathed in deeply and looked like he had come to a decision. He struggled to his feet, pausing as he stood to regain his breath. “Very well,” he said tiredly, “We shall go below; then all your questions will be answered.”

They filed out of Khan’s cabin and into a wind that seemed to be getting stronger and Khan, more than the others had to lean into it to make headway. Malik shadowed him all the way. They reached a door just beneath the foc’sle head and went down the companionway to the sea gallery.

Marsh recalled his brief visit there before. He took in all that he could see, which included a pallet on top of which was a tarpaulin cover. Malik immediately went towards the pallet and removed this cover, dropping it on to the deck and beckoned Marsh forward.

Marsh walked towards Malik and the pallet which was quite small, but on it were two cylinders. At first Marsh assumed they were small, oil drums, but saw quite clearly that they were nothing as simple as that. What he saw was two cylinders strapped together.

Marsh looked at them beneath the light from the bulkhead lamps. Malik watched him with a curious expression on his face; like someone who was about to reveal something remarkable. The others, Khan and de Leon all seemed to look at it with a kind of reverence. Marsh could see the cylinders had been highly polished and had markings on their sides which he was unable to decipher. The others continued to watch him as he peered closer. On top of each cylinder was a lifting ring. He saw lettering on the far side of one of the cylinders. He was quite sure it was Russian. There was also a series of numbers there which meant nothing to Marsh.

Then he saw something which did, three black segments within a yellow circle: the international sign for radiation.

Marsh straightened and looked directly at Khan, whose face was washed in the poor light from the bulkhead lamps.

“They’re nuclear bombs,” Marsh whispered as though the sound of his voice might trigger the thing.

He looked back at the cylinders, strangely fascinated by them, by their incongruity. Then it struck him that the Coast Guard had failed to find them. He was also surprised at how small they were. Although he had never seen a nuclear bomb before, he had always assumed they were quite large. But he had also heard of battlefield devices which could be carried in the trunk of a medium size car. He decided these were probably typical of such bombs.

“But the Coast Guard, why didn’t they find them?”

Khan smiled. “They weren’t here when the Americans searched our ship.”

Marsh realised now exactly what had happened when he saw Batista diving and the Galeazzi tower being lowered. They were retrieving the bombs from their hiding place on the sea bed where they had been dropped when the Coast Guard appeared. The tower had only been used as a source of lighting because Batista had finished the dive within twenty minutes or so.

Marsh shook his head in dismay. “You’re an evil bastard, Khan. I don’t know what it is you are up to, but that’s why Greg died, wasn’t it? Because he knew about the bombs and was trying to stop you.”

Khan shook his head. “Walsh was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And it was the providence of Allah that you were spared, so that you could complete the work against the great Satan, America.”

With that he signalled that the demonstration was over and walked out of the sea gallery leaving Marsh standing there with Malik.

* * *

Sweeting Maclean spent the day moving from one place to another, trying to make himself look busy and give the police something to watch. He made a couple of phone calls from a public telephone box in the early part of the afternoon, and continually checked to make sure the police were still following him.

He called into a Pizza Hut and spent some time there, later moving on to a beach bar where he had a drink with some of his other acquaintances. He spent a couple of hours on the beach before returning home where he took a shower and watched some TV.

As evening drew near, he made another phone call. Maclean’s plan depended a great deal on the answers he received. But being the kind of man he was, the answers were favourable, and he came out of the phone booth feeling quite confident. And because the sky was darkening nicely, he felt pretty good about the whole thing.

He drove down to the quayside and parked his car in a parking lot while keeping an eye on the car tailing him. He got out of the car and walked along the quayside a little, past the shops and bars and the bobbing boats and cruisers that lined the boardwalks, and found the bar he was looking for. He went inside.

One of the policemen following Maclean got out of his car and went into the bar. He saw Maclean ordering a drink at the bar and making small talk with a girl. They walked over to an empty table and sat down. It wasn’t long before Maclean was nibbling at the ear of the girl. Soon some others joined them and more drinks were ordered. It seemed so normal that the policeman went back to his car and the other officer to wait.

Maclean finished his drink, slipped a few dollars to the girl and went to the back of the bar, through the kitchen and out through the back door. He walked quickly and as quietly as he could along the boardwalk until he could see the boat he wanted among the line of boats tied up there.

He stepped on to the boat, slipped the ropes fore and aft, and then pushed the boat away from the boardwalk. He dropped into the cockpit and found the ignition key which had been taped beneath the driver’s seat. The diesel engine coughed and rumbled into a low throated raw and he piloted the boat out of the marina and into the open sea.

In the waiting, unmarked police car, one of the watching men saw the boat and realised what had happened. He climbed out of the car and went into the bar. A minute later he was back.

“That was Maclean,” he said to his companion. “The bastard’s conned us.”

Sweeting Maclean was laughing as he opened the throttles once he was out into open water. The wind was up and the boat began to rise and fall in the swell. He turned the boat on to a northerly heading, reckoning that he would reach the swash land beneath the safe-house before dawn.

One of the phone calls he had made confirmed his suspicions that the police were on to him. In the same way that the police had informers, so to did Sweeting Maclean. But he also got word off the street that the police might know where the safe-house was. Maclean’s only advantage lay in the fact that the house was up on the northern shore and he could get to it by sailing inland through the mangrove swamps. He knew that the police could not tail him, but if they did learn of the whereabouts of the safe-house, it would be a close run thing.

He looked up at the clear, bright moon, checked that the fuel tank was full and set the boat on autopilot. Then he dived into the cabin for the food he knew had been left for him.

As he ate, Maclean studied the charts. He had asked for a full tank because his intended journey was going to be lengthy. Picking up the girl was only going to be part of it. He finished a can of Budweiser beer and went back up on deck clutching more sandwiches. He had a jacket on which had also been left for him.

He disengaged the autopilot and took control. Apart from the strengthening wind, Maclean knew his course would be fairly straightforward; but once he had closed in on the swamps, it would take a certain science, and a bit of luck, to locate the creek that would lead him up to the safe-house.