"In a way. About those—motors?"
"They're running now. Did you hear them start up?" Solo, who hadn't heard or felt a thing, nodded approvingly. "That's fine. You know about the rendezvous with Trojan?"
"Yes. Ready when you are."
"Let's go. You'll hear all about it when we talk to her skipper."
The commanding officer of Trojan was Lieutenant Commander Hope, a tall, lean man with a sad expression. The two agents gathered with him, his first, and Lieutenant Woods, in the destroyer's tiny wardroom, and Solo put the proposition to them.
"Oberon's a privately owned yacht. The man who owns it on paper is called Green. The real owner, his boss, will also be aboard. A very rich and powerful man, who can— and will, given half a chance—cause trouble. Also aboard is a young woman, very much against her will. Just to give you the right kind of picture, if this is fumbled and the big man gets even a hint that Mr. Kuryakin or myself are involved—too early—she is as good as dead. So what we would like is this. First to find Oberon. Ideally, just as it's getting dark. Then, this destroyer closes up on one side and makes a fuss. You know, lights and hailings and talk. While the launch, with us two aboard, sneaks around the other side in the gloom, and we get aboard and take a quick look, before anybody can get rid of the evidence."
"Sounds all right," Hope murmured, "except that I'd like it better if we found Oberon in daylight, while we can still see enough to be certain. Then we can lay off until dark and close in. Better than conducting a search in the dark. It's blowing up a bit."
"So long as they don't see us first and take fright."
"They won't. Do you have a script?"
"It would be better if you wrote your own lines," Kuryakin suggested. "They will sound more authentic that way. What we would like is a first class impersonation of a bumbling brass hat going by the rule book. At no time must they suspect that this is anything more than a routine stop and check. Not—repeat not—a search. If they get that idea then the lady is over the side with her throat cut instantly."
"Wouldn't want that." Hope caressed his jaw and looked unhappy. "There's been something of a shake-up lately, with small boats bringing in Pakistanis and the like. That gives us a cover story. We'll work out the rest as we go. How about you, Woods?"
"Looks like a gift, our bit. We keep station with you until you find the yacht; then, just on dusk, we come alongside, pick up you two, and then deliver you to the blind side. Just a point. Is anything likely to go off with a loud bang, or shells, anything like that?"
"Hardly. These people are killers, but they do it quietly."
"All right, let's get moving. Stations for leaving harbor, Number One!" First Lieutenant Willis went away. There came the keening of whistles, shouted commands, the tramp of feet, and the destroyer began to move, to bite a white bone of spray at her bows. A seaman came to conduct Solo and Kuryakin to the bridge, where Hope stood well back while others did all the operating.
"Full speed," he told them, "until we sight the beggar, and then we can relax. I'll have a word with Cox'n Armitage about the performance, and there'll be no bother there. But I don't care for your bit, just the two of you. Never know what you might run into."
"That's really the point," Kuryakin explained. "This has no legality at all, so we can't ask anyone else to take the risk with us."
"Let me worry about that. I'm responsible too. I'd like to appoint a man to go with you." The little ship was clear of the river mouth now and nosing into running seas, tossing the spray high over her bows. "No need to hang about here," Hope decided. "We'll go below and eat."
Later, with the inner man properly taken care of, Hope introduced them to a chunky youngster with vast shoulders and a wide grin. "Sub-Lieutenant Walker," he sighed, "is the navy's east coast champion at anything that calls for violence, like chucking weights about. Or people."
"You care for being shot at?" Solo demanded, and the grin stayed.
"Has to be a first time for everything. Count me in."
There came a messenger from the bridge to say they had a blip on radar that looked like the target they were after, and ten minutes later Hope was able to be positive with the aid of binoculars. "That's her all right. Now, signalman, flash the M.L. 'Do not—repeat not—acknowledge by flash. Come alongside, starboard, immediately.' That's it, gentlemen. Nothing to do now but wait for dusk. And rehearse a few things."
FOURTEEN
"LET'S GET One thing straight," Solo said firmly. He and Kuryakin were huddled in the tiny wheelhouse of the launch alongside Woods, with Sub-Lieutenant Walker on the far side. "You come after us, to pick up any bits we may leave. Don't stick your neck out. If anybody is to get shot at, it is us, right?" On their port side the gray green bulk of Trojan heaved and wallowed in the sea as both vessels crept slowly closer to the target. Woods murmured gently into his voice pipe, regulating the speed by small amounts so that the launch held level with the destroyer but on the blind side. The only light was a feeble glow over the rev counters. All at once a loudspeaker gave voice into the gloom.
"Yacht ahoy. Ahoy there. What ship?"
"That's us," Woods murmured, and said into the pipe:
"Half-astern starboard, half-ahead port." The launch shivered and swung away from the cover of the destroyer's side, driving into the waves and thumping down on them as she picked up speed. The two agents held on tight, knowing that they were now describing a large circle that would bring them around the stem of that yacht over there and up on her port side. Meanwhile Trojan was busy with the performance. Light clusters blazed, all aimed at Oberon, and the upper deck was a mass of moving forms. The amplified voice kept hailing, but the breeze whipped away the words. Woods had the motors into full speed now and the launch was lifting like a race horse.
"Rolls-Royce engines?" Kuryakin wondered, and Woods grinned.
"We still call them motors, though. Nice, aren't they?"
He hauled on the wheel steadily, then cut the speed in half. The gentle shudder died away in inaudibility. "Won't be long now," he said. "Better get ready to jump. I'm slowing down."
They could see Oberon now, rapidly looming closer. The launch wallowed, drifted with the sea until it was running parallel and no more than three feet away from the yacht's side. Three men stood, knees bent, eyes on the heaving deck edge. The launch sank, rose level—they sprang in unison, grabbed hold and fell forward flat. The launch heeled away into the dark. Out there, broken by the breeze, came the stentorian voice:
"—will send a boarding party. You will drop a gangway, please."
The three rolled urgently together. Walker pointed in the gloom.
"That looks like a cabin superstructure, there."
They rose to their knees, scurried forward with the lurch of the deck, and went down prone again, to listen. Over head a familiar voice sounded on the yacht's bullhorn.
"Good evening. May I ask the meaning of this intrusion? What do you expect to find?"