The same keen pilot's eye might also have wondered about why so formidable a winch was needed aboard a Belgian millionaire's floating plaything. And had he happened to be flying over when the giant hatch had been open, something else might well have caused him to lift his eyebrows the size of the hold and the fact that it contained a small float-plane, a very large launch complete with wheelhouse and several power-boats.
Before agreeing to join Telescope, Buckminster had gone secretly to Brussels to discuss what had been presented to him as 'an interesting proposition in view of the brutal and tragic murder of your daughter'. On his arrival in Brussels he had learned to his dismay that he was meeting a Belgian. Impossible for him to imagine himself taking orders from someone who wasn't British. He received a further shock when he was introduced to Jules Beaurain, who, dressed casually in a polo-necked sweater and slacks, became the image of an Englishman when he opened his mouth. Buckminster agreed to take command of Firestorm even before he had seen the vessel.
Now he stuffed the signal from Henderson in his pocket. The powerful rotors of the giant helicopter could be heard in the sky.
"Dead on time, sir, as always," First Mate Adams observed, checking his watch.
"Has she brought everything we need?" demanded Buckminster.
"The earlier signal — didn't feel it was necessary to report that to you — confirmed that Anderson airlifted from the Scottish coast two bazookas, extra submachine guns, extra ammunition, a supply of hand-grenades and various small-arms. No alcohol was included in the consignment," Adams said with a grin.
Buckminster shaded his eyes as he watched the incoming chopper whose sheer size never ceased to surprise him. His reprimand was the more devastating for being delivered as he stared upwards.
"Adams, I decide what is and is not necessary. In future you will show me all — repeat all — signals reaching this vessel."
"Of course, sir. Fully understood, sir."
"Another point. I run a dry ship, therefore your presumably humorous reference to alcohol is not appreciated."
"Really am very sorry indeed, sir."
In his best quarterdeck manner Buckminster lowered his hand and glared at his First Mate.
"Just so long as it doesn't happen again. Now, I leave you to see to it that Anderson and that bloody great chopper of his land safely on the helipad."
Turning his back on Adams, he studied the chart again and taking a pencil from his pocket drew his projected course. The Sikorsky lowered its great bulk onto the helipad. The sea was calm, a sheet of rippling blue which sparkled and glittered in the reflection from the sun shining out of a clear sky. All this was lost on Buckminster as he studied the chart. Nor was he dwelling on the fact that below deck he was carrying some of the most deadly killers in the world a large nucleus of ex-Special Air Service men, and men from various nations who all had their own reasons for hating terrorism.
"Who and where is our opponent?" was the question he was asking as Firestorm increased speed and headed for Elsinore.
At precisely the same hour and also in the glare of a blazing sun — the 2,000-ton Soviet hydrofoil MV Kometa was proceeding at twenty knots off the Polish coast near Gdansk. Captain Andrei Livanov turned as Sobieski came onto the bridge and concealed his dislike of the newcomer with an effort. Livanov was a Muscovite and proud of it. Having to consort with such people as Poles did not suit his temperament.
"Is there some problem, Sobieski?" he asked.
"None whatsoever, Comrade."
"Then you had better return to your control headquarters to make sure no problem does arise."
Peter Sobieski, a well-built man of forty with a cheerful and extrovert personality, glanced at his temporary — and nomin al — captain and then lit a cigarette.
"If a problem arises you will not be able to eat. If an emergency occurs you will have a nervous breakdown," thought Sobieski, who disliked Russians as much as Livanov disliked Poles. He did not say the words out loud. Instead he blew smoke across the bridge, an action which touched off Livanov's edgy nerves. "You will not smoke on my bridge!"
Sobieski added insult to injury by grinding the cigarette under his heel. At that moment a radio signal received from the shore station was handed to Livanov. It did not improve his temper. The signal asked why Kometa was cruising like an ordinary vessel and not using her surface-piercing foils.
Captain Livanov concealed his anger. First the man in charge of the sonar room had been replaced by Sobieski. The Pole undoubtedly knew his job; Livanov had to admit that he was at least as good as the regular man. But Sobieski was Viktor Rashkin's creature. And Viktor Rashkin, the wond er boy of the Soviet political world, was Leonid Brezhnev's creature.
It was Rashkin, the second most powerful man in the Soviet Union, who had ordered Kometa to proceed along the Baltic shore on its way to Germany. And it was the brilliant Rashkin who had come aboard briefly before Kometa departed from Leningrad, bringing with him Peter Sobieski.
"He will take control of the sonar during this voyage of your remarkable ship," he had informed Livanov.
Livanov was on the verge of asking Is he qualified? before he realised the danger of the question. He hoped he was. He dared not cast doubt on Rashkin's judgement.
"He is my assistant," Rashkin had said. "He is also a Pole. Do not look surprised, Comrade Livanov. We and our European allies are one big happy family — so why should we not co-operate?"
Had there been a note of cynical irony in Rashkin's remark? The captain of Kometa had glanced quickly at him and a pair of shrewd eyes had met his own. Livanov did not understand this man whose expression changed with alarming suddenness. They said he had been an actor before he served his apprenticeship with the KGB.
Livanov was thinking of this conversation as he cruised off Gdansk and read the signal from shore control. Very well, he would show them. Sending Sobieski back to his sonar room, Livanov issued his instructions and the huge vessel began to pick up speed. He himself operated the lever which transformed Kometa from a normal vessel with her hull deep in the water to a streak of power elevated above the sea on massive steel blades like giant skis.
Onshore several pairs of eyes watched the spectacle through field-glasses. Some of the watchers had never seen a hydrofoil. There were expressions of sheer astonishment as Kometa flew across the vast bay. Fresh signals were despatched to the captain — this time of congratulation. Livanov chose to ignore them. He was thinking now of the passengers he would be taking on board at his next port of call. A detachment of MfS — members of the dreaded state security from East Germany.
Chapter Eight
Beaurain and Louise found Ed Cottel finishing a meal in an elegant cafe on the Hilton's ground floor. Overlooking a glassed-in veranda with a dense wall of trees and shrubberies, the Cafe d'Egmont had the atmosphere of somewhere in the country. It was safe to talk — Cottel was almost the only diner.
"Can I get you something?" he asked without ceremony.
"Just coffee, thank you," Louise said. Beaurain also asked for coffee and declined anything to eat. They were short of time; the Belgian was anxious to return to Henderson's headquarters to check on the progress of Serge Litov.
"I hear, Jules, they're thinking of charging you with multiple murder, rape and God knows what other mayhem. I must say you've been busy while I was away."
"Who told you these interesting tit bits Voisin?"
"Who else? He spent the whole time I was with him telling me what an outrage it was that you should control the investigation into the Syndicate. I think what particularly infuriated him is my insistence that he report this fact to all West European police chiefs and heads of counter-espionage. Now, he's trying to unseat you."