Meanwhile, the Stromberg's captain had brought aboard all his ship's papers. The team of fitters and joiners, which had come along in case it was necessary to alter the Coparelli to match the Stromberg, was set to work repairing the battle damage. Dickstein told them to concentrate on what was visible from the deck: the rest would have to wait until they reached port. They set about filling holes, repairing furniture, and replacing panes of glass and metal fittings with spares cannibalized from the doomed Stromberg. A painter went down a ladder to remove the name Coparelli from the hull and replace it with the stenciled letters S-T-R-O-M-B-E-R-G. When he had finished he set about painting over the repaired bulkheads and woodwork on deck. All the Coparelli's lifeboats, damaged beyond repair, were chopped up and thrown over the side, and the Stromberg's boats were brought over to replace them. The new oil pump, which the Stromberg had carried on Koch's instructions, was installed in the Coparelli's engine.
Work had stopped for the burial. Now, as soon as the captain had uttered the final words, it began again. Toward the end of the afternoon the engine rumbled to life. Dickstein stood on the bridge with the captain while the anchor was raised. The crew of the Stromberg quickly found their way around the new ship, which was identical to their old one. The captain set a course and ordered full speed ahead.
It was almost over, Dickstein thought. The Coparelli had disappeared: for all intents and purposes the ship in which he now sailed was the Stromberg, and the Stromberg was legally owned by Savile Shipping. Israel had her uranium, and nobody knew how she had got it. Everyone in the chain of operation was now taken care of--except Pedler, still the legal owner of the yellowcake. He was the one man who could ruin the whole scheme if he should become either curious or hostile. Papagopolous would be handling him right now: Dickstein silently wished him luck.
"We're clear," the captain said.
The explosives expert in the chartroom pulled a lever on his radio detonator then everybody watched the empty Stromberg, now more than a mile away.
There was a loud, dull thud, like thunder and the Stromberg seemed to sag in the middle. Her fuel tanks caught fire and the stormy evening was lit by a gout of flame reaching for the sky. Dickstein felt elation and faint anxiety at the sight of such great destruction. The Stromberg began to sink, slowly at first and then faster. Her stern went under; seconds later her bows followed; her funnel poked up above the water for a moment like the raised arm of a drowning man, and then she was gone.
Dickstein smiled faintly and turned away.
He heard a noise. The captain heard it too. They went to the side of the bridge and looked out, and then they understood.
Down on the deck, the men were cheering.
Franz Albrecht Pedler sat in his office on the outskirts of Wiesbaden and scratched his snowy-white head. The telegram from Angeluzzi e Bianco in Genoa, translated from the Italian by Pedler's multilingual secretary, was perfectly plain and at the same time totally incomprehensible. It said:
PLEASE ADVISE SOONEST OF NEW EXPECTED DELIVERY DATE OF YELLOWCAKE.
As far as Pedler knew there was nothing wrong with the old expected delivery date, which was a couple of days away. Clearly Angeluzzi e Bianco knew something he did not. He had already wired the shippers:
IS YELLOWCAKE DELAYED?
He felt a little annoyed with them. Surely they should have informed him as well as the receiving company if there was a delay. But maybe the Italians had their wires crossed. Pedler had formed the opinion during the war that you could never trust Italians to do what they were told. He had thought they might be different nowadays, but perhaps they were the same.
He stood at his window, watching the evening gather over his little cluster of factory buildings. He could almost wish he had not bought the uranium. The deal with the Israeli Army, all signed, sealed and delivered, would keep his company in profit for the rest of his life, and he no longer needed to speculate.
His secretary came in with the reply from the shippers, already translated:
COPARELLI SOLD TO SAVILE SHIPPING OF Zurich WHO NOW HAVE RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR CARGO. WE ASSURE YOU OF COMPLETE RELIABILITY OF PURCHASERS.
There followed the phone number of Savile Shipping and the words
SPEAK TO PAPAGOPOLOUS.
Pedler gave the telegram back to the secretary. "Would you call that number in Zurich and get this Papagopolous on the line please?"
She came back a few minutes later. "Papagopolous will call you back."
Pedler looked at his watch. "I suppose I'd better wait for his call. I might as well get to the bottom of this now that I've started."
Papagopolous came through ten minutes later. Pedler said to him, "I'm told you are now responsible for my cargo on board the Coparelli. I've had a cable from the Italians asking for a new delivery date--is there some delay?"
"Yes, there is," Papagopolous said. "You should have been informed--I'm terribly sorry." The man spoke excellent German but it was still clear he was not a German. It was also clear he was not really terribly sorry. He went on, "The Coparelli's oil pump broke down at sea and she is becalmed. We're making arrangements to have your cargo delivered as early as possible."
"Well, what am I to say to Angeluzzi e Bianco?"
"I have told them that I will let them know the new date just as soon as I know it myself," Papagopolous said. "Please leave it to me. I will keep you both informed."
"Very well. Goodbye."
Odd, Pedler thought as he hung up the phone. Looking out of the window, he saw that all the workers had left. The staff car parking lot was empty except for his Mercedes and his secretary's Volkswagen. What the hell, time to go home. He put on his coat. The uranium was insured. If it was lost he would get his money back. He turned out the office lights and helped his secretary on with her coat, then he got into his car and drove home to his wife.
Suza Ashford did not close her eyes all night.
Once again, Nat Dickstein's life was in danger. Once again, she was the only one who could warn him. And this time she could not deceive others into helping her.
She had to do it alone.
It was simple. She had to go to the Karla's radio room, get rid of Aleksandr, and call the Coparelli.
I'll never do it, she thought. The ship is full of KGB. Aleksandr is a big man. I want to go to sleep. Forever. It's impossible. I can't do it.
Oh, Nathaniel.
At four A.M. she put on jeans, a sweater, boots and an oilskin. The full bottle of vodka she had taken from the mess--"to help me sleep"--went in the inside pocket of the oilskin.
She had to know the Karla's position.
She went up to the bridge. The first officer smiled at her. "Can't sleep?" he said in English.
"The suspense is too much," she told him. The BOAC Big Smile. Is your seat belt fastened, sir? Just a little turbulence, nothing to worry about. She asked the first officer, "Where are we?"
He showed her their position on the map, and the estimated position of the Coparelli.
"What's that in numbers?" she said.
He told her the coordinates, the course, and the speed of the Karla. She repeated the numbers once aloud and twice more in her head, trying to burn them into her brain. "It's fascinating," she said brightly. "Everyone on a ship has a special skill . . . Will we reach the Coparelli on time, do you think?"
"Oh, yes," he said. "Then--boom."
She looked outside. It was completely black--there were no stars and no ships' lights in sight. The weather was getting worse.
"You're shivering," the first officer said. "Are you cold?"
"Yes," she said, though it was not the weather making her shiver. "When is Colonel Rostov getting up?"
"He's to be called at five."
"I think I'll try to get another hour's sleep."
She went down to the radio room. Aleksandr was there. "Couldn't you sleep, either?" she asked him.
"No. I've sent my number two to bed."
She looked over the radi
o equipment. "Aren't you listening to the Stromberg anymore?"
"The signal stopped. Either they found the beacon, or they sank the ship. We think they sank her."
Suza sat down and took out the bottle of vodka. She unscrewed the cap. "Have a drink." She handed him the bottle.
"Are you cold?"
"A little."
"Your hand is shaking." He took the bottle and put it to his lips, taking a long swallow. "Ah, thank you." He handed it back to her.
Suza drank a mouthful for courage. It was rough Russian vodka, and it burned her throat, but it had the desired effect. She screwed down the cap and waited for Aleksandr to turn his back to her.
"Tell me about life in England," he said conversationally. "Is it true that the poor starve while the rich get fat?"
"Not many people starve," she said. Turn around, damn it, turn around. I can't do this facing you. "But there is great inequality."
"Are there different laws for rich and poor?"
"There's a saying: 'the law forbids rich and poor alike to steal bread and sleep under bridges.' "
Aleksandr laughed. "In the Soviet Union people are equal, but some have privileges. Will you live in Russia now?"
"I don't know." Suza opened the bottle and passed it to him again.
He took a long swallow and gave it back. "In Russia you won't have such clothes."
The time was passing too quickly, she had to do it now. She stood up to take the bottle. Her oilskin was open down the front. Standing before him, she tilted her head back to drink from the bottle, knowing he would stare at her breasts as they jutted out. She allowed him a good look, then shifted her grip on the bottle and brought it down as hard as she could on the top of his head.
There was a sickening thud as it hit him. He stared at her dazedly. She thought: You're supposed to be knocked out! His eyes would not shut. What do I do? She hesitated, then she gritted her teeth and hit him again.
His eyes closed and he slumped in the chair. Suza got hold of his feet and pulled. As he came off the chair his head hit the deck, making Suza wince, but then she thought: It's just as well, he'll stay out longer.
She dragged him to a cupboard. She was breathing fast, from fear as well as exertion. From her jeans pocket she took a long piece of baling twine she had picked up in the stern. She tied Aleksandr's feet, then turned him over and bound his hands behind his back.
She had to get him into the cupboard. She glanced at the door. Oh, God, don't let anyone come in now! She put his feet in, then straddled his unconscious body and tried to lift him. He was a heavy man. She got him half upright, but when she tried to shift him into the cupboard he slipped from her grasp. She got behind him to try again. She grasped him beneath the armpits and lifted. This way was better: she could lean his weight against her chest while she shifted her grip. She got him half upright again, then wrapped her arms around his chest and inched sideways. She had to go into the cupboard with him, let him go, then wriggle out from underneath him.
He was in a sitting position now, his feet against one side of the cupboard, his knees bent, and his back against the opposite side. She checked his bonds: still tight. But he could still shout! She looked about for something to stuff in his mouth to gag him. She could see nothing. She could not leave the room to search for something because he might come round in the meantime. The only thing that she could think of was her pantyhose.
It seemed to take her forever to do it. She had to pull off her borrowed sea boots, take off her jeans, pull her pantyhose off, put her jeans on, get into her boots, then crumple the nylon cloth into a ball and stuff it between his slack jaws.
She could not close the cupboard door. "Oh, God!" she said out loud. It was Aleksandr's elbow that was in the way. His bound hands rested on the floor of the cupboard, and because of his slumped position his arms were bent outward. No matter how she pushed and shoved at the door that elbow stopped it from closing. Finally she had to get back into the cupboard with him and turn him slightly sideways so that he leaned into the corner. Now his elbow was out of the way.
She looked at him a moment longer. How long did people stay knocked out? She had no idea. She knew she should hit him again, but she was afraid of killing him. She went and got the bottle, and even lifted it over her head; but at the last moment she lost her nerve, put the bottle down, and slammed the cupboard door.
She looked at her wristwatch and gave a cry of dismay: it was ten minutes to five. The Coparelli would soon appear on the Karla's radar screen, and Rostov would be here, and she would have lost her chance.
She sat down at the radio desk, switched the lever to TRANSMIT, selected the set that was already tuned to the Coparelli's wavelength and leaned over the microphone.
"Calling Coparelli, come in please."
She waited.
Nothing.
"Calling Coparelli, come in please."
Nothing.
"Damn you to hell, Nat Dickstein, speak to me. Nathaniel!"
Nat Dickstein stood in the amidships hold of the Coparelli, staring at the drums of sandy metallic ore that had cost so much. They looked nothing special--just large black oil drums with the word PLUMBAT stenciled on their sides. He would have liked to open one and feel the stuff, just to know what it was like, but the lids were heavily sealed.
He felt suicidal. Instead of the elation of victory, he had only bereavement. He could not rejoice over the terrorists he had killed, he could only mourn for his own dead.
He went over the battle again, as he had been doing throughout a sleepless night. If he had told Abbas to open fire as soon as he got aboard it might have distracted the Fedayeen long enough for Gibli to get over the rail without being shot. If he had gone with three men to take out the bridge with grenades at the very start of the fight the mess might have been taken earlier and lives would have been saved. If . . . but there were a hundred things he would have done differently if he had been able to see into the future, or if he were just a wiser man.
Well, Israel would now have atom bombs to protect her forever.
Even that thought gave him no joy. A year ago it would have thrilled him. But a year ago he had not met Suza Ashford.
He heard a noise and looked up. It sounded as if people were running around on deck. Some nautical crisis, no doubt.
Suza had changed him. She had taught him to expect more out of life than victory in battle. When he had anticipated this day, when he had thought about what it would feel like to have pulled off this tremendous coup, she had always been in his daydream, waiting for him somewhere, ready to share his triumph. But she would not be there. Nobody else would do. And there was no joy in a solitary celebration.
He had stared long enough. He climbed the ladder out of the hold, wondering what to do with the rest of his life. He emerged on deck. A rating peered at him. "Mr. Dickstein?"
"Yes. What do you want?"
"We've been searching the ship for you, sir . . . It's the radio, someone is calling the Coparelli. We haven't answered, sir, because we're not supposed to be the Coparelli, are we? But she says--"
"She?"
"Yes, sir. She's coming over clear--speech, not Morse code. She sounds close. And she's upset. 'Speak to me, Nathaniel,' she says, stuff like that, sir."
Dickstein grabbed the rating by his pea jacket. "Nathaniel?" he shouted. "Did she say Nathaniel?"
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, if--"
But Dickstein was heading for the bridge at a run.
The voice of Nat Dickstein came over the radio: "Who is calling Coparelli?"
Suddenly Suza was speechless. Hearing his voice, after all she had been through, made her feel weak and helpless.
"Who is calling Coparelli?"
She found her voice. "Oh, Nat, at last."
"Suza? Is that Suza?"
"Yes, yes."
"Where are you?"
She gathered her thoughts. "I'm with David Rostov on a Polish ship called the Karla. Make a note of this." She gave him the po
sition, course and speed just as the first officer had told them to her. "That was at four-ten this morning. Nat, this ship is going to ram yours at six A.M."
"Ram? Why? Oh, I see . . ."
"Nat, they'll catch me at the radio any minute, what are we going to do, quickly--"
"Can you create a diversion of some kind at precisely five-thirty?"
"Diversion?"
"Start a fire, shout 'man overboard,' anything to keep them all very busy for a few minutes."
"Well--I'll try--"
"Do your best. I want them all running around, nobody quite sure what's going on or what to do--are they all KGB?"
"Yes."
"Okay, now--"
The door of the radio room opened--Suza flipped the switch to TRANSMIT and Dickstein's voice was silenced and David Rostov walked in. He said, "Where's Aleksandr?"
Suza tried to smile. "He went for coffee. I'm minding the shop."
"The damn fool . . ." His curses switched into Russian as he stormed out.
Suza moved the lever to RECEIVE.
Nat said, "I heard that. You'd better make yourself scarce until five-thirty--"
"Wait," she shouted. "What are you going to do?"
"Do?" he said. "I'm coming to get you."
"Oh," she said. "Oh, thank you."
"I love you."
As she switched off, Morse began to come through on another set. Tyrin would have heard every word of her conversation, and now he would be trying to warn Rostov. She had forgotten to tell Nat about Tyrin.
She could try to contact Nat again, but it would be very risky, and Tyrin would get his message through to Rostov in the time it took Nat's men to search the Coparelli, locate Tyrin and destroy his equipment. And when Tyrin's message got to Rostov, he would know Nat was coming, and he would be prepared.
She had to block that message.
She also had to get away.
She decided to wreck the radio.
How? All the wiring must be behind the panels. She would have to take a panel off. She needed a screwdriver. Quickly, quickly before Rostov gives up looking for Aleksandr! She found Aleksandr's tools in a corner and picked out a small screwdriver. She undid the screws on two corners of the panel. Impatient, she pocketed the screwdriver and forced the panel out with her hands. Inside was a mass of wires like psychedelic spaghetti. She grabbed a fistful and pulled. Nothing happened: she had pulled too many at once. She selected one, and tugged: it came out. Furiously she pulled wires until fifteen or twenty were hanging loose. Still the Morse code chattered. She poured the remains of the vodka into the innards of the radio. The Morse stopped, and every light on the panel went out.