There was a thump from inside the cupboard. Aleksandr must be coming round. Well, they would know everything as soon as they saw the radio now anyway.
She went out, closing the door behind her.
She went down the ladder and out on the deck, trying to figure out where she could hide and what kind of diversion she could create. No point now in shouting "man overboard"--they certainly would not believe her after what she had done to their radio and their radio operator. Let down the anchor? She would not know where to begin.
What was Rostov likely to do now? He would look for Aleksandr in the galley, the mess, and his cabin. Not finding him, he would return to the radio room, and then would start a shipwide search for her.
He was a methodical man. He would start at the prow and work backward along the main deck, then send one party to search the upperworks and another to sweep below, deck by deck, starting at the top and working down.
What was the lowest part of the ship? The engine room. That would have to be her hiding place. She went inside and found her way to a downward companionway. She had her foot on the top rung of the ladder when she saw Rostov.
And he saw her.
She had no idea where her next words came from. "Aleksandr's come back to the radio room, I'll be back in a moment."
Rostov nodded grimly, and went off in the direction of the radio room.
She headed straight down through two decks and emerged into the engine room. The second engineer was on duty at night. He stared at her as she came in and approached him.
"This is the only warm place on the ship," she said cheerfully. "Mind if I keep you company?"
He looked mystified, and said slowly, "I cannot . . . speak English . . . please."
"You don't speak English?"
He shook his head.
"I'm cold," she said, and mimed a shiver. She held her hands out toward the throbbing engine. "Okay?"
He was more than happy to have this beautiful girl for company in his engine room. "Okay," he said, nodding vigorously.
He continued to stare at her, with a pleased look on his face, until it occurred to him that he should perhaps show some hospitality. He looked about, then pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered her one.
"I don't usually, but I think I will," she said, and took a cigarette. It had a small cardboard tube for a filter. The engineer lit it for her. She looked up at the hatch, half expecting to see Rostov. She looked at her watch. It could not be five-twenty-five already! She had no time to think. Diversion, start a diversion. Shout "man overboard," drop the anchor, light a fire--
Light a fire.
With what?
Petrol, there must be petrol, or diesel fuel, or something, right here in the engine room.
She looked over the engine. Where did the petrol come in? The thing was a mass of tubes and pipes. Concentrate, concentrate! She wished she had learned more about the engine of her car. Were boat engines the same? No, sometimes they used truck fuel. Which kind was this? It was supposed to be a fast ship, so perhaps it used petrol, she remembered vaguely that petrol engines were more expensive to run but faster. If it was a petrol engine it would be similar to the engine of her car. Were there cables leading to spark plugs? She had changed a spark plug once.
She stared. Yes, it was like her car. There were six plugs, with leads from them to a round cap like a distributor. Somewhere there had to be a carburetor. The petrol went through the carburetor. It was a small thing that sometimes got blocked--
The voice-pipe barked in Russian, and the engineer walked toward it to answer. His back was to Suza.
She had to do it now.
There was something about the size of a coffee tin with a lid held on by a central nut. It could be the carburetor. She stretched herself across the engine and tried to undo the nut with her fingers. It would not budge. A heavy plastic pipe led into it. She grabbed it and tugged. She could not pull it out. She remembered she had put Aleksandr's screwdriver into her oilskin pocket. She took it out and jabbed at the pipe with the sharp end. The plastic was thick and tough. She stabbed the screwdriver into it with all her might. It made a small cut in the surface of the pipe. She stuck the point of the screwdriver into the cut and worked it.
The engineer reached the voice-pipe and spoke into it in Russian.
Suza felt the screwdriver break through the plastic. She tugged it out. A spray of clear liquid jetted out of the little hole, and the air was filled with the unmistakable smell of petrol. She dropped the screwdriver and ran toward the ladder.
She heard the engineer answer yes in Russian and nod his head to a question from the voice-pipe. An order followed. The voice was angry. As she reached the foot of the ladder she looked back. The engineer's smiling face had been transformed into a mask of malice. She went up the ladder as he ran across the engine room deck after her.
At the top of the ladder she turned around. She saw a pool of petrol spreading over the deck, and the engineer stepping on the bottom rung of the ladder. In her hand she still held the cigarette he had given her. She threw it toward the engine, aiming at the place where the petrol was squirting out of the pipe.
She did not wait to see it land. She carried on up the ladder. Her head and shoulders were emerging on to the next deck when there was a loud whooosh, a bright red light from below, and a wave of scorching heat. Suza screamed as her trousers caught fire and the skin of her legs burned. She jumped the last few inches of the ladder and rolled. She beat at her trousers, then struggled out of her oilskin and managed to wrap it around her legs. The fire was killed, but the pain got worse.
She wanted to collapse. She knew if she lay down she would pass out and the pain would go, but she had to get away from the fire, and she had to be somewhere where Nat could find her. She forced herself to stand up. Her legs felt as if they were still burning. She looked down to see bits like burned paper falling off, and she wondered if they were bits of trouser or bits of leg.
She took a step.
She could walk.
She staggered along the gangway. The fire alarm began to sound all over the ship. She reached the end of the gangway and leaned on the ladder.
Up, she had to go up.
She raised one foot, placed it on the bottom rung, and began the longest climb of her life.
Chapter Eighteen
For the second time in twenty-four hours Nat Dickstein was crossing huge seas in a small boat to board a ship held by the enemy. He was dressed as before, with life jacket, oilskin, and sea boots; and armed as before with submachine gun, pistol and grenades; but this time he was alone, and he was terrified.
There had been an argument aboard the Coparelli about what to do after Suza's radio message. Her dialogue with Dickstein had been listened to by the captain, Feinberg, and Ish. They had seen the jubilation in Nat's face, and they had felt entitled to argue that his judgment was being distorted by personal involvement.
"It's a trap," argued Feinberg. "They can't catch us, so they want us to turn and fight."
"I know Rostov," Dickstein said hotly. "This is exactly how his mind works: he waits for you to make a break, then he pounces. This ramming idea has his name written all over it."
Feinberg got angry. "This isn't a game, Dickstein."
"Listen, Nat," Ish said more reasonably, "let us carry on and be ready to fight if and when they catch us. What have we got to gain by sending a boarding party?"
"I'm not suggesting a boarding party. I'm going alone."
"Don't be a damn fool," Ish said. "If you go, so do we--you can't take a ship alone."
"Look," Dickstein said, trying to pacify them. "If I make it, the Karla will never catch this ship. If I don't, the rest of you can still fight when the Karla gets to you. And if the Karla really can't catch you, and it's a trap, then I'm the only one who falls into it. It's the best way."
"I don't think it's the best way," Feinberg said.
"Nor do I," Ish said.
Dickste
in smiled. "Well, I do, and it's my life, and besides, I'm the senior officer here and it's my decision, so to hell with all of you."
So he had dressed and armed himself, and the captain had shown him how to operate the launch's radio and how to maintain an interception course with the Karla, and they had lowered the launch, and he had climbed down into it and pulled away.
And he was terrified.
It was impossible for him to overcome a whole boatload of KGB all on his own. However, he was not planning that. He would not fight with any of them if he could help it. He would get aboard, hide himself until Suza's diversion began, and then look for her; and when he had found her, he would get off the Karla with her and flee. He had a small magnetic mine with him that he would fix to the Karla's side before boarding. Then, whether he managed to escape or not, whether the whole thing was a trap or genuine, the Karla would have a hole blown in her side big enough to keep her from catching the Coparelli.
He was sure it was not a trap. He knew she was there, he knew that somehow she had been in their power and had been forced to help them, he knew she had risked her life to save his. He knew that she loved him.
And that was why he was terrified.
Suddenly he wanted to live. The blood-lust was gone: he was no longer interested in killing his enemies, defeating Rostov, frustrating the schemes of the Fedayeen or outwitting Egyptian Intelligence. He wanted to find Suza, and take her home, and spend the rest of his life with her. He was afraid to die.
He concentrated on steering his boat. Finding the Karla at night was not easy. He could keep a steady course but he had to estimate and make allowance for how much the wind and the waves were carrying him sideways. After fifteen minutes he knew he should have reached her, but she was nowhere to be seen. He began to zigzag in a search pattern, wondering desperately how far off course he was.
He was contemplating radioing the Coparelli for a new fix when suddenly the Karla appeared out of the night alongside him. She was moving fast, faster than his launch could go, and he had to reach the ladder at her bows before she was past, and at the same time avoid a collision. He gunned the launch forward, swerved away as the Karla rolled toward him, then turned back, homing in, while she rolled the other way.
He had the rope tied around his waist ready. The ladder came within reach. He flipped the engine of his launch into idle, stepped on the gunwale, and jumped. The Karla began to pitch forward as he landed on the ladder. He clung on while her prow went down into the waves. The sea came up to his waist, up to his shoulders. He took a deep breath as his head went under. He seemed to be under water forever. The Karla just kept on going down. When he felt his lungs would burst she hesitated, and at last began to come up; and that seemed to take even longer. At last he broke surface and gulped lungfuls of air. He went up the ladder a few steps, untied the rope around his waist and made it fast to the ladder, securing the boat to the Karla for his escape. The magnetic mine was hanging from a rope across his shoulders. He took it off and slapped it on to the Karla's hull.
The uranium was safe.
He shed his oilskin and climbed up the ladder.
The sound of the launch engine was inaudible in the noise of the wind, the sea, and the Karla's own engines, but something must have attracted the attention of the man who looked over the rail just as Dickstein came up level with the deck. For a moment the man stared at Dickstein, his face registering amazement. Then Dickstein reached out his hand for a pull as he climbed over the rail. Automatically, with a natural instinct to help someone trying to get aboard out of the raging sea, the other man grabbed his arm. Dickstein got one leg over the rail, used his other hand to grab the outstretched arm, and threw the other man overboard and into the sea. His cry was lost in the wind. Dickstein brought the other leg over the rail and crouched down on the deck.
It seemed nobody had seen the incident.
The Karla was a small ship, much smaller than the Coparelli. There was only one superstructure, located amidships, two decks high. There were no cranes. The foredeck had a big hatch over the for'ard hold, but there was no aft hold: the crew accommodations and the engine room must occupy all the below-deck space aft, Dickstein concluded.
He looked at his watch. It was five-twenty-five. Suza's diversion should begin any moment, if she could do it.
He began to walk along the deck. There was some light from the ship's lamps, but one of the crew would have to look twice at him before being sure he was not one of them. He took his knife out of the sheath at his belt: he did not want to use his gun unless he had to, for the noise would start a hue and cry.
As he drew level with the superstructure a door opened, throwing a wedge of yellow light on the rain-spattered deck. He dodged around the corner, flattening himself against the for'ard bulkhead. He heard two voices speaking Russian. The door slammed, and the voices receded as the men walked aft in the rain.
In the lee of the superstructure he crossed to the port side and continued toward the stern. He stopped at the corner and, looking cautiously around it, saw the two men cross the afterdeck and speak to a third man in the stern. He was tempted to take all three out with a burst from his submachine gun--three men was probably one fifth of the opposition--but decided not to: it was too early, Suza's diversion had not started and he had no idea where she was.
The two men came back along the starboard deck and went inside. Dickstein walked up to the remaining man in the stern, who seemed to be on guard. The man spoke to him in Russian. Dickstein grunted something unintelligible, the man replied with a question, then Dickstein was close enough and he jumped forward and cut the man's throat.
He threw the body overboard and retraced his steps. Two dead, and still they did not know he was on board. He looked at his watch. The luminous hands showed five-thirty. It was time to go inside.
He opened a door and saw an empty gangway and a companionway leading up, presumably to the bridge. He climbed the ladder.
Loud voices came from the bridge. As he emerged through the companionhead he saw three men--the captain, the first officer and the second sublieutenant, he guessed. The first officer was shouting into the voice-pipe. A strange noise was coming back. As Dickstein brought his gun level, the captain pulled a lever and an alarm began to sound all over the ship. Dickstein pulled the trigger. The loud chatter of the gun was partly smothered by the wailing klaxon of the fire alarm. The three men were killed where they stood.
Dickstein hurried back down the ladder. The alarm must mean that Suza's diversion had started. Now all he had to do was stay alive until he found her.
The companionway from the bridge met the deck at a junction of two gangways--a lateral one, which Dickstein had used, and another running the length of the superstructure. In response to the alarm, doors were opening and men emerging all down both gangways. None of them seemed to be armed: this was a fire alarm, not a call to battle stations. Dickstein decided to run a bluff, and shoot only if it failed. He proceeded briskly along the central gangway, pushing his way through the milling men, shouting, "Get out of the way" in German. They stared at him, not knowing who he was or what he was doing, except that he seemed to be in authority and there was a fire. One or two spoke to him. He ignored them. There was a rasping order from somewhere, and the men began to move purposefully. Dickstein reached the end of the gangway and was about to go down the ladder when the officer who had given the order came into sight and pointed at him, shouting a question.
Dickstein dropped down.
On the lower deck things were better organized. The men were running in one direction, toward the stern, and a group of three hands under the supervision of an officer was breaking out fire-fighting gear. There, in a place where the gangway widened for access to hoses, Dickstein saw something which made him temporarily unhinged, and brought a red mist of hatred to his eyes.
Suza was on the floor, her back to the bulkhead. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, her trousers torn. He could see her scorched a
nd blackened skin through the tatters. He heard Rostov's voice, shouting at her over the sound of the alarm: "What did you tell Dickstein?"
Dickstein jumped from the ladder onto the deck. One of the hands moved in front of him. Dickstein knocked him to the deck with an elbow blow to the face, and jumped on Rostov.
Even in his rage, he realized that he could not use the gun in this confined space while Rostov was so close to Suza. Besides, he wanted to kill the man with his hands.
He grabbed Rostov's shoulder and spun him around. Rostov saw his face. "You!" Dickstein hit him in the stomach first, a pile-driving blow that buckled him at the waist and made him gasp for air. As his head came down Dickstein brought a knee up fast and hard, snapping Rostov's chin up and breaking his jaw; then, continuing the motion, he put all his strength behind a kick into the throat that smashed Rostov's neck and drove him backward into the bulkhead.
Before Rostov had completed his fall Dickstein turned quickly around, went down on one knee to bring his machine gun off his shoulder, and with Suza behind him and to one side opened fire on three hands who appeared in the gangway.
He turned again, picking Suza up in a fireman's lift, trying not to touch her charred flesh. He had a moment to think, now. Clearly the fire was in the stern, the direction in which all the men had been running. If he went forward now he was less likely to be seen.
He ran the length of the gangway, then carried her up the ladder. He could tell by the feel of her body on his shoulder that she was still conscious. He came off the top of the ladder to the main deck level, found a door and stepped out.