Seawitch (8 page)

"We could do without them." Lord Worth was back on balance again. He flipped out a notebook and consulted it. "I think Til have a talk with Washington." His hand was just reaching out for the phone when it rang. He lifted the instrument, at the same time turning the switch that cut the incoming call into the bulkhead speaker.

"Worth."

A vaguely disembodied voice came through the speaker. "You know who I am?" Disembodied or not, the voice was known to Worth. Corral.

"Yes."

Tve checked my contact, sir. Tm afraid our guesses were only too accurate. Both X and Y are willing to commit themselves to naval support."

"I know. One of them has just moved out and appears to be heading in our general direction."

"Which one?"

"The one to the south. Any talk of air commitment?"

"None that I've heard, sir. But I don't have to tell you that that doesn't rule out its use."

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"Let me know if there is any more good news."

"Naturally. Goodbye, sir."

Lord Worth replaced the instrument, then lifted it again.

"I want a number in Washington."

"Can you hold a moment, sir?"

"Why?"

"There's another code message coming through. Looks like the same code as the last one, sir."

"I shouldn't be surprised." Lord Worth's tone was somber. "Bring it across as soon as possible."

He replaced the phone, pressed a button on the small console before him, lifting the phone again as he did.

"Chambers?" Chambers was his senior pilot

"Sir?"

"Your chopper refueled?"

"Ready to go when you are, sir.**

"May be any second now. Stand by your phone." He replaced the receiver.

Larsen said: "Washington beckons, sir?"

"I have the odd feeling that it's about to. There are things that one can achieve in person that one can't over the phone. Depends upon this next message."

"If you go, anything to be done in your absence?"

"There'll be dual-purpose antiaircraft guns arriving aboard the Roamer this afternoon. Secure them to the platform."

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"To the north, south, east but not west?"

"As you wish."

"We don't want to start blowing holes in our own oil tank."

"There's that. There'll -eAso be mines. Three piles, each halfway between a pair of legs."

"An underwater explosion from a mine wouldn't damage the legs?"

"I shouldn't think so. We'll just have to find out, won't we? Keep in constant half-hourly touch with both the Torbetto and the Jupiter. Keep the radar and sonar stations constantly manned. Eternal vigilance, if you will. Hell, Commander, I don't have to tell you what to do." He wrote some figures on a piece of paper. "If I do have to go, contact this number in Washington. Tell them that Tm coming. Five hours or so."

"This is the State Department?"

"Yes. Tell them that at least the Under Secretary must be there. Remind him, tactfully, of future campaign contributions. Then contact my aircraft pilot, Dawson. Tell him to be standing by with a filed flight plan for Washington."

The radio operator knocked, entered, handed Lord Worth a message sheet and left. Lord Worth, hands steady and face now untroubled, decoded the message, reached for the phone and told Chambers to get to the helicopter at once.

He said to the two men: "A Russian-built Cuban submarine is on its way from Havana. It's

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being followed by a Russian guided-missile destroyer. Both are heading this way."

"A visit to the State Department or the Pentagon would appear to be indicated," Larsen said. "There isn't too much we can do about guided missiles. Looks like there might be quite some activity hereabouts. That makes five vessels arrowing in on us—three naval vessels, the Jupiter and the Roomer." Larsen might have been even more concerned had he known that the number of vessels was seven, not five: but, then, Larsen was not to know that the Tiburon and the Starlight were heading that way also.

Lord Worth rose. "Well, keep an eye on the shop. Back this evening sometime. I'll be in frequent radio contact."

Lord Worth was to fly four legs that day: by helicopter to the mainland, by his private Boeing to Washington, the return flight to Florida, and the final leg by helicopter out to the Seawitch. On each of those four legs something very unpleasant was going to happen—unpleasant for Lord Worth, that is. Fortunately for Lord Worth, he was not blessed with the alleged Scottish second sight—the ability to look into the future.

The first of those unpleasantnesses happened when Lord Worth was en route to the mainland. A large station wagon swept up to the

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front door of Lord Worth's mansion, carrying five rather large men who would have been difficult later to identify, for aU five wore stocking masks. One of them carried what appeared to be a large coil of clothesline rope, another a roll of adhesive tape. All carried guns.

MacPherson, the elderly head gardener, was taking his customary prework dawn patrol to see what damage the fauna had wreaked on his flora during the night, when the men emerged from the station wagon. Even allowing for the fact that shock had temporarily paralyzed his vocal cords, he never had a chance. In just over a minute, bound hand and foot and with his lips sealed with adhesive tape, he had been dumped unceremoniously into a clump of bushes.

The leader of the group, a man by the name of Durand, pressed the front-door bell. Durand, a man who had a powerful affinity with banks and who was a three-time ex-convict, was by definition a man of dubious reputation, a reputation confirmed by the fact that he was a close and longtime term associate of Cronkite. Half a minute passed, then he rang again. By and by the door opened to reveal a robe-wrapped Jen-kins, tousle-haired and blinking the sleep from his eyes—it was still very early in the morning. His eyes stopped blinking and opened wide when he saw the pistol in Durand's hand.

Durand touched the cylinder screwed onto the muzzle of Ms gun. As hooked a TV addict as the

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next man, Jenkins recognized a silencer when he saw one.

"You know what this is?"

A fully awake Jenkins nodded silently.

"We don't want to harm anyone in the house. Especially, no harm will come to you if you do what you are told. Doing what you are told includes not telling lies. Understood?"

Jenkins understood.

"How many staff do you have here?"

There was a noticeable quaver in Jenkins's voice. "Well, there's me—I'm the butler—"

Durand was patient. "You we can see."

"Two footmen, a chauffeur, a radio operator, a secretary, a cook and two housemaids. There's a cleaning lady, but she doesn't come until eight."

"Tape him," Durand said. Jenkins's lips were taped. "Sorry about that, but people can be silly at times. Take us to those eight bedrooms."

Jenkins reluctantly led the way. Ten minutes later, all eight of the staff were securely bound and silenced. Durand said: "And now, the two young ladies."

Jenkins led them to a door. Durand picked out three of his men and said softly: "The butler will take you to the other girl. Check what she packs and especially her purse."

Durand, followed by his men, entered the room, his gun in its concealed holster so as not to arouse too much alarm. That the bed was occupied was beyond doubt, although all that could

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be seen was a mop of black hair on the pillow. Durand said in a conversational voice: "I think you better get up, ma'am." Durand was not normally given to gentleness, but he did not want a case of screaming hysterics on his hands.

A case of hysterics he did not have. Marina turned round in bed and looked at him with drowsy eyes. The drowsiness did not last long. The eyes opened wide, either in fear or shock, then returned to normal. She reached for a robe, arranged it strategically on the bed cover, then sat bolt upright, wrapping the robe round her.

"Who are you and what do you want?" Her voice was not quite as steady as she might have

wished.

"Well, would you look at that, now?" Durand said admiringly. "You'd think she was used to being kidnaped every morning of her life."

"This is a kidnap?"

'Tin afraid so." Durand sounded genuinely apologetic.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Vacation. Little island hi the sun." Durand smiled. "You won't be needing any swimsuit though. Please get up and get dressed."

"And if I refuse?"

"We'll dress you."

"I'm not going to get dressed with you two watching me."

Durand was soothing. "My friend will stand out in the corridor. I'll go into the bathroom

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there and leave the door open just a crack—not to watch you, but to watch the window, to make sure that you don't leave by it. Call me when you're ready and be quick about it."

She was quick about it. She called him within three minutes. Blue blouse, blue slacks and her hair combed. Durand nodded his approval.

"Pack a traveling bag. Enough for a few days."

He watched her while she packed. She zipped the bag shut and picked up her purse. "I'm ready."

He took the purse from her, undid the clasp and upended the contents on the bed. From the jumble on the bed he selected a small pearl-handled pistol, which he slipped into his pocket

"Let's pack the purse again, shall we?"

Marina did so, her face flushed with mortification.

A somewhat similar scene had just taken place in Melinda's bedroom.

Twenty-five minutes had elapsed since the arrival of Durand and his men and their departure with the two girls. No one had been hurt, except in pride, and the intruders had even been considerate to the extent of seating Jenkins in a deep armchair in the front hall. Jenkins, as he was now securely bound hand and foot, did not appreciate this courtesy as much as he might have done.

About ten minutes after their departure, Lord Worth's helicopter touched down beside his

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Boeing in the city airport. There were no customs, no clearance formalities. Lord Worth had made it plain some years previously that he did not much care for that sort of thing, and when Lord Worth made things plain they tended to remain that way.

It was during the second leg of this flight that the second unfortunate occurrence happened. Again, Lord Worth was happily unaware of what was taking place.

The Tiburon's (now the Georgia's) helicopter had located the Torbello. The pilot reported that he had sighted the vessel two minutes previously and gave her latitude and longitude as accurately as he could judge. More importantly, he gave her course as approximately 315 degrees, which was virtually on a collision course with the Georgia. They were approximately forty-five miles apart. Cronkite gave his congratulations to the pilot and asked him to return to the Georgia.

On the bridge of the Georgia Cronkite and Mulhooney looked at each other with satisfaction. Between planning and execution there often exists an unbridgeable gap. In this case, however, things appeared to be going exactly according to plan.

Cronkite said to Mulhooney: "Time, I think, to change into more respectable clothes. And don't forget to powder your nose."

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Mulhooney smiled and left the bridge. Cronkite paused only to give a few instructions to the helmsman, then left the bridge also.

Less than an hour later the Torbello stood clear over the horizon. The Georgia headed straight for it, then at about three miles distance made a thirty-degree alteration to starboard, judged the timing to a nicety and came round in a wide sweeping turn to port. Two minutes later the Georgia was on a parallel course to the Torbello, alongside its port quarter—the bridge of a tanker lies very far aft—paralleling its course at the same speed and not more than thirty yards away. Cronkite moved out onto the wing of the Georgia's bridge and lifted his loud-hailer.

"Coast Guard. Please stop. This is a request, not an order. We think your vessel's in great danger. Your permission, please, to bring a trained research party aboard. For the safety of your men and the ship, don't break radio silence on any account!"

Captain Thompson, an honest sailor with no criminal propensities whatsoever, used his own loud-hailer.

"What's wrong? Why is this boarding necessary?"

"It's not a boarding. I am making a request for your own good. Believe me, I'd rather not be within five miles of you. It is necessary. I'd rather

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come aboard with my lieutenant and explain privately. Don't forget what happened to your sister ship, the Crusader, in Galveston harbor last night."

Captain Thompson, clearly, had not forgotten and was, of course, completely unaware that Cronkite was the man responsible for what had happened to his sister ship: a ringing of bells from the bridge was indication enough of that. Three minutes later the Torbello lay stopped in the calm waters. The Georgia edged up alongside the Torbello until its midships were just ahead of the bulk of the tanker's superstructure. At this point it was possible to step from the Georgia's deck straight onto the deck of the deep-laden tanker, which was what Cronkite and Mulhooney proceeded to do. They paused there until they had made sure that the Georgia was securely moored fore and aft to the tanker, then climbed a series of companionways and ladders up to the bridge.

Both men were quite unrecognizable. Cronkite had acquired a splendidly bushy black beard, a neatly trimmed mustache and dark glasses and, with his smartly tailored uniform and slightly rakish peaked cap, looked the epitome of the competent and dashing coast-guard-cutter captain which he was not. Mulhooney was similarly disguised.

There was only Captain Thompson and an idle

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helmsman on the bridge. Cronkite shook the captain's hand.

"Good morning. Sorry to disturb you when you are proceeding about your lawful business and all that, but you may be glad we stopped you. First, where is your radio room?" Captain Thompson nodded to a door set in back of the bridge. "Fd like my lieutenant to check on the radio silence. This is imperative." Again, Captain Thompson, now feeling distinctly uneasy, nodded. Cronkite looked at Mulhooney. "Go check, Dixon, will you?"