Operation Manhunt

by Christopher Nicole

  OPERATION

  MANHUNT

  Christopher Nicole

  © Christopher Nicole 1970

  Christopher Nicole has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1970 by Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  The Hunters

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  Part Two

  The Hunted

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  Part One

  The Hunters

  CHAPTER 1

  Craufurd waited by the yacht club jetty. To his right was the town of Poole, beyond which the land stretched around the horizon, reaching into the hills above Swanage, returning to his left in the sand dunes of Studland, which was separated from the equally low peninsula of Sandbanks on the northern shore by the narrow channel called the Swash, the only exit to the sea. In front of him, almost entirely enclosed, was enough water to float Nelson’s navy.

  But Poole Harbor was used only by yachts and small coasters, its emptiness punctuated by the several islands: Brownsea with its wood and its ever-romantic castle, Round farther to the left, and the other, smaller green knolls which protruded from the brown waters. On an afternoon such as this, with the morning’s storm having long departed up the English Channel, and the sun just setting, in a blaze of orange over distant Corfe, it was possible to remember that this had once been the busiest port on the south coast of England—but only because the tide was full. In another couple of hours it would have ebbed away from all but half a dozen narrow channels, and in place of several square miles of sea there would be several square miles of black mud, the same oozing silt which had strangled so many of the old English seaports, and which here had found its greatest victim.

  Craufurd sighed, and lit a cigar. He took off his Panama hat and inspected the yellow and red Marylebone Cricket Club ribbon which circled the crown. Of medium height and paunchy, he was quite bald except for a fringe of gray hair. His cheeks were round, his mouth almost arrogant in its confidence. With his stick and the rolled magazine under his arm, he suggested a retired colonel who had spent his career in Africa or India, dictating to the natives, and who, in the twilight of his life, was finding the growing social equalities of Britain hard to bear. But the brown eyes were too alert, too watchful, ever to be retired.

  He gazed at a yacht, an old and somewhat shabby wooden cutter, which was being moored some distance from the jetty. She had actually picked up her moorings some time before, but as yet her crew were showing no particular hurry to come ashore. No seaman himself, Craufurd had never been able to understand the endless ritual of stowing gear and making the ship tidy, which to him always seemed to take longer than any actual voyage.

  But now at last the two men were getting into the rubber dinghy, and pulling for the steps. Craufurd hurried to the shelter of the clubhouse, watched them dumping their kitbags in the back of an old M.G. sports car, and only then approached. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said. “But could you possibly offer me a lift?”

  “Good Lord,” Jonathan Anders said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Craufurd, I never noticed you.” Twenty-three years old, Jonathan was tall and slim, with good shoulders. He wore a yellow oilskin over his seaman’s sweater, and a woolen cap protected his dark hair. Normally his expression was confident, his mouth and eyes good-humored and relaxed; this morning his face was lined with fatigue.

  “After your many hours of training in observation?” Craufurd said, and sat in the front seat. “Dear me. But you will have ample opportunity for studying me, from amid the baggage, during our journey.”

  “I spotted the old buzzard.” Headly got behind the wheel. A short, solid man, Headly had a flat mouth, and his eyes were hard as stone. He wore a battered blue, peaked cap; the hair on his temples was gray. He thrust his hand inside his reefer jacket, pulled out a heavy sealed envelope. “Is that what you’re looking for? Must be important, to bring you all the way down to Dorset.”

  Craufurd turned the envelope over, squinted at the seals, placed it in his pocket. “It is important, Charles. And I congratulate you on its safe delivery.”

  Headly started the engine. “Beats me why you couldn’t just fly someone over to Paris.”

  “But then there would have been some risk of Philippe’s exposing his cover as a Breton fisherman. Whereas a chance meeting at sea off Cherbourg … one never can be too careful, in our business. You’re not going to tell me you ran into trouble? I actually did expect you back this morning.”

  “We ran into a gale, if you must know,” Headly said. “And have been close-reefed since dawn. So both Jon and I are anxious for a warm tub and forty-eight hours in bed. Where can I drop you?”

  “You may drive in the general direction of London, my dear fellow. And I really am terribly sorry to hear that you have had a bad, ah, holiday. But you know the old saying, no rest for the wicked. I came down to pick you up personally because it so happens that a rather urgent matter has come up.”

  “Everything that ever comes up in your line of business is rather urgent,” Headly remarked.

  “Our line of business, Charles. Do not let us forget that. And now we must be serious, just for a few minutes. Tell me, Jonathan, am I right in remembering that your father is a member of Her Majesty’s Diplomatic Service?”

  “You are, Mr. Craufurd.”

  “And would I also be right in supposing that he spent a considerable portion of his career in the Western Hemisphere?”

  “You would.”

  “Including, of course, the West Indies. I don’t suppose he’s still there?”

  “He’s on the staff of our embassy in Tokyo.”

  “Oh, dear me. How unfortunate.”

  “Nice place, Tokyo,” Headly reflected. “I’d say he’s rather lucky.”

  “I meant from our point of view, my dear Charles. I say, do we have to travel quite so fast?”

  Headly slowed down.

  “However,” Craufurd said. “Things may not be so bad as they seem. For you, as Donald Anders’ only son, must also have lived in a great many of these, er, exotic and exciting places, Jonathan.”

  “A long time ago.”

  “I find that difficult to believe. Including the West Indies?”

  “I spent a year in Jamaica. When I was about twelve.”

  “Which, surely, as you are by some distance the youngest member of my staff, cannot be all those many years in the past. What about the other islands? The Windwards, for instance?”

  “I’ve sailed through them, on holiday. The old man used to do a lot of sailing.”

  “And, of course, Donald Anders, and his beautiful yacht, especially when accompanied by his handsome and intelligent young son, would be well remembered in those parts?”

  “Unfortunately, she was an old tub.” Jonathan grinned at the back of Craufurd’s head.

  “Touché. But to be serious, you do have, er, friends among the natives, I presume?”

  “I have a few acquaintances.”

  “Then acquaintances will have to do.”

  Headly negotiated an S-bend, eased his foot to the floor. The M.G. bounded up a straight stretch of empty road, following its headlights now that the last of the twilight was fading. The fields on either side were empty even of grazing cows. “I know you enjoy being a figure of mystery, Harold, old son,” Headly said. �
�But would you mind telling me just why you find it necessary to barge in on the end of what up to now has been a rather pleasant vacation, and especially in this sinister and roundabout fashion? What on earth can possibly be happening to interest us in the Leeward Islands? I was under the impression that Castro has been being rather a good boy, recently.”

  “We happen to have been discussing the Windwards, which lie farther to the south, and more to the east, than do the Leewards—closer to the prevailing wind—as their name implies. Although the Leewards may well come into it. And while not everyone would agree with your estimation of the bearded chap, there is actually something quite different arousing my interest in those delightful islands. Tell me, Jonathan, how much do you know about our little organization?”

  “Not much, Mr. Craufurd,” Jonathan admitted. “Except that it’s not really very little.”

  “Let me see, you were recruited by Mr. Indman, weren’t you? While still at university?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Craufurd.”

  “And after suitable training you were given a field course which included breaking into Mr. Headly’s peculiar establishment over in Wiltshire. You flunked that, didn’t you?”

  “He was blundering into wires like a bull suddenly stricken with St. Vitus’ dance,” Headly said. “But when I went down to arrest him, I found him a bit of a handful.”

  “Quite so. It was on your recommendation, as I recall, that we used him in that Guernsey business. What a terrible affair.”

  “Things got a bit out of control,” Jonathan said.

  “You will find, as you grow older in our profession, that things are never quite under what you might call control. However, I wish you to abandon any idea that our business consists entirely of creating mayhem. As a matter of fact, mayhem is never desirable. Our job is the protection and preservation of the realm, and it follows that as Great Britain, alas, no longer possesses the military capability to impress her rivals, our ability to discover what is likely to happen well in advance, and perhaps prevent its happening, has made my department the most important facet of the country’s security.”

  “He has always enjoyed patting himself on the back,” Headly said.

  “Credit where credit is due, Charles. Now we seem to have arrived at a suitably lonely piece of country. I see a layby over there. Pull in, will you. But to continue, Jonathan, men like yourself and Mr. Headly, field agents, are really but an infinitesimal proportion of my staff. Knowledge, interpretation of events, there is the secret of our success. Eh, Charles?”

  “I’m sure.” Headly braked the car in the layby.

  “For instance,” Craufurd said. “I employ a staff of young women, all highly trained in world affairs, and with photographic memories, whose sole job in life is reading every daily newspaper, and every magazine—weekly, monthly, quarterly, or yearly—studying every photograph, seeking knowledge which might have escaped a less alert eye. Do you have a flashlight, Charles?”

  Headly opened the glove compartment. “Help yourself.”

  “Thank you. Here you are, Jonathan.” Craufurd unrolled his magazine and passed it and the flashlight back. “You will observe that you have there a glossy magazine devoted entirely to the most expensive holiday resorts, and the most expensive ways of enjoying those resorts. It is full of gossip about the famous people you might reasonably expect to meet on such a holiday, but of course never shall, and about the exotic sights you will see and the exotic flavors you will sample. From our point of view, its only recommendation is that it is liberally supplied with photographs. I would like you to examine the one on page twenty-five.”

  Jonathan shone the light on the page. The photograph showed a close-up of the quarterdeck of what appeared to be a large sailing vessel, at anchor in a tropical bay, the horizon being ringed with low, green hills, beneath which a town clustered on the water’s edge, dominated by the square tower of a cathedral on the high ground to the rear. The article was captioned, “The Lazy Life.”

  “She’s a nice-looking ship,” Jonathan remarked.

  “Tell me about her,” Craufurd said.

  “I’d say she’s a three-masted schooner. Beautiful job. Charter, is it?”

  “The article is about charter yachts, certainly. If you wish to enjoy the best of the West Indies, it says, you cannot do better than hire one of the many superb yachts available. You would agree with that estimation, would you?”

  “Providing you can foot the bill.”

  “Well, we must presume the gentleman in the photograph can. Tell me about him.”

  Jonathan bent closer to the page. “He’s middle-aged, distinguished looking, but in a bathing suit it’s difficult to place any man socially. He’s suntanned and relaxing in a deckchair and drinking something long and cool through a straw. I think he’s American.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, the Caribbean is more of an American playground than a British one, especially at this level. Economics.”

  “A good point. Now tell me, from where was this photograph taken?”

  “From just aft of where the man is sitting. It would be right in the stern of the ship.”

  “But you’re positive it was taken from on board the schooner? Couldn’t it have been done with a telephoto lens?”

  “The angle is wrong. If it was taken from another ship, she would have had to be so close I don’t think this bloke would still be sitting in his deckchair.”

  “I see. And can you make any decision as to the name of the vessel?”

  “There’s half a lifebelt, just in view. The name ends in der. But that could begin with anything.”

  “Quite so. You’ll be able to do better with the background, I hope.”

  “Carlisle Bay.”

  “And where is Carlisle Bay?”

  “It’s in Barbados. The anchorage of the chief town. That’s Bridgetown, behind the ship. The church on the hill is very distinctive.”

  “Just think of those lucky people, Charles, sunning themselves on their privately chartered schooner in Carlisle Bay. It makes me wonder where you and I went wrong. Now tell me something about the steward, Jonathan. You see him, in the background, just walking away from the passenger, carrying an empty tray?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would expect the steward of such a ship to be a local man, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “But that chap looks like a European. Possibly he was unaware that the photograph was being taken, because you will notice that he has just glanced over his shoulder, as the shutter was closed. Rather fortunate, that, what?”

  “Is it?” Jonathan asked uncertainly.

  “I have a magnifying glass here.” Craufurd fumbled in his jacket pocket. “Try that.”

  “Since when are we interested in stewards on charter yachts in the West Indies?” Headly wanted to know.

  “When is a steward not a steward, eh, Charles? Now tell me, Jonathan, how do these charter skippers recruit their crews?”

  “Well, locally, by word of mouth. But occasionally they’d advertise in a European newspaper or yachting magazine, if they wanted someone very special, like an engineer, or a competent navigator.”

  “Or an expert steward?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose, although frankly I’d have thought, as you say, that they’d stand their best chance of picking up an expert steward right there in the West Indies.”

  “Quite. And does that man’s face mean anything to you?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Craufurd, but the photograph is just a bit fuzzy.”

  “Well, try this one.” Craufurd took another photograph from his pocket, this time an enlargement of a head-and-shoulders portrait of a man. “Compare the two.”

  Jonathan chewed his lip. “There’s a superficial resemblance, certainly. Same long chin, same pointed nose, same smallish mouth. But the steward has a crew cut, and this chap’s hair is rather long, and he wears glasses. The military uniform makes
him look a bit different, too.”

  “Oh, come now, my dear boy, if you were thinking of altering your appearance, even slightly, wouldn’t you start by discarding your glasses and either cutting or growing your hair? He only used the spectacles for reading, anyway.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Headly took the magazine and the photograph. Jonathan held the light for him. “Good Lord! Isn’t this Vladimir Pobrenski?”

  “You see, Jonathan, Mr. Headly keeps abreast of current affairs.”

  “Pobrenski,” Jonathan said thoughtfully. “Wasn’t he somebody in the Polish government?”

  “He was what we would call Under Secretary for War over a considerable period of time, which means he was the real brains behind the Polish armed services, and as such, he was persona grata with the Russian military men as well, and in fact with the entire Warsaw Pact military system. As a matter of fact, he was one of the men who drew up the basic Communist plans for conducting military operations in Western Europe, should such a state of affairs ever arise. I imagine there is not a chief of staff in the free world who would not like the opportunity to have a long chat with General Pobrenski.”

  “He dropped out of the news a few months back,” Headly said. “But you’re drawing a very long bow here, Harold.”

  “Do you really think so? Let us recapitulate. Last year there was one of those tremendous upheavals which are becoming so common in the Communist world. General Pobrenski quite openly sided with the liberal elements, which surprised a great many people at the time. Now you will recall that those liberals got away with most of their reforms, again to the surprise of many people, and almost certainly only because they had friends in influential places. But as you can imagine, the Russians made a note of just who these friends were, and so suddenly last Christmas we observed that Pobrenski was no longer present at official ceremonies. Arrested? None of our sources of information could confirm it. Fled to the West? If he had, none of the NATO countries knew of it. But something had happened to him, and we soon discovered that the Poles, and the Russians, were just as anxious to find out where he was as we were. But not a thing turned up. Until one of my girls came across this photograph.”