Thirty minutes later the Sabena Jet made its last turn over South London and headed for its home in Brussels. Below the starboard wing, the country of Kent was spread out in the sunshine. Weatherwise, it had been a beautiful month of May. From the portholes one could see acres of blossom where the apple, pear, and cherry orchards covered the land in pink and white.
Along the lanes that trickle through the heart of the Weald, the Maythorn would be out, the horse chestnut trees glowing with green and white, the pigeons clattering among the oaks. He knew the country well from the time years ago when he had been stationed at Chatham and had bought an old motorcycle to explore the ancient country pubs between Lamberhurst and Smarden. Good country, good country to settle down in, if you were the settling type.
Ten minutes later, one of the passengers farther back summoned the stewardess to complain that someone up front was whistling a monotonous little tune.
It took Cat Shannon two hours on Friday afternoon to withdraw the money transferred from Switzerland and close his account. He took two certified bank checks, each for £5000, which could be converted into a bank account somewhere else, and from that into more travelers’ checks; and the other £10,000 in fifty $500 checks that needed only countersignature to be used as cash.
He spent that night in Brussels and flew the next morning to Paris and Marseilles.
A taxi from the airport brought him to the small hotel in the outskirts where Langarotti had once lived under the name of Lavallon, and where Janni Dupree, still following orders, was in residence. He was out at the time, so Shannon waited until he returned that evening, and together they drove, in a hired car Shannon had engaged, to Toulon. It was the end of Day Fifty-two, and the sprawling French naval port was bathed in warm sunshine.
On Sunday the shipping agent’s office was not open, but it did not matter. The rendezvous spot was the pavement in front of it, and here Shannon and Dupree met Marc Vlaminck and Langarotti on the dot of nine o’clock. It was the first time they had been together for weeks, and only Semmler was missing. He should be a hundred miles or so along the coast, steaming offshore in the Toscana toward Toulon.
At Shannon’s suggestion, Langarotti telephoned the harbormaster’s office from a nearby café and ascertained that the Toscana’s agents in Genoa had cabled that she was due in on Monday morning and that her berth was reserved.
There was nothing more to do that day, so they went in Shannon’s car along the coast road toward Marseilles and spent the day at the cobbled fishing port of Sanary-sur-Mer. Despite the heat and the holiday atmosphere of the picturesque little town, Shannon could not relax. Only Dupree bought himself a pair of swimming trunks and dived off the end of the jetty of the yacht harbor. He said later the water was still damn cold. It would warm up later, through June and July, when the tourists began to pour south from Paris. By then they would all be preparing to strike at another harbor town, not much larger and many miles away.
Shannon sat for most of the day with the Belgian and Corsican on the terrace of Charley’s bar, the Pot d’Etain, soaking up the sunshine and thinking of the next morning. The Yugoslav or the Spanish shipment might not turn up, or might be late, or might be blocked for some as yet unknown bureaucratic reason, but there would be no reason for them to be arrested in Yugoslavia or Spain. They might be held for a few days while the boat was searched, but that would be all. The following morning was different. If anyone insisted on peering deep into those oil barrels, there would be months, maybe years, spent sweating in Les Baumettes, the great forbidding fortress prison he had passed on Saturday as he drove from Marseilles to Toulon.
The waiting was always the worst, he reflected as he settled the bill and called his three colleagues to the car.
It turned out to be smoother than they thought. Toulon is known as an enormous navy base, and the skyline at the harbor is dominated by the superstructures of the French navy warships lying at anchor. The center of attraction for the tourists and the strollers of Toulon that Monday was the battle cruiser Jean Bart, home from a voyage to the French Caribbean territories, full of sailors with back pay to spend and looking for girls.
Along the broad sweep of esplanade fronting the harbor, the cafés were full of people indulging in the favorite pastime of every Mediterranean country—watching life go by. They sat in brightly colored hordes, gazing from the shaded awnings across the half mile of bobbing yachts—from little outboard-powered runabouts to the sleek sea greyhounds of the very rich.
Up against the eastward quay were the dozen fishing boats that had elected not to go to sea, and behind these were the long, low customs sheds, warehouses, and harbor offices.
It was beyond these, in the small and hardly observed commercial port, that the Toscana slipped into her berth just before noon.
Shannon waited till she was tied up, and from his seat on a bollard 150 feet away he could see Semmler and Waldenberg moving about the decks. There was no sign of the Serbian engineer, who was probably still in his beloved engine room, but two other figures were also on deck, making fast and coiling ropes. These had to be the two new crewmen recruited by Waldenberg.
A small Renault buzzed along the quay and came to a halt by the gangway. A rotund Frenchman in a dark suit emerged and went aboard the Toscana. The representative of Agence Maritime Duphot. Before long he came back down, followed by Waldenberg, and the two strolled over to the customs shed. It was nearly an hour before the two men emerged, the shipping agent to return to his car and drive away into town, the German captain to get back to his ship.
Shannon gave them another thirty minutes; then he too strolled up the gangway and onto the Toscana. Semmler beckoned him into the companionway that led down to the crew’s saloon.
“So, what’s been going on?” Shannon asked when he and Semmler were seated below.
Semmler grinned. “All smooth and easy,” he said. “I got the papers changed to show the new captain, had a complete engine service done, bought an unnecessarily large amount of blankets and a dozen foam-rubber mattresses. No one asked any questions, and the captain still thinks we are going to run immigrants into Britain.
“I used the Toscana’s usual shipping agent in Genoa to book us in here, and the manifest says we are taking on a mixed cargo of sporting goods and leisure equipment for a holiday camp on the coast of Morocco.”
“What about the engine-lubricating oil?”
Semmler grinned. “It was all ordered; then I called up and canceled it. When it didn’t arrive, Waldenberg wanted to delay for a day and wait for it. I vetoed that and said we would get it here in Toulon.”
“Fine,” said Shannon. “Don’t let Waldenberg order it. Tell him you’ve done it yourself. Then when it arrives, he’ll be expecting it. That man who came on board…”
“The shipping agent. He has all the stuff still in bond, and the papers prepared. He’s sending it down this afternoon in a couple of trucks. The crates are so small we can load them ourselves with the derrick.”
“Good. Let him and Waldenberg sort out the paperwork. An hour after the stuff is all aboard, the fuel-company truck will arrive with the oil. Driven by Langarotti. You have enough money left to pay for it?”
“Yes.”
“Then pay for it in full cash, and get a signed receipt. Just make sure no one bangs it about too hard as it goes aboard. The last thing we need is for the bottom of one of the barrels to fall out. The quay will be waist-deep in Schmeissers.”
“When do the men come aboard?”
“Tonight after dark. One by one. Just Marc and Janni. I’m leaving Jean-Baptiste here for a while. He has the truck, and there’s one more job to be done at this end. When can you sail?”
“Anytime. Tonight. I can fix it. Actually, it’s rather nice being the managing director.”
“Don’t get too accustomed to it. It’s only a front.”
“Okay, Cat. Incidentally, where are we going when we leave?”
“Brindisi. Know it?”
“Sure I know it. I’ve run more cigarettes into Italy from Yugoslavia than you’ve had hot dinners. What do we pick up there?”
“Nothing. You wait for my telegram. I’ll be in Germany. I’ll cable you through the port office at Brindisi with the next destination and the day you have to arrive. Then you must get a local agent to cable the Yugoslav port in question and reserve a berth. Are you okay to go to Yugoslavia?”
“I think so. Anyway, I won’t get off the ship. We pick up more arms?”
“Yes. At least, that’s the plan. I just have to hope my arms dealer and the Yugoslav officials have not cocked it up. Do you have all the charts you need?”
“Yes, I bought them all in Genoa as you told me. You know, Waldenberg will have to realize what we are taking on board in Yugoslavia. Then he’ll know we aren’t running illegal immigrants. He accepts the speedboats and the engines, the walkie-talkies and the clothing as quite normal, but arms are something else again.”
“I know,” said Shannon. “It will cost a bit of money. But I think he’ll get the message. There’ll be you and me, Janni and Marc on board. Besides, by then we can tell him what’s in the oil drums. He’ll be so far in by then, he’ll have to go along. What are the two new crewmen like?”
Semmler nodded and stubbed out his fifth cigarette. The air was a blue haze in the small saloon. “Good. Two Italians. Hard boys, but obedient. I think they’re both wanted by the carabinieri for something. They were so pleased to get on board and under cover. They couldn’t wait to get to sea.”
“Fine. Then they won’t want to be put ashore in a foreign country. That would mean they’d be picked up without papers and repatriated, straight into the hands of their own police.”
Waldenberg had done well. Shannon met both men briefly, and short nods were exchanged. Semmler simply introduced him as a man from the head office, and Waldenberg translated. The men, Norbiatto, the first mate, and Cipriani, the deckhand, evinced no further interest. Shannon exchanged a few instructions with Waldenberg and left.
In midafternoon the two vans from Agence Maritime Duphot rolled to a stop by the Toscana, accompanied by the same man who had appeared that morning. A French customs officer, clipboard in hand, emerged from the customs house and stood by as the crates were swung inboard by the ship’s derrick: four crates of assorted rough clothing, belts, boots, and caps, for the Moroccan workers at the holiday village; three crated large-size inflatable dinghies for sporting and leisure purposes; three outboard engines for same; two crates of assorted flares, binoculars, ship’s gas-powered foghorn, radio parts, and magnetic compasses. The last crates were listed under ship’s stores.
The customs officer ticked them off as they went aboard, and confirmed with the shipping agent that they were either bonded for reexport, having arrived from Germany or Britain, or they were locally bought and carried no export duty. The customs man did not even look inside the crates. He knew the agency well, dealing with them every day.
When all was aboard, the customs man stamped the ship’s cargo manifest. Waldenberg said something to Semmler in German, and the latter translated. He explained to the agency man that Waldenberg needed lubricating oil for his engines. It had been ordered in Genoa but had not been delivered in time.
The agency man noted in his book. “How much do you need?”
“Five drums,” said Semmler. Waldenberg did not understand the French.
“That’s a lot,” said the agent.
Semmler laughed. “This old bucket uses as much oil as diesel. Besides, we might as well get it here and have enough for a long time to come.”
“When do you need it?” asked the agent.
“Five o’clock this afternoon will be all right?” asked Semmler.
“Make it six,” said the agency man, noting the type and quantity in his notebook, along with the hour of delivery. He looked up at the customs man. The official nodded. He was uninterested and strolled away. Shortly after, the agency man left in his car, followed by the two trucks.
At five o’clock Semmler left the Toscana, went to a phone in a café on the waterfront, rang the agency, and canceled the oil order. The skipper, he said, had discovered a full barrel at the rear of the stores locker and would not be needing any more for several weeks. The agency man was disgruntled but agreed.
At six a truck drove carefully along the quay and stopped opposite the Toscana. It was driven by Jean-Baptiste Langarotti in a bright green overall suit with the word “Castrol” on the back.
After opening the back of the truck, he carefully rolled five large oil drums down the plank he had fitted to the rear step. From the window of the customs house the duty officer peered out.
Waldenberg caught his eye and waved. He pointed to the barrels and back to his ship.
“Okay?” he called, adding with a thick accent, “Ca va?”
From the window the customs man nodded and withdrew to make a note on his clipboard. At Waldenberg’s orders, the two Italian crewmen slipped cradles under the barrels and, one by one, winched them aboard. Semmler was uncommonly eager to help, steadying the drums as they swung over the ship’s rail, shouting in German to Waldenberg on the winch to let them down easily. They slid out of sight into the dark, cool hold of the Toscana, and soon the hatch was back in place and clamped down.
Langarotti, having made his dispatch, had long since left in his truck. A few minutes later the overall suit was at the bottom of a waste bin in the heart of town. From his bollard at the other end of the quay, Shannon had watched the loading with bated breath. He would have preferred to be involved, like Semmler, for the waiting was almost physically painful, worse than going into action.
When it was over, things quieted down on the Toscana. The captain and his three men were belowdecks, the engineer having taken one turn of the ship to sniff the salt air and then having gone back to his diesel fumes. Semmler gave them half an hour, then slipped down to the quay and came to join Shannon. They met around three corners and out of sight of the harbor.
Semmler was grinning. “I told you. No problems.”
Shannon nodded and grinned back with relief. He knew better than Semmler what was at stake, and, unlike the German, he was not familiar with port procedures.
“When can you take the men aboard?”
“The customs office closes at nine. They should come between twelve and one in the morning. We sail at five. It’s fixed.”
“Good,” said Shannon. “Let’s go and find them and have a drink. I want you back there quickly in case there are any inquiries still to come.”
“There won’t be.”
“Never mind. We’ll play safe. I want you to watch that cargo like a mother hen. Don’t let anyone near those barrels till I say so, and that will be in a harbor in Yugoslavia. Then we tell Waldenberg what he’s carrying.”
They met the other three mercenaries at a prearranged café and had several beers to cool down. The sun was setting, and the sea within the vast bowl of land that forms the anchorage and roads of Toulon was ruffled by only a slight breeze. A few sailboats pirouetted like ballerinas far out on the stage as their crews brought them about to catch the next gust.
Semmler left them at eight and returned to the Toscana.
Janni Dupree and Marc Vlaminck slipped quietly aboard between midnight and one, and at five, watched from the quay by Shannon and Langarotti, the Toscana slipped back to the sea.
Langarotti ran Shannon to the airport in midmorning to catch his plane. Over breakfast Shannon had given the Corsican his last set of instructions and enough money to carry them out.
“I’d prefer to be going with you,” Jean-Baptiste said, “or with the ship.”
“I know,” said Shannon. “But I need someone good to do this part of it. It’s vital. Without it we can’t go through. I need someone reliable, and you have the added advantage of being French. Besides, you know two of the men well, and one speaks a smattering of French. Janni couldn’t go in there with a South African pas
sport. Marc and I need to intimidate the crew if they cut up rough. I know you’re better with a knife than he is with his hands, but I don’t want a fight, just enough to persuade the crew to do what they’re told. And I need Kurt to check the navigation, in case Waldenberg chickens out. In fact, if the worse comes to the worst and Waldenberg goes over the side, Kurt has to skipper the ship. So it has to be you.”
Langarotti agreed to go on the mission. “They’re good boys,” he said with a little more enthusiasm. “It will be good to see them again.”
When they parted at the airport, Shannon reminded him, “It can all fall through if we get there and we have no backup force. So it depends on you to do it right. It’s all set up. Just do what I said and cope with the small problems as they arise. I’ll see you in a month.”
He left the Corsican, walked through customs, and boarded his plane for Paris and Hamburg.
nineteen
“My information is that you can pick up the mortars and bazookas anytime after June tenth, and that was reconfirmed yesterday by telex,” Alan Baker told Shannon the day after his arrival in Hamburg.
“What port?” asked Shannon.
“Plocˇe.”
“Where?”
“Plocˇe. Spelled P-L-O-Cˇ-E, pronounced Plochay. It’s a small port almost exactly halfway between Split and Dubrovnik.”
Shannon thought. He had ordered Semmler while in Genoa to pick up the necessary sea charts to cover the whole Yugoslav coast, but he had supposed the pickup would be at one of the larger ports. He hoped the German had a chart covering the sea approaches to Plocˇe, or could get one at Brindisi.
“How small?”
“Quite small. Very discreet. Half a dozen wharves and two large warehouses. The Yugoslavs usually use it for their arms exports. The last shipment out of Yugoslavia I did by plane, but I was told at that time if it was to be by sea, it would be from Plocˇe. It’s better if it’s a small port. There’s usually a berth, and loading facilities are quicker. Moreover, the customs there must be a very small unit, probably with one lowly man in charge, and if he gets his present, he’ll see everything on board within a few hours.”
The Dogs of War Page 35