The Spoilers / Juggernaut

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘What are his views?’ asked Tozier.

  ‘He doesn’t want to be rescued from the shed. He and Abbot could get out themselves if they wanted to—just knock that Arab on the head and blow. But that would give the game away.’

  Tozier consulted his watch. ‘It’s seven now. We don’t have much time to make up our minds. Do we hit her before she sails—in the shipyard—or when she’s at sea?’

  ‘It must be before she sails,’ said Metcalfe positively. ‘We’d never get aboard her at sea. The skipper isn’t going to heave to and roll out a red carpet for us—not with Eastman looking on.’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ said Hellier. ‘Eastman is sailing in the Orestes with Parker and Abbot. The Delorme woman is staying in Beirut.’

  ‘Not for long,’ said Warren. ‘Parker says that she and Fuao are following in the yacht—going for a cruise in the Caribbean, that’s the story. He reckons they’ll scuttle the Orestes after getting rid of the torpedoes—those torpedo tubes are evidence and they daren’t let the Orestes put into port where she’ll be given a going over by Customs officers. The Stella del Mare will be standing by to take off the crew.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Metcalfe cynically. ‘Some of the crew, perhaps. I told you that Jeanette likes to cover up her tracks.’

  ‘So it’s the shipyard,’ said Tozier. ‘I suggest we hit them just before the Orestes is due to sail. We take over the ship and get her out to sea where we can dump the torpedoes. After that we beach her somewhere and split up.’

  ‘We ought to surprise them,’ said Metcalfe. ‘We’ll be coming in from the sea. They’re typical landlubbers and their guards are on the landward side, at the gates. But it’s got to be slick and fast.’ He gestured to Follet. ‘Open the case, Johnny.’

  Follet opened the suitcase and began to lay the contents on the table. ‘I contacted some of my pals,’ said Metcalfe, as the guns were laid out one by one. ‘I thought we’d need these. Jeanette isn’t the only one with access to weapons.’ He grinned at Hellier. ‘You’ll get the bills later.’

  Tozier picked up a sub-machine-gun. ‘This is for me. What’s the ammo situation?’

  ‘There’ll be enough if you don’t pop off into the air, but it’ll be best if we don’t have to use them at all. Guns are noisy, and we don’t want the port police chasing us.’ He waved at the table. ‘What’s your fancy, Nick?’

  Warren stared at the collection of pistols. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve never used a gun. I don’t think I could hit anything.’

  Follet picked up a pistol and worked the action. ‘You’d better have one, even if it’s just to point; otherwise you might find your ass in a sling.’

  Hellier reached over. ‘I think I’ll have this one. Not that I’ve had much practice. I was in the Artillery and that was too long ago.’

  Metcalfe raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hellier calmly. ‘Is there any reason why not?’

  Metcalfe shrugged. ‘None at all. But I thought you’d be one of the back-room boys.’

  Hellier glanced at Warren. ‘It’s partly my fault that Abbot and Parker are where they are. A long time ago I told Warren I wanted blood; I’m quite prepared to pay for it myself.’

  Warren looked at the single pistol on the table. ‘I’ll show you how to handle it, Nick,’ said Follet. ‘We’ll have time enough for a run-down.’

  Slowly Warren stetched out his hand and picked up the pistol, feeling the unaccustomed weight of the blued metal. ‘All right, Johnny,’ he said. ‘Show me how,’

  TEN

  The making and writing of reports reached a minor crescendo in countries stretching right across the Middle East. In Tehran, Colonel Mirza Davar studied one of these reports. There had been a considerable explosion quite close to the Iraqi border in the province of Kurdistan. Loud bangs were undesirable anywhere in Iran and especially so in that sensitive area. Besides, Fahrwaz seemed to be involved and the colonel did not particularly like the implications of that. Colonel Mirza Davar was Chief Intelligence Officer for the North-West Provinces.

  A tap at the door introduced his secretary. ‘Captain Muktarri to see you.’

  ‘Show him in immediately.’

  Captain Muktarri, by his travel-stained appearance, had evidently travelled hard and fast and in rough country. The colonel looked him up and down, and said, ‘Well, Captain: what did you find?’

  ‘There was an explosion, sir—a big one. A qanat was thoroughly wrecked.’

  The Colonel relaxed in his chair. ‘A squabble over water rights,’ he said. A minor problem and not in his province; a matter for the civil police.

  That’s what I thought, sir,’ said Muktarri. ‘Until I found this.’ He put down a small square block on the desk.

  The colonel picked it up, scratched it with his finger-nail and then sniffed at it delicately. ‘Opium.’ Although still not a matter for his own attention this was much more serious. ‘And this was found on Fahrwaz’s farm?’

  ‘Yes, sir, among the debris left by the explosion. Fahrwaz was not there—nor was his son. The villagers denied know ledge of it.’

  ‘They would,’ said the colonel, unimpressed. ‘This is a matter for the narcotics people.’ He drew the telephone towards him.

  In Baghdad another Intelligence colonel was studying another report. Something odd had been going on up near the Turkish border. There had been a battle of sorts, but as he had found by intensive checking, no Iraqi troops had been involved.

  Which was very interesting. It seemed very much as though the Kurds had begun to fight among themselves.

  He reached for the microphone and began to dictate the last of his comments on to tape. ‘It is well known that the rebel leader, Al Fahrwaz, who is commonly resident across the border in Iran, has a stronghold in this area. My tentative conclusion is that Mustapha Barzani has attempted to solve the Fahrwaz problem before continuing negotiations with the Iraqi government. According to an unconfirmed report Ahmed ben Fahrwaz was killed in the fighting. Further reports will follow.’

  He did not know how wrong he was.

  Not two hundred yards along the same street in Baghdad a senior police officer was checking yet another report against a map. Ismail Al-Khalil had been in the Narcotics Department for many years and knew his job very well. The report told of an explosion in Iran which had wrecked an underground laboratory. Broken glassware had been found, and an immense quantity of opium together with a large amount of chemicals, the details of which were listed. He knew exactly what that meant.

  His finger traced a line from Iran into northern Iraq and from thence into Syria. He returned to his desk and said to his companion, ‘The Iranians are certain it crossed the border.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it—not with the political situation being what it is in Kurdistan right now. I’d better make a report—copies to go to Syria, Jordan and the Lebanon.’

  Al-Khalil sat down and prepared to dictate his report, and said in parenthesis, ‘The Iranians think there’s as much as five hundred kilos of morphine or heroin loose. Somebody has been very lax over there.’ He shook his head in regret.

  The reports proliferated and one dropped on the desk of Jamil Hassan of the Narcotics Bureau in Beirut. He read it and took action, and life became very difficult for the Lebanese underworld. One of those picked up for questioning was a small-time crook named André Picot, suspected of being involved in narcotics smuggling. He was questioned for many hours but nothing could be got from him.

  This was for two reasons; he knew very little anyway, and his interrogators did not know enough themselves to ask him the right questions. So, after an all-night session in front of the bright lights which gave him eyestrain but nothing else, he was released a little before nine in the morning—which was a great pity.

  II

  At ten minutes to nine the cruiser rocked gently on the blue water of the Mediterranean, one engine ticking over gently so
that the boat barely had steerage way. Hellier was sitting in the open cockpit apparently interested in nothing else but the fishing-rod he held, but Tozier was in the saloon and keeping careful watch on the Orestes through binoculars. A curl of smoke from the single funnel stained the sky to show that her boilers were fired and she was preparing to move.

  Warren sat in the saloon close to the door and watched Metcalfe at the wheel. He thought Metcalfe handled the boat very well, and said so. Metcalfe grinned. ‘I learned in a hard school. A few years ago I was running cigarettes out of Tangier into Spain with a Yank called Krupke; we had a biggish boat—a war-surplus Fairmile—which I had re-engined so she could outrun the Spanish excise cutters. If you can’t learn to handle a boat doing that sort of thing you’ll never learn.’

  He leaned down and looked into the saloon. ‘Any change, Andy?’

  ‘No change,’ said Tozier, without taking his eyes from the binoculars. ‘We go in ten minutes.’

  Metcalfe straightened and said over his shoulder, ‘We’re going to abandon this tub, Sir Robert. The charterers won’t like it—you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands.’

  Hellier grunted in amusement. ‘I can afford it.’

  Warren felt the hard metal of the pistol which was thrust into the waistband of his trousers. It felt uncomfortable and he shifted it slightly. Metcalfe looked down at him, and said, ‘Take it easy, Nick, and you’ll be all right. Just follow up the rope and take your cue from me.’

  It made Warren uncomfortable that Metcalfe should have seen his nervousness. He said curtly, ‘I’ll be all right when we start.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ said Metcalfe. ‘We all get butterflies at this stage.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve talked myself into things like this all my life. I must be a damned fool.’

  There was a metallic click from behind Warren and he turned his head to see Follet slamming a full magazine into the butt of his pistol. Metcalfe said, ‘It takes us different ways. Johnny there is nervous, too; that’s why he keeps checking his gun. He can never convince himself that it’s ready to shoot—just like the old lady who goes on holiday and is never sure she turned off the gas before she left.’

  Warren shifted the gun again, and said quietly, ‘We’re going on board that ship with guns in our hands, ready to shoot. The crew may be quite innocent.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ scoffed Metcalfe. ‘You can’t fit torpedo tubes aboard a scow that size without the crew knowing it. They’re all in on the act. And there’ll be no shooting, either—not unless they start first.’ He looked across at the Orestes. ‘It’s quite likely she’ll have a skeleton crew, so that’ll make it easier for us. Jeanette won’t let one more person in on this than she has to.’

  Tozier said, ‘I don’t see why we can’t go in now. She’s as ready as she ever will be, and so are we. We can’t wait until she begins to haul anchor.’

  ‘All right,’ said Metcalfe, and swung the wheel gently. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Make like a fisherman, Sir Robert.’ He opened the throttle a fraction and the boat moved more purposefully through the water. With a wink at Warren, he said, ‘The whole idea is to be gentle. We don’t roar up with engines going full blast—we just edge in nice and easy so that even if they see us coming they won’t know what the hell to make of it. By the time they do, it’ll be too late, I hope.’

  Tozier put down the glasses and got busy. He slung the sub-machine-gun over his shoulder and checked a coil of rope for unwanted kinks. At one end of the rope was attached a three-pronged grapnel, well padded for quietness, and he tested that it was secure. He tapped Warren on the shoulder. ‘Stand back and let the dog see the rabbit,’ he said, and Warren made way for him.

  To an onlooker from the shore it might have seemed that the boat was drifting dangerously close to the Orestes which, after all, showed all the signs of getting under way. If the boat were to be caught when the screw began to turn then there could be a nasty accident. It was a thoroughly bad piece of seamanship which could not be excused even if the big, fat Englishman had caught a fish and the helmsman was diverted in his excitement,

  Hellier hauled the fish out of the sea. He had bought it that morning in the fish market near the Suq des Orfèvres and a very fine specimen it was. It was a last-minute bit of camouflage devised by Follet, the master of the con game, and Hellier dexterously made it twitch on the line as though still alive. With a bit of luck this by-play would allow them to get ten yards nearer to the Orestes without being challenged.

  The boat edged in still nearer, and Metcalfe nodded to Tozier. ‘Now!’ he said sharply, as he opened the throttle and spun the wheel, turning them towards the stern of the Orestes, but still keeping the bulk of the ship as a screen between the boat and the quay.

  Tozier leaped up into the cockpit and whirled the grapnel twice about his head before casting it upwards to the stern rail. As the grapnel caught, Hellier dropped his fish smartly and grabbed the rope, hauling it taut and swinging the boat in to the side of the ship while Metcalfe put the gears into neutral. Even as he did so Tozier was climbing hand over hand, and Warren heard the light thump of his feet as he landed on deck.

  Metcalfe abandoned the wheel and went next, and Warren felt apprehensive as he looked over the side of the boat towards the underhang of Orestes’s stern. The screw was only two-thirds submerged, the ship being in ballast, and if the skipper gave the order to move the turbulence would inevitably smash the little boat.

  Follet pushed him from behind. ‘Get going!’ he hissed, and Warren grasped the rope and began to climb. He had not climbed a rope since his schooldays when he had been driven up ropes in the gymnasium by an athletic games master wielding a cricket stump. Warren had never been athletically-minded. But he got to the top and a hand grasped him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him over the rail.

  There was no time to rest and, breathlessly, he found himself following Metcalfe. Tozier was nowhere to be seen but when Warren turned his head he found Hellier padding behind and looking ridiculous in the bright floral shirt and the shorts he had chosen as his fisherman’s get-up. But there was nothing at all funny about the gun held in Hellier’s meaty fist.

  The deck vibrated underfoot and Metcalfe held up his hand in warning. As Warren came up, he said in a low voice, ‘We just got here in time. She’s under way.’ He pointed. ‘There’s the bridge ladder—let’s go.’

  He ran forward lightly and climbed up on to the bridge.

  Even as Warren followed he thought it incredible that they should not yet have been seen; but now it came to the crunch—you don’t invade a ship’s bridge without the skipper having objections.

  Metcalfe arrived on the bridge first and, as though by a preconceived plan, Tozier appeared simultaneously from the other side. There were four men on the bridge; the skipper, two officers and the helmsman. The skipper looked incredulously at the sub-machine-gun cradled by Tozier and whirled around only to be confronted by Metcalfe. As he opened his mouth Metcalfe snapped, ‘Arrêtez!’ and then, for good measure, added in Arabic, ‘Ukaf!’

  The gesture he made with the gun was good in all languages and the skipper shut his mouth. A sweeping motion from Tozier’s sub-machine-gun herded the officers aside, while Metcalfe motioned the helmsman to stay where he was. Warren stood at the top of the bridge ladder and held his pistol loosely in his hand. He looked down at Hellier who stood guard at the bottom of the ladder; presumably Follet was doing the same on the other side.

  The ship was still moving slowly and he could now see the widening gap of water between the Orestes and the quay. Metcalfe grasped the brass handle of the engine-room telegraph and rang for half speed, and the telegraph clanged again as the engineer obeyed the order. With the gun in his back the helmsman looked at Metcalfe’s pointing finger and nodded vigorously. He spun the spokes of the wheel and the quay receded faster.

  Suddenly there was an interruption. Eastman stepped from the bridge house and froze as he saw what was happening. His hand dipped beneath his c
oat and was magically full of gun. Warren brought up his own pistol to the ready and for the minutest fraction of a second the tableau was held. Then Eastman cried out under the impact of a steel bar which struck his arm from behind. His gun went off and there was a ringing clang and a whine as the bullet ricocheted from metal and away over the sea. But he still held on to the gun and whirled on Dan Parker, who was just behind him with a steel bar gripped in his hand as though it had grown there.

  He drove his elbow into Parker’s stomach and Parker doubled up in pain, the steel bar clattering to the deck. Then Eastman was gone at a dead run and Warren heard the bang of a door in the distance.

  Metcalfe moved first. He ran to the side of the bridge and looked ashore and saw the ripple of movement as heads turned towards the departing ship. ‘They heard that,’ he said, and raised his voice. ‘Johnny, come up here.’ He turned to Tozier. ‘The crew will have heard it, too. Can you hold the bridge while Johnny and I nail Eastman.’

  ‘Carry on,’ said Tozier. ‘Nick, get Hellier up here, then look at our friend with the iron bar.’ He turned to the officers. ‘Who speaks English?’ he asked conversationally.

  ‘I speak English good,’ said the skipper.

  ‘Then we’ll get along together. Get the loudhailer and tell the crew to assemble on the forehatch there. But first, where’s the radio shack?’

  The skipper took a deep breath as though nerving himself to defiance but stopped short as Tozier’s gun jerked threateningly. He nodded his head to where Warren was helping Parker to his feet. ‘Through there.’

  ‘Watch him,’ said Tozier to Hellier, and went off fast. When he returned he found the skipper bellowing into the loudhailer under the supervision of Hellier and already the crew was assembled. As he had thought, there were few of them; the ship was undermanned.

  ‘I’d give a lot to know if that’s all,’ he said, looking down at them.