Текст книги "[The Girl From UNCLE 03] - The Golden Boats of Taradata Affair "

Автор книги: Simon Latter

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Mark backed up his play – screaming curses, swaying at the end of the mast-arm, then springing out, clear in a tumbling dive into the water. Lars didn't look up, guessing Mark was covering him. The four other men were diverted, heads jerking up, eyes staring mastward as Lars leapt. His bunched fists swung like hammers and two men went flat on the deck and stayed there. Lars tangled with the other two, fists jabbing, hands chopping, until both men crumpled.

People were moving up the gangway. Lars ran to the rail, leapt up, poised, then took off, body angled as a low-loader truck came along the quayside. He plummeted into the load of copra, disappearing as Maleski cleared ropes and men to come within gun range.

April Dancer, seeing Mark aloft in the same moment Lars appeared on deck, recognized the signs of trouble. She ran to the gangway. Unfortunately her taxi driver, luggage– loaded, ready to give eager-beaver-service, dashed after her, so choking the gangway against Lars' escape and blocking her own way back.

She reached the head of. the gangway as Maleski was drawing careful aim at the truck. With a scream and a flurry of arms, she flung herself from the gangway into Maleski's chest, hanging on to his neck. He staggered back, gun hand waving skyward, the other clamped around her waist – a natural reflex-action.

"That's dangerous!" she bleated. "Ever so dangerous." She leaned back, smiled into his eyes. "Lucky me! I'd have hurt myself if you hadn't caught me. Thank you so much!" She ignored the gun and the fury in his gaze. "You can put me down now, you naughty man."

At the stern a soaked figure clambered up from the anchor chain, sloshed on to deck and flip-flopped up to Captain Sidano.

"– —!" said Mark Slate, vigorously. "When are you going to spend some of the owner's money on new tackle? Don't you know that goddam rigging is half rotten? Blasted stinking old scow this is – call yourself a captain!" He let go a few more opinions until Sidano slashed a back hand across his face.

"Silence, you scum! You fell from the mast because you're a stupid, bungling fool. I shall dock one half of your pay for smashing that tackle. Now get aft and stand by to cast off."

Mark's eyes glittered, but he pretended to be cowed, as would any roughneck afraid of being returned to some stinking mainland prison.

"Got a right to complain, ain't I? Could've blasted well killed meself."

"That would be no loss," Sidano snarled, then walked onwards to greet April Dancer.

"Poor man!" said April. "You were very hard on him. After all, he did dive into the sea!"

"They have no feelings, miss," said Sidano. "Like animals, they are. Don't waste your pity on them."

Mark slouched past them. April smiled at him. "That was a wonderful dive."

He surveyed her coolly – undressing her with insolent eyes.

"Yeah," he growled. "Think quick, act fast, trust nothing and no one around here. Thanks all the same, miss."

"All right," said Maleski. "Get aft…" He paused. "No – wait – you." He looked at Sidano. "The steward was deported yesterday. The fool got drunk. His replacement hasn't shown up. This man has a little more class than the others."

Sidano shrugged. "A wash and shave and a white coat might make him presentable. Okay, you – get cleaned up and report to the purser."

"At stewards' pay?"

"We'll see."

"Fair's fair," whined Mark. "A man works well for the right pay."

Maleski pointed ashore, to where more taxis had pulled up. "Our other passengers are arriving, sir."

"You'll have what you earn," said Sidano to Mark. "Get below and clean yourself up."

"Aye, aye, sir." Mark went, and so missed an interesting scene.

April Dancer found this humorous, yet ominous. She knew of the Padracks. They were mentioned in the original Palaga report, as were many other names. Some were now identified as having THRUSH connections, some THRUSH sub-agents. This was the big difficulty when assigned to a carefully researched case. Better, really, to "go in cold", because then at least you got to know all your contacts.

H.Q., and mostly this meant Mr. Waverly, had a tendency to regard a research file as gospel for the guidance of the converted. U.N.C.L.E. agents were trained not to pre-judge situations they met with on their field of assignment. But if they accepted everything contained in those Top Secret dossiers, they automatically pre-judged and, in such pre-judging, became biased by the reports of researchers as well as unknown informants.

Reports contained many statements such as this:

"Padrack, Simon, aged forty-five, slim build, balding, quiet-spoken. Wears spectacles. Appears absentminded. Ex-teacher, Trinidad and Tobago, believed inherited money, set up as bookseller, also adviser on library supplies to island committees. No known political affiliations. Now retained as adviser on catalogue and indexing of library belonging to a senior Palaga family. Travels frequently around islands contacting teachers and others with book connections.

"Padrack, Lucy, aged forty-one, wife of above subject. Ex-teacher, now assists husband in his work. Has written and published two books on legends of the islands, with special emphasis on erotic practices. Unusually tolerant marriage relationship, as she indulges herself with younger men. Husband apparently knows of this and refers to them as 'Lucy's little attacks' or 'Lucy has another cold – rather feverish this time'. No police record, but in her student years was prominent in various leftist groups. Arrested four times for obstructing police, refusing to disperse, uttering threats and distributing pamphlets calculated to incite revolt."

Well, all right – so you read and digest; so when you see Simon and Lucy Padrack coming up the gangway, what does this fact really tell you? You look at them and pre-judge them according to the alleged facts you've digested. They stick in your throat.

Simon Padrack looks as the report says, but his outward appearance did not convey the more important, essential Padrack. The way he strides up with an air of authority, the coldness of his eyes – pale grey pebbles behind polished lenses. The clipped, incisive tone of voice. These belie the pre-judged character. You say at once: "Watch it, my girl – just watch it. This man knows exactly what he's doing, where he's going and why – and it ain't for fun. Sex he might have, but fun? No, siree!" And you shiver slightly under the hot Palaga sun.

Lucy comes ahead of him, small, thin, with nobbly breasts. "Maybe falsies, but I don't think so," April thought. "Thin legs, large thighs, slim flanks. Large blue eyes in a thin, bronzed face, a sensuous mouth, small, thin nose – not beaky. The mouth and nose give her away. Tangle with that, man, and come the night you have yourself a wild cat!" Nothing about her to make immediate physical impact. You have to look hard – or with knowledge and training – to really see these things, because she doesn't project herself.

Her clothes are expensively ordinary, even unflattering. Mousey hair, uncut, plaited, wound around her head, straggling over forehead and temples. Very little make-up. First appearance – middle-aged, sterile, withdrawn. Blue veins patterning brown hands below skinny wrists. Yet when she speaks with that voice, she becomes alive. The report didn't mention that. The voice projects right enough – deep, warm, vibrant, yes, sir, all the clichés. Goddam, it even pulses, husky, smooth-cream!

In her hand is a parasol. She holds it like a drawn sword as she marches up to a seaman, stooping, coiling in rope. Lucy flicks the parasol handle. A blade, stiletto steel, pings out from the ferrule. She rams it into the seaman's backside.

He bellows, leaps, whirls, lands facing her.

"You stood me up, you bum!" says Lucy in that lovely vibrant voice. "Do it again and I'll fix this in your guts – got it?"

The seaman gulps. "I get it, Lucy, but…"

"No buts – understand?" She clicks the blade back in the ferrule and marches off to join the group at the head of the gangway..

Simon Padrack ignored the incident. So did Maleski. Captain Sidano covered up with a "Ladies – Mr. Padrack, sir, be my guests. A cool drink, yes? Maleski, tell the men to see to the luggage. When Mr. Cheval arrives we will cast off."

"Aye, aye, sir," said Maleski quietly.

In the small, coolly attractive bar, April thought savagely:

"I wasn't prepared for these kind of people. It changes the whole approach. Damn the report!"

In the ship's liquor store, Mark Slate waited for contact with Sama Paru or Count Kazan. He didn't know which would be where, for Mr. Waverly had said: "They'll be in contact when the Island Traveller is ready to sail, so stand by as soon as you can."

"Come on, come on!" Mark muttered impatiently into the tiny instrument. He surveyed himself in the mildewed mirror hanging below the girlie calendar and noted the considerable improvement in his appearance. Then the voice came through. "Sama Paru to Mark Slate. Sama Paru in DX5."

"Dx5?" Mark whispered close to his ring mike. "That's a ruddy sub!"

"Midget," said Paru. "Two man. Cosy but cramped. We are parked outside the harbour. Submerged, of course."

"I'll be damned!" Mark had never reckoned on a submarine as a shadow contact. It made sense though. "We?" he said. "Who's we?"

"Randy Kovac is with me. He's done a special map job, so Mr. Waverly sent him out to gain field experience and check his theories."

"This is no novice race," said Mark. "No offence to Randy, but this thing bristles with professionals. Where's Kazan?"

"Luxury launch. Fast, powerful. Camouflaged gunboat. He should be clearing Palaga Bay soon."

"Soon? He should be at the rendezvous now."

"Lars Carlson made contact. He has to get off the island. Kazan is picking him up in a cove around the headland from your harbour."

"Ah, yes! Good. THRUSH identified him. I must go now, Sama."

"April is with you?"

"Sure. Over and out." Mark went into the bar, carrying bottles.

Sidano said: "About time. See that our passengers have the drinks they require. I am going to take the ship out."

Another passenger had joined them. April was discussing heat rash with Lucy. Simon Padrack was talking with the newcomer. Mark took their orders and cudgelled his memory as he mixed the drinks, but couldn't recall the name of Andre Cheval in the Palaga report. He managed an eyebrow-wiggling exchange with April across Lucy Padrack's bobbing hair – a manner of communication which, when linked with apparently idle eye movement, they had practised to fair success. She didn't know of Cheval either.

The purser came into the bar. At least he was called the purser and wore an officer's white jacket. Short, wiry, brown-eyed, tropic-wizened, with a quill of hair sticking up from an otherwise bald head, everyone called him Chas and most people assumed his name was Charles.

Years of service in these island traders had not dulled his cockney humour nor twangy voice. Every port in the islands and around the coast of Africa knew Chas. He had some shore connections, but where or with whom, nobody knew. Chas joined a ship, stayed with it, and when he left, the ship either sank, cracked up on a reef or in some other way ended its life. This reputation was so assured that when Chas declared he wasn't taking on for the next trip, all the regular seamen quit with him.

Not really a purser, but he held all the keys and the captain's trust. Not a ship's writer, but he did all the necessary paperwork. Not a cook, but he prepared many a first-class meal. Not even a steward – or, unofficially, a chief steward, but he made life smoothly pleasant for all passengers. He wasn't the ship's chandler, but all suppliers in ports accepted his orders for goods and the captain always okayed the purchases. In the days of the old island traders, many ships had their Chas, but his was now a dying breed. The unions saw to that even if competition from air freight, hovercraft, helicopter and fast "pirate" cargo launches didn't drive the traders off the routes.

Chas greeted the passengers with cheerful respect. He had a "Well, now, ain't it nice to see you with us again," to the Padracks. To Cheval he said: "Nice quiet cabin for you, sir." "Nice" was a favourite adjective with Chas. It didn't always mean nice in the sense of pleasant. His way of describing a crew fight which barely stopped short of murder was "a nice howdedo".

"Thank you," said Cheval. "I will much appreciate to be quiet."

"You be as quiet as you like, sir. Rest and sea air and a nice modicum of sun – just what the doctor ordered, as y'might say. We'll be shoving off any minute now, so if you'd like to go to your cabin, it's all ready for you. Number five—on the starboard side."

Cheval finished his drink. "I think I will. Pardon me." He bowed to the others and left the bar.

Chas twinkled brown eyes at April. "Honoured to have you aboard, miss."

"Thank you."

"Seeing the islands, are we? Having a nice bit of getting away-from-it-all, like? Can't beat it, y'know. Luxury palls, so they say. Does you good to see how the other half lives. We ain't exactly the flagship of the line, but we aim to please."

"I'm sure you do," said April.

"S'right. Nothing fancy. There'll be more coming aboard at our first call. Have a nice ol' party, we will. Cabin number eight, miss. Anything you need, just ring the bell. If it don't work—and most times it don't – just holler Chas."

"You don't have a stewardess?"

Chas rubbed his chin. "Well, we do and we don't. We have one, but she's not what you call reliable. She forgot to come back at Providencia on our last call, so you'll have to put up with me. Not to worry though, miss. Very safe, I am – ain't that so, Mrs. P.?"

Lucy Padrack laughed. "The safest man I know."

"Ur," said Chas. "It may not be exciting, but it's comforting, ain't it? Your cabin's ready, miss. Luggage stowed."

"I'll go and unpack." April sensed the request in Chas's voice, and caught a signal from Mark.

Simon Padrack said coldly: "Chas – why the hell don't you tell people the bar has to be closed as soon as the engines start?"

"Never talk against no one," said Chas. "Not me, sir. It ain't for the likes of me to say these perishin' Palagas are a bunch of blackmailing baskets, is it now?"

Lucy Padrack patted his cheek. "I wonder if you really are safe, Chas?"

"Not with you, me old darling." Chas grinned. "I'll bring the usual soon as his nibs has been."

The Padracks left. Chas moved behind the bar, selected six bottles of assorted spirits and liqueurs and placed them in a line on the counter.

Mark said: "What's that for?"

Chas winked and tapped his nose with a forefinger. A second later the engines started and an elegantly dressed Palaganian policeman entered the bar.

Chas at once let out a wail.

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! I've done it again! I dunno what the captain will say." He turned and glared at Mark.

"You blasted fool, you – I told you to close the bar." He turned back to the policeman. "He's new. Didn't understand."

"Ah!" said the policeman. "A pity, but you know the rules."

"Yes, sir. All liquor standing on an open bar is confiscated." Chas sighed heavily. "Ah well, rules are rules. I'll help you carry them."

The policeman looked along the labels.

"Not Kirsch again?"

"Kirsch? It should be Vodka." Chas whipped another bottle in the line.

The policeman nodded, strolled out, followed by the laden Chas. Ten minutes later Chas returned.

"Why be so complicated?" said Mark.

"That's the Palaga way. If people were in the bar at the time the engines start, he'd have to fine them hard cash. If the bar is closed, he gets no perks. He has to pay in the cash, but not confiscated items. He flogs those himself. Nice people, them Palaganians."

Mark grinned. "What would happen if you didn't play?"

"You're kidding, of course? In Palaga, you play, mate, else you don't never come here again." Chas leaned on the bar top. "And talking of playing – it ain't nice, y'know, not nice at all."

"What isn't?"

"You using two-way talkie-walkie things in my liquor store."

They stared steadily at each other for a long time.

Then Mark sighed gently. "How much?"

"Ah!" Chas beamed. "That's nice of you to offer. We'll work out something. I'll let you know. Just you and me, eh? Nice and cosy. Not to worry. Keeper of a thousand secrets, they call me around the islands."

CHAPTER THREE: CORACLE-ORACLE

MARK silently cussed the cheerful Chas. The liquor store was an ideal place to make contact. Now, he had to find an excuse to shin up the rigging during his spell as deck hand. The Island Traveller needed a lot of attention as she creaked her way around the islands, so no cushy steward's job took priority over crew work. Fortunately, the block and tackle had to be re-rigged and some ropes spliced and fitted, so Mark had ample time on his own, high above the deck. Time enough to sight Kazan and the launch.

Kazan did a sweep around Island Traveller. Mark nearly fell off the mast with laughter when he saw Lars Carlson wearing a dark wig, a shortie beach robe and large sun glasses. Some material stuffed down his chest gave Lars a feminine appearance from a distance. Such launches were a common sight in these waters, but all had at least one female lounging on deck. Palaga patrol boats were suspicious if all males were aboard a strange launch, deeming smuggling as their own special preserve.

Count Kazan enjoyed himself in Palaga. He had the name, the air, and the reputation – and a wad of U.N.C.L.E. money. A top-echelon contact man in Europe, he moved in lush society but worked closely with Sama Paru. This was the first time they'd been sent far away from their own locations. Both were eager to do well, though Kazan sounded peevish.

"I study the file. In New York, in Paris, in Monte Carlo, I read and read. And what do I know? Damn damn-all! I have the grand time in Palaga, but not work time. Only to establish I am me and I have the money and the powerful boat. It is not enough for a man of action."

"Calm down," said Mark. "That place is thick with THRUSH and the Palagas know your every move. You did what you were instructed to do. Keep doing that – else you'll get us all killed."

"Am I a fool? Can I not have the little beef? What is at Taradata? Or is it another island?"

"If we knew, then we wouldn't be where we are," said Mark. "It's big – we know that. The threads lead from all over the world – first to Palaga, then to the islands. We have to find what it is, and our linking threads are very slender. If we're discovered before we can connect them, we shall all be very dead."

"Okay, so I play the playboy some more. But, mon ami, I am so tired of it. You have all the fun."

"Quit beefing and listen. I've a sharp boyo down below. A chap they call Chas – here's his description." Mark gave this, then added:. "Contact our man on the mainland first, then send it to H.Q. I want all the background you can get on him. Something I can blackmail him with, if possible. He could be a big danger."

"I come and throw him to the sharks."

"Aw, grow up, Kazan! Do as I say. Contact Paru in the Dx5 and get him working on it too. He also has a contact on the mainland. If you can't reach me, try April Dancer. She'll find a way to pass it on."

It took two days, but they got it. Chas had been in the file, after all – under the name of Clarence Harold Arthur Salisbury, a combination which, of course, made a natural Chas. The researchers had cleared him and lined him up in the dossier along with ships' engineers, harbour masters, customs officials – all who linked with Island Traveller in the normal course of their work yet were free of any known contact with THRUSH.

Mr. Waverly sent a mild blistering, remarking that agents were supposed to absorb all details. Not just those that interested them, and when could he expect some information – perlease?

As April Dancer conveyed, on one of the few brief conversations they could manage: "This dam scow wallows along like a pregnant elephant – and so do the passengers. We come alive for five hours at Corn Island, pick up three more passengers and a hold full of pigs. You figure they are the THRUSH secret weapon?"

Mark yawned. "Passengers or pigs? For Pete's sake don't you start beefing too! How are you making out with Cheval and the Padracks?"

"Oh, great, just great! None of them leave their cabins long enough for me to even open the door. And if they do, then that blackmailing little Chas comes snooping around. It seems Cheval is recovering from a heart attack. The Padracks are getting off at Taradata. They are the V.I.P.s and regular passengers, yet they eat at Maleski's table while Cheval and I join the captain." She glared at Mark. "And what are you doing, besides making like a tame chimp up that mast?"

"This and that," he said airily. "When my work allows. You think my job is fun? You try it, sweetheart – just try it! Sixteen hours a day of assorted hard labour while you gorge and booze and lay around like pickled man-bait."

"You look very fit on it."

"I'd look, and feel, a sight fitter off it."

"Yes – I'm sorry. It was a snide crack for me to make. And your living quarters are terrible. I think you're wonderful to do the job, and to stick it."

"Flattery will get you as far as you like." Mark grinned. "As if you didn't know it! Frustrated, that's us."

"And isolated. I haven't seen Kazan's boat for two days."

"They were called to rendezvous with a naval craft once we were clear of the Palaga patrols. And the midget sub too. It needs fuel and servicing rather frequently."

"That could be a liability."

"On a long sea haul – yes. But if we find anything, it will be on one of the islands – then the sub will be a powerful asset for off-shore work. There's something you can do, April. Develop an interest in the Island Traveller. Ask to be shown over it."

"Will do. Any particular objective?"

"Look for unusual bulkheads, or sea hatches, or hull openings, such as extra luggage chutes or cargo hatches. This tub isn't quite as creaky as it appears. The engines are the latest diesels. The captain's cabin has new electronic equipment. They haven't bothered to chip rust or furbish paint and renew ancillary equipment, but someone has spent a helluva lot of money on this crate – and where it'll do the most good."

"But, surely, Mark, you can find those things more easily?"

"Don't be naïve, darling. I'm just another ex-convict scum of a crewman. Maleski and his henchmen keep us hard at work and make sure we don't wander around. As steward I'm more free to enter the passenger deck, but that's about all. I was caught in the engine room and given a mild beat-up to teach me a lesson."

"Oh, Mark! You didn't tell me!"

"I didn't need to – until now. This boat is run like a prison as far as the deckhands are concerned. The few real seamen don't mix with us. Remember my dive from the mast? I swam around before climbing up the anchor chain. There are definitely a couple of hatches cut each side of the stern. Cleverly done, and the hull plates matched up to the openings so you wouldn't notice them from a distance. There's another amidships, about twenty feet aft of the real cargo hatch."

"Sort of secret loading and unloading points? Would they be for guns?"

Mark shrugged. "Could be. But not very heavy guns, because no crane or derrick could hoist a load to reach those parts of the hull. There might be some form of lifting tackle inside the openings, but it would take up space."

"Drugs, then? Packages floated out on a land-line, then secured from the openings by something like a fishing rod?"

"I'd guess drugs more than guns, but there aren't any reports of major supplies of drugs coming from this area. The researchers surely would have got on to any major drug activity."

"You were signed on as a deckhand after being recruited from a mainland prison – so was Lars. There must be strong reasons why they need such an unsavoury crew. Didn't you get any hint of what you were expected to do – apart from rough work?"

"Oh yes, but only in vague terms. We're all promised a thousand-dollar bonus when we're paid off – in consideration for special services. All the men understand this to mean a sort of general bodyguard or strong-arm activity as and when required by captain or officers, an obedience to orders and a bad memory. The usual terms of thuggery. Killings, or individual beatings-up or other specialities, would rank for separate payment to the men who carried them out."

April smiled. "You're not in exactly high-class company, lover-boy, are you? Isn't a thousand dollars rather large for the grade?"

"Not really. The cost of living affects everyone these days. The important fact is that THRUSH money is paying us and Maleski is a THRUSH contact. The strong-arm section of the crew don't know or care who is behind their pay. The real seamen aren't affected. I've tried to get close to one or two of them, but no dice. Some are Palaga men – not actual Palagas but born there – the others are native-born islanders who've graduated from fishing boats. Good workers, quiet and proud. They have a natural courtesy – most of the islanders have – but they clam up tighter than an oyster to the sort of guy they think I am."

"You are one of the thugs to them," said April thoughtfully. "Maybe I could chat them up a bit? Find out what they think about having a strong-arm squad aboard?"

"You could try, but don't push it," said Mark. "Only the captain and his officers are supposed to talk with the passengers. There's almost more discipline aboard this tub than in many a naval ship."

April switched subjects. "You were aboard when the ship took on cargo. Anything special about it? What sort of stuff is in the closed holds?"

"Straight from the mainland warehouse stuff – all custom-checked. Bales of cloth, cases of canned goods, general shop merchandise – coffee, tea, rice, cigarettes. The islanders use their own cigars. All that was double-checked by our own contact men too. There isn't a thing on board that means anything more than what it is." He grinned. "Except us – and maybe one or two passengers!"

"What did the Island Traveller take on at Palaga?"

"Mainly liquor. They have a sweet racket in confiscating bottles from ships' bars, then flogging them back as exports, but they also do a legit trade in their own wines, brandy and rum. I was surprised the Palaganians have developed a boat-repairing industry, but I don't see any significance in that. It was probably one of the older crafts of the island before the Palagas became currency-conscious."

"What sort of boats?"

"Oh, tiny things. Like coracles."

"Like what?"

"Coracles – as in oracles. An English name, I believe. Or is it Irish? I dunno. Each island would have its own name for them. They weave wicker or reed strips into a tiny boat shape, then fix a skin on the inside. Use them for one-man fishing, training children to be boat-wise, and going out to tend nets or trap lines. Better than canoes. These don't capsize easily. There's stacks of them under plastic deck sheets in the stern and for'ard."

"Going where?"

"Taradata."

"Why Taradata?"

"Why not? Guess the islanders use a lot of them."

"Then why don't they repair their own?"

"Now listen, sweetie, they're just little old mini-boats – cockleshells. Around these parts they line the inside instead of the outside – using some sort of leaf stuff that doesn't grow in Palaga. For Pete's sake – we've got enough dead trails without dragging in a perfectly innocent local craft! Can you imagine THRUSH trying to invade the world in a million coracles? A couple of bursts of multi-rocket fire and there'd be none left."

"Perhaps you're right." April smiled. "We'll just have to dig deeper, that's all. This project has cost a bomb already, and Kazan and Paru are still around someplace eating their expensive heads off." She glanced at her watch. "Give me three minutes to get clear." She winked. "Be good, lover-boy, and I'll let you escort me around one of the exotic isles!"

Mark made a rude noise. He gave her five minutes to get well clear via a small hatchway beyond the galley into the passengers' section. He then reported to the mate, who believed Mark was doing work for Chas. As Chas believed him to be under the mate's orders, Mark was able to disappear for a short time without either knowing it.

"I don't have to go up that blasted rigging again, do I, sir?" he growled.

The mate hadn't thought about it, but immediately he knew one of these scum didn't want to do a particular job he delighted in making sure they did it.

"Get up that mast when you're told!" he bellowed. "Clear the starboard lines, then grease all the pulleys"

"Aye, aye, sir." Mark shinned up the mast and got himself well balanced against the fore and aft pitch – no easy feat, because at mast height the swing was nigh on seven yards when the Island Traveller was bucking a swell. This was one of the most uncomfortable, even dangerous, places Mark had ever used to make contact with H.Q., but it was also one of the finest for reception.

"Ah! Mr. Slate!" Mr. Waverly boomed. "I trust you are well and truly nailed to the mast? A custom of the old pirates, I believe."

"Ha-ha!" said Mark dutifully. "And a bottle of rum, or somesuch. Do you have information for me, sir?"

"My own question precisely, Mr. Slate. May I remind you of the vast amount of time and considerable expenditure of money which so far has been put into this affair? We have in the past spent a great deal less and received far more. A soupcon of interest would not come amiss."

"We know there is a strong organization at work in the area. We are close to THRUSH contacts. We can only pursue our present course in the hope of uncovering the THRUSH project."

"But you are not, at this stage, any closer to a clarification?" Mr. Waverly insisted.

"No, sir."

"What is your next port of call?"

"Providencia, then Taradata."

"Let us hope Providencia will be providential for you, Mr. Slate – hum-hum!" said Mr. Waverly with joyous pomposity.