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

Автор книги: Simon Latter

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Mark took it manfully. In silence.

Then, gently: "You have a report for me, sir?"

"Indeed we have. A most revealing one. I am sure you will find it helpful. Standby and I will put you on to emergency feed-back."

E.F.B. made it crystal clear. Mark thought ruefully that if the whole file had been fed through the E.F.B. computer, they might well have discovered more field leads faster and easier. And the great advantage of E.F.B. was that by merely speaking the word "repeat", it spun itself back and gave you the gen all over again. You didn't have to apologize for not getting it the first time, nor miss a vital point because you didn't want to appear dumb, daft or dilatory.

He repeated it a number of times while working on the ropes and laughed gaily at certain passages. The report was collated from many sources. It represented quite a few man hours of work, although some of these had been used by researchers during the normal field compilation of the dossier.

At last he shinned down the mast and went to the fo'c's'le for his daily dish of fish skilly, very nourishing and utterly obnoxious in smell and taste. It had taken him four days to keep it down more than half an hour. His stomach's present acceptance of it was a triumph of mind over matter – aided by a pint of coarse wine so rough and sour that no grease could resist it. As a mouthwash it was excellent. Sealed in a spray can, TV projected, and sold for around fifteen dollars, it would have gone like a bomb.

The trick was to suck a short length of Barbados sugarcane while taking in the wine from the other side of the mouth. Convicts from mainland prisons were accustomed to this fare. To refuse it, to be unable to consume it, or not to know the correct eating and drinking "drill", would have been a dead give-away. U.N.C.L.E. agents have a varied education. They learn that most big factors take care of themselves, it is the tiny ones which attract a bullet in the back or a knife in the ribs.

Mark had to wait until that quiet hour after cocktails and before brandy when the bar trade was nil before he closed the bar and gave Chas the sign that talk was needed. They went to the liquor store, where Chas locked them in.

"Clarence Harold Arthur Salisbury – I salute you!" Mark sat on a keg, feathering cigar smoke.

The brown eyes puckered, surveyed him shrewdly, quizzically.

"Been digging around?" said Chas cheerfully. "Using that little talkie-walkie of yours? Won't do you no good, mate. It ain't nice, either. I'm me – see? One word from me and over the side you go – shark-bait. Shame – nice young fella like you—see what I mean?"

"My friends wouldn't like that, They'd do talkie-walkie themselves."

Chas nodded. "I bet they would. If it wasn't all nice and tidy. Witnesses, terrible tragedy, all writ up in the log, captain, mate, bosun, me – nice honest fellas. You honest?"

Mark nodded. "I'm honest."

"You ain't no ex-con, neither."

"That's where they hired me."

"Nah!" Chas shook his head, making his quiff bob like a petunia. "That's where you let 'em hire you." He drummed fingers on his chest. "A thousand secrets – remember? Y'know something? I was on the islands when the Japs came." He pulled open his shirt to show livid weals of old wounds criss-crossing his chest. He spun around, baring shoulders and scars of horrible lacerations. "Secrets, they wanted. Nice fellas. Nice habits they had. Swords, whips, and fire-heated bamboo. Before you came up, sonny. Long time ago. Keeper of a thousand secrets – that's me." He buttoned his shirt. "I don't scare," he said raspingly. "Get that. I don't scare. But I trade. You want to trade?"

Mark shrugged. "In what?"

"Your safety. I don't want to know why. Nor who. You tell me and it's secret. I don't care. I ain't no ally. We trade and I ain't no enemy."

"I might convince you it was important. That I was important."

"Nah! Nothing is, see? It's all a giggle. You spy, I spy, we spy the nice spy." His voice changed to a deep timbre. "Man, this is bigger than both of us!" He spat between Mark's feet. "Something like that, you are. That set I spied you using – it ain't on sale. So maybe you're government. Which? I don't care."

"They might," said Mark grimly. "See what I mean?"

Chas began to laugh. He had white, expensively tailored dentures. The laughter, the crinkled eyes, the flashing teeth, the dancing quiff gave him a buccaneering air. Real laughter. His eyes watered with it. At last he drew deep breaths and stopped laughing.

"Ten thousand dollars. In used notes. There's a bank in Providencia. I ain't greedy. I'll fix shore leave for you. If your little talkie-walkie ain't any use to contact your cashier, I'll fix it for you to use a private radio. I can even hold up sailing for a day."

Mark grinned. "Do I hear the voice of experience? It's all happened before, hasn't it, Chas?"

"Aye, sonny – and will again."

"And you're not even curious why, or who, or what?"

"Not one little tittle."

"Yet you could cause me to die without knowing or caring?"

"S'right, mate."

"Did they cut out your heart with those swords?"

Chas puckered his lips in a soundless whistle, then grinned. "Shall we dance? Before you break me perishin' heart! Grow up, sonny! I never yet saw a general or an admiral cry over one poor devil cut to pieces. Expendable, they was – see? That's what they taught me. We're all expendable. Only some are more expendable than others – such as you right now."

"Police?" said Mark. "Could be tricky for you."

"Not around here. High seas, mate – or else island waters and local justice. I know it's hard, very hard, but you just got to face it, sonny. You ain't important at all, except to me." Chas lit a cigarette, puckered eyes through the smoke. "Ten thousand – or you'll never get off the island except in a canvas sheet. Like they used to tell me in my man's army – you might break your mother's heart but you won't break mine."

Mark's hand moved casually. A small tube appeared in his hand. A faint click ejected a tiny barrel.

"Something else you can't buy in shops, Chas. It can fire up to six capsules. Like little razor darts, they are. One will be enough. Doesn't matter what part of your flesh it hits." He spat between Chas's feet. "Kaput! Finis! Heart failure."

Chas didn't move. He let the cigarette hang from his lower lip, the rising smoke veiling his eyes.

"Nice firm you work for. Very clever these days, ain't they? You didn't hear me the first time, sonny. I don't scare. Call yourself Slater, don't you? Reckon it's not your name, but you're on the ship's books as Slater, and we have a little camera that took a pretty picture of you – and all the others – soon as you came aboard."

Mark shrugged. "So does that save your life?"

"It won't save yours, mate. This liquor store is bugged. So's every cabin. All we're saying right now is spinning around on a tape. Only one other person knows where that machine is hidden. Anything happens to me – he'll do the listening. Slater killed me. Get him." Chas smiled.

Mark shrugged again. "C'est la guerre!" He carefully restored the dart gun to safety position, replaced it in his pocket. "That's how you heard me before."

"C'est la flippin' common sense too," said Chas. "Bright boy, that's you. Ten thousand dollars."

"So you married a Palaga. How is Mrs. Salisbury?" said Mark softly.

"She ain't a widow yet."

"And how is Mrs. de Witt – Mrs. Charles de Witt? And Mrs. Charles Gordon? And Mrs. Charles Sale? Charles equals Chas equals C.H.A. Salisbury, Esquire, equals bigamist extraordinaire, and the greatest of these is Mrs. Salisbury of Palaga. I don't know whether she was the second or the fourth – but we do know she wasn't the first – so she isn't. If you see what I mean?"

Chas inhaled deeply, then held his cigarette in steady fingers as he let the smoke gently trickle out.

"S'funny, y'know," he said quietly. "I never reckoned on it coming from a stranger."

"You disappoint me, Chas. No bluff. No counter threats?"

"Very smart – your lot. Must have been working on me a long time. Flattering, ain't it? Little me!"

"Routine," said Mark. "We missed you the first time. Surface research was all we read. But all research is done at three levels. Two are not shown to people like me unless you are a principal. Suddenly, you become a principal. We almost know what baby food you ate. There won't be any ten thousand dollars. And we have photographs and tape equipment too."

"You forgot something, sonny. My religion allows me all the wives I can keep. The law around these parts is kind of tolerant of my religion. So that'll still be ten thousand dollars."

"Only two things wrong with that, has. You married the Palaga one under Palaga laws. Maybe you'd even get out of that. But you forgot to tell any of them about the others. We wouldn't bother the law with it. Wouldn't need to. We are already arranging a pleasant all-expenses-paid trip to Palaga for Mrs. de Witt, Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Sale. We'll deliver them all to Mrs. Salisbury and let them sort it out. Or should I say – let them sort you out?"

Chas ground the butt of 'his cigarette with his heel.

"Diabolical," he said, still smiling. "Dia-bloomin-bolical! That's you, mate! It'd be a nice old howdedo, wouldn't it?"

"I can imagine. Scared now, Chas?"

"Nah! Not scared. A bit annoyed, like." He shrugged. "Okay – you win. No ten thousand dollars."

"And no shark bait?"

"You're safe, sonny. From me, anyway. You don't have very nice friends."

"They could be real nice to you – the keeper of a thousand secrets. You wouldn't even miss a couple."

"Such as?"

"This ship is virtually under charter, isn't it?"

"Could be."

"Registered in Palaga by a Palaga company – making routine calls around the islands, carrying normal cargo and a few passengers. Why bother to charter? Why take on a strong-arm crew?"

"Ask 'em yourself."

"Who?"

"The Padracks. It'll be the last question you ask. And I'll keep this tape just to prove I warned you."

Mark frowned. "This puts me at risk again, Chas."

"Well, you shouldn't be so damned nosey, should you? But don't worry, sonny. I'll give you a trade. You're trying to uncover something, aren't you? Something big. Same as the Swede, only they got on to him. You saved him. I reckon the girl's in with you too, One of them comical outfits – Auntie or Uncle, or somesuch, ain't you? No skin off my nose. I'm me. I've had enough of organizations – had a bellyful of 'em – so I just don't want to know. Money is all I want. You can have your ruddy glory." He rubbed the weals on his chest. "I've had mine. So I'll trade." He took out a bottle from the wine rack, reached his hand inside and clicked off a switch. He, turned to Mark and grinned. "Off the record. Watch the boats of Taradata." He raised his hand as Mark was about to speak. "That's all, sonny." He held out his hand. "You trade?"

Mark gripped it. "I trade. We'll hold over arrangements to transport the ladies."

"Right. I'll leave you long enough to use your little talkie-walkie. Make it quick. You're not bugged."

Mark grinned. "Why bug the liquor store?"

"Because locks can be forced, and keys pinched – but no one can be so silent they beat the bug. I switch it through an amplifier at night. Our seamen are bonza fellas, but if they get drink in 'em they go beserk."

"You said all the cabins were bugged too."

Chas nodded. "By the Padracks. I should worry. At the price they're paying they can bug the ruddy sharks as well, for all I care."

"Sounds like you cut a commission on the deal."

Chas snorted disgustedly. "Commission? A nice pack of researchers your lot are! Cor stone the crows, don't you know I own the flamin' ship?" He unlocked the door and went out, muttering.

CHAPTER FOUR: THY NAME IS WOMAN

A TRIFLE peeved, that's me, April Dancer thought, as she lazed in glamorous indolence on the sun deck. Peeved because – aha! Don't let Mark or any U.N.C.L.E. colleagues read your thoughts, my lass. Peeved, you are, because no one seems aware of you. Near-nude or Paris-gowned, mod-geared or man-bait alluring, you make no dent – in anyone on this boat.

Palaga went to your head. This is work. Okay, so that was work too. All the links were made there, the character built, the identity registered – little gay girl with a yen to express herself. No, thank you, not on a luxury cruiser – one gets so tired of luxury this and luxury that.

That quaint boat with its rust and blistered paint, and assorted cargo of human needs – that's what I need to bring me close to real people. The real life of the islands. I'm going to put it all in a book – a real book of real people. It's not because my psychiatrist advised it to help release myself. I feel I've always had this talent, you see? And now I've got to fulfil myself. It'll be a best-seller, of course. Well, of course, I mean, who else in my position has ever got so close to life? People are tired of travelogues written by professional hacks. Dear Orlando, it's sweet of you to encourage me so much.

The big build-up to impress the Padracks. "Why, aren't you Miss Dangerveldt, the heiress who is going to write about our islands? Well, books are our business – you must allow us to help you all we can." They knew. Of course they knew. The local field workers had seen to that. Yet, not a nibble! Not one teeny reaction.

So she'd had to force it a bit. "Oh, Mr. Padrack, I hear you are in the book business. Now isn't that a coincidence! Of course, I'm not telling everybody, but, seeing we have so much in common – I mean, you and your charming wife knowing all about books and the islands and all these lovely people. .

The cold-grey pebble eyes stared at her. She feigned embarrassment. "Well, what I'm trying to say is – I am writing a book about the islands."

Not one flicker of interest. What did the great bookman say?

He said: "Who isn't?" and walked away.

Well, she knew he was THRUSH. At least, THRUSH connected. But he didn't know she was U.N.C.L.E. But after all the groundwork... "Who isn't?" he said! And Lucy Padrack had smiled nastily before leaving the bar in search of her tomcat.

Peeved was the word. This was the most infuriating case – personal-wise – she had ever been on. She was peeved against Mark too. She even envied him his work. Basically, she wasn't a gay girl, never had been. What woman wouldn't revel in Palaga-style vacationing? Those lovely clothes, the lush line-up, Orlando and Co., the Climb Sublime – a two-tiered heaven set in an azure seascape. But, oh lordy, how idleness palls!

Now, on the Island Traveller, she was the mostest. Didn't even need a mirror to know it. Perhaps I have you-know-what and no best friend? Isolationists. The boat was full of ruddy isolationists. Or misogynists? Captain Sidano, quiet and gruffly courteous. He spoke Spanish. April tried him at that. He answered, but didn't comment on her linguistics.

Cheval also. Okay, so he'd been sick. Looked well enough now. And April was proud of her French. But: "Pardon, mam'selle," he'd said. "I prefer to speak English." Small talk – all the time small talk, and not much of that. Not enough to trap a casual word and link it with any known facts. And the sun shone, and the flying fish flew, and Mark Slate was up the mast again reporting his action. "And how is Miss Dancer?" "Oh, lush, sir, very lush and golden brown!" And bored and bitchy.

The new passengers made the bar more full. They drank with her, and smiled, and minded their own business. The island of Providencia lay smudged-olive to starboard as the Island Traveller came in wide to miss the currents. Taradata was three days ahead. But at last a link would be there to follow through.

Mark had relayed his session with Chas, who had assumed a new respect in her eyes. The first steward April had met who actually owned the boat in which he so ably served, although in a somewhat menial position. But a key position. Chas had contact with everyone.

Mark had checked out a few more H.Q. details about Chas. He was, in fact, a follower of Y-Shan-U – an obscure but powerful island religious sect – and his status was more or less the equivalent of a high priest. As such he was allowed up to six wives – his weakness being the Palaga "wife", as H.Q. had shrewdly assessed, because that was Chas's only business marriage. Under Palaga law, the names of directors of companies need not be made public. The Palaga "wife" was his co-director, her brother secretary. The money to sustain his other households came through this connection.

H.Q. felt that Chas was a red herring in this affair. He kept out of all rackets, yet collected from as many as he could. Such was the Palaga custom. He'd once been a Silver Greyhound – a British Government Foreign Office messenger – and a wartime V.C. He had even been an undercover man in the Far East and the Caribbean, and on special assignment around the Pacific ports. Then he had gone on to the island boats. Chucked everything. Clammed up. A keeper of a thousand secrets all right. But no part of THRUSH. No part of anything, except himself, and the Y Shan-U in which he fervently believed.

April managed to wangle her tour of the ship, but this too proved frustrating. Maleski, the brisk guide around the working parts, was a slick avoider of the very sections she had hoped to check. Later, having thus observed the lay out of the ship, she donned buttock-tight slacks and did a whistle-stop tour under her own steam. Amidships she found evidence of a new bulkhead. No rust, fresh paint, but a dingy shade which gave an appearance of old paint.

The whole structure had a strange feel. April purposely upset her purse so as to scrabble around on the floor of the section leading to a luggage hold. She had almost reached the conclusion that the bulkhead wasn't steel and had a clearance between it and the floor when, "Yee-ow!" she yelped, as Lucy Padrack's parasol blade penetrated her rump.

"Oh, my dear – it's you!" said Lucy Padrack, as if she didn't know. "I thought it was one of those young girls from Corn Island. The crew's quarters are strictly taboo to them. It's only a little jab – it won't bleed much." Her eyes glittered. "Dropped your purse, did you? Or are you being rather naughty? Some of the crew are so attractively uncouth, aren't they? And they come this way to their quarters."

"You should know," said April savagely.

She wasn't quite sure how it happened.

Lucy Padrack suddenly let fly with a stream of invective, in a flaring jealousy by an older woman against a young and lovely one. The words were coarse and ugly, bitter in their biological descriptions, carried on a richly vibrant voice which added to the sheer horror of them. Spoken in the hysterical strains of a screaming virago, or the fishwife intonations of a slut, they would have been evil enough – but in that staggeringly beautiful voice these obscenities were doubly foul.

This was personal – woman to woman, a gushing release from a tortured mind, yet not uncontrolled. Lucy Padrack's eyes didn't glare. She didn't froth at the mouth, nor claw with trembling hands. The filth poured out of her with deliberate slashing venom.

For a few seconds April assessed the possibility that the Padracks had linked her as an agent and that this was a way of building up to an open attack – perhaps with the parasol stiletto. Then she knew it wasn't so.

No doubt Lucy Padrack had been nursing this ever since she saw April. Many women of Lucy's age felt that way about all young, attractive females. And made a hell of their menfolks' lives with their endless suspicions, real or imagined. The man didn't really matter – he was merely a focal point at which all the pent-up viciousness could be directed. Female youth, beauty, sex appeal, freshness and charm were the enemy.

But Lucy Padrack was different. Obviously unrestricted in personal affairs, she and Simon Padrack appeared to have worked out their own pattern of living. It looked as if both kept all emotion out of their relationship and, if the research files were correct, this system allowed them to be a successful business team. Not unusual, but always harder for the woman to be as objective as the man. And if her need for sexual release is strong and requires such types as Lucy apparently favoured, then a bubbling cauldron can seethe beneath the lid of the marriage pot.

It could boil over more or less safely with the man of her choice, but Lucy could never escape the eternal female pressure caused by a younger, more attractive woman. Her husband had removed himself as a focal point, but if she lambasted him, he would swiftly dissolve the business partnership before it became too threatened. And there was no doubt in April's mind that Simon Padrack wouldn't hesitate to do that. Emotional blackmail would leave him cold.

All this background of human frailty was obvious to the trained mind of the U.N.C.L.E. agent. Such psychological and biological functions, and the patterns of behaviour which emanated from them, had been an important part of her education. She had majored in philosophy, and the U.N.C.L.E. advanced training courses on the role of women in espionage and counter-espionage gave clear knowledge of these matters based upon case files.

This intensive training also made her more aware of her own feminine intuitiveness and how it could be directed, controlled and applied at the correct times. But it was never really easy to use. A prodigious mental effort was needed constantly and objectively. Most women found it easier to go out of control deliberately. A man usually shied from emotional scenes that drained him but fed her, and so would capitulate. Block or remove this obliging and comparatively docile object of release and who the hell would listen to a woman's screaming vituperations? Another woman? Not blooming likely!

As April Dancer reached this moment of truth, she knew why Lucy Padrack had suddenly and apparently gone berserk. And in this moment realized that she too was bored, frustrated, and not a little peeved over lack of attention to her own feminine self – and with a whoop, almost of joy, she burst into glorious action.

"Why, you stupid bitch!" said April Dancer, when Lucy Padrack had paused for breath. "How dare you talk to me like that! How dare you stick your absurd little toy dagger into me! I'll have your guts for garters!"

She slammed a judo chop on Lucy's arm. The parasol fell. April kicked it away.

"Come on, sweetie," she said softly, weaving on her toes. "Come and get it!"

Lucy came with hands crooked, nails clawing, slashing at April's face, which suddenly was no longer in range. April jolted Lucy's head with a backhand across the ear. Lucy's hand flashed out, grabbing hair. April went with the pull, using its momentum to butt Lucy square in the face, then dug fingers into the woman's muscle-taut arm. Lucy yelped with the double pain of her face and electric-like shock in her arm which forced her hand to spring open, releasing April's hair.

Lucy reeled back, eyes watering, mouth gasping obscenities. Her pointed shoe slashed up. April arched her body and spun sideways, but the point sliced across her stomach, catching the hip bone in a pain-searing welt. She grabbed the moving instep as the foot neared the end of its travel, then clamped her other hand on the calf, pivoted, twisted and flung upward. Lucy crashed in a somersault.

She came up like a cat from a launching pad, all paws slashing. In the confined space, April could not wholly evade the hurtling body, but she gripped the arms, pinioning the clawing hands away from her eyes and face. Lucy's feet beat like the tattoo of the paws of an hysterical monkey into April's thighs on their way floorwards. April swivelled away, releasing the arms, but had to get clear to avoid injury from those leather-heeled shoes. Lucy at once slammed in punches with surprisingly hard little fists.

April decided enough was enough and went to work – coolly, scientifically, with slashing hands, palm edges, palm flat, curved knuckles, and an occasional forearm smash. In a few minutes she had Lucy cowering, sobbing, gasping – visibly frightened and aware that this lightning exhibition of unarmed combat, female style, could just as easily be killing her instead of giving her the hiding of her life.

It was a bitter defeat, made worse by the final indignity. April took one of Lucy's arms, pulled, levered and expertly heaved. Lucy's body again somersaulted to the floor. She lay there, face down, for a few minutes before slowly easing up to hands and knees. April picked up the parasol and jabbed the blade into Lucy's high-raised rump. Lucy collapsed with a howl of pain.

April snapped off the dagger, put it in her purse, then leaned against the bulkhead, calmly using comb and compact.

Lucy groped to one side for support to assist her in rising. Her hand pressed on a lever which April had missed in her inspection of the bulkhead. The whole section slid open, revealing a roller-loading channel leading to a white-painted sealed hatchway.

When she realized what had happened, Lucy quickly moved the lever back. As the section closed she climbed slowly to her feet. Her hands smoothed straggling hair back from her eyes, straightened her clothes.

"I've broken a couple of straps," she said. "Do you have a safety pin, dear?" She giggled. "Well – whatever came over us? It must be the heat."

They stared at each other for a long, cool minute before April passed her the safety pin.

"Yes," she said. "The heat."

Lucy Padrack smiled. "Sweet child! One day I shall kill you – very slowly."

April Dancer smiled back. "But of course, darling!" She closed her purse and walked away.

CHAPTER FIVE: DECOY AND LINK

APRIL didn't tell Mark about the cat-fight with Lucy Padrack, nor did she need to tell Mr. Waverly the details. She had found the bugging device in her cabin, disconnected it, extracted the guts, then replaced it. So, providing she used a low-pitched voice, she was able to contact H.Q. in comparative freedom.

April said: "Mr. Waverly, I may have boobed. I don't think I've done any harm. I certainly discovered some thing I previously had missed." She told him about the bulkhead. "But this occurred after I had acted as shown in Case File Eleven in our advanced training course, psychiatry section."

"Just a minute." Mr. Waverly's phenomenal memory needed a twitch. "Ah, yes! Well, this sort of thing is bound to happen sooner or later, Miss Dancer, especially where efforts to obtain the subject's confidence were not successful. There is a large amount of feline instinct built up which triggers off this type of outbreak. In the absence of logical links, you could not help but react instinctively. But, knowing this woman, her background and current connections, there is no doubt she will try to kill you. She is at present justifying herself before the act. So be on your guard."

April was relieved. "I thought you'd bawl me out for allowing personal feelings to override my judgment."

"It discovered the secret hatch, did it not? It has released you from the need to maintain a friendly front with the Padracks. Which, incidentally, did not produce much information, did it? So what have you lost? It also sharpens your own reflexes because when you uncover more of what is undoubtedly an affair of considerable proportions, you will know exactly what to expect from Lucy Padrack, and act accordingly."

"Thank you, sir. That makes me feel better."

"I was aware of your frustrations, Miss Dancer. You cannot always be reporting melodramatic events. We already have been through many months of wearisome research. Mr. Slate and yourself have made handsome progress."

She frowned. "I don't see how."

"Little things, Miss Dancer, little things – like little babies – grow astonishingly fast. So innocent, yet swiftly so full of exciting promise. For example: the report about innocent little boats. Did you know that many thousands of these boats have been imported into this country? That a new sport of coracle crafting is enjoying boom success in certain areas, especially along the Pacific seaboard? That there are now clubs and a central organization? All very sporty and chummy. And there are even tiny outboard motors designed to be attached to these innocent, fun-making little craft."

"Gosh—I didn't know all that, sir!"

"Nor did we until your report aroused our interest. Now we discover that certain individuals, believed to have THRUSH connections, occupy key positions in the central organization and in most of the clubs. Our little baby has grown to a very nasty-sized thug. So proceed with your assignment, Miss Dancer. Eschew emotion, if you can, but allow that a portion of it makes us all tick."

She laughed softly. "Yes, sir, I will."

"I think you will find it easier to contact me after the next twenty-four hours. I shall be aboard a certain naval vessel somewhere in your locality. Liaison between Count Kazan, Sama Paru and Mark Slate, yourself and myself will then be far better."

April tried not to show surprise. Mr. Waverly did not expect his top agents to be surprised, let alone reveal this emotion.

"I expected you might find that necessary," she answered quickly. "Is Randy Kovac promoted to field student?"

"Not exactly. He is with Sama Paru to obtain experience, but he also is there to prove to us and to himself that high-flown theories worked out on paper are not necessarily helpful to an agent in the field."

"In other words – you're going to make him convict himself out of his own mouth, or burn his own fingers, or break his own neck?"

"That will be quite enough clichés from you," said Mr. Waverly briskly. "It really is a lazy way of speaking. Do try to break the habit. Goodbye, Miss Dancer."

Count Kazan's luxury launch came, at bow-creaming, hull-slapping speed, from somewhere out of the heat-shimmering horizon to cross Island Traveller's wake and enter Providencia harbour two hours before she tied up. Lars Carlson in a dark wig and saucer-sized sun glasses could be seen swabbing the deck and carrying out chores while remaining within earshot of the radio. His master, the lordly Kazan, looking more like a millionaire than any millionaire could afford to look, strolled in arrogant splendour along the quay.