Split Code (25 page)

The
Glycera,
with Johnson on board, had sailed before we did. All the time I was feeding and settling Benedict, Donovan had given me a running commentary on the
Glycera’s
progress as she left her anchorage in the Daksa Channel and dropping her pilot turned south, reflected in the broken evening water, to begin her leisurely cruise into the calmer seas of the Boka Kotorska.

A cruise she would never have had to take, comfortably berthed at the quayside at Gruz, or at Venice. Listening to the rain pattering on the deck as Ben played with his bottle, and picked at my sleeve, and allowed the teat to pop yet again from the gummy pink arch of his smile, I allowed myself to hope, acidly, that all the Beautiful People were good sailors.

Beverley wasn’t. Beverley, who had got her way and shed Comer and was now on board the same ship as her golden Ulysses, Sultry Simon. And who had shown the same sort of contempt for Rosamund as had Simon, Rosamund’s husband. Nor was it hard to guess why. Beverley, too, must know that Simon was not the father of Rosamund’s baby, lying here on my knee.

And the real father, Hugo? He also was on board; more at his ease than anyone there, for this was his country. Did his attitude of the sophisticated bystander extend to the baby, and was Ingmar right in believing he had no interest in claiming paternity; in staking an interest in the assets of the Warr Beckenstaff Corporation? Or was Ingmar herself not still a pretty good suspect? It was through her organization that this celebration was taking place tonight off Yugoslavia, instead of Venice.

And was Dr Gibbings no more than a medical man paid by the Warr Beckenstaff to look after its employees, and specifically the Booker-Readmans? But for him, Sukey and Grover would never have been able to drive smoothly to their hotel in Herceg-Novi, taking their nurse Bunty with them. And the presence of a nanny might be quite essential to the plans for kidnapping a very young baby, particularly if Ben and I were to be separated. You couldn’t discount even Bunty or Charlotte except that, of course, Charlotte was back in New York.

‘This time,’ Johnson had said, ‘you won’t see Rudi or Vladimir or any of the faces we know already. This time the other team aren’t going to tip their hands. And by the same token, they mustn’t pot, when they do appear, that you were expecting them. So no carrycot packed full of feeds and nappies. Joanna. None of Ben’s equipment is going to be bugged: they’ll be on the lookout for that. Your own things are something again. You’ll be told about that.’

I had been told about that. I had read all the notes he had given me about Yugoslavia. Even before Ben was fed this evening I had been shown by Lenny Milligan over every inch of the
Dolly.
including the sail locker, the engine and all the apparatus in the cockpit for running her. She was a beautiful ketch. The charts for the coast of Yugoslavia were already laid out in the saloon with an open volume of the Med. Pilot, and he took me quickly through both. I believe, heaven help me, I even asked him what the Bora was, that was mentioned on every other page.
‘To secure for a Bora, cables should be taken to the shore.’

Into the business-like Cockney voice of Johnson’s skipper there had appeared a vein of real feeling. ‘That’s the joker in the pack. If you’re a summer sailor you won’t have struck it, because there ain’t this difference between the low pressure in the Adriatic here and the high pressure zones away up there to the north-east behind the mountains. Everywhere in Yugoslavia, I don’t have to tell you. The Bora’s a wind, Miss. It blows in the winter and the spring, and it’s caused by the cold air from the high ground spilling down into the sea through the mountain passes. There’s no warning and when it comes, it comes like a bloody dam bursting, driving anything in its way to the south and the west. That’s why there are wind socks on the cliff roads.

‘If you’re at sea, and you ever think a Bora’s on the way, get into harbour and tie up. If there isn’t a harbour, get under the land on a north shore and throw out cables . . . I’m going to get you and Mr Donovan some supper now. Is there anything more you want to ask me?’

There was nothing more that mattered. We got under way soon after that, following in the
Glycera’
s track just as far as the roadstead to the east of Dubrovnik where we were to drop anchor. I remember being mildly irritated, sitting down to table, to find Donovan deep in a Mickey Mouse comic, with a stack of others beside him. It wasn’t till I saw some thumbed copies of the
Politika
beside them that the penny dropped. I said ‘Hey: you speak Serbo-Croat?’

I will say one thing for Denny Donovan: nothing except perhaps a bad case of leaf thrip ever disturbed him. He looked up from his comic. ‘Sure I do. So do you.’

He shoved the pile over and I picked up Donald Duck and, it appeared, Tarzan. He was quite right. I could speak Serbo-Croat. So also could Grover.
‘Ahhhh!’
I read slowly aloud.
‘Buum-Buum! Jeek! Bu-hul’
and
‘Super ldeja!’

‘There’s a hard one.
Krokidilillll’
I said to Donovan. ‘O.K. Explain away the newspapers.’

‘I don’t have to. Lenny’s just going to chuck them overboard,’ said Donovan annoyingly. ‘Two weeks’ brain-flying tuition in Serbo-Croat, I would have you know, lies behind that innocent bunch of papers. Mr Johnson’s orders. All the time you’ve been ashore, Lenny and I have been working our asses off.’

‘Super Ideja,’ I said, but I was impressed. ‘What about Johnson? Is he learning it too?’

‘Didn’t ask him,’ said Donovan. ‘It’s a great language for swearing in. Hungarian’s supposed to be even better but I’m sure as hell not going to any sweat to prove it. Sit down and have some Niksicko Pivo. The beer’s not bad, at that.’

His arm, I noticed, was giving him remarkably little trouble. I didn’t follow it up. I did get to the length of saying. ‘Denny. D’you remember what I had in my pockets in Winnipeg?’ and see him look surprised, as Johnson had done. Then Johnson’s skipper came in with coffee and said, ‘Not to interrupt, but I’m just going to throw the switch for the microphones. Just to remind you. Miss. Everything you say from now on will be listened to by our own friends on shore. And there’s always the risk that someone’ll pick it up that’s not meant to.’

All according to plan. But now it was real, it wasn’t so easy. I remember sitting voiceless for a moment, until Donovan weighed in with some nonsense.

We finished a meal I hadn’t done justice to. Three quarters of an hour out at Luka Gruz,
Dolly
arrived at her new anchorage and Donovan went up to help Lenny while I cleared the dishes into the galley and washed them. Then I climbed up on to the side deck and looked about me.

It was dark and raining, in gusty showers fetched by a light and irregular wind; but all the lamps of Dubrovnik lay on our port side, while ahead the coast ran east and south in a string of clustering lights outlining the new resorts with their hotels and night clubs and restaurants.

Above rose the dark hills, with the beam of car headlights appearing and vanishing from the Adriatic highway slashed across them, and a starry nexus here and there to show where the villages lay. Looking at Dubrovnik below, afloat on her soft floodlit walls, graceful as the M/S
Glycera
in the natural element of her waterway, you could see again the rich city-state full of palaces through which once flowed all the wealth of the East: the harbour in which thirty-five ships of the Spanish Armada had been built and fitted out to sail against England. A beautiful, and alien city.

To the south was only blackness and wind. The
Glycera,
moving at twenty knots, was making for the Gulf of Kotor less than two hours away: sheltered waters where all the precious and pampered guests of Ingmar Warr Beckenstaff could dine and dance and listen to cabaret, could get drunk and fall in love and sleep with one another, could make deals and gamble and make and lose interesting social contacts, and face, and fortune. Could arrange, while doing so, for other people to hold a young baby to ransom, to cover the fact that my father was about to be blackmailed. And that I was going to be forced to decode for some murdering bastards a photographed document with the preposterous name of the Malted Milk Folio.

Denny Donovan said, ‘They’ve got some great date palms. I once grew a date palm in a plant pot. You know the cute thing about date palms?’

‘The boys need the girls,’ I said. ‘It’s a neat idea, and I bet it catches on. Where’s the second anchor?’

‘There, Miss,’ said Lenny Milligan. ‘Everything in order for a quiet night. There’s whisky in the cupboard, sir, and if you want me, I’ll be in the cockpit or else the fo’c’sle.’ A smell of orange blossom poured into the boat and out again as we went below, followed by another spatter of rain, and all the rigging shook. Nodding,
Dolly
began a fresh meandering swing round her anchor.

Ben was asleep. I sat down again in Johnson’s comfortable saloon and watched Donovan root for a pack of cards and the whisky bottles. ‘Or,’ he said turning round, ‘you might prefer the vintage champagne. What do you suppose they’re doing on the
Glycera
now?’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Pickin’ and strummin’ and clappin’ and stompin’. And hunting out their stick-on seasick pills, if they’re watching the barometer.’ ‘I ain’t afraid to say when I’m jealous,’ said Donovan equably. He handed me a large whisky and began dealing out cards. ‘I tell ya. I wouldn’t mind waking up tomorrow morning with a hangover and a pair of Schlumberger cufflinks. You know who’s doing the cabaret?’

‘I don’t suppose it’s the Moofy Puppets,’ I said. ‘Who would you like to be sitting next to if you weren’t playing gin rummy with me?’

‘Any broad on that boat with an average unearned annual income of over three hundred thousand dollars who can’t play gin rummy,’ said Donovan in an offended voice. ‘Hell, how much a point did I say we were playing for?’

‘I’ve got it all noted down here,’ I said. ‘You owe me five dollars. My deal.’

I’d milked him of seventeen dollars fifty when the bleep of Johnson’s special radar could be heard changing in tone and the cockpit door opened to display Milligan’s hand with a liquid rub-across message pad in it. The writing said, ‘Launch coming towards us from the harbour.’ I said, ‘What about another whisky?’ to Donovan.

He had an excuse, then, to be on his feet and glancing out of the porthole. A moment later he didn’t need an excuse, because the sound of several voices hailing the
Dolly
came quite clearly over the hum and twang and slosh of the wind and the water. Donovan said, ‘Anyone know twelve boys and girls in a big yellow launch out of Dubrovnik? They’re all making this way and yelling fit to bust. Joanna?’

I went and stood beside him. The rain had stopped and the wind risen a little. It looked, out there, a good bit colder. The launch’s own light and the glow from the
Dolly
lit the distant faces, and the white bow-water shot into the darkness. ‘Wait a minute. That’s the doctor I met at the Radoslav Clinic. Lazar Dogíc,’ I said. ‘Good lord. He asked me to go to his birthday party. It looks as if he’s come to collect me.’

It was Lazar Dogíc: no longer in the white jacket in which he had given Beverley Eisenkopp her injection, or the polo neck in which he had taken plum brandy in the City Café with Johnson and the rest of us. Instead he looked extremely handsome, not to say romantic in a loose white belted tunic with embroidered collar and cuffs and enormous wind-bellied sleeves, each of which was wrapped round a shrieking pinafored girl with the giggles. The water, cut up by the wind, was making the launch pitch and shudder and the rest of his friends, squeezed in behind, were also squealing. As I made for the deck, Donovan following, I could hear Lenny yelling at them to cut down the throttle.

His voice, caught by the wind, had no chance of reaching them, and in any case I much doubted if there was a man there sober enough to obey. The launch, its engine roaring, continued to come straight towards us, while Donovan semaphored with his long arms and Lenny Milligan, with the resignation of long years in Saturday anchorages, ran and threw over fenders, and I stood at the rails and used wildly, over and over, the universal cross and swing of the arms that means
No dice: skip it.

They saw me all right. I could hear the groans over the water: sorrow blending into resistance merging into persuasion: all without the slightest slackening of speed. I thought they were going to ram us full astern; but at the last moment someone sobered, or someone lost their nerve. There was a sharp blow aft, followed by an alteration in the note of the launch’s engine. Then the launch bounced past our port quarter, banged Lenny’s fenders, headed out and then shot erratically back, to be met by the ends of two boathooks and Lenny Milligan’s mahogany face.

Hungarian might be the best language for swearing in, but Johnson’s skipper was making a brave try with English. Faced with two angry men and a demonstration of unmistakable abuse, the shouts of the birthday party diminished. The engine cut down to a purr and the launch rocked, idling just within the range of
Dolly’s
lights while Dr Dogíc, carefully disentangling himself from each of the girls, climbed up on a thwart and addressed us.

‘Miss Joanna! We invite you and your friends to my Saint’s Day. You are in Yugoslavia, and we do not think it polite to refuse. For any damage to Mr Johnson’s beautiful ship, of course we shall pay.’ He then ruined the whole effect by breaking down into giggles: there was a chorus of remarks and a shout of laughter from behind him and the boat lurched, throwing him into a number of eager laps. Lenny said, ‘They’re going to have that bloody launch over. Look at that.’

What he was looking at were the two broad patches of peeled paint and bruised wood in the starboard bow of the speedboat where she had hit the
Dolly.
I just had time to wonder how serious the damage was and what harm the
Dolly
had suffered when the launch rocked still further under the shrieking, giggling crowd and dipping, must have shipped water.