The White Schooner (25 page)

The wind was increasing, spray sluicing back over the schooner as she drove into the head sea, occasional rain squalls sweeping the cockpit, the rain beating into cold faces, prickling like fine needles. In the eastern sky the
beginnings
of daylight struggled against scudding clouds.

But it was astern, to the north-west where the night was giving way to a storm-dark dawn, that those in the cockpit were looking. ‘There!’ said Helmut. ‘See that flash of white? It’s a bow hitting the sea.’

Wedged in a corner of the cockpit, resting his elbows on the after coachroof, eyes pressed to binoculars, Black steadied himself against the motion of the
Snow
goose.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Got it! Must be something travelling fast. Bumping the head sea.’

‘Think it’s
Nordwind
?’
Francois was unable to keep the anxiety from his voice.

‘We’ll assume it is,’ said Black. ‘But it could be several things. The Marseilles-Algiers ferry. A naval ship making for Algiers. Even a fast freighter. Won’t be long before we know.’ He went across to the chart-table. The deck-watch showed 0633. The log repeater read 12.4 knots. Wind and sea had brought the speed down. With the dividers he measured off the estimated distance travelled since the last dead-reckoning position. Then he measured the distance to Rendezvous Delta. It was just over seven miles. At twelve knots that meant another thirty-five minutes. If it was the
Nordwind
they’d sighted astern she’d have, weather for weather, a ten knot advantage.

In thirty-five minutes she could gain six miles on them. Everything would depend then on two factors: how far astern she was now, and whether
Snowgoose
’s dead-reckoning position was reasonably correct. If it were not, the difficulty of making the rendezvous with Weissner on time might be considerable.

He called to the others. ‘See anything yet?’

Helmut shouted back, ‘Still only occasional splashes of spray, but they’re getting bigger.’

Black knew that the vessel astern would already have
Snowgoose
in sight, silhouetted against the light to the
south-east
, the direction in which Black hoped that Weissner would show up soon. He said to Francois. ‘Check over the automatic rifles. Spare magazines. The lot. Put them at the foot of the forward companionway.’

‘So you think it is
Nordwind
?’

‘I don’t think anything,’ snapped Black. ‘But it might be.’

To Dimitrio and Helmut he said, ‘Keep a good lookout for Weissner. Ahead, and on either bow.’

Helmut swore. ‘These bloody rain squalls don’t help.
Visibility
keeps changing.’

Black, wedged against the cockpit coaming, was looking astern again. ‘If we don’t find Weissner, he’ll find us. He’s got radar and sonar.’ He began to hum
Colonel
Bogey
. The door to the companionway opened and shut and someone came into the cockpit. It was Manuela. She had on the brown suède coat she’d worn to Altomonte. He said. ‘Hallo. You’ll find an oilskin in the saloon locker. It’s wet here.’

She went down the companionway again without replying. Soon she was back wearing an oilskin several times too big. But she kept away from him, leaning against the doghouse clear of the worst of the spray.

Daylight was coming rapidly. Once again he raised his binoculars and looked for the vessel astern. But a squall of rain had shut out visibility and there was nothing to be seen. If it were
Nordwind
she had radar, and evasive action now would be a waste of time. As when the Zephyr had broken down the night before, Black felt the cold douche of failure. But pursuit was a risk they had always considered in their plans, and there was no shock or surprise. If only he knew it were
Nordwind.
And where Weissner was. It was six
forty-seven
. Thirteen minutes to the rendezvous.

There was no point in sending the MAYDAY signal if the vessel astern were the
Nordwind.
It would have to wait now until they’d sighted Weissner. The rain had shut in around the schooner and nothing could be seen in any direction. Even if they could make radio contact with him, there was nothing to be gained by asking Weissner for his position, since they were unaware of their own except by dead reckoning. ZID’s
signal had said that Weissner would make the rendezvous by seven o’clock. Black knew that meant he’d be there. Weissner was Weissner. The problem was, would they? His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from Helmut. ‘It
is
a motor cruiser. She’s gained quite a bit.’

He swung round, focusing the binoculars, trying to steady himself in the lurching cockpit. To the north-west the rain had cleared, and he could see the vessel astern with the naked eye. She was about two miles away. He saw the white bows lift to a sea, the red boot-topping showing for a moment, then disappearing as a cloud of spray leapt skywards to be carried away by the wind. For a few seconds the motor cruiser was sharply focused in his binoculars. He saw the radar scanner turning, the glass-fronted wheelhouse, the raked aerial mast. It
was
the
Nordwind.
A knot of anxiety formed in his stomach, and his mouth and throat felt dry. Van Biljon’s men would be in the motor cruiser. Perhaps the police. The last thing he wanted was a shooting match. Kagan had given strict
instructions
that Spanish lives should not be endangered. But if they started shooting? The rain came again, a screen of wet grey mist which hid the motor cruiser.

Black looked at his watch. It was eight minutes to seven. He heard Helmut calling.

‘What d’you say?’ he said dully.

Helmut shouted. ‘It’s the
Nordwind.
’

‘I know it is,’ said Black. ‘Don’t shout.’

A desperate feeling of impotence possessed him. Where the hell was Weissner? They should have sighted him between the squalls by now. Was
Snowgoose
’s D.R. position so
hopelessly
out?

Weariness pushed his mind to the edge of fantasy so that the rain which enveloped the schooner became a grey nylon bag from which escape was impossible, and the deep note of the diesels the sound of distant guns. He shook his head in an effort to clear his mind. There was nothing he could usefully do now but wait and watch while the schooner flung herself into the short seas, the bows coming clear, hanging in the air, the hull shaking like a dog shedding water then, as the spray came blanketing over them, plunging into the next sea.

‘It’s clearing astern,’ called Helmut, and Black turned, wedging himself once more, holding the binoculars ready.

The rain squall was moving to the west like a stage curtain, revealing first the sea on the port quarter then, with chilling predictability, the white bows of the motor cruiser. But it was larger now, the detail of the forward superstructure clearly visible to the naked eye. Black felt an almost overwhelming desire to scream.

The plunging bows of
Nordwind
had a hypnotic effect and his mind numbed as he looked across the broken sea, so that he did not register the sudden boil and froth of water, the hissing eruption in the wake of the schooner, until a dark shape emerged, foam and white water cascading from it as it grew rapidly larger.

He jumped up from his crouching position and shouted, his voice touched with hysteria. ‘Weissner, by God! Helmut! Transmit that MAYDAY.’ As Helmut went down the forward companionway, Black called to Dimitrio at the wheel. ‘Slow ahead together. Tell Kamros to stand by the seacocks.’

The note of the diesels dropped, and the hull vibrations diminished. Francois came up the after companionway, his dark eyes full of inquiry. ‘What is it?’ he said.

Black pointed astern. ‘Weissner’s arrived. Get the old man ready.’

Francois disappeared and Black turned to Manuela. ‘
Standby
for another dinghy ride, my poppet.’ He smiled uncertainly, wondering if he were forgiven, trying to make peace. ‘Bit rougher this time. But with real sailors.’

The submarine was fully surfaced now, the long black hull moving to windward, short sea slopping over the bows, spilling across the casing and falling away into the troughs. On the gun-platform men could be seen standing by the twin Bofors, while others manhandled an inflatable dinghy.

The conning-tower loomed tall and sinister, the wet steel reflecting the greys of sea and sky. A man there took off his peaked cap and waved it at the schooner, and an Aldis lamp began to blink.

Black, focusing his binoculars, shouted into the wind, ‘Weissner, you old bastard! You were nearly late.’