D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

the outlines of an old mahogany fishing boat, its wood and metalwork gleaming. Painted on the stern in a flowing script, was the name: Molly’s Revenge.

The whistling grew louder, and Michael spotted a man exiting the hatch leading down to the cabin below. Thin to the point of emaciation, his face resembled toughened leather tooled into deep chasms from years in the wind and rain. A soiled yachting cap sat perched on a balding pate above two kindly eyes separated by a razor-thin nose.

The old man bent down, grabbed a wrench from an open toolbox, and started back down the steps, still whistling. Michael took up the tune, harmonizing with the old man, who

stopped and turned, eyes squinting into the fog.

Michael and Erika stepped forward until the glow of the oil lamp fell on them.

The old man’s bushy brow lifted. “Cor blimey. I didn’t think anyone knew that one anymore,” he said in a thick Cockney dialect.

“It was my father’s favorite song...so I’m told.” He paused, giving the boat another glance. “I’m looking to hire a boat.”

The old man grinned. “Bit early for fishing. The smelt don’t run ‘til five o’clock.”

“We need to get across the Channel...to Ostend,” Erika said.

The old sailor studied Erika, his expression sphinx-like. “They have a nice ferry for that, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Michael shot a glance at Erika, whose own expression remained as inscrutable as the old man’s. Michael decided to trust him.

“We can’t exactly avail ourselves of it, at the moment, Mister...”

The old man doffed his cap and bowed. The effect was comical. “Captain Terrence Nye, at your service, Guv’nor.” He squinted again, giving his face the appearance of a wizened bird. “You wouldn’t be runnin’ from the law, would you?”

“In a matter of speaking....”

Nye shook his head, the grin returning to his face. “Never was much for the law.... Bastards always mucking about in me business. I’ll take ya across for two hundred quid cash. In advance.”

“All right. But it’s half now, half when we get there.... Plus, a bonus if we beat the ferry.”

Nye’s grin widened; he was missing all his back teeth.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, mate. ‘Cept this old tub’ll never beat that boat, unless we go to Calais.”

“Will that delay us?” she asked, turning to Michael.

He shook his head. “It’s actually closer.”

“Calais it is.”

“Come aboard then,” Nye said, waving them forward. “We’d best be going.”

Relieved, Michael and Erika clambered onto the boat, while Nye threw off the mooring lines and started the engine. It sputtered and coughed, stalled once, then caught, the pistons smoothing out to a deep throaty roar. Water boiled above the propeller, and oily clouds of noxious exhaust belched out of the rusted pipes jutting from the transom. The deck vibrated under their feet, and Michael wondered if the old tub would even make it out of the harbor, much less to Calais. But his fears eased when the old captain goosed the throttle and the boat glided away from the pier. Out beyond the harbor wall, the sounds of the busy harbor faded, leaving only the sound of the engine and the water slapping against the hull. Moments later the tiny craft faded into the swirling fog.

From his perch on the seawall above the quay, Feliks Danya stood smoking a black Sobrani cigarette and watched while Thorley and the woman negotiated with the old sailor, then climbed aboard and motored away.

It would have been so tempting to take him and the girl then and there. But orders were orders. And orders were not to be countermanded, especially those of Comrade Hedeon. Feliks took a long drag and blew out the smoke, shaking his head.

When the dilapidated old boat had gone, Danya turned to the man standing next to him. “Take the ferry to Ostend and stay with them,” he said. “Report to me as soon as you determine their ultimate destination. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant.” He turned and lumbered back toward the ferry terminal. Danya sighed.

Above him, he had a superior running an operation, making decisions from his emotions; below him, he had men like “Yuri the Cave Man,” whom he had to watch constantly to make sure they did not blunder. It was all too much.

“God help us,” he whispered. And then he laughed. Here he was a good communist asking for help from heaven. Hell would have been a more apt choice, for that was where all good communists were going if their mission failed.

Disgusted, he threw down his cigarette and walked away, his tongue already craving the taste of the vodka waiting in his car.

Werner Mueller stepped from the shadows, his foot crushing out the stub of the Sobrani. The two men with him kept watchful eyes on the area around them, poised for violence. Each looked as if he welcomed the opportunity. A moment later another man glided out of the fog, his step as jaunty as the tune he whistled. Karl’s whistle died when he saw the look in Mueller’s eyes.

“They took the fishing boat?” he asked.

Mueller nodded, staring off into the fog where Molly’s Revenge had disappeared. “Those Slavic bastards have someone on the ferry.” he turned to Karl. “You know what to do....”

Karl smiled, catching the eyes of the other two men.

“Ja, I know,” he said, turning back toward the way he’d come.

Mueller waited until he’d gone. “Now, we take a little drive into the country,” he said, a smile peeling back his lips. In the sickly glow of the streetlamp, he looked exactly like a grinning skull.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Once they cleared the harbor wall, the fog stole away, revealing a clear night of preternatural calm. The water, a sheet