Читать книгу Seawitch - Alistair MacLean, Alistair MacLean, John Denis - Страница 8

Lord Worth was tall, lean and erect. His complexion was of the mahogany hue of the playboy millionaire who spends his life in the sun: Lord Worth seldom worked less than sixteen hours a day. His abundant hair and moustache were snow-white. According to his mood and expression and to the eye of the beholder he could have been a Biblical patriarch, a better-class Roman senator or a gentlemanly seventeenth-century pirate – except for the fact, of course, that none of those ever, far less habitually, wore lightweight alpaca suits of the same colour as Lord Worth’s hair.

He looked and was every inch an aristocrat. Unlike the many Americanas who bore the Christian names of Duke or Earl, Lord Worth really was a lord, the fifteenth in succession of a highly distinguished family of Scottish peers of the realm. The fact that their distinction had lain mainly in the fields of assassination, endless clan warfare, the stealing of women and cattle and the selling of their fellow peers down the river was beside the point: the earlier Scottish peers didn’t go in too much for the more cultural activities. The blue blood that had run in their veins ran in Lord Worth’s. As ruthless, predatory, acquisitive and courageous as any of his ancestors, Lord Worth simply went about his business with a degree of refinement and sophistication that would have lain several light years beyond their understanding.

He had reversed the trend of Canadians coming to Britain, making their fortunes and eventually being elevated to the peerage: he had already been a peer, and an extremely wealthy one, before emigrating to Canada. His emigration, which had been discreet and precipitous, had not been entirely voluntary. He had made a fortune in real estate in London before the Internal Revenue had become embarrassingly interested in his activities. Fortunately for him, whatever charges which might have been laid against his door were not extraditable.

He had spent several years in Canada, investing his millions in the Worth Hudson Oil Company and proving himself to be even more able in the oil business than he had been in real estate. His tankers and refineries spanned the globe before he had decided that the climate was too cold for him and moved south to Florida. His splendid mansion was the envy of the many millionaires – of a lesser financial breed, admittedly – who almost literally jostled for elbow-room in the Fort Lauderdale area.

The dining-room in that mansion was something to behold. Monks, by the very nature of their calling, are supposed to be devoid of all earthly lusts, but no monk, past or present, could ever have gazed on the gleaming magnificence of that splendid oaken refectory table without turning pale chartreuse in envy. The chairs, inevitably, were Louis XIV. The splendidly embroidered silken carpet, with a pile deep enough for a fair-sized mouse to take cover in, would have been judged by an expert to come from Damascus and to have cost a fortune: the expert would have been right on both counts. The heavy drapes and embroidered silken walls were of the same pale grey, the latter being enhanced by a series of original Impressionist paintings, no less than three by Matisse and the same number by Renoir. Lord Worth was no dilettante and was clearly trying to make amends for his ancestors’ shortcomings in the cultural fields.

It was in those suitably princely surroundings that Lord Worth was at the moment taking his ease, revelling in his second brandy and the company of the two beings whom after money – he loved most in the world: his two daughters Marina and Melinda, who had been so named by their now divorced Spanish mother. Both were young, both were beautiful, and could have been mistaken for twins, which they weren’t: they were easily distinguishable by the fact that while Marina’s hair was black as a raven’s wing Melinda’s was pure titian.

There were two other guests at the table. Many a local millionaire would have given a fair slice of his ill-gotten gains for the privilege and honour of sitting at Lord Worth’s table. Few were invited, and then but seldom. These two young men, comparatively as poor as church mice, had the unique privilege, without invitation, of coming and going as they pleased, which was pretty often.

Mitchell and Roomer were two pleasant men in their early thirties for whom Lord Worth had a strong if concealed admiration and whom he held in something close to awe – inasmuch as they were the only two completely honest men he had ever met. Not that Lord Worth had ever stepped on the wrong side of the law, although he frequently had a clear view of what happened on the other side: it was simply that he was not in the habit of dealing with honest men. They had both been highly efficient police sergeants, only they had been too efficient, much given to arresting the wrong people such as crooked politicians and equally crooked wealthy businessmen who had previously laboured under the misapprehension that they were above the law. They were fired, not to put too fine a point on it, for their total incorruptibility.

Of the two Michael Mitchell was the taller, the broader and the less good-looking. With slightly craggy face, ruffled dark hair and blue chin, he could never have made it as a matinée idol. John Roomer, with his brown hair and trimmed brown moustache, was altogether better-looking. Both were shrewd, intelligent and highly experienced. Roomer was the intuitive one, Mitchell the one long on action. Apart from being charming both men were astute and highly resourceful. And they were possessed of one other not inconsiderable quality: both were deadly marksmen.

Two years previously they had set up their own private investigative practice, and in that brief space of time had established such a reputation that people in real trouble now made a practice of going to them instead of to the police, a fact that hardly endeared them to the local law. Their homes and combined office were within two miles of Lord Worth’s estate where, as said, they were frequent and welcome visitors. That they did not come for the exclusive pleasure of his company Lord Worth was well aware. Nor, he knew, were they even in the slightest way interested in his money, a fact that Lord Worth found astonishing, as he had never previously encountered anyone who wasn’t thus interested. What they were interested in, and deeply so, were Marina and Melinda.

The door opened and Lord Worth’s butler, Jenkins – English, of course, as were the two footmen – made his usual soundless entrance, approached the head of the table and murmured discreetly in Lord Worth’s ear. Lord Worth nodded and rose.

‘Excuse me, girls, gentlemen. Visitors. I’m sure you can get along together quite well without me.’ He made his way to his study, entered and closed the door behind him, a very special padded door that, when shut, rendered the room completely soundproof.

The study, in its own way – Lord Worth was no sybarite but he liked his creature comforts as well as the next man – was as sumptuous as the dining-room: oak, leather, a wholly unnecessary log fire burning in one corner, all straight from the best English baronial mansions. The walls were lined with thousands of books, many of which Lord Worth had actually read, a fact that must have caused great distress to his illiterate ancestors, who had despised degeneracy above all else.

A tall bronzed man with aquiline features and grey hair rose to his feet. Both men smiled and shook hands warmly.

Lord Worth said: ‘Corral, my dear chap! How very nice to see you again. It’s been quite some time.’

‘My pleasure, Lord Worth. Nothing recently that would have interested you.’

‘But now?’

‘Now is something else again.’

The Corral who stood before Lord Worth was indeed the Corral who, in his capacity as representative of the Florida off-shore leases, had been present at the meeting of ten at Lake Tahoe. Some years had passed since he and Lord Worth had arrived at an amicable and mutually satisfactory agreement. Corral, widely regarded as Lord Worth’s most avowedly determined enemy and certainly the most vociferous of his critics, reported regularly to Lord Worth on the current activities and, more importantly, the projected plans of the major companies, which didn’t hurt Lord Worth at all. Corral, in return, received an annual tax-free retainer of $200,000, which didn’t hurt him very much either.

Lord Worth pressed a bell and within seconds Jenkins entered bearing a silver tray with two large brandies. There was no telepathy involved, just years of experience and a long-established foreknowledge of Lord Worth’s desires. When he left both men sat.

Lord Worth said: ‘Well, what news from the west?’

‘The Cherokee, I regret to say, are after you.’

Lord Worth sighed and said: ‘It had to come some time. Tell me all.’

Corral told him all. He had a near-photographic memory and a gift for concise and accurate reportage. Within five minutes Lord Worth knew all that was worth knowing about the Lake Tahoe meeting.

Lord Worth who, because of the unfortunate misunderstanding that had arisen between himself and Cronkite, knew the latter as well as any and better than most, said at the end of Corral’s report: ‘Did Cronkite subscribe to the ten’s agreement to abjure any form of violence?’

‘No.’

‘Not that it would have mattered if he had. Man’s a total stranger to the truth. And ten million dollars expenses, you tell me?’

‘It did seem a bit excessive.’

‘Can you see a massive outlay like that being concommitant with anything except violence?’

‘No.’

‘Do you think the others believed that there was no connection between them?’

‘Let me put it this way, sir. Any group of people who can convince themselves, or appear to convince themselves, that any action proposed to be taken against you is for the betterment of mankind is also prepared to convince themselves, or appear to convince themselves, that the word “Cronkite” is synonymous with peace on earth.’

‘So their consciences are clear. If Cronkite goes to any excessive lengths in death and destruction to achieve their ends they can always throw up their hands in horror and say, “Good God, we never thought the man would go that far.” Not that any connection between them and Cronkite would ever be established. What a bunch of devious, mealy-mouthed hypocrites!’

He paused for a moment.

‘I suppose Cronkite refused to divulge his plans?’

‘Absolutely. But there is one little and odd circumstance that I’ve kept for the end. Just as we were leaving Cronkite drew two of the ten to one side and spoke to them privately. It would be interesting to know why.’

‘Any chance of finding out?’

‘A fair chance. Nothing guaranteed. But I’m sure Benson could find out – after all, it was Benson who invited us all to Lake Tahoe.’

‘And you think you could persuade Benson to tell you?’

‘A fair chance. Nothing more.’

Lord Worth put on his resigned expression. ‘All right, how much?’

‘Nothing. Money won’t buy Benson.’ Corral shook his head in disbelief. ‘Extraordinary, in this day and age, but Benson is not a mercenary man. But he does owe me the odd favour, one of them being that, without me, he wouldn’t be the president of the oil company that he is now.’ Corral paused. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t asked me the identities of the two men Cronkite took aside.’

‘So am I.’

‘Borosoff of the Soviet Union and Pantos of Venezuela.’ Lord Worth appeared to lapse into a trance. ‘That mean anything to you?’

Lord Worth bestirred himself. ‘Yes. Units of the Russian navy are making a so-called “goodwill tour” of the Caribbean. They are, inevitably, based on Cuba. Of the ten, those are the only two that could bring swift – ah – naval intervention to bear against the Seawitch.’ He shook his head. ‘Diabolical. Utterly diabolical.’

‘My way of thinking too, sir. There’s no knowing. But I’ll check as soon as possible and hope to get results.’

‘And I shall take immediate precautions.’ Both men rose. ‘Corral, we shall have to give serious consideration to the question of increasing this paltry retainer of yours.’

‘We try to be of service, Lord Worth.’

Lord Worth’s private radio room bore more than a passing resemblance to the flight deck of his private 707. The variety of knobs, switches, buttons and dials was bewildering. Lord Worth seemed perfectly at home with them all, and proceeded to make a number of calls.

The first of these were to his four helicopter pilots, instructing them to have his two largest helicopters – never a man to do things by halves, Lord Worth owned no fewer than six of these machines – ready at his own private airfield shortly before dawn. The next four were to people of whose existence his fellow directors were totally unaware. The first was to Cuba, the second to Venezuela. Lord Worth’s world-wide range of contacts – employees, rather – was vast. The instructions to both were simple and explicit. A constant monitoring watch was to be kept on the naval bases in both countries, and any sudden and expected departures of any naval vessels, and their type, was to be reported to him immediately.

The third, to a person who lived not too many miles away, was addressed to a certain Giuseppe Palermo, whose name sounded as if he might be a member of the Mafia, but who definitely wasn’t: the Mafia Palermo despised as a mollycoddling organization which had become so ludicrously gentle in its methods of persuasion as to be in imminent danger of becoming respectable. The next call was to Baton Rouge in Louisiana, where there lived a person who only called himself ‘Conde’ and whose main claim to fame lay in the fact that he was the highest-ranking naval officer to have been court-martialled and dishonourably discharged since World War Two. He, like the others, received very explicit instructions. Not only was Lord Worth a master organizer, but the efficiency he displayed was matched only by his speed in operation.

The noble lord, who would have stoutly maintained – if anyone had the temerity to accuse him, which no one ever had – that he was no criminal, was about to become just that. Even this he would have strongly denied and that on three grounds. The Constitution upheld the rights of every citizen to bear arms; every man had the right to defend himself and his property against criminal attack by whatever means lay to hand; and the only way to fight fire was with fire.

The final call Lord Worth put through, and this time with total confidence, was to his tried and trusted lieutenant, Commander Larsen.

Commander Larsen was the captain of the Seawitch.

Larsen – no one knew why he called himself ‘Commander’, and he wasn’t the kind of person you asked – was a rather different breed of man from his employer. Except in a public court or in the presence of a law officer he would cheerfully admit to anyone that he was both a non-gentleman and a criminal. And he certainly bore no resemblance to any aristocrat, alive or dead. But for all that there did exist a genuine rapport and mutual respect between Lord Worth and himself. In all likelihood they were simply brothers under the skin.

As a criminal and non-aristocrat – and casting no aspersions on honest unfortunates who may resemble him – he certainly looked the part. He had the general build and appearance of the more viciously daunting heavy-weight wrestler, deep-set black eyes that peered out under the overhanging foliage of hugely bushy eyebrows, an equally bushy black beard, a hooked nose and a face that looked as if it had been in regular contact with a series of heavy objects. No one, with the possible exception of Lord Worth, knew who he was, what he had been or from where he had come. His voice, when he spoke, came as a positive shock: beneath that Neanderthaloid façade was the voice and the mind of an educated man. It really ought not to have come as such a shock: beneath the façade of many an exquisite fop lies the mind of a retarded fourth-grader.

Larsen was in the radio room at that moment, listening attentively, nodding from time to time, then flicked a switch that put the incoming call on to the loudspeaker.

He said: ‘All clear, sir. Everything understood. We’ll make the preparations. But haven’t you overlooked something, sir?’

‘Overlooked what?’ Lord Worth’s voice over the telephone carried the overtones of a man who couldn’t possibly have overlooked anything.

‘You’ve suggested that armed surface vessels may be used against us. If they’re prepared to go to such lengths isn’t it feasible that they’ll go to any lengths?’

‘Get to the point, man.’

‘The point is that it’s easy enough to keep an eye on a couple of naval bases. But I suggest it’s a bit more difficult to keep an eye on a dozen, maybe two dozen airfields.’

‘Good God!’ There was a long pause during which the rattle of cogs and the meshing of gear-wheels in Lord Worth’s brain couldn’t be heard. ‘Do you really think –’

‘If I were on the Seawitch, Lord Worth, it would be six and half a dozen to me whether I was clobbered by shells or bombs. And planes could get away from the scene of the crime a damn sight faster than ships. They could get clean away. The US navy or land-based bombers would have a good chance of intercepting surface vessels. And another thing, Lord Worth.’

There was a moment’s pause.

‘A ship could stop at a distance of a hundred miles. No distance at all for the guided missile, I believe they have a range of four thousand miles these days. When the missile was, say, twenty miles from us, they could switch on its heat-source tracking device. God knows, we’re the only heat-source for a hundred miles around.’

Another lengthy pause, then: ‘Any more encouraging thoughts occur to you, Commander Larsen?’

‘Yes, sir. Just one. If I were the enemy – I may call them the enemy –’

‘Call the devils what you want.’

‘If I were the enemy I’d use a submarine. They don’t even have to break water to loose off a missile. Poof! No Seawitch. No signs of any attacker. Could well be put down to a massive explosion aboard the Seawitch. Far from impossible, sir.’

‘You’ll be telling me next that there’ll be atomic-headed missiles.’

‘To be picked up by a dozen seismological stations? I should think it hardly likely, sir. But that may just be wishful thinking. I have no wish to be vaporized.’

‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ The line went dead.

Larsen hung up his phone and smiled widely. One would have subconsciously imagined this action to reveal a set of yellowed fangs: instead, it revealed a perfect set of gleamingly white teeth. He turned to look at Scoffield, his head driller and right-hand man.

Scoffield was a large, rubicund, smiling man, the easy-going essence of good nature. To the fact that this was not precisely the case any member of his drilling crews would have eagerly and blasphemously testified. Scoffield was a very tough citizen indeed and one could assume that it was not innate modesty that made him conceal this: much more probably it was a permanent stricture of the facial muscles caused by the four long vertical scars on his cheeks, two on either side. Clearly he, like Larsen, was no great advocate of plastic surgery. He looked at Larsen with understandable curiosity.

‘What was all that about?’

‘The day of reckoning is at hand. Prepare to meet thy doom. More specifically, his lordship is beset by enemies.’ Larsen outlined Lord Worth’s plight. ‘He’s sending what sounds like a battalion of hard men out here in the early morning, accompanied by suitable weaponry. Then in the afternoon we are to expect a boat of some sort, loaded with even heavier weaponry.’

‘One wonders where he’s getting all those hard men and weaponry from.’

‘One wonders. One does not ask.’

‘All this talk – your talk – about bombers and submarines and missiles. Do you believe that?’

‘No. It’s just that it’s hard to pass up the opportunity to ruffle the aristocratic plumage.’ He paused then said thoughtfully: ‘At least I hope I don’t believe it. Come, let us examine our defences.’

‘You’ve got a pistol. I’ve got a pistol. That’s defences?’

‘Well, where we’ll mount the defences when they arrive. Fixed large-bore guns, I should imagine.’

‘If they arrive.’

‘Give the devil his due. Lord Worth delivers.’

‘From his own private armoury, I suppose.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘What do you really think, Commander?’

‘I don’t know. All I know is that if Lord Worth is even half-way right life aboard may become slightly less monotonous in the next few days.’

The two men moved out into the gathering dusk on to the platform. The Seawitch was moored in 150 fathoms of water – 900 feet – which was well within the tensioning cables’ capacities – safely south of the US’s mineral leasing blocks and the great east-west fairway, straight on top of the biggest oil reservoir yet discovered round the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. The two men paused at the drilling derrick where a drill, at its maximum angled capacity, was trying to determine the extent of the oilfield. The crew looked at them without any particular affection but not with hostility. There was reason for the lack of warmth.

Before any laws were passed making such drilling illegal, Lord Worth wanted to scrape the bottom of this gigantic barrel of oil. Not that he was particularly worried, for government agencies are notoriously slow to act: but there was always the possibility that they might bestir themselves this time and that, horror of horrors, the bonanza might turn out to be vastly larger than estimated.

Hence the present attempt to discover the limits of the strike and hence the lack of warmth. Hence the reason why Larsen and Scoffield, both highly gifted slave-drivers, born centuries out of their time, drove their men day and night. The men disliked it, but not to the point of rebellion. They were highly paid, well housed and well fed. True, there was little enough in the way of wine, women and song but then, after an exhausting twelve-hour shift, those frivolities couldn’t hope to compete with the attractions of a massive meal then a long, deep sleep. More importantly and most unusually, the men were paid a bonus on every thousand barrels of oil.

Larsen and Scoffield made their way to the western apex of the platform and gazed out at the massive bulk of the storage tank, its topsides festooned with warning lights. They gazed at this for some time, than turned and walked back towards the accommodation quarters.

Scoffield said: ‘Decided upon your gun emplacements yet, Commander – if there are any guns?’

‘There’ll be guns.’ Larsen was confident. ‘But we won’t need any in this quarter.’

‘Why?’

‘Work it out for yourself. As for the rest, I’m not too sure. It’ll come to me in my sleep. My turn for an early night. See you at four.’

The oil was not stored aboard the rig – it is forbidden by a law based strictly on common sense to store hydrocarbons at or near the working platform of an oil rig. Instead, Lord Worth, on Larsen’s instructions – which had prudently come in the form of suggestions – had had built a huge floating tank which was anchored, on a basis exactly similar to that of the Seawitch herself, at a distance of about three hundred yards. Cleansed oil was pumped into this after it came up from the ocean floor, or, more precisely, from a massive limestone reef deep down below the ocean floor, a reef caused by tiny marine creatures of a now long-covered shallow sea of anything up to half a billion years ago.

Once, sometimes twice a day, a 50,000 dw tanker would stop by and empty the huge tank. There were three of those tankers employed on the criss-cross run to the southern US. The Worth Hudson Oil Company did, in fact, have supertankers, but the use of them in this case did not serve Lord Worth’s purpose. Even the entire contents of the Seawitch tank would not have filled a quarter of the super-tanker’s carrying capacity, and the possibility of a super-tanker running at a loss, however small, would have been the source of waking nightmares for the Worth Hudson: equally important, the more isolated ports which Lord Worth favoured for the delivery of his oil were unable to offer deep-water berth-side facilities for anything in excess of 50,000 dw.

It might in passing be explained that Lord Worth’s choice of those obscure ports was not entirely fortuitous. Among those who were a party to the gentlemen’s agreement against offshore drilling – some of the most vociferous of those who roundly condemned Worth Hudson’s nefarious practices – were regrettably Worth Hudson’s best customers. They were the smaller companies who operated on marginal profits and lacked the resources to engage in research and exploration, which the larger companies did, investing allegedly vast sums in those projects and then, to the continuous fury of the Internal Revenue Service and the anger of numerous Congressional investigation committees, claiming even vaster tax exemptions.

But to the smaller companies the lure of cheaper oil was irresistible. The Seawitch, which probably produced as much oil as all the government official leasing areas combined, seemed a sure and perpetual source of cheap oil until, that was, the government stepped in, which might or might not happen in the next decade: the big companies had already demonstrated their capacity to deal with inept Congressional enquiries and, as long as the energy crisis continued, nobody was going to worry very much about where oil came from, as long as it was there. In addition, the smaller companies felt, if the OPEC – the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries – could play ducks and drakes with oil prices whenever they felt like it, why couldn’t they?

Less than two miles from Lord Worth’s estate were the adjacent homes and common office of Michael Mitchell and John Roomer. It was Mitchell who answered the door bell.

The visitor was of medium height, slightly tubby, wore wire-rimmed glasses and alopecia had hit him hard. He said: ‘May I come in?’ in a clipped but courteous enough voice.

‘Sure.’ Mitchell let him in. ‘We don’t usually see people this late.’

‘Thank you. I come on unusual business. James Bentley.’ A little sleight of hand and a card appeared. ‘FBI.’

Mitchell didn’t even look at it. ‘You can have those things made at any joke shop. Where you from?’

‘Miami.’

‘Phone number?’

Bentley reversed the card which Mitchell handed to Roomer. ‘My memory man. Saves me from having to have a memory of my own.’

Roomer didn’t glance at the card either. ‘It’s okay, Mike. I have him. You’re the boss man up there, aren’t you?’ A nod. ‘Please sit down, Mr Bentley.’

‘One thing clear, first,’ Mitchell said. ‘Are we under investigation?’

‘On the contrary. The State Department has asked me to ask you to help them.’

‘Status at last,’ Mitchell said. ‘We’ve got it made, John, but for one thing – the State Department don’t know who the hell we are.’

‘I do.’ Discussion closed. ‘I understand you gentlemen are friendly with Lord Worth.’

Roomer was careful. ‘We know him slightly, socially – just as you seem to know a little about us.’

‘I know a lot about you, including the fact that you are a couple of ex-cops who never learned to look the right way at the right time and the wrong way at the wrong time. Bars the ladder to promotion. I want you to carry out a little investigation into Lord Worth.’

‘No deal,’ Mitchell said. ‘We know him slightly better than slightly.’

‘Hear me out, Mike.’ But Roomer’s face, too, had lost whatever little friendliness it may have held.

‘Lord Worth has been making loud noises – over the phone – to the State Department. He seems to be suffering from a persecution complex. This interests the State Department, for they see him more in the role of the persecutor than the persecuted.’

‘You mean the FBI does,’ Roomer said. ‘You’ll have had him on your files for years. Lord Worth always gives the impression of being eminently capable of looking after himself.’

‘That’s precisely what intrigues the State Department.’

Mitchell said: ‘What kind of noises?’

‘Nonsense noises. You know he has an oil rig out in the Gulf of Mexico?’

‘The Seawitch? Yes.’

‘He appears to be under the impression that the Seawitch is in mortal danger. He wants protection. Very modest in his demands, as becomes a bulti-millionaire – the odd missile frigate, some missile fighters standing by, just in case.’

‘In case of what?’

‘That’s the rub. He refused to say. Just said he had secret information – which, in fact, wouldn’t surprise me. The Lord Worths of this world have their secret agents everywhere.’

‘You’d better level with us,’ Mitchell said.

‘I’ve told you all I know. The rest is surmise. Calling the State Department means that there are foreign countries involved. There are Soviet naval vessels in the Caribbean at present. The State Department smell an international incident or worse.’

‘What do you want us to do?’

‘Not much. Just to find out Lord Worth’s intended movements for the next day or two.’

Mitchell said: ‘And if we refuse? We have our licences rescinded?’

‘I am not a corrupt police chief. Just forget that you ever saw me. But I thought you might care enough about Lord Worth to help protect him against himself or the consequences of any rash action he might take. I thought you might care even more about the reactions of his two daughters if anything were to happen to their father.’

Mitchell stood up, jerked a thumb. ‘The front door. You know too damn much.’

‘Sit down.’ A sudden chill asperity. ‘Don’t be foolish. Of course it’s my job to know too damn much. But apart from Lord Worth and his family I thought you might have some little concern for your country’s welfare.’

Roomer said: ‘Isn’t that pitching it a little high?’

‘Very possibly. But it is the policy of both the State Department and the FBI not to take any chances.’

Roomer said: ‘You’re putting us in a damned awkward situation.’

‘Don’t think I don’t appreciate that. Horns of a dilemma, torn loyalties, biting the hand that feeds you, all that sort of thing. I know I’ve put you in a spot and apologize for it, but I’m afraid you’ll have to resolve that particular dilemma yourselves.’

Mitchell said: ‘Thank you for dropping this little problem in our laps. What do you expect us to do? Go to Lord Worth, ask him why he’s been hollering to the State Department, ask him what he’s up to and what his immediate plans are?’

Bentley smiled. ‘Nothing so crude. You have a remarkable reputation – except, of course, in the police department – of being, in that vulgar phrase, a couple of classy operators. The approach is up to you.’ He stood. ‘Keep that card and let me know when you find out anything. How long would that take, do you think?’

Roomer said: ‘A couple of hours.’

‘A couple of hours?’ Even Bentley seemed momentarily taken aback. ‘You don’t, then, require an invitation to visit the baronial mansion?’

‘No.’

‘Millionaires do.’

‘We aren’t even thousandaires.’

‘It makes a difference. Well, thank you very much, gentlemen. Good night.’

After Bentley’s departure the two men sat for a couple of minutes in silence, then Mitchell said: ‘We play it both ways?’

‘We play it every way.’ Roomer reached for a phone, dialled a number and asked for Lord Worth. He had to identify himself before he was put through – Lord Worth was a man who respected his privacy.

Roomer said: ‘Lord Worth? Mitchell and Roomer here. Something to discuss with you, sir, which may or may not be of urgency and importance. We would prefer not to discuss it over the phone.’ He paused, listened for a few moments, murmured a thank you and hung up.

‘He’ll see us right away. Park the car in the lane. Side door. Study. Says the girls have gone upstairs.’

‘Think our friend Bentley will already have our phone tapped?’

‘Not worth his FBI salt if he hasn’t.’

Five minutes later, car parked in the lane, they were making their way through the trees to the side door. Their progress was observed with interest by Marina, standing by the window in her upstairs bedroom. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned and unhurriedly left the room.

Lord Worth welcomed the two men in his study and securely closed the padded door behind them. He swung open the doors of a concealed bar and poured three brandies. There were times when one rang for Jenkins and there were times when one didn’t. He lifted his glass.

‘Health. An unexpected pleasure.’

‘It’s no pleasure for us,’ Roomer said gloomily.

‘Then you haven’t come to ask me for my daughters’ hands in marriage?’

‘No, sir.’ Mitchell said. ‘No such luck. John here is better at explaining these things.’

‘What things?’

‘We’ve just had a visit from a senior FBI agent.’ Roomer handed over Bentley’s card. ‘There’s a number on the back that we’re to ring when we’ve extracted some information from you.’

‘How very interesting.’ There was a long pause then Lord Worth looked at each man in turn. ‘What kind of information?’

‘In Bentley’s words, you have been making “loud noises” to the State Department. According to them, you seem to think that the Seawitch is under threat. They want to know where you got this secret information, and what your proposed movements are.’

‘Why didn’t the FBI come directly to me?’

‘Because you wouldn’t have told them any more than you told the State Department. If, that is to say, you’d even let them over the threshold of your house. But they know – Bentley told us this – that we come across here now and again, so I suppose they figured you’d be less off your guard with us.’

‘So Bentley figures that you’d craftily wring some careless talk from me without my being aware that I was talking carelessly.’

‘Something like that.’

‘But doesn’t this put you in a somewhat invidious position?’

‘Not really.’

‘But you’re supposed to uphold the law, no?’

‘Yes.’ Mitchell spoke with some feeling. ‘But not organized law. Or have you forgotten, Lord Worth, that we’re a couple of ex-cops because we wouldn’t go along with your so-called organized law? Our only responsibility is to our clients.’

‘I’m not your client.’

‘No.’

‘Would you like me to be your client?’

Roomer said: ‘What on earth for?’

‘It’s never something for nothing in this world, John. Services have to be rewarded.’

‘Failure of a mission.’ Mitchell was on his feet. ‘It was kind of you to see us, Lord Worth.’

‘I apologize.’ Lord Worth sounded genuinely contrite. ‘I’m afraid I rather stepped out of line there.’ He paused ruminatively, then smiled. ‘Just trying to recall when last I apologized to anybody. I seem to have a short memory. Bless my lovely daughters. Information for our friends of the FBI? First, I received my information in context of several anonymous threats – telephone calls – on the lives of my daughters. A double-barrelled threat, if you will – against the girls if I didn’t stop the flow of oil – as they pointed out I can’t hide them for ever and there’s nothing one can do against a sniper’s bullet – and if I were too difficult they’d have the Seawitch blown out of the water. As for my future movements. I’m going out to the Seawitch tomorrow afternoon and will remain there for twenty-four hours, perhaps forty-eight.’

Roomer said: ‘Any truth in either of those two statements?’

‘Don’t be preposterous. Of course not. I am going out to the rig – but before dawn. I don’t want those beady-eyed bandits watching me from the undergrowth at my heliport as I take off.’

‘You are referring to the FBI, sir?’

‘Who else? Will that do for the moment?’

‘Splendidly.’

They walked back to the lane in silence. Roomer got in behind the wheel of the car, Mitchell beside him.

Roomer said: ‘Well, well, well.’

‘Well, as you say, well, well, well. Crafty old devil.’

Marina’s voice came from the back. ‘Crafty he may be, but –’

She broke off in a gasp as Mitchell whirled in his seat and Roomer switched on the interior lights. The barrel of Mitchell’s .38 was lined up between her eyes, eyes at the moment wide with shock and fear.

Mitchell said in a soft voice: ‘Don’t ever do that to me again. Next time it may be too late.’

She licked her lips. She was normally as high-spirited and independent as she was beautiful, but it is a rather disconcerting thing to look down the muzzle of a pistol for the first time in your life. ‘I was just going to say that he may be crafty but he’s neither old nor a devil. Will you please put that gun away? You don’t point guns at people you love.’

Mitchell’s gun disappeared. He said: ‘I’m not much given to falling in love with crazy young fools.’

‘Or spies.’ Roomer was looking at Melinda. ‘What are you two doing here?’

Melinda was more composed than her sister. After all, she hadn’t had to look down the barrel of a pistol. She said: ‘And you, John Roomer, are a crafty young devil. You’re just stalling for time.’ Which was quite true.

‘What’s that meant to mean?’

‘It means you’re thinking furiously of the answer to the same question we’re about to ask you. What are you two doing here?’

‘That’s none of your concern.’ Roomer’s normally soft-spoken voice was unaccustomedly and deliberately harsh.

There was a silence from the back seat, both girls realizing that there was more to the men than they had thought, and the gap between their social and professional lives wider than they had thought.

Mitchell sighed. ‘Let’s cool it, John. Sharper than a serpent’s tooth is an ungrateful child.’

‘Jesus!’ Roomer shook his head. ‘That you can say again.’ He hadn’t the faintest idea What Mitchell was talking about.

Mitchell said: ‘Why don’t you go to your father and ask him? I’m sure he’ll tell you – at the cost of the biggest shellacking you’ve ever had in your lives for interfering in his private business.’ He got out, opened the rear door, waited until the sisters got out, closed the rear door, said ‘Good night’ and returned to his seat, leaving the sisters standing uncertainly at the side of the road.

Roomer drove off. He said: ‘Very masterful, though I didn’t like doing it. God knows, they meant no harm. Never mind, it may stand us in good stead in the future.’

‘It’ll stand us in even better stead if we get to the phone box just round the corner as soon as we can.’

They reached the booth in fifteen seconds and one minute later Mitchell emerged from it. As he took his seat Roomer said: ‘What was all that about?’

‘Sorry, private matter.’ Mitchell handed Roomer a piece of paper. Roomer switched on the overhead light. On the paper Mitchell had scrawled. ‘This car bugged?’

Roomer said: ‘Okay by me.’ They drove home in silence. Standing in his carport Roomer said: ‘What makes you think my car’s bugged?’

‘Nothing. How far do you trust Bentley?’

‘You know how far. But he – or one of his men – wouldn’t have had time.’

‘Five seconds isn’t a long time. That’s all the time it takes to attach a magnetic clamp.’

They searched the car, then Mitchell’s. Both were clean. In Mitchell’s kitchen Roomer said: ‘Your phone call?’

‘The old boy, of course. Got to him before the girls did. Told him what had happened and that he was to tell them he’d received threats against their lives, that he knew the source, that he didn’t trust the local law and so had sent for us to deal with the matter. Caught on at once. Also to give them hell for interfering.’

Roomer said: ‘He’ll convince them.’

‘More importantly, did he convince you?’

‘No. He thinks fast on his feet and lies even faster. He wanted to find out how seriously he would be taken in the case of a real emergency. He now has the preliminary evidence that he is being taken seriously. You have to hand it to him – as craftily devious as they come. Not that we haven’t always known that. I suppose we tell Bentley exactly what he told us to tell him?’

‘What else?’

‘Do you believe what he told us to be truth?’

‘That he has his own private intelligence corps? I wouldn’t question it for a moment. That he’s going out to the Seawitch? I believe that, too. I’m not so sure about his timing, though. We’re to tell Bentley that he’s leaving in the afternoon. He told us he’s leaving about dawn. If he can lie to Bentley he can lie to us. I don’t know why he should think it necessary to lie to us, probably just his lordship’s second nature. I think he’s going to leave much sooner than that.’

Roomer said: ‘Me, too, I’m afraid. If I intended to be up by dawn’s early light I’d be in bed by now or heading that way. He shows no signs of going to bed, from which I can only conclude that he has no intentions of going to bed, because it wouldn’t be worth his while.’ He paused. ‘So. A double stake-out?’

‘I thought so. Up by Lord Worth’s house and down by his heliport. You for the heliport, me for the tail job?’

‘What else?’ Mitchell was possessed of phenomenal night-sight. Except on the very blackest of nights he could drive without any lights at all, an extraordinarily rare quality which, in wartime, made generals scour an army for such men as chauffeurs. ‘I’ll ‘hole up behind the west spinney. You know it?’

‘I know it. How about you feeding the story to Bentley while I make a couple of flasks of coffee and some sandwiches?’

‘Fine.’ Roomer reached for the phone, then paused. ‘Tell me, why are we doing all this? We owe nothing to the FBI. We have no authority from anyone to do anything. As you said yourself, we and organized law walk in different directions. I feel under no obligation to save my country from a non-existent threat. We have no client, no commission, no prospect of fees. Why should we care if Lord Worth sticks his head into a noose?’

Mitchell paused in slicing bread. ‘As to your last question, why don’t you ring up Melinda and ask her?’

Roomer gave him a long, old-fashioned look, sighed and reached for the telephone.