Читать книгу Seawitch - Alistair MacLean, Alistair MacLean, John Denis - Страница 9

Scoffield had been wrong in his guess. Lord Worth was possessed of no private armoury. But the United States armed services were, and in their dozens, at that.

The two break-ins were accomplished with the professional expertise born of a long and arduous practice that precluded any possibility of mistakes. The targets in both cases were government armouries, one army and one naval. Both, naturally, were manned by round-the-clock guards, none of whom was killed or even injured if one were to disregard the cranial contusions – and those were few – caused by sandbagging and sapping: Lord Worth had been very explicit on the use of minimal violence.

Giuseppe Palermo, who looked and dressed like a successful Wall Street broker, had the more difficult task of the two, although, as a man who held the Mafia in tolerant contempt, he regarded the exercise as almost childishly easy. Accompanied by nine almost equally respectable men – sartorially respectable, that was – three of whom were dressed as army majors, he arrived at the Florida armoury at fifteen minutes to midnight. The six young guards, none of whom had even seen or heard a shot fired in anger, were at their drowsiest and expecting nothing but their midnight reliefs. Only two were really fully awake – the other four had dozed away – and those two, responding to a heavy and peremptory hammering on the main entrance door, were disturbed, not to say highly alarmed, by the appearance of three army officers who announced that they were making a snap inspection to test security and alertness. Five minutes later all six were bound and gagged – two of them unconscious and due to wake up with very sore heads because of their misguided attempts to put up a show of resistance – and safely locked up in one of the many so-called secure rooms in the armoury.

During this period and the next twenty minutes one of Palermo’s men, an electronics expert called Jamieson, made a thorough and totally comprehensive search for all the external alarm signals to both the police and nearest military HQ. He either defused or disconnected them all.

It was when he was engaged in this that the relief guard, almost as drowsy as those whom they had been expecting to find, made their appearance and were highly disconcerted to find themselves looking at the muzzles of three machine-carbines. Within minutes, securely bound but not gagged, they had joined the previous guards, whose gags were now removed. They could safely shout until doomsday as the nearest place of habitation was over a mile away: the temporary gagging of the first six guards had been merely for the purpose of preventing their making loud noises and warning off their reliefs.

Palermo now had almost eight hours before the break-in could be discovered.

He next sent one of his men, Watkins, to bring round to the front the concealed mini-bus in which they had arrived. All of them, Watkins excepted, changed from their conservative clothing and military uniforms into rough work clothes, which resulted in the effecting of rather remarkable changes in their appearance and character. While they were doing this Watkins went to the armoury garage, picked a surprisingly ineffectual lock, selected a two-ton truck, wired up the ignition – the keys were, understandably, missing – and drove out to the already open main loading doors of the armoury.

Palermo had brought along with him one by the name of Jacobson who, between sojourns in various penitentiaries, had developed to a remarkable degree the fine art of opening any type of lock, combination or otherwise. Fortunately, his services were not needed, for nobody, curiously enough, had taken the trouble to conceal some score of keys hanging on the wall in the main office.

In less than half an hour Palermo and his men had loaded aboard the truck – chosen because it was a covered-van type – a staggering variety of weaponry, ranging from bazookas to machine-pistols, together with sufficient ammunition for a battalion and a considerable amount of high explosives. This done, they locked all the doors they had unlocked and took the keys with them – when the next relief arrived at eight in the morning it would take them all that much longer to discover what had actually happened. After that, they locked the loading and main entrance doors.

Watkins drove the mini-bus, with its load of discarded clothes, back to its place of concealment, returned to the truck and drove off. The other nine sat or lay in varying degrees of discomfort among the weaponry in the back. It was as well for them that it was only twenty minutes’ drive to Lord Worth’s private, isolated and deserted heliport – deserted, that was, except for two helicopters, their pilots and co-pilots.

The truck, using only its sidelights, came through the gates of the heliport and drew up alongside one of the helicopters. Discreet portable loading lights were switched on, casting hardly more than a dull glow, but sufficient for a man only 80 yards away and equipped with a pair of night-glasses to distinguish clearly what was going on. And Roomer, prone in the spinney and with the binoculars to his eyes, was only 80 yards away. No attempt had been made to wrap or in any way disguise the nature of the cargo. It took only twenty minutes to unload the truck and stow its contents away in the helicopter under the watchful eye of a pilot with a keen regard for weight distribution.

Palermo and his men, with the exception of Watkins, boarded the other helicopter and sat back to await promised reinforcements. The pilot of this helicopter had already, as was customary, radio-filed his flight plan to the nearest airport, accurately giving their destination as the Seawitch. To have done otherwise would have been foolish indeed. The radar tracking systems along the Gulf states are as efficient as any in the world, and any deviation of course from a falsely declared destination would have meant that, in very short order, two highly suspicious pilots in supersonic jets would be flying alongside and asking some very unpleasant questions.

Watkins drove the truck back to the armoury garage, de-wired the ignition, locked the door, retrieved the mini-bus and left. Before dawn all his friends’ clothes would have been returned to their apartments and the mini-bus, which had, inevitably, been stolen, to its parking lot.

Roomer was getting bored and his elbows were becoming sore. Since the mini-bus had driven away some half hour ago he had remained in the same prone position, his night-glasses seldom far from his eyes. His sandwiches were gone as was all his coffee, and he would have given much for a cigarette but decided it would be unwise. Clearly those aboard the helicopters were waiting for something and that something could only be the arrival of Lord Worth.

He heard the sound of an approaching engine and saw another vehicle with only sidelights on turn through the gateway. It was another minibus. Whoever was inside was not the man he was waiting for, he knew: Lord Worth was not much given to travelling in mini-buses. The vehicle drew up alongside the passenger helicopter and its passengers disembarked and climbed aboard the helicopter. Roomer counted twelve in all.

The last was just disappearing inside the helicopter when another vehicle arrived. This one didn’t pass through the gateway, it swept through it, headlights on but dipped. A Rolls-Royce. Lord Worth for a certainty. As if to redouble his certainty, there came to his ears the soft swish of tyres on the grass. He twisted round to see a car, both lights and engine off, coasting to a soundless stop beside his own.

‘Over here,’ Roomer called softly. Mitchell joined him, and together they watched the white-clad figure of Lord Worth leave the Rolls and mount the steps of the helicopter. ‘I should think that that completes the payload for the night.’

‘The payload being?’

‘There are twenty-one other passengers aboard that machine. I can’t swear to it, but instinct tells me they are not honest, upright citizens. The story goes that every multi-millionaire –’

‘Bulti.’

‘Bulti. The story goes that every bulti-millionaire has his own private army. I think I’ve just seen one of Lord Worth’s platoons filing by.’

‘The second chopper plays no part in this?’

‘Far from it. It’s the star of the show. It’s loaded to the gunwales with weaponry.’

‘Not a crime in itself. Could be part of Lord Worth’s private collection. He’s got one of the biggest in the country.’

‘Private citizens aren’t allowed to have bazookas, machine-guns and high explosives in their collection.’

‘He borrowed them, you think?’

‘Yes. Without payment or receipt.’

‘The nearest government armoury?’

‘I should imagine.’

‘They’re still sitting there. Maybe they’re waiting a pre-set time before take-off. Might be some time. Let’s go to one of the cars and radio-phone the law.’

‘The nearest army command post is seven miles from here.’

‘Right.’

The two men were on their feet and had taken only two steps towards the cars when, almost simultaneously, the engines of both helicopters started up with their usual clattering roar. Seconds later, both machines lifted off.

Mitchell said: ‘Well, it was a thought.’

‘“Was” is right. And just look at them go. Honest God-fearing citizens with all their navigational lights on.’

‘That’s just in case someone bumps into them.’ Mitchell thought. ‘We could call up the nearest air force base and have them forced down.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘Stolen government property.’

‘No evidence. Just our say-so. They’ll have to know Lord Worth is aboard. Who’s going to take the word of a couple of busted cops against his?’

‘No one. A sobering thought. Ever felt like a pariah?’

‘Like now. I just feel goddamned helpless. Well, let’s go and find some evidence. Where’s the nearest armoury from here?’

‘About a mile from the command post. I know where.’

‘Why can’t they keep their damned armouries inside their command posts?’

‘Armouries can and do blow up. How would you like to be sitting in a crowded barracks when an armoury blew up?’

Roomer straightened from the key-hole of the main door of the armoury and reluctantly pocketed the very large set of keys for the carrying of which any ill-disposed law officer could have had him behind bars without any need for a warrant.

‘I thought I could open any door with this little lot. But not this door. You don’t have to guess where the keys are now.’

‘Probably sailing down from a chopper in the Gulf.’

‘Like as not. Those loading doors have the same lock. Apart from that, nothing but barred windows. You don’t have a hacksaw on you, Mike?’

‘I will next time.’ He shone his torch through one of the barred windows. All he could see was his own reflection. He took out his pistol, and holding it by the barrel, struck the heavy butt several times against the glass, without any noticeable effect – hardly surprising considering that the window lay several inches beyond the bars and the force of the blows was minimal.

Roomer said: ‘And just what are you trying to do?’

Mitchell was patient. ‘Break the glass.’

‘Breaking the glass won’t help you get inside.’

‘It’ll help me see and maybe hear. I wonder if that’s just plate glass or armoured stuff?’

‘How should I know?’

‘True. Watch me finding out. If it’s armoured, the bullet will ricochet. Get down.’ Both men crouched and Mitchell fired one shot at an upward angle. The bullet did not ricochet. It passed through, leaving a jagged hole with radiating cracks. Mitchell began chipping away round the hole but desisted when Roomer appeared with a heavy car jack: a few powerful blows and Roomer had a hole almost a foot in diameter. Mitchell shone his torch through this: an office lined with filing cabinets and an open door beyond. He put his ear as close to the hole as possible and he heard it at once, the faint but unmistakable sound of metal clanging against metal and the shouting of unmistakably hoarse voices. Mitchell withdrew his head and nodded to Roomer, who stooped and listened in turn.

Five seconds was enough. Roomer straightened and said: ‘There are a lot of frustrated people in there.’

About a mile beyond the entrance to the army command post they stopped by a roadside telephone booth. Mitchell telephoned the army post, told them the state of defences at their armoury would bear investigation and that it would be advisable for them to bring along a duplicate set of keys for the main door. When asked who was speaking he hung up and returned to Roomer’s car.

‘Too late to call in the air force now, I suppose?’

‘Too late. They’ll be well out over extra-territorial waters by now. There’s no state of war. Not yet.’ He sighed. ‘Why, oh why, didn’t I have an infrared ciné camera tonight?’

Over in Mississippi Conde’s task of breaking into the naval armoury there turned out to be ridiculously easy. He had with him only six men, although he had sixteen more waiting in reserve aboard the 120-foot vessel Roamer which was tied up dockside less than thirty feet from the armoury. Those men had already effectively neutralized the three armed guards who patrolled the dock area at night.

The armoury was guarded by only two retired naval petty officers, who regarded their job not only as a sinecure but downright nonsense, for who in his right mind would want to steal depth-charges and naval guns? It was their invariable custom to prepare themselves for sleep immediately upon arrival, and asleep they soundly were when Conde and his men entered through the door they hadn’t even bothered to lock.

They used two fork-lift trucks to trundle depth-charges, light, dual-purpose anti-aircraft guns and a sufficiency of shells down to the dockside, then used one of the scores of cranes that lined the dockside to lower the stolen equipment into the hold of the Roamer, which was then battened down. Clearing the customs was the merest formality. The customs officials had seen the Roamer come and go so many times that they had long ago lost count, Besides, no one was going to have the temerity to inspect the ocean-going property of one of the richest men in the world: the Roamer was Lord Worth’s seismological survey vessel.

At its base not far from Havana, a small, conventionally powered and Russian-built submarine slipped its moorings and quietly put out to sea. The hastily assembled but nonetheless hand-picked crew were informed that they were on a training cruise designed to test the sea-going readiness of Castro’s tiny fleet. Not a man aboard believed a word of this.

Meanwhile Cronkite had not been idle. Unlike the others, he had no need to break into any place to obtain explosives. He just had to use his own key. As the world’s top expert in capping blazing gushers he had access to an unlimited number and great variety of explosives. He made a selection of those and had them trucked down from Houston, where he lived – apart from the fact that Houston was the oil rig centre of the south the nature of his business made it essential for him to live within easy reach of an airport with international connections. They were then sent off to Galveston.

As the truck was on its way another seismological vessel, a converted coastguard cutter, was also closing in on Galveston. This vessel, without explaining his reasons why, Cronkite had obtained through the good offices of Durant, who had represented the Galveston area companies at the meeting of the ten at Lake Tahoe. The cutter, which went by the name of Questar, was normally based at Freeport, and Cronkite could quite easily have taken the shipment there, but this would not have suited his purpose. The tanker Crusader was unloading at Galveston and the Crusader was one of the three tankers that plied regularly between the Seawitch and the Gulf ports.

The Questar and Cronkite arrived almost simultaneously. Mulhooney, the Questar’s skipper, eased his ship into a berth conveniently close to the Crusader. Mulhooney was not the regular captain of the Questar. That gentleman had been so overcome by the sight of two thousand dollars in cash that he had fallen ill, and would remain so for a few days. Cronkite had recommended his friend, Mulhooney. Cronkite didn’t immediately go aboard the Questar