Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

“If we could get a message to him to take concerted inside action on our behalf, would he do that?”

“He would — if he were certain the message was genuine. I would have to make the contact myself. ,

“All right. We’ll hold that possibility in reserve. Are you satisfied, Josep? Will you inform your men not to fire upon Sergeant Pradera?”

Josep lit a cigarette, then nodded abruptly. “If that’s the way it has to be. But I do not like it. If there are any slipups, if any of my people are hurt, he is not the only one who will die.”

“Is that a threat?” Diaz was angry now.

“No. Simply a statement of fact. We are not used to working with others. We have been betrayed too often, too many of us have been murdered in this fashion. We have learned to destroy any threats to the organization before they destroy us.”

“That’s settled then,” Uzi told them calmly, working to make peace. “You are both right. We will compromise. The Sergeant will be treated as one of our party — as of now. But Diaz will make every effort to contact him at the earliest possible moment to put him into the picture and pass along any instructions we may have. Agreed.”

Hank watched in silence as Uzi took charge, making peace between the uneasy allies, keeping them under control. The undercover agent must have had a world of experience because here he was, a single man, holding everything together. Hank was glad of his presence. There was a sudden knocking on the door.

“See who it is,” Josep ordered, already standing to one side with his gun ready.

Hank opened the door and admitted Concepcion Valerde and three other Tupamaros. She was carrying a large hat box; one of the others had a suitcase while the other two each carried a violin case. It was cornball, Hank thought, like something out of an old gangster movie, but it worked. He had no doubt what was in the cases. Concepcion removed any doubts he might have had by opening the hat box and dumping its contents out onto the couch. Sub-machine gun clips.

They could never have risked smuggling weapons and ammunitions in this quantity aboard in their luggage. Only by forcing the Acapulco longshoremen to smuggle it aboard with the other luggage that had cleared customs had they been able to arm themselves so well. The bags had been marked as cabin baggage and brought there by the unsuspecting ship’s porters.

“Any activity?” Josep asked.

“Not much,” she said. “The Germans have been stirring about some, a lot of traffic back and forth between their rooms, mostly by Fritz and the other young ones. The Hortiguela girl went to Chvosta’s room a few minutes ago.”

“They’ll be meeting soon,” Uzi said. “Are we ready?”

The Tupamaros certainly were. The violin cases were open and the Chinese sub-machine guns passed around. They each had a pistol as well, while Josep stuffed his pockets full of handgrenades. “They’ll be pretty lethal inside this ship.”

“I know. That is why I have them. We may not need them. But if we do they will be available.” He turned to look at Hank. “Are you armed?”

“No.”

“Here is a pistol…. “

“No.” Hank knew that this point would be raised eventually and had thought long and hard about what his answer would be, “I don’t want one.”

“Whose side are you on!” Josep snapped, striding forward. Uzi moved between them.

“Sit down, Josep,” he said. “I’ve told you — we cannot fight with each other. Hank’s on my team, so I’ll talk to him. Hank?” He turned and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Everyone here knows which side I’m on. I’m not saying that my personal sacrifices in this matter have been greater than yours, but I’ve done my part. A long time ago I volunteered to help the Israelis in gathering intelligence. I'll continue to do that. But this present matter has snowballed and my entire life and career will be destroyed if it is discovered that I had a hand in this matter. If one passenger sees me waving a gun around for one second I’ll get just what Patty Hearst got. I’m with you all the way and I’ll give you all the aid I can. Short of getting involved in any shootouts. That is, unless Uzi feels that he wants to order me to have a weapon.”

Hank turned to face Uzi, who looked back with an ironic grin. “You should have been a rabbi,” he said. “You make a moral point, then transfer the burden of responsibility to another to prove that point. It’s proven. If it is a matter of life and death — well, then I may ask you for aid. Until that time you are our intelligence wing and no more. Do you gentlemen agree?”

Both Diaz and Josep shrugged in real or pretended indifference. This was the way it would have to be. Hank looked at their unreadable expressions and wondered, not for the first time since he made the reluctant decision, if he were doing the right thing. This was not his battle. When he had first gone to London he had been approached for some small assistance by a friend he had been to law school with, who was now living and working in Israel. At no time in his life had Hank ever joined any Jewish associations, he had never been Bar—

Mitzvahed or been religious in any way. As far as the world was concerned the only thing Jewish about him was his name. As far as he was concerned, there was an unforgettable heritage, thousands of years old, that made him instantly accept when asked to perform some simple liaison tasks for the Israelis. That was how this whole business had started.

Very early in the relationship he had been assured that he would not be asked to do anything illegal, or anything that might jeopardize his American citizenship. This promise had been kept and the relationship had been a good one. Never very demanding, but satisfying in that he felt he was doing something more positive in life than marking time in the family law firm until one of the elderly partners croaked and he could be lifted up to that lofty position himself.

The Paraguayan photographs had changed all that. What had begun as a simple liaison, a contact with an outside party who might be trying to compromise the Israeli delegation in London, had grown out of all proportion to his original commitment. He had finally realized that he must draw the line someplace. He had. If he took part in an armed and violent attack against representatives of two sovereign nations, no matter how corrupt these countries were, he was putting not only his life in jeopardy but his entire future. He just couldn’t do it, that was all. He had never wanted to be a G-man, a combat marine, a black belt judo champ, never. And he did not want to be a gun-toting international agent. He believed in law and the rule of law and he intended to devote his life to that. He had bent his personal rules of behavior by working outside international law to aid the threatened state Israel. And certainly helping to apprehend criminals like the Nazis was about as moral as you could get. But now he had gone just as far as he could possibly go.

The sudden loud knocking drew their attention. It was not in this room, but was the one in the suite next door; the sound was coming from the speaker of their eavesdropping apparatus. Instinctively they all leaned close to listen.

“Sergeant, get the door,” Stroessner ordered, weakly. He sipped the neat gin and stifled a groan. Would this ship ever stop heaving and rolling so? He was keeping seasickness barely at bay with a mixture of dramamine and gin. It worked, but was ruining his digestive tract.

One by one the principals entered; the final meeting had begun.

Dr. Wielgus was first, bringing the bag of diamonds — and the hulking form of his bodyguard, Klaus, to keep watch over them. Admiral Marquez was with him, they had met in the corridor, and Aurelia Hortiguela arrived just moments later. She was alone.