Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

It would all work out. And at least one good thing had come out of all this already. The Nazis, the guard had told him, half of them killed and the others going back for trial. Wonderful! He would do business with Nazis, he would do it with the devil if he wanted some guns, but that did not mean he had to like them. He knew what they had done in Czechoslovakia during the war. So killing a few and putting the rest away, that was a very good thing. The day would be warm, the food would have to taste good, whatever it was. He was humming as he came to the makeshift kitchen, stepping around a little man in a rumpled steward’s uniform who was sipping a cup of tea.

Robert finished his tea and returned the cup. There had been little enough to do since they had come ashore, what with all the kitchen staff and sailors pitching in together. It had been one of the other room stewards who had searched him out this morning, waving the paper.

“‘Ere, Robert, ain’t this bloke one of yours?”

The message was written on a single folded sheet of heavy paper, sealed shut by heavy string that had been sewed around the edges. MSR. GREENSTEIN — FIRST CLASS — URGENTE was printed on the outside in heavy capital letters.

“Only one Greenstein in First Class,” Robert had said. “I’ll see if I can find him. Ta’.”

Poor Mr. and Mrs. Greenstein, he thought, trudging through the sand, looking at the faces of the people sprawled out there. What a luxurious honeymoon! Happy enough to start, what with the free trip from the uncle and all. But then the hijackers bursting in and using their suite for their shoot-ups, not to mention locking him in the bog most of the night. And then to be cast away on this island! At least they weren’t hurt — and what a story to tell their grandchildren.

A woman turned towards him, yes, it could be. He hurried over.

“Mrs. Greenstein? I hope that you are all right this morning.”

“Is that you, Robert? My heavens, you aren’t bringing us a breakfast tray in bed are you? With the morning paper?”

“I wish I could, madam, I honestly do. In fact, now I know where you are, I can bring you some tea and those hard-tack biscuits. And marmalade. Not too bad.”

“No, really, I was just joking.”

“That I realize, madam. But anyone who can joke in circumstances like these deserves whatever services I can render.” He started away and then turned back, digging in his pocket. “These same circumstances will make me forget my head in a minute. The reason I came looking for you. A message passed along for your husband, if you please.”

“Thank you, you’re very kind.”

Frances watched the rumpled, unshaven steward stamp off firmly across the sand. Doing his duty to the last. Rule on, bloody Britannia! Service to the very end, well after the ship had sunk. She turned to look for Hank, waving.

“Guess what?” she called out. “The morning post is here and breakfast will be on the way soon.”

“You’re marvelous! How do you do it?” He kissed her lightly on the cheek so his whiskers wouldn’t scratch her. Then turned the piece of paper over and over, examining it.

“Who on earth could have sent this? Does MSR. mean mister, missus — or monseigneur?”

“Well, you will never know until you open it, will you, darling?”

“True, true.” He dug out his pocketknife and cut the stitches, unfolded the sheet. The message inside was brief and he frowned as he read it a second time. Then handed it over to Frances.

POR FAVOR MUSIT YOU COM ME IN HOSPITAL — SARGENTO PRADERA.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“It means that this business isn’t over yet. You were in the bedroom and didn’t hear it. Unhappily I was there and heard every word. He was the Paraguayan secret agent who was right on the inside, reporting to the resistance. The Nazis caught him. Shot away both kneecaps. It wasn’t fun. That was what started the big shoot-up. They went in after him.”

Frances’s voice was cold as death. “And now he is after you for some reason. They still want you involved. Well, you just aren’t going to do it. Throw the note away.”

Hank crumpled the piece of paper in his hand, held it tightly in his fist.

“I can’t turn my back on him,” he said. “It will do no harm to just see him, find out what he wants.”

“Well, it will do some harm right here, Hank Greenstein. We aren’t married yet no matter what anyone thinks. You go see this red revolutionary and you just don’t bother to come back. I have had just about enough of this business to satisfy me for life.” She spun about and sat down on the sand, her stiff back to him. He reached out, but did not touch her.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “But I have to see what it is about. Please, Frances. I love you. Never forget that. But I have no choice.”

He left then and never saw that she was crying quietly, the tears running down her face.

The hospital was easy enough to find. Crude as it was, canvas boat covers held up by oars, it was the only structure of any kind on the beach. Since the rain had stopped, no one had suffered during the night on the tropical beach. A white-coated doctor was seated on a box outside the makeshift tent, sipping a mug of tea.

“Is Sergeant Pradera here?” Hank asked.

“Inside. First bed. Are you the one he sent the note to?” Hank nodded, not sure how much to say. “Can’t hurt to talk to him a bit. He says he recognized you on the ship, met you when you were in holiday in Paraguay.”

“Lovely country, Paraguay.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t think much of some of the people they had aboard ship. Right through there.”

The Sergeant was still on the stretcher that had been used to take him from the ship. The handles were propped on boxes; it made a good enough bed.

“Seftor Greenstein. iHabla Ud. Espanol?”

“Si. Poquitito.”

“Very good. I am glad to see you here. You must speak very quietly because the doctor outside understands Spanish. He thinks that you are just someone I know from Paraguay.”

“I know. He told me.”

“Good. Keep it that way. I really know of you through Leandro Diaz and your friend, Uzi Drezner. You were pointed out to me.”

“Then do me a favor, please. Don’t point me out to anyone else. No one knows that I was at all involved in this business.”

“I shall keep it that way. As you know, I can keep secrets.” Hank glanced down at the Sergeant’s legs, concealed by the blanket, and nodded grimly.

“I know,” he said.

“Good. You must get a message to your friend, Uzi. To be relayed to Diaz. It is that they must not trust the Tupamaros. They are a bad lot and treacherous and will betray us the first opportunity that they have.”

“I agree,” Hank said. “But isn’t it a little late for messages?”

“It is. For messages alone. But I have taken it upon myself to act first.”

He pulled the blanket down, disclosing his bare legs, heavily bandaged and in casts that extended above and below each knee. The bandages below the casts were soaked with dark, dried blood. Between the casts-was a pillowcase, the end tied with a knot and filled with something lumpy. The Sergeant grunted as he pulled the bag up and swung it to the ground beside his stretcher.

“Take these when you leave,” he said. “I will create a diversion. These are the diamonds that everyone has been after.” He smiled as he saw the expression of shock on Hank’s face. “That’s what they are. Those Tupamaros would never have given us our share, never. That girl thought I couldn’t leave the bed because they carried me to it. Stupid! I used my arms, pulled myself across the floor. Not easy, but I did it.”