Searchlights shone out. A siren sounded three times in rapid succession. Then the shadow suddenly changed to a racing yacht, coming nearer and nearer till it began to look really dangerous. The Portuguese skipper, with a wild yell, flung the helm over. It was too late. With a sickening crash the yacht rammed the little fishing vessel at an acute angle, to port. The Hamburg gentleman's pistol flew out of his hand. The gentleman from Leipzig fell down.
Then everything went topsy-turvy, the boat capsizing as the yacht's bows ground into her beam. A gigantic invisible fist sent Thomas high into the air and then down into the black, ice-cold water.
He heard a raging babble of voices, shouts, curses, bawled orders and through it all the incessant howling of the siren.
Thomas swallowed sea water, went under, came up gasping and saw a lifebelt, with a line attached, come flying toward him from the deck of the yacht. The circular white object splashed into the water beside him. Thomas seized it. Immediately the line stiffened and he was being pulled in toward the yacht.
His eyes blinking, he stared at the letters on the lifebelt, indicating the name of the vessel. Thomas read the words Baby Ruth.
Good Lord, he thought, when I tell them that in the club, they'll say I'm lying ...
[17]
"Whisky or rum?"
"Whisky, please."
"With ice and soda?"
"Only ice, please. And if you don't mind, fill it up half. I catch cold so easily," said Thomas Lieven. An extremely eventful quarter of an hour had just passed.
Only fifteen minutes ago Thomas had still been a prisoner of German Intelligence. Now, after being shipwrecked in the
Atlantic, he sat wrapped in warm blankets on a bed so soft as to seem unreal, in a cabin so luxurious as to seem equally so. A gentleman he had never seen before was standing at a cocktail cabinet mixing him a drink. Thomas was feeling slightly lightheaded. He thought, what extraordinary things do happen in life . ..
The gentleman brought him the whisky. He had meanwhile himself taken a good swallow of the stuff. Now he raised his glass with a smile. "Cheerio!"
"Cheerio," said Thomas and took an enormous gulp. Now at last I'm getting that disgusting taste of chloroform out of my throat, he thought. From the deck he could hear a confused sound of bellowing.
"Who's that?"
"Our helmsman and yours. They're discussing who was responsible for the accident," replied the stranger, who wore an immaculate blue single-breaster and horn-rimmed spectacles which gave him an intellectual appearance. "Of course it was all the fault of your helmsman. One simply doesn't go to sea after dark without navigation lights. A bit more ice?"
"No, thank you. Where are those other two fellows who were aboard with me?"
"Down below decks. I assume you wouldn't want them anywhere else."
No good beating about the bush, thought Thomas. Fd better take the bull by the horns right away. He said: "I must thank you for having saved my life. And I don't mean from drowning."
"Good health, Jonas, you merchant!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're Jonas the merchant to us. We don't yet know your real name." Thank God for that, thought Thomas. "And I don't suppose you want to tell me, do you?"
"No, I don't." A bit of luck, he was thinking, that all my papers are safely locked up at the villa of the fair Consul, Es-trella. I had the feeling all the time that something like this might happen to me.
"I quite understand. I realize that you can only speak frankly at the highest level. A man like yourself, a V.I.P. —"
"A what?"
"A Very Important Person."
"Is that what I am?"
"I should think so, Jonas, if German Intelligence tries to get you out of Portugal in a submarine. You can't have any idea
what a fuss has been made about you during the last forty-eight hours. All that scheming! Terrific! Berlin Intelligence, Lisbon Intelligence, submarine at Grid 135 Z! It's months since the German wireless got into such a flap! Jonas the merchant ... Jonas the merchant ... Jonas the merchant must be brought to Berlin at all costs ... and then you ask me whether you are really a V.I.P.! It's too delicious! Hallo, what's the matter, Jonas?"
"Could I—d'you think I could possibly have another whisky, please?"
He was given one—and a pretty stiff one too. The man in horn rims poured himself out another, reflecting aloud: "It won't hurt the Baby Ruth to kill a bottle of whisky with five thousand dollars coming in."
"What baby are you talking about? What five thousand dollars?"
The bespectacled man laughed. "Surely you must realize by this time, Jonas, that you're talking to a secret service man?"
"Oh, yes."
"You can call me Roger. That's not my real name, of course. But one false name is as good as another. Isn't that so?".
Good God Almighty, here we go again, thought Thomas Lieven. I shall have to look out now. I got away from the Germans. Now I shall have to get rid of the British. Ill have to gain time, think it all over carefully and watch my step.
He said: "You are perfectly right, Mr. Roger. But I repeat: What five thousand dollars? And who is 'Baby Ruth'?"
"Well, Jonas, as soon as we—I mean we boys of British Intelligence in Lisbon—found what a hysterical row the German wireless was making, we at once contacted M.I.5 in London ..."
"What's M.I.5?"
"Chief of our counterespionage service."
"I see," said Thomas. He sipped his whisky, thinking: Europe's turned into a sort of murderous nursery school. Heavens, how glad I shall be to leave this absurd and dangerous continent behind me.
"So then M.I.5 signaled, Open fire!"
"I understand."
"We obeyed like lightning ..."
''Naturally."
"... we made up our minds that the Nazis weren't going to
get Jonas the merchant! What ho! Let's drink another whisky to Baby Ruth's health!"
"I wish you'd tell me one of these days who Baby Ruth is."
"Mrs. Ruth Woodhouse, aged sixty-five and nearly stone deaf. She's survived two heart attacks and five husbands."
"Good for her."
"Didn't you ever hear of Woodhouse steel, Woodhouse tanks or Woodhouse machine guns? It's one of the oldest American armament firms. Never heard of it?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"Then your education's been badly neglected, I must say."
"Well, now you've filled the gap. Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Well, she owns this yacht. For the moment she's staying in Lisbon. As soon as we found out they were going to use a submarine, we had a chat with her. She at once leased her yacht to us for five thousand dollars." The man who called himself Roger returned to the bar. "Everything went like clockwork, Jonas. Couldn't fail."
I've heard those phrases once before tonight, thought Thomas Lieven. He observed politely: "British organization."
Roger was raiding the American armament millionaire's cocktail cabinet like a wolf among a flock of sheep. He called back jovially to Thomas: "We followed you step by step, Jonas. You were shadowed day and night. I lay in ambush here, in Grid 135 Z. I was told by wireless that the Germans had kidnaped you at the airport. Then that the trawler was under way. What ho!"
"And what's going to happen now?"
"Can't fail! Clockwork! We shall naturally charge the Portuguese helmsman with gross negligence in seamanship. He was obviously responsible for the accident. We've already wirelessed to that effect. A police boat will be here soon to take him and your two German friends into custody."
"What will be done with them?"
"Nothing. They've already explained that they only wanted to go for a little cruise."
"And what will you do with me?"
"I have orders to bring you, if necessary at the risk of my life, safe and sound to the villa of the chief of British Intelligence in Portugal. Or would you rather go with your German friends?"
"By no means, Mr. Roger, by no means,"
said Thomas Lieven. He smiled wryly, thinking: Is that still sea water on my forehead, or is it, once more, the sweat of fear?
The Germans had used a very old limousine to carry Thomas Lieven off out of Lisbon. The British brought him back to Lisbon in a new Rolls-Royce. Noblesse oblige!
He sat on the back seat in a blue silk dressing gown embroidered with golden dragons and wore slippers to match. That was all the Baby Ruth could supply in the way of clothes. Thomas Lieven's wet suit and undergarments lay on the seat beside the driver.
Next to Thomas sat Roger, with a tommy-gun on his lap. He announced through his teeth: "Nothing to be afraid of, Jonas, you won't get hurt. This car's armored and the windows are of bulletproof glass. No one can shoot in here."
"May I ask then, how, if the need arises, you'll be able to shoot out of here?" Thomas demanded mildly. To this question, however, the British agent did not reply.
The car sped on past the sleeping resort of fashionable Es-toril, due east into a glorious sunrise. Sky and sea were the color of mother-of-pearl. In the harbor many ships were anchored. Today is September 9, thought Thomas Lieven. Tomorrow the General Carmona leaves for South America. Good Lord, I wonder if I shall ever make it?
The comfortable villa of the British Intelligence chief stood in a garden of palms. The house was furnished in Moorish style and belonged to a moneylender named Alvarez who possessed two others of the same kind. He had leased one to the chief of Intelligence at the German Embassy and the other to his American opposite number...
Over the entrance to the villa rented by the British appeared the words casa do sul in gold lettering. A butler wearing pin-striped trousers and a green velvet waistcoat held open the heavy wrought-iron door, raising his bushy white eyebrows. He bowed silently to Thomas. He then closed the door and preceded the two visitors through a wide hall, past a chimney piece, a staircase and portraits of Herr Alvarez's ancestors, to the library.
There an elderly gentleman, with his back to shelves of books in variously colored bindings, awaited them. He looked as miraculously English as any of the illustrations in a magazine of the British tailoring trade. His well-groomed elegance, perfectly fitting dark gray flannel suit, carefully tended military mustache and stiff, equally military demeanor were sincerely admired by Thomas Lieven.
147
"Mission completed, sir," Roger informed the elderly gentleman.
"Well done, Jack," said the latter, shaking hands with Thomas. "Good morning, Jonas. Welcome to the soil of Great Britain. I've been very anxious to see you. Whisky on the rocks?"
"I never drink before breakfast, sir."
"I understand. Man of principle, eh? Good. Very good indeed." The gentleman in dark gray turned to Roger. "Go up to Charley and tell him to tune in to M.I.5. Code Cicero. Report: 'Sun rising in the west.' "
"Very good, sir." Roger left the room. The gentleman in dark gray said to Thomas: "You can call me Shakespeare, Jonas."
"Delighted, Mr. Shakespeare." Why not? thought Thomas. In France I once had to call one of your colleagues Jupiter. If that sort of thing amuses you .. .
"I understand you are French, Jonas?"
"Er—yes."
"I thought so right away. Got an eye for it. Knowledge of human nature infallible! Vive la France, monsieur!"
"Thank you, Mr. Shakespeare."
"M. Jonas, what is your real name?"
If I tell him, Fll never get aboard my boat, thought Thomas. He answered: "Fm sorry, but my situation is too serious for me to reveal my true identity."
"Monsieur, I guarantee on my word of honor your safe transport to London at any time, provided that you agree to work for my country. Don't forget that we have rescued you from the clutches of the Nazis."
What a life, thought Thomas.
He said: "I am exhausted, Mr. Shakespeare. I—Fm just about all in. I must get some sleep before I can make up my mind about anything."
"I quite see that, monsieur. A spare room is at your disposal. Consider yourself my guest."
Half an hour later Thomas Lieven lay in a soft, comfortable bed in a quiet, pleasant room. The sun had risen. Many birds were singing in the park. Golden sunbeams fell through the barred window. The door was locked on the outside. British hospitality, thought Thomas Lieven, is famous throughout the world. You can't beat it...
Attention, time signal. On the stroke of the gong it will be eight o'clock. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. You will now hear the second news transmission by Radio Lisbon. London: last night strong forces of German bombers again made concentrated attacks on the British capital...
Breathing heavily and twisting her fingers together the statuesque, black-haired Consul Estrella Rodrigues was pacing rapidly to and fro in her bedroom. She looked exhausted. Her seductively arched upper lip was trembling.
Estrella was close to a nervous breakdown. She had not slept for a single minute the night before. The last few hours had been terrible. Jean, her beloved Jean, had not come home. She knew that he had accompanied her mysterious friend, the French major, to the airport. She had telephoned the place. But no one there knew anything about a M. Jean Leblanc.
In her mind's eye Estrella could see her beloved being kidnaped, arrested, tortured, in the hands of the Germans, dead! Her.breast rose and fell in the excitement of her emotions. She felt at death's door ...
She suddenly realized that the wireless was still switched on. She stood still and listened to the announcer's voice.
... early today the American yacht Baby Ruth, while cruising outside the three-mile limit, rammed a Portuguese fishing boat which sank. The yacht's crew rescued several survivors. At the same time units of our coastal patrol located a submarine close to the scene of the collision. The submarine immediately dived and made off.
Captain Edward Marks, in command of the Baby Ruth, has charged the helmsman of the smack with recklessly endangering his vessel. The three passengers in the boat, two Germans and a French citizen ...
Estrella uttered a scream.
... refused to give any account of themselves. It is suspected that the occurrence may have something to do with a thwarted attempt at kidnaping in which at least two foreign secret services are involved. Investigations are proceeding. The Baby Ruth will not be allowed to
149
continue her voyage until further notice. She belongs to the American millionaire, Ruth Woodhouse, temporarily in residence at the Hotel Aviz. You have been listening to the news. The weather forecast for today and tomorrow ...
The Consul relaxed her frozen immobility. She switched off the radio and dressed at full speed. Jean . .. her instinct had been right, something had happened to him, something dreadful, something awful ... what was the name of that millionairess?
Woodhouse. Ruth Woodhouse. Hotel Aviz.
[20]
The bushy white eyebrows of the butler were again raised as he entered the library of the luxurious Casa do Sul. In sonorous tones he announced to the chief of British Intelligence in Portugal: "Senhora Rodrigues to see you, sir."
With elastic step the man who called himself Shakespeare rose to his feet. Elastically he strode to meet the fair Consul, who wore a close-fitting dress of white linen, hand-painted with brightly colored flowers and birds, plus rather too much make-up and the expression of a curvaceous deer in flight
Shakespeare kissed her hand. The butler withdrew.
The chief of the British Intelligence Service, offered Estrella a chair, a very splendid one, into which she dropped breathlessly, with heaving bosom. Excitement had robbed her of speech, a rare phenomenon in her case.
The man whom it pleased to make use of the name of England's greatest poet observed sympathetically: "I was speaking to Mrs. Woodhouse on the telephone about half an hour ago. I am aware that you have paid her a visit, senhora..."
Estrella, still speechless, nodded.
"... Mrs. Woodhouse is—ahem—a very good friend of ours. She told me that you were anxious about—ahem—-a very good fr
iend of your own."
Estrella had no idea of the trouble her next words were going to cause. "Yes—I'm anxious about Jean—oh dear—-my poor, unlucky Jean ..."
"Jean?"
"Jean Leblanc. A Frenchman. He disappeared yesterday ... I'm already nearly out of my mind with worry. Can you
help me, do you know anything about him? Tell me the truth, I beg you!"
Shakespeare wagged his head mysteriously.
"You're hiding something from me!" the Consul burst out. "I feel it! I know it! Have pity, senhor, speak! Has my poor Jean fallen into the hands of those wretched Huns? Is he dead?"
Shakespeare lifted a slender, aristocratic hand, white as milk. "No, no, no, most esteemed senhora. Nothing of that kind. I believe I have good news for you ..."
"Oh holy madonna of Bilbao, can that be true?"
"Well—er—as it happens, a few hours ago a gentleman came here who might well be the person you are looking for. ..
"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God!"
"The butler has just gone to wake him. He may be here at any moment ..." Someone knocked at the door. "Ah, there he is. Conje in!"
The door opened. The supercilious manservant appeared. Thomas Lieven walked past him into the library. He was wearing slippers. His legs were bare. He was swathed in the oriental dressing gown supplied from the Baby Ruth's stores.
"Jean!"
Estrella's shriek rent the air. She rushed at her beloved, stumbling over a rug and threw herself on his chest. She clung to his stiff figure, caressed and kissed him breathlessly. Then she stammered: "Jean, Jean, my one and only sweet ... just to know you're alive and here makes me the happiest woman in the world!"
Shakespeare bowed, smiling indulgently. "I'll leave you now with the Senhora, M. Leblanc," he remarked primly. "See you later."
Thomas Lieven closed his eyes. Through the hailstorm of Estrella's kisses he thought desperately: All over, finished, I'm through now. Good-bye freedom, good-bye General Carmona, good-bye lovely South America ...
The Monte Cristo Cover-Up Page 16
