The White Schooner

by Antony Trew

  ‘Who was this agent?’

  Calvi hesitated. Even now he would have preferred not to divulge it, but circumstances were such that he must. ‘Señorita Valez,’ he said in a subdued voice.

  The Comisario’s cigar dropped as his mouth opened involuntarily, the deep-set eyes mirroring his astonishment. ‘This agent is a young woman?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Calvi.

  ‘Well I must confess I am surprised. You spoke to me the other day of arresting her with the others.’

  The Capitan smiled apologetically. ‘It was necessary, señor Comisario, to go to exceptional lengths to protect her.’

  The older man ran a hand across his iron grey hair. ‘You must remind me to acknowledge our indebtedness to her in the report to Madrid. They will convey appropriate messages to the people in the United States. Well, I must say this is a surprise. Now … about Kyriakou. She was close to him, of course. Is it as you suspected?’

  ‘In every way,’ said Calvi. ‘He manages the drug ring. The caretaker became co-operative in the early hours of this morning. Made a full confession. We have arrested Kyriakou, Tino Costa and some of the pushers. Those involved at the Barcelona end have also been arrested. The evidence is complete. The racket is broken.’

  ‘Splendid, Calvi.’ The Comisario tipped the ash from the cigar into the glass ashtray. ‘And what of the Englishman, Charles Black?’

  ‘I am coming to that.’ Calvi paused, frowning at his thoughts. ‘There have been extraordinary developments.’

  For some time the Comisario listened while Calvi reported the night’s events: the abduction of van Biljon and Manuela Valez, and the escape of Black and his companions in the Snowgoose. Calvi told him, too, how the housekeeper had driven the Land-Rover down from Altomonte and tipped off the police at the road junction, and of the chase which had followed but petered out.

  Later, the farmer and his son had reported the truck hold-up to the police at San José. At much the same time a courting couple who had been in a car parked behind bushes at Cabo Negret had driven into San José to report what they had observed: men on the beach with a woman, a man being carried, torch signals from the beach answered from seaward; the entire party embarking in a boat of some sort, it was too dark to see, and abandoning the farm truck.

  ‘Extraordinario!’ The Comisario sat back in his chair, his head sunk on his chest, deep in thought. Then, as if he suddenly remembered where he was, he jerked upright, dusted the cigar ash from his tunic and said, ‘What action have you taken?’

  ‘Van Biljon’s boat—the Nordwind—put to sea soon after two o’clock this morning. It is the fastest craft in harbour. His crew are on board, with three of our men, all armed. I reported at once to Palma and Madrid. A naval aircraft from Valencia, carrying out a search exercise off Alicante, was diverted and made a sighting at about half past three this morning which may be the Snowgoose. The vessel behaved suspiciously, reversing her course. Unfortunately the aircraft was low on fuel and couldn’t stay in the vicinity, but the pilot radioed the position to the Nordwind. We hope that with her superior speed, and radar, she will make contact soon.’

  The Comisario shook his head, his eyes reflecting his bewilderment. ‘What d’you make of this, Capitan? Is it any way connected with the drug smuggling?’

  ‘No. Definitely not. I thought at first that they might be a gang of international art thieves. But only one picture was taken from the gallery. A valuable one admittedly. But if that had been the object, there were many others, some more valuable. It looks to me more like kidnapping. Van Biljon is a rich man. We expect a demand for ransom. They are probably making for Oran or Algiers.’

  ‘Tell me. Why did you have the police at the foot of the Altomonte road last night?’

  ‘For two reasons, señor Comisario. We thought van Biljon’s servants might be involved in the drug running. We wished to watch their movements at the critical time. Secondly, Señorita Valez had told me that she was going to Altomonte with Black, to dine with van Biljon. This was unusual because, as you know, he does not permit visitors. It suited us well to have Señorita Valez out of town while the arrests were taking place, and to have Black under her direct observation. So I agreed to her going. But she did not know that the police car on duty at the road junction had orders to call at Altomonte if they had not observed her make the return journey by midnight. Unfortunately our efforts to protect her were insufficient.’

  The Comisario walked across to the window and looked down on the Avenida Ignacio Wallis and then across to Talamanca where the first faint streaks of daylight were showing in the eastern sky.

  ‘This is extremely serious, Capitan,’ he said. ‘If she comes to any harm we are accountable to the U.S. authorities.’

  ‘I am aware of that, señor Comisario. I feel personally responsible. She worked with me. Took considerable risks. It was not easy or agreeable for her.’

  ‘Will she reveal her identity to these people?’

  Calvi shook his head. ‘Under no circumstances. She could never be used as an agent again, if she did. Also, she has no means of knowing that the operation has been successfully completed: the arrests made, the ring broken. These agents make many enemies. If they reveal their identity they endanger their lives.’

  The desk telephone rang. The Comisario picked it up. ‘Hallo. Yes, he’s here.’ He passed the instrument to Calvi. ‘For you,’ he said.

  Calvi spoke in monosyllables, grunting approval. He put the phone down. ‘It is the harbourmaster’s office. There is a radio signal from Nordwind. She has sighted a schooner which she believes to be the Snowgoose.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The wind was increasing, spray sluicing back over the schooner as she drove into the head sea, occasional rain squalls sweeping the cockpit, the rain beating into cold faces, prickling like fine needles. In the eastern sky the beginnings of daylight struggled against scudding clouds.

  But it was astern, to the north-west where the night was giving way to a storm-dark dawn, that those in the cockpit were looking. ‘There!’ said Helmut. ‘See that flash of white? It’s a bow hitting the sea.’

  Wedged in a corner of the cockpit, resting his elbows on the after coachroof, eyes pressed to binoculars, Black steadied himself against the motion of the Snowgoose.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Got it! Must be something travelling fast. Bumping the head sea.’

  ‘Think it’s Nordwind?’ Francois was unable to keep the anxiety from his voice.

  ‘We’ll assume it is,’ said Black. ‘But it could be several things. The Marseilles-Algiers ferry. A naval ship making for Algiers. Even a fast freighter. Won’t be long before we know.’ He went across to the chart-table. The deck-watch showed 0633. The log repeater read 12.4 knots. Wind and sea had brought the speed down. With the dividers he measured off the estimated distance travelled since the last dead-reckoning position. Then he measured the distance to Rendezvous Delta. It was just over seven miles. At twelve knots that meant another thirty-five minutes. If it was the Nordwind they’d sighted astern she’d have, weather for weather, a ten knot advantage.

  In thirty-five minutes she could gain six miles on them. Everything would depend then on two factors: how far astern she was now, and whether Snowgoose’s dead-reckoning position was reasonably correct. If it were not, the difficulty of making the rendezvous with Weissner on time might be considerable.

  He called to the others. ‘See anything yet?’

  Helmut shouted back, ‘Still only occasional splashes of spray, but they’re getting bigger.’

  Black knew that the vessel astern would already have Snowgoose in sight, silhouetted against the light to the south-east, the direction in which Black hoped that Weissner would show up soon. He said to Francois. ‘Check over the automatic rifles. Spare magazines. The lot. Put them at the foot of the forward companionway.’

  ‘So you think it is Nordwind?’

  ‘I don’t think anything,’ snapped Black. ‘But it might be.’


  To Dimitrio and Helmut he said, ‘Keep a good lookout for Weissner. Ahead, and on either bow.’

  Helmut swore. ‘These bloody rain squalls don’t help. Visibility keeps changing.’

  Black, wedged against the cockpit coaming, was looking astern again. ‘If we don’t find Weissner, he’ll find us. He’s got radar and sonar.’ He began to hum Colonel Bogey. The door to the companionway opened and shut and someone came into the cockpit. It was Manuela. She had on the brown suède coat she’d worn to Altomonte. He said. ‘Hallo. You’ll find an oilskin in the saloon locker. It’s wet here.’

  She went down the companionway again without replying. Soon she was back wearing an oilskin several times too big. But she kept away from him, leaning against the doghouse clear of the worst of the spray.

  Daylight was coming rapidly. Once again he raised his binoculars and looked for the vessel astern. But a squall of rain had shut out visibility and there was nothing to be seen. If it were Nordwind she had radar, and evasive action now would be a waste of time. As when the Zephyr had broken down the night before, Black felt the cold douche of failure. But pursuit was a risk they had always considered in their plans, and there was no shock or surprise. If only he knew it were Nordwind. And where Weissner was. It was six forty-seven. Thirteen minutes to the rendezvous.

  There was no point in sending the MAYDAY signal if the vessel astern were the Nordwind. It would have to wait now until they’d sighted Weissner. The rain had shut in around the schooner and nothing could be seen in any direction. Even if they could make radio contact with him, there was nothing to be gained by asking Weissner for his position, since they were unaware of their own except by dead reckoning. ZID’s signal had said that Weissner would make the rendezvous by seven o’clock. Black knew that meant he’d be there. Weissner was Weissner. The problem was, would they? His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from Helmut. ‘It is a motor cruiser. She’s gained quite a bit.’

  He swung round, focusing the binoculars, trying to steady himself in the lurching cockpit. To the north-west the rain had cleared, and he could see the vessel astern with the naked eye. She was about two miles away. He saw the white bows lift to a sea, the red boot-topping showing for a moment, then disappearing as a cloud of spray leapt skywards to be carried away by the wind. For a few seconds the motor cruiser was sharply focused in his binoculars. He saw the radar scanner turning, the glass-fronted wheelhouse, the raked aerial mast. It was the Nordwind. A knot of anxiety formed in his stomach, and his mouth and throat felt dry. Van Biljon’s men would be in the motor cruiser. Perhaps the police. The last thing he wanted was a shooting match. Kagan had given strict instructions that Spanish lives should not be endangered. But if they started shooting? The rain came again, a screen of wet grey mist which hid the motor cruiser.

  Black looked at his watch. It was eight minutes to seven. He heard Helmut calling.

  ‘What d’you say?’ he said dully.

  Helmut shouted. ‘It’s the Nordwind.’

  ‘I know it is,’ said Black. ‘Don’t shout.’

  A desperate feeling of impotence possessed him. Where the hell was Weissner? They should have sighted him between the squalls by now. Was Snowgoose’s D.R. position so hopelessly out?

  Weariness pushed his mind to the edge of fantasy so that the rain which enveloped the schooner became a grey nylon bag from which escape was impossible, and the deep note of the diesels the sound of distant guns. He shook his head in an effort to clear his mind. There was nothing he could usefully do now but wait and watch while the schooner flung herself into the short seas, the bows coming clear, hanging in the air, the hull shaking like a dog shedding water then, as the spray came blanketing over them, plunging into the next sea.

  ‘It’s clearing astern,’ called Helmut, and Black turned, wedging himself once more, holding the binoculars ready.

  The rain squall was moving to the west like a stage curtain, revealing first the sea on the port quarter then, with chilling predictability, the white bows of the motor cruiser. But it was larger now, the detail of the forward superstructure clearly visible to the naked eye. Black felt an almost overwhelming desire to scream.

  The plunging bows of Nordwind had a hypnotic effect and his mind numbed as he looked across the broken sea, so that he did not register the sudden boil and froth of water, the hissing eruption in the wake of the schooner, until a dark shape emerged, foam and white water cascading from it as it grew rapidly larger.

  He jumped up from his crouching position and shouted, his voice touched with hysteria. ‘Weissner, by God! Helmut! Transmit that MAYDAY.’ As Helmut went down the forward companionway, Black called to Dimitrio at the wheel. ‘Slow ahead together. Tell Kamros to stand by the seacocks.’

  The note of the diesels dropped, and the hull vibrations diminished. Francois came up the after companionway, his dark eyes full of inquiry. ‘What is it?’ he said.

  Black pointed astern. ‘Weissner’s arrived. Get the old man ready.’

  Francois disappeared and Black turned to Manuela. ‘Standby for another dinghy ride, my poppet.’ He smiled uncertainly, wondering if he were forgiven, trying to make peace. ‘Bit rougher this time. But with real sailors.’

  The submarine was fully surfaced now, the long black hull moving to windward, short sea slopping over the bows, spilling across the casing and falling away into the troughs. On the gun-platform men could be seen standing by the twin Bofors, while others manhandled an inflatable dinghy.

  The conning-tower loomed tall and sinister, the wet steel reflecting the greys of sea and sky. A man there took off his peaked cap and waved it at the schooner, and an Aldis lamp began to blink.

  Black, focusing his binoculars, shouted into the wind, ‘Weissner, you old bastard! You were nearly late.’

  By the Same Author

  TWO HOURS TO DARKNESS

  SMOKE ISLAND

  THE SEA BREAK

  THE WHITE SCHOONER

  TOWARDS THE TAMARIND TREES

  THE MOONRAKER MUTINY

  KLEBER’S CONVOY

  THE ZHUKOV BRIEFING

  ULTIMATUM

  DEATH OF A SUPERTANKER

  Copyright

  © Antony Trew 1969

  First published in Great Britain 1969

  This ebook edition 2012

  ISBN978 0 7090 9650 4 (epub)

  ISBN978 0 7090 9651 1 (mobi)

  ISBN978 0 7090 9652 8 (pdf)

  ISBN978 0 7090 7751 0 (print)

  Robert Hale Limited

  Clerkenwell House

  Clerkenwell Green

  London EC1R 0HT

  www.halebooks.com

  The right of Antony Trew to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988