heir way,” he told Larsen. “Four hours to Tel Aviv and safety. Another four hours after that—even less if the fog closes down—and we’ll be gone. The Navy will come on board and release you. You’ll have proper medical help for that hand, and you’ll have your crew and your ship back. ... You should be happy.”
The Norwegian skipper was leaning back in his chair, deep black smudges under his eyes, refusing to give the younger man the satisfaction of seeing him fall asleep. For him it was still not over—not until the poisonous explosive charges had been removed from his holds, not until the last terrorist had left his ship. He knew he was close to collapse. The searing pain from his hand had settled down to a dull, booming throb that thumped up the arm to the shoulder, and the waves of exhaustion swept over him until he was dizzy. But still he would not close his eyes.
He raised his eyes to the Ukrainian with contempt.
“And Tom Keller?” he asked.
“Who?”
“My third officer, the man you shot out on the deck on Friday morning.”
Drake laughed.
“Tom Keller is down below with the others,” he said. “The shooting was a charade. One of my own men in Keller’s clothes. The bullets were blanks.”
The Norwegian grunted. Drake looked across at him with interest.
“I can afford to be generous,” he said, “because I have won. I brought against the whole of Western Europe a threat they could not face, and an exchange they could not wriggle out of. In short, I left them no alternative. But you nearly beat me; you came within an inch of it.
“From six o’clock this morning when you destroyed the detonator, those commandos could have stormed this ship any time they pleased. Fortunately, they don’t know that. But they might have done if you’d signaled to them. You’re a brave man, Thor Larsen. Is there anything you want?”
“Just get off my ship,” said Larsen.
“Soon now, very soon, Captain.”
High over Venice, Wing Commander Jarvis moved the controls slightly and the speeding silver dart turned a few points east of south for the long run down the Adriatic.
“How are the clients?” he asked the quartermaster sergeant.
“Sitting quietly, watching the scenery,” said the QMS over his shoulder.
“Keep ’em like that,” said the pilot. “The last time they took a plane trip, they ended up shooting the captain.”
The QMS laughed.
“I’ll watch ’em,” he promised.
The copilot tapped the flight plan on his knee.
“Three hours to touchdown,” he said.
The broadcasts from Gatow had also been heard elsewhere in the world. In Moscow the news was translated into Russian and brought to a table in a private apartment at the privileged end of Kutuzovsky Prospekt where two men sat at lunch shortly after two P.M. local time.
Marshal Nikolai Kerensky read the typed message and slammed a meaty fist onto the table.
“They’ve let them go!” he shouted. “They’ve given in. The Germans and the British have caved in. The two Jews are on their way to Tel Aviv.”
Silently, Yefrem Vishnayev took the message from his companion’s hand and read it. He permitted himself a wintry smile.
“Then tonight, when we produce Colonel Kukushkin and his evidence before the Politburo, Maxim Rudin will be finished,” he said. “The censure motion will pass; there is no doubt of it. By midnight, Nikolai, the Soviet Union will be ours. And in a year, all Europe.”
The marshal of the Red Army poured two generous slugs of Stolichnaya vodka. Pushing one toward the Party theoretician, he raised his own.
“To the triumph of the Red Army!”
Vishnayev raised his vodka, a spirit he seldom touched. But there were exceptions.
“To a truly Communist world!”