“Not at the port of embarkation of fresh cargo,” said Shannon.
“I didn’t bargain for arms,” repeated Waldenberg.
“You bargained for illegal immigrants to Britain,” Shannon pointed out.
“They’re not illegal until their feet touch British soil,” the captain said. “And the Toscana would be outside territorial waters. They could go inshore in fast boats. Arms are different. They are illegal on this ship if the manifest says there aren’t any. Why not put it on the manifest? Just say these arms are being legally transported from Ploc?e to Togo. No one can prove we later deviate from course.”
“Because if there are arms already on board, the Spanish authorities will not allow the ship to stay in Valencia or any other Spanish port. Even in transit. Certainly not to take on more arms. So they have to remain unmentioned on the manifest.”
“So where did we come from to reach Spain?” asked Waldenberg.
“From Brindisi,” replied Shannon. “We went there to take on cargo, but it was not ready in time. Then the owners ordered you to Valencia to pick up a new cargo for Latakia. Of course you obeyed.”
“Supposing the Spanish police search the boat?”
“There’s not the slightest reason why they should,” said Shannon. “But if they do, the crates have to be belowdecks in the bilges.”
“If they find them there, there’s not a hope for us,” Waldenberg pointed out. “They’d think we were bringing the stuff to the Basque territories. We’d be inside forever.”
The talk went on till three in the morning. It cost Shannon a flat bonus of £5000, half before loading and half after sailing from Valencia. There was no extra charge for the stopover in the African port. That would present no problem.
“You’ll take care of the crew?” Shannon asked.
“I’ll take care of the crew,” said Waldenberg with finality. Shannon knew he would, too.
Back in his hotel, Shannon paid Baker the third quarter of his bill for the arms, $3600, and tried to get some sleep. It was not easy. The sweat rolled off him in the heat of the night, and he had an image of the Toscana lying down there in the port, the arms in the customs shed, and prayed there would be no problems. He felt he was so close now, just three short ceremonies away from the point where no one could stop him, whatever was tried.
The loading started at seven, and the sun was already well up. With a customs man, armed with a rifle, walking beside the crates, they were wheeled on trolleys down to the dockside, and the Toscana hoisted them aboard with her own jumbo derrick. None of the crates was very large, and down in the hold Vlaminck and Cipriani swung them easily into position before they were roped down across the floor of the hold. By nine in the morning it was over, and the hatches went on.
Waldenberg had ordered the engineer to stand by for casting off, and the latter needed no second bidding. Shannon learned later he had suddenly become very voluble when he learned three hours out from Brindisi that they were heading for his native country. Apparently he was wanted there for something or other. He stayed well hidden in his engine room, and no one went looking for him.
As he watched the Toscana chugging out of the port, Shannon slipped Baker the remaining $3600 and the second £500 for Ziljak. Unbeknownst to either, he had had Vlaminck quietly prize up the lids on five of the crates, taken at random, as they came aboard. Vlaminck had verified the contents, waved up to Semmler on the deck above him, and Semmler had blown his nose, the signal Shannon wanted. Just in case the crates contained scrap iron. It has been known to happen, quite frequently, in the arms world.
Baker, having received his money, gave the £500 to Ziljak as if it came from himself, and the Yugoslav saw the customs chief did not go without supper. Then Alan Baker and his British “assistant” quietly left town.
On Shannon’s calendar of a hundred days, given him by Sir James Manson to bring off his coup, it was Day Sixty-seven.
No sooner was the Toscana out to sea than Captain Waldenberg began to organize his ship. One by one, the three other crewmen were brought into his cabin for a quiet interview. Although none of them knew it, had they refused to continue to serve aboard the Toscana, there would have been some unfortunate accidents on board. Few places are quite as well suited for a complete disappearing act as a ship on a dark night at sea, and Vlaminck and Dupree between them could have pitched anyone else on board a long way from the ship’s side before he touched the water. Perhaps their presence did the trick. In any case, no one objected.
Waldenberg dispensed £1000 of the £2500 he had received in travelers’ checks from Shannon. The Yugoslav engineer, delighted to be back out of his own country, took his £250, stuffed it into his pocket, and went back to his engines. He made no comment one way or the other. The first mate, Norbiatto, became quite excited at the thought of a Spanish jail, but pocketed his £600 in dollars and thought of the difference that could make to his chances of owning his own ship one day. The crewman, Cipriani, seemed almost
happy at the prospect of being on a vessel full of contraband, took his £150, said an ecstatic thank-you, and left, muttering, “This is the life.” He had little imagination and knew nothing about Spanish jails.
With this done, the crates were broken open, and all afternoon the contents were examined, wrapped in polyethylene, and stowed deep in the bilges, below the floor of the hold and inside the curvature of the ship’s hull. The planks which had been removed to make this possible were replaced and covered with the innocent cargo of clothing, dinghies, and outboard engines.
Finally Semmler told Waldenberg he had better put the Castrol oil drums at the back of the stores locker, and when he told his fellow countryman why, Waldenberg finally did lose his composure. He lost his temper as well and used some expressions that could best be described as regrettable.
Semmler calmed him down, and they sat having beer as the Toscana plowed her way south for the Otranto Channel and the Ionian Sea.
Finally Waldenberg began to laugh. “Schmeissers,” he said. “Bloody Schmeissers. Mensch, it’s a long time since they’ve been heard in the world.”
“Well, they’re going to be heard again,” said Semmler.
Waldenberg looked wistful. “You know,” he said at length, “I wish I was going ashore with you.”
twenty
When Shannon arrived, Simon Endean was reading a copy of The Times bought that morning in London before he left for Rome. The lounge of the Excelsior Hotel was almost empty, for most of those taking late-morning coffee were on the outside terrace watching the chaotic traffic of Rome inch past and trying to make themselves heard above the noise.