Abbot said quietly, ‘Do you think you could…er…get pissed?’
Parker flicked the glass with his fingernail. ‘It ‘ud take more than this stuff. It’s like maiden’s water.’
‘But you could try, couldn’t you? You might even become indiscreet.’
‘Then buy me another,’ said Parker, and drained the glass with one mighty swallow.
Abbot made a good meal but Parker picked at his food fastidiously and drank more than was apparently good for him. His voice became louder and his words tended to slur together, and he seemed to be working up to a grievance. ‘
You
want to call it off—how do you suppose I feel? I get this idea—a bloody good idea—an’ what are you doin’ about it? Nothin’ but sittin’ on your upper-class bottom, that’s what.’
‘Quiet, Dan!’ urged Abbot.
‘I won’t be bloody quiet! I’m gettin’ tired o’ your snipin’, too.’ His voice took on an ugly mimicry. ‘“Don’t do this, Dan; don’t do that, Dan; don’t eat wi’ your mouth open, Dan.’ Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ said Abbot.
‘You said you could help me wi’ what I’ve got—an’ what ha’ you done? Sweet Fanny Adams!’
‘It takes time to make the contact,’ said Abbot wearily.
‘You said you
had
the contacts,’ said Parker venomously.
‘What have you got to complain about,’ said Abbot in a high voice. ‘You’re not paying for all this, are you? If it wasn’t for me you’d still be on your arse in London fiddling around with beat-up cars and dreaming of how to make a quick fortune. I’ve laid out nearly a thousand quid on this, Dan—doesn’t that count for anything?’
‘I don’t care whose money it is. You’re still doin’ nothin’ an’ you’re wastin’ my time.’ Parker gestured largely towards the open door. ‘That harbour’s full o’ ships, an’ I bet half of ‘em are in the smugglin’ racket. They’d go for what I have in me noggin an’ they’d pay big for it, too. You talk about me sittin’ on me arse; why don’t you get up off yours?’
Abbot was trying—unsuccessfully—to quiet Parker. ‘For God’s sake, shut up! Do you want to give everything away? How do you know this place isn’t full of police?’
Parker struggled to his feet drunkenly. ‘Aw, hell!’ He looked around blearily. ‘Where is it?’
Abbot looked at him resignedly. ‘Through there.’ He indicated a door at the back of the cafe. ‘And don’t get talking to any strange men.’ He watched Parker stagger away, shrugged, and picked up the magazine.
A voice behind him said, ‘Monsieur?’
He turned and found Picot looking at him intently. ‘Yes?’
‘Would I be right if I said that you and your friend are looking for…employment?’
‘No,’ said Abbot shortly, and turned away. He hesitated perceptibly and turned back to face Picot. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I thought maybe you were out of work. Sailors, perhaps?’
‘Do I look like a sailor?’ demanded Abbot.
Picot smiled. ‘No, monsieur. But your friend…’
‘My friend’s business is his.’
‘And not yours, monsieur?’ Picot raised his eyebrows. ‘Then you are definitely not interested in employment?’
‘What kind of employment?’
‘Any man, particularly a sailor who has…ingenious ideas…there is always an opening for him in the right place.’
‘I’m not a sailor. My friend was at one time. There’d have to be a place for me. We’re great friends—inseparables, you know.’
Picot examined his finger-nails and smiled. ‘I understand, monsieur. A great deal would depend on the ideas your friend has in mind. If you could enlighten me then it could be worth your while.’
‘If I told you then you’d know as much as me, wouldn’t you?’ said Abbot cunningly. ‘Nothing doing. Besides, I don’t know who you are. I don’t go a bundle on dealing with total strangers.’
‘My name is Jules Fabre,’ said Picot with a straight face.
Abbot shook his head. ‘Means nothing to me. You
could
be a big-timer for all I know—and then again, you could be a cheap crook.’
‘That’s not very nice, monsieur,’ said Picot reproachfully.
‘I didn’t intend it to be,’ said Abbot.
‘You are making things difficult,’ said Picot. ‘You can hardly expect me to buy something unknown. That is not good business. You would have to tell me sooner or later.’
‘I’m not too worried about that. What Dan—my friend—has can only be made to work by him. He’s the expert.’
‘And you?’
Abbot grinned cheekily. ‘You can say I’m his manager. Besides, I’ve put up the money so far.’ He looked Picot up and down insultingly. ‘And talking about money—what we’ve got would cost a hell of a lot, and I don’t think a cheap chiseller like you has it, so stop wasting my time.’ He turned away.
‘Wait,’ said Picot. ‘This secret you have—how much do you expect to sell it for?’
Abbot swung around and stared at Picot. ‘Half a million American dollars. Have you got that much?’ he asked ironically.
Picot’s lips twitched and he lowered his voice. ‘And this is for smuggling?’
‘What the hell do you think we’ve been talking about all this time?’ demanded Abbot.
Picot became animated. ‘You want to get in touch with someone at the top? I can help you, monsieur; but it will cost money.’ He rubbed his finger and thumb together meaningfully and shrugged. ‘My expenses, monsieur.’
Abbot hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No. What we have is so good that the man at the top will pay you for finding us. Why should I grease your palm?’
‘Because if you don’t, the man at the top will never hear of you. I’m just trying to make a living, monsieur.’
Parker came back and sat down heavily. He picked up an empty bottle and banged it down. ‘I want another beer.’
Abbot half-turned in his seat. ‘Well, buy one,’ he said irritably.
‘Got no money,’ said Parker. ‘Besides,’ he added belligerently, ‘you’re Mr Moneybags around here.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ Abbot took out his wallet, peeled off a note from the thin wad, and threw it on the table. ‘Buy yourself a bucketful and swill in it. You can drown in the stuff for all I care.’ He turned to Picot. ‘All right—how much, you bloody twister?’
‘A thousand pounds—Lebanese.’
‘Half now and the other half when contact has been made.’ He counted out notes and dropped them in front of Picot. ‘All right?’
Picot put out his hand and delicately took the money. ‘It will do, monsieur. What is your name and where can I find you?’
‘My name doesn’t matter and I’ll be in here most evenings,’ said Abbot. ‘That’s good enough.’
Picot nodded. ‘You had better not be wasting time,’ he warned. ‘The man at the top has no use for fools.’
‘He’ll be happy with what we have,’ said Abbot confidently.
‘I hope so.’ Picot looked at Parker who had bis nose deep in a glass. ‘Your friend drinks too much—and talks too loudly. That is not good.’
‘He’s all right. He’s just become edgy because of the waiting, that’s all. Anyway, I can control him.’
‘I understand your position—exactly,’ said Picot drily. He stood up. ‘I will be seeing you soon.’
Abbot watched him leave, then said, ‘You were great, Dan. The stage lost a great actor somewhere along the line.’
Parker put down his glass and looked at it without enthusiasm. ‘I was pretty good at amateur theatricals at one time,’ he said complacently. ‘You paid him something. How much?’
‘He gets a thousand pounds; I paid half.’ Abbot laughed. ‘Keep your hair on, Dan; they’re Lebanese pounds—worth about half-a-crown each.’
Parker grunted and swirled the beer in his glass. ‘It’s still too much. This stuff is full of piss and wind. Let’s go somewhere we can get a real drink, and you can tell me all about it.’
Nothing happened next day. They went to the café at the same time in the evening but Picot was not there, so they had a meal, chatted desultorily and went away. Despite his confident attitude Abbot was wondering whether Picot was genuine or whether he had paid over £60 to a smooth grafter he would never see again.
They were just about to leave for the café the next evening when there was a knock at the door. Abbot raised his eyebrows at Parker and went to open it. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Fabre.’
He opened up. ‘How did you know we were here?’
‘That does not matter, Monsieur Abbot. You wish to speak to someone—he is here.’ He jerked his eyes sideways. ‘That will be five hundred pounds.’
Abbot glanced to where a tall man stood in the shadowed corridor. ‘Don’t try to con me, Fabre. How do I know it’s the man I want? It could be one of your put-up jobs. I’ll talk to him first, then you’ll get your money.’
‘All right,’ said Picot. ‘I’ll be in the usual place tomorrow.’
He walked away down the corridor and Abbot waited at the door. The tall man moved forward and, as his face came out of shadow, Abbot knew he had hit the jackpot. It was Eastman. He stepped on one side to let him enter, and Eastman said in a flat mid-western accent, ‘Was Picot trying to shake you down?’
Abbot closed the door. ‘Who?’ he said blankly. ‘He said his name was Fabre.’
‘His name is Picot and he’s a chiselling nogoodnik,’ said Eastman without rancour.
‘Talking about names,’ said Abbot. ‘This is Dan Parker and I’m Mike Abbot. And you are…?’ He let the question hang in the air.
‘The name is Eastman.’
Abbot smiled. ‘Sit down, Mr Eastman. Dan, pull up a chair and join the congregation.’
Eastman sat down rigidly on the chair offered. ‘I’m told you have something to sell me. Start selling.’
‘I’ll start off, Dan,’ said Abbot. ‘You can chip in when things become technical.’ He looked at Eastman. ‘I’m told there’s a fair amount of smuggling goes on around here. Dan and I have got an idea—a good idea. The trouble is we don’t have the capital to pull it off ourselves, so we’re open to offers—on a participation basis, of course.’
‘You don’t get offered a cent until I know what you’re talking about.’
‘This is where the conversation gets tricky,’ said Abbot. ‘However, Dan tells me it doesn’t matter very much if you know the secret. He thinks he’s the only one around who can make it work. Of course, it wouldn’t work with too much weight or bulk. What are you interested in smuggling?’
Eastman hesitated. ‘Let’s say gold.’
‘Let’s say gold,’ agreed Abbot. ‘Dan, how much could you carry—in weight?’
‘Up to five hundred pounds.’
‘Interested?’ asked Abbot.
‘Maybe. What’s the gimmick?’
‘This works when coming in from the sea. You shoot it in by torpedo.’ Abbot looked at Eastman as though expecting a round of applause.
Eastman sighed and put his hands on the table as though to. lever himself up. ‘You’re wasting my time,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Abbot. ‘Why are we wasting your time?’
Eastman stared at him and shook his head sadly. ‘It’s been tried before and it doesn’t work very well. You’re out of luck, boys.’
‘Perhaps you were using the wrong torpedoes.’
‘Perhaps.’ Eastman looked at Abbot with renewed interest. ‘What have you got?’
‘You tell me what you want, then maybe we can get together.’
Eastman smiled thinly. ‘Okay, I’ll play ball; I’ve got ten minutes spare. A torpedo has only worked well once. That was on the Austrian-Italian border; a few smart-alick amateurs got hold of a torpedo and started smuggling across one of the little lakes up there. Booze one way and tobacco the other. They had the customs cops going nuts trying to figure out how it worked. Then some jerk shot off at the mouth and that was the end of it.’
‘So?’ said Abbot. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’
‘Oh, it worked—but only across a half-assed pond. A torpedo doesn’t have the range for what I want.’
‘Can you get hold of a torpedo?’
‘Sure—but for what? Those we can get hold of don’t have the range, and those we could use are on the secret lists. Boy, if I could get hold of one of the modern underwater guided missile babies I’d be made.’
Parker broke in. ‘What kind of torpedo can you get?’
Eastman shrugged. ‘Those on the international arms market—models of the ‘forties and ‘fifties. Nothing really up to date.’
‘What about the British Mark XI?’
‘Those are available, sure. With a maximum range of three miles—and what the hell’s the good of that?’
‘Fifty-five hundred yards wi’ batteries brought up to heat,’ corrected Parker.
Abbot grinned. ‘I think you’d better tell him, Dan.’
Parker said deliberately, ‘I can get fifteen miles out o’ a Mark XI.’
Eastman sat up straight. ‘Are you on the level?’
‘He is,’ said Abbot. ‘Danny boy can make a Mark XI sit up and do tricks. Meet Mr Parker, the best petty officer and torpedo mechanic the Royal Navy ever had.’
‘You interest me,’ said Eastman. ‘Are you sure about that fifteen miles?’
Parker smiled slowly. ‘I can pep up a Mark XI so you can stay safely outside the legal twelve mile limit an’ shoot her ashore at thirty knots. No bubbles, either.’
‘And carrying five hundred pounds’ weight?’
‘That’s right.’
Eastman pondered. ‘What about accuracy?’
‘That depends on the fish you give me—some o’ the guidance gear is a bit rough sometimes. But I can doctor it up if you let me have sea trials.’ Parker scratched bis jaw. ‘I reckon
I could give an accuracy o’ three inches in a hundred yards—that’s less than seventy yards out either way at fifteen miles.’
‘Jesus!’ said Eastman. ‘That’s not too bad.’
‘You should be able to find a quiet beach that big,’ said Abbot. ‘You’ll have to find one that slopes pretty shallowly, but that shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Parker. ‘That’s the accuracy o’ the fish I’m talkin’ about. Currents are somethin’ else. You shoot across a current an’ the fish is goin’ to be carried sideways, an’ don’t forget it’ll be in the water for half an hour. If you have a cross-current of as little as half a knot then the fish will get knocked five hundred yards off course. Still, if you can plot the current you can compensate, an’ you might avoid the problem altogether if you shoot at slack water.’
‘Yeah, that can be gotten around.’ Eastman nibbled at a joint of his thumb thoughtfully. ‘You seem pretty certain about this.’