The killer waded back along the wing to the waiting jolly-boat and laconically raised a thumb. By now four of the men had pulled on their aqualungs. One by one, with a last adjustment of their mouthpieces, they clumsily heaved themselves over the side of the rocking boat and sank in a foam of small bubbles. When the last man had gone, the mechanic at the engine carefully lowered a huge underwater searchlight over the side and paid out the cable. At a given moment he switched the light on and the sea and the great sinking hulk of the plane were lit up with a mist of luminescence. The mechanic slipped the idling motor into gear and backed away, paying out cable as he went. At twenty yards, out of range of the suction of the sinking plane, he stopped and switched off his engine. He reached into his overalls and took out a packet of Camels. He offered one to the killer, who took it, broke it carefully in half, put one half behind his ear and lit the other half.
The killer was a man who rigidly controlled his weaknesses.
10 | THE
On board the yacht, No. 1 put down his night glasses, took a Charvet handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his white shark-skin jacket and dabbed gently at his forehead and temples. The musky scent of Schiaparelli’s Snuff was reassuring, reminding him of the easy side of life, of Dominetta who would now be sitting down to dinner – every-one kept Spanish hours in Nassau and cocktails would not have finished before ten – with the raffish but rather gay Saumurs and their equally frivolous guests; of the early game that would already be under way at the Casino; of the calypsos thudding into the night from the bars and night-clubs on Bay Street. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket. But this also was good – this wonderful operation! Like clockwork! He glanced at his watch. Just ten fifteen. The plane had been a bare thirty minutes late, a nasty half hour to have to wait, but the landing had been perfect. Vargas had done a good quick job on the Italian pilot – what was his name? – so that now they were running only fifteen minutes late. If the recovery group didn’t have to use oxy-acetylene cutters to get out the bombs, they would soon make that up. But one mustn’t expect no hitch at all. There was a good eight hours of darkness to go. Calm, method, efficiency, in that order. Calm, method, efficiency. No. 1 ducked down off the bridge and went into the radio cabin. It smelled of sweat and tension. Anything from the Nassau control tower? Any report of a low-flying plane? Of a possible crash into the sea off Bimini? Then keep watching and get me No. 2. Quick, please. It’s just on the quarter.
No. 1 lit a cigarette and watched the yacht’s big brain get to work, scanning the ether, listening, searching. The operator played the dials with insect fingers, pausing, verifying, hastening on through the sound waves of the world. Now he suddenly stopped, checked, minutely adjusted the volume. He raised his thumb. No. 1 spoke into the little sphere of wire mesh that rose in front of his mouth from the base of the head set. ‘No. 1 speaking.’
‘No. 2 listening.’ The voice was hollow. The words waxed and waned. But it was Blofeld, all right. No. 1 knew that voice better than he remembered his father’s.
‘Successful. Ten fifteen. Next phase ten forty-five. Continuing. Over.’
‘Thank you. Out.’ The sound waves went dead. The interchange had taken forty-five seconds. No conceivable fear of interception in that time, on that waveband.
No. 1 went through the big stateroom and down into the hold. The four men of B team, their aqualungs beside them, were sitting around smoking. The wide underwater hatch just above the keel of the yacht was open. Moonlight, reflected off the white sand under the ship, shone up through the six feet of water in the hold. Stacked on the grating beside the men was the thick pile of tarpaulin painted a very pale café-au-lait with occasional irregular blotches of dark green and brown. No. 1 said, ‘All is going very well. The recovery team is at work. It should not be long now. How about the chariot and the sled?’
One of the men jerked his thumb downwards. ‘They are down there. Outside on the sand. So it will be quicker.’
‘Correct.’ No. 1 nodded towards a crane-like contraption fastened to a bulkhead above the hold. ‘The derrick took the strain all right?’
‘That chain could handle twice the weight.’
‘The pumps?’
‘In order. They will clear the hold in seven minutes.’
