The ship was old and small. Jonathan guessed four thousand tons at most, converted from other lives. A wooden door stood open in a raised hatch. Inside, a bulkhead lamp glowed over a spiral flight of steel stairs. The guide once more went first. The echo of their feet was like the tramp of a chain gang. By the poor light Jonathan made out more of the man who was leading them. He wore jeans and sneakers. He had a blond forelock, which he flipped back with his left hand when it got in his way. The right hand still held the Heckler, the forefinger crooked snugly round the trigger. The ship too was beginning to reveal herself. She was fitted for mixed cargo. Capacity around sixty containers. She was a tub, a roll-on-roll-off workhorse at the end of her usefulness. She was a throwaway if things went wrong.
The party had come to a halt. Three men stood facing them. all white, all fair, all young. Behind them was a steel door, closed. Jonathan guessed on no evidence that they were Swedes. Like the guide, they carried Hecklers. It was now apparent that the guide was their leader. Something about his ease, his choice of posture as he joined them. His hacked and dangerous smile.
"How is the aristocracy these days, Sandy?" he called. Jonathan could still not place his accent.
"Hullo, Pepe," said Langbourne. "In the pink, thanks. How's yourself?"
"You all students of agriculture? You like tractors? Machine parts? You want to grow crops, feed all the poor people?"
"Let's just get on with the fucking job," Langbourne said. "Where's Moranti?"
Pepe grabbed the steel door and pulled it open at the same moment that Moranti appeared out of the shadows.
* * *
The hold constituted most of the belly of the ship. Pepe was playing host, Langbourne and Moranti walked beside him, Jonathan and Roper followed, then came the help: Frisky, Tabby and the three ship's hands with their Hecklers. Twenty containers were chained to the deck. On the lashing straps, Jonathan read a medley of transfer points: Lisbon, the Azores, Antwerp, Gdansk.
"This one we are calling the Saudi box," Pepe announced proudly. "They make it side-opening so Saudi customs can get inside and sniff around for booze."
The customs seals were steel pins banged into each other. Pepe's men hacked them apart with cutters.
"Don't worry, we got spares," Pepe confided to Jonathan. "Tomorrow morning everything look fine again. Customs don't give a shit."
The side of the container was slowly lowered. Guns have their own silence. It is the silence of the dead to come.
"Vulcans," Langbourne was saying, for the edification of Moranti. "High-tech version of the Gatling. Six twenty-millimetre barrels fire three thousand rounds a minute. State of the art. Ammo to match, more to follow. Each bullet's as big as your finger. One burst sounds like a horde of killer bees. Choppers and light aircraft don't stand a chance. Brand-new. Ten of 'em. Okay?"
Moranti said nothing at all. Only the barest nod betrayed his satisfaction. They moved to the next container. It was end-loaded, which meant they could view the contents only from the front. But what they saw was already enough.
"Quad fifties," Langbourne announced. "Four coaxially mounted point-five-oh-calibre machine guns designed to fire simultaneously at a single target. Shred any aircraft you like with a single burst. Trucks, troop transports, light armour ― the Quad'll take 'em out. Mount 'em on a two-and-a-half-ton chassis, they're mobile and they hurt like hell. Also brand-new."
