[The Girl From UNCLE 03] - The Golden Boats of Taradata Affair - Latter Simon (книги читать бесплатно без регистрации полные TXT) 📗

"Sort of secret loading and unloading points? Would they be for guns?"

Mark shrugged. "Could be. But not very heavy guns, because no crane or derrick could hoist a load to reach those parts of the hull. There might be some form of lifting tackle inside the openings, but it would take up space."

"Drugs, then? Packages floated out on a land-line, then secured from the openings by something like a fishing rod?"

"I'd guess drugs more than guns, but there aren't any reports of major supplies of drugs coming from this area. The researchers surely would have got on to any major drug activity."

"You were signed on as a deckhand after being recruited from a mainland prison — so was Lars. There must be strong reasons why they need such an unsavoury crew. Didn't you get any hint of what you were expected to do — apart from rough work?"

"Oh yes, but only in vague terms. We're all promised a thousand-dollar bonus when we're paid off — in consideration for special services. All the men understand this to mean a sort of general bodyguard or strong-arm activity as and when required by captain or officers, an obedience to orders and a bad memory. The usual terms of thuggery. Killings, or individual beatings-up or other specialities, would rank for separate payment to the men who carried them out."

April smiled. "You're not in exactly high-class company, lover-boy, are you? Isn't a thousand dollars rather large for the grade?"

"Not really. The cost of living affects everyone these days. The important fact is that THRUSH money is paying us and Maleski is a THRUSH contact. The strong-arm section of the crew don't know or care who is behind their pay. The real seamen aren't affected. I've tried to get close to one or two of them, but no dice. Some are Palaga men — not actual Palagas but born there — the others are native-born islanders who've graduated from fishing boats. Good workers, quiet and proud. They have a natural courtesy — most of the islanders have — but they clam up tighter than an oyster to the sort of guy they think I am."

"You are one of the thugs to them," said April thoughtfully. "Maybe I could chat them up a bit? Find out what they think about having a strong-arm squad aboard?"

"You could try, but don't push it," said Mark. "Only the captain and his officers are supposed to talk with the passengers. There's almost more discipline aboard this tub than in many a naval ship."

April switched subjects. "You were aboard when the ship took on cargo. Anything special about it? What sort of stuff is in the closed holds?"

"Straight from the mainland warehouse stuff — all custom-checked. Bales of cloth, cases of canned goods, general shop merchandise — coffee, tea, rice, cigarettes. The islanders use their own cigars. All that was double-checked by our own contact men too. There isn't a thing on board that means anything more than what it is." He grinned. "Except us — and maybe one or two passengers!"

"What did the Island Traveller take on at Palaga?"

"Mainly liquor. They have a sweet racket in confiscating bottles from ships' bars, then flogging them back as exports, but they also do a legit trade in their own wines, brandy and rum. I was surprised the Palaganians have developed a boat-repairing industry, but I don't see any significance in that. It was probably one of the older crafts of the island before the Palagas became currency-conscious."

"What sort of boats?"

"Oh, tiny things. Like coracles."

"Like what?"

"Coracles — as in oracles. An English name, I believe. Or is it Irish? I dunno. Each island would have its own name for them. They weave wicker or reed strips into a tiny boat shape, then fix a skin on the inside. Use them for one-man fishing, training children to be boat-wise, and going out to tend nets or trap lines. Better than canoes. These don't capsize easily. There's stacks of them under plastic deck sheets in the stern and for'ard."

"Going where?"

"Taradata."

"Why Taradata?"

"Why not? Guess the islanders use a lot of them."

"Then why don't they repair their own?"

"Now listen, sweetie, they're just little old mini-boats — cockleshells. Around these parts they line the inside instead of the outside — using some sort of leaf stuff that doesn't grow in Palaga. For Pete's sake — we've got enough dead trails without dragging in a perfectly innocent local craft! Can you imagine THRUSH trying to invade the world in a million coracles? A couple of bursts of multi-rocket fire and there'd be none left."

"Perhaps you're right." April smiled. "We'll just have to dig deeper, that's all. This project has cost a bomb already, and Kazan and Paru are still around someplace eating their expensive heads off." She glanced at her watch. "Give me three minutes to get clear." She winked. "Be good, lover-boy, and I'll let you escort me around one of the exotic isles!"

Mark made a rude noise. He gave her five minutes to get well clear via a small hatchway beyond the galley into the passengers' section. He then reported to the mate, who believed Mark was doing work for Chas. As Chas believed him to be under the mate's orders, Mark was able to disappear for a short time without either knowing it.

"I don't have to go up that blasted rigging again, do I, sir?" he growled.

The mate hadn't thought about it, but immediately he knew one of these scum didn't want to do a particular job he delighted in making sure they did it.

"Get up that mast when you're told!" he bellowed. "Clear the starboard lines, then grease all the pulleys"

"Aye, aye, sir." Mark shinned up the mast and got himself well balanced against the fore and aft pitch — no easy feat, because at mast height the swing was nigh on seven yards when the Island Traveller was bucking a swell. This was one of the most uncomfortable, even dangerous, places Mark had ever used to make contact with H.Q., but it was also one of the finest for reception.

"Ah! Mr. Slate!" Mr. Waverly boomed. "I trust you are well and truly nailed to the mast? A custom of the old pirates, I believe."

"Ha-ha!" said Mark dutifully. "And a bottle of rum, or somesuch. Do you have information for me, sir?"

"My own question precisely, Mr. Slate. May I remind you of the vast amount of time and considerable expenditure of money which so far has been put into this affair? We have in the past spent a great deal less and received far more. A soupcon of interest would not come amiss."

"We know there is a strong organization at work in the area. We are close to THRUSH contacts. We can only pursue our present course in the hope of uncovering the THRUSH project."

"But you are not, at this stage, any closer to a clarification?" Mr. Waverly insisted.

"No, sir."

"What is your next port of call?"

"Providencia, then Taradata."

"Let us hope Providencia will be providential for you, Mr. Slate — hum-hum!" said Mr. Waverly with joyous pomposity.

Mark took it manfully. In silence.

Then, gently: "You have a report for me, sir?"

"Indeed we have. A most revealing one. I am sure you will find it helpful. Standby and I will put you on to emergency feed-back."

E.F.B. made it crystal clear. Mark thought ruefully that if the whole file had been fed through the E.F.B. computer, they might well have discovered more field leads faster and easier. And the great advantage of E.F.B. was that by merely speaking the word "repeat", it spun itself back and gave you the gen all over again. You didn't have to apologize for not getting it the first time, nor miss a vital point because you didn't want to appear dumb, daft or dilatory.