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would have dislocated his leg had he not grasped it in his lacerated
hands to absorb the shock. He held on grimly. The torrent raging
against his chest threatened to break his hold. He had to hang on at
all costs and drag himself along the rope until his body was clear of
the water.
It was that or drown.
By a supreme effort he managed to haul himself four me tres along the
rope. He tried to rest by wrapping the rope round his body, but it
kept pulling straight in the wash from the barge.
Pyne's arms were aching from the strain of hanging on in the boiling
wake. He remembered the trick PT instructors had taught him when he
was a cadet: he gripped the rope between his instep and ankle, and
pushed with his leg muscles.
A few minutes later he was under the barge's raked stern with the rope
hanging straight down under his weight. He began to lift his body
clear of the water. The rope was dry a metre above the surface; red
stains showed where his hands had gripped it.
The motion of the barge swung him from side to side- increasing the
load his wrists had to bear. He swung his legs over the remains of a
rusting iron pintle projecting from the stern and reached up to grab a
bollard before thankfully releasing the rope.
He rested for a few minutes, then carefully balanced on the pintle. As
he straightened his head cleared the top of the barge coamings. He
could see the other three barges obediently following the tug line
astern. Almost fainting with fatigue, he pulled himself on to the
narrow side deck. The stench of decaying refuse from the open hold was
the most beautiful smell he had ever encountered.
He tried to stand when a sudden heavy wave caused him to overbalance.
It was only a two-metre fall to the refuse hold, but he struck his head
on the side of a bottle and lay still. A steady avalanche of wrapping
paper, plastic egg boxes and vegetable waste slithered down causing a
depression caused by his fall and covered his body.
The crew of the tug were unaware that one of their refuse barges was
carrying a passenger.
In five hours they would be in Dover, where a Dutch floating plant
would deal with their cargo. Huge vacuum pipes would be lowered into
the barge holds and would suck them bare in a matter of minutes. The
refuse would be conveyed to hydraulic crushers for compressing into
neat one-metre cubes which would end up as backfill for a Dutch dyke.
Paul Weiner introduced Hendricks to Mitchell in his office at the
American Embassy as "my boss'. Hendricks was sitting in Weiner's
chair. He waved a gnarled hand at an empty seat.
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"Sit down, Mr Mitchell. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."
He studied Mitchell like a vulture contemplating a piece of meat, and-
not being a man to waste time on table manners- got straight to the
point. "Tell me about General Pyne."
The question surprised Mitchell. "What about my drill-string?"
"What about it?" inquired Hendricks.
Mitchell glanced at Weiner and then back at Hendricks.
"Isn't that what you dragged me up here for?"
"I daresay it will be possible to see that you're fully compensated for
the loss of your equipment, Mr Mitchell," said Hendricks carefully.
"Provided you tell us what you know about this man Pyne."
Maggie's right, thought Mitchell. Her father is in trouble.
He tried steering Hendricks away from the subject. "Do you have any
idea how much a drill-string is worth?"
"No." said Hendricks, "but I expect--' "More than a million
dollars."
Hendricks nodded. "Tell me about Pyne."
Mitchell told him what he knew, but said nothing about Maggie's fears
and Corporal Garnet's attack. It was his account of Pyne entrusting
his property to Garnet that convinced Hendricks that his theory might
be correct.
Hendricks listened carefully, making frequent notes, and produced the
photograph of the group standing before a JetRanger helicopter.
Mitchell looked at the print in surprise.
"How did you get hold of this?"
Weiner opened his mouth, but Hendricks waved him into silence.
"Do you recognize any of those people?" inquired Hendricks, in an icy
tone that discouraged Mitchell from pressing his question.
"No," said Mitchell, "But, Mag-- General Pyne's daughter showed me an
identical picture the day before yesterday. She said the chopper
belonged to Hugh Patterson."
"What about the woman?" asked Hendricks, noting that Mitchell had
nearly said, "Maggie' when referring to Pyne's daughter.
"Louise Campion. A neighbour, and a friend of Pyne's family."
Hendricks nodded, and turned the picture towards himself.
"And the man is called Keller?"
"Yes. I think that was the name."
"First name?"
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"I don't know."
Hendricks stroked his nose with a bony forefinger.
"What's all this about?" asked Mitchell.
Hendricks watched Mitchell's fingers on the arm of his chair.
"Mr Mitchell, we would like you to maintain your liaison with General
Pyne's daughter, and use it to obtain all the information you can from
her about him." The involuntary movement of Mitchell's fingers
confirmed Hendricks' suspicions. "We're prepared to pay for your
drill-string, so you can't complain that we're being ungenerous." He
sat back and smiled frostily at the man sitting opposite him. If he
was any judge of character, there would be a reaction now. It came
immediately.
"What liaison?" snapped Mitchell.
Hendricks sighed. "Mr Mitchell, it would be the easiest thing in the
world for us to ship you back to the United States, if we so wished. A
word in the right ears and the British could withdraw your work permit.
I believe you would find it most difficult running your business here
from the other side of the Atlantic."
He paused. "Naturally, I'm confident that we won't have to resort to
such measures."
Mitchell looked at the cold, sunken eyes, and decided that Hendricks,
whoever he was, was not bluffing. Also, the promise to cover the lost
drill-string would lift a major financial burden.
"Okay then."
Hendricks stood up. He held out his hand. "Thank you, Mr Mitchell.
You will of course contact Mr Weiner if you have any news."
Mitchell was at the doorway when Hendricks said, "Just one more thing,
Mr Mitchell. Do you know if Pyne was the sort of man to have strong
views on the mess this country is in and how to put it right?"
"Yes," said Mitchell after a pause. "His daughter said he often
discussed economic affairs with Hugh Patterson."
Hendricks nodded. "Not a word to anyone about this meeting, please, Mr
Mitchell."
As Mitchell unlocked his office car he remembered his promise to call
Maggie before leaving London. He was about to punch the last digit of
her number on his car phone when he suddenly wondered what the hell it
was all about, and what he was letting himself in for.
Then the sound of her voice made him forget.
Hendricks picked up the photograph.
"So he's changed his name to Keller?"
Weiner nodded. "It was the name he used at Oak Ridge."
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Hendricks pressed the intercom key.
"I want to speak to the Secretary of State. Tell them it's extremely
urgent."
"Should we tell the ambassador?" asked Weiner.
"I expect so," replied Hendricks.
Police Sergeant Harry Snowdon of Thames Division was resting his
fourteen and a half stone- two of them surplus- on the grassy river
bank outside his headquarters, having exerted himself for thirty
minutes trying to clear the patrol boat's blocked fuel injector.
It was peaceful on the river. On the opposite bank, the Weybridge [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]