Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

JUNE 1916 PORTSMOUTH, ENGLAND

THE NAVAL DOCK WAS ABUZZ WITH ACTIVITY, DESPITE the dampening effects of a cold drizzle. Royal Navy stevedores busily worked beneath a steam-powered derrick, hoisting huge amounts of food, supplies, and munitions aboard the gray leviathan moored at the dock. On board, the crates were neatly stowed in the ship’s forward hold, while a throng of sailors in heavy woolen pea-coats readied the ship for sea.

The HMS Hampshire still maintained a spit-and-polish finish, despite more than a decade at sea and its recent action at the Battle of Jutland. A Devonshire class armored cruiser of ten thousand tons, she was one of the largest ships in the British Navy. Armed with a dozen large deck guns, she was also one of the deadliest.

In an empty storehouse a quarter mile down the quay, a blond-haired man stood by an open siding and studied the ship’s loading through a pair of brass binoculars. He held the binoculars to his eyes for nearly twenty minutes until a green Rolls-Royce appeared, crossing the dock and pulling up in front of the main gangway. He watched intently as a band of Army officers in khaki uniforms quickly materialized, surrounding the car and then assisting the vehicle’s occupants up the gangway. From their dress, he judged the two arrivals as a politician and a high-ranking military officer. He caught a quick glimpse of the officer’s face, smiling to himself as he noted that the man wore a heavy mustache.

“Time to make our delivery, Dolly,” he said aloud.

He stepped into the shadows, where a weather-beaten cart was hitched to a saddled horse. Stuffing the binoculars under the seat, he climbed aboard and slapped the reins. Dolly, an aged dappled gray mare, lifted her head in annoyance, then shuffled forward, pulling the cart out into the rain.

The dockhands paid scant attention to the man when he pulled his cart up alongside the ship a few minutes later. Dressed in a faded woolen coat and soiled trousers, a flat cap pulled low over his brow, he resembled dozens of other local paupers who survived by the odd job here and there. In this instance, it was an acted role, embellished by a failure to shave and a liberal dousing of cheap scotch on his clothes. When it was deemed time to perform, he made his presence known by advancing Dolly to the base of the gangway, effectively blocking its use.

“Get that nag out of the way,” cursed a red-faced lieutenant overseeing the loading.

“Aye got a d’livry for the ’Ampshire,” the man growled in a Cockney accent.

“Let me see your papers,” the lieutenant demanded.

The deliveryman reached inside his jacket and handed the officer a crumpled page of watermarked stationery. The lieutenant frowned as he read it, then slowly shook his head.

“This is not a proper bill of lading,” he said, quietly eyeing the deliveryman.

“It’s wot the general gave me. That and a fiver,” the man replied with a wink.

The lieutenant walked around and surveyed the crate, which was roughly the size of a coffin. On the top was an address stenciled in black paint:

PROPERTY OF THE ROYAL NAVY

TO THE ATTENTION OF SIR LEIGH HUNT

SPECIAL ENVOY TO THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE

C/O CONSULATE OF GREAT BRITAIN

PETROGRAD, RUSSIA

“Humph,” the officer muttered, eyeing the paperwork again. “Well, it is signed by the general. Very well,” he said, passing the paper back. “You, there,” he barked, turning to a nearby stevedore. “Help get that crate aboard. Then get this wagon out of here.”

Rope was strung around the crate, and a shipboard derrick yanked it into the sky, swinging it over the rail and depositing it in the forward hold. The deliveryman gave a mock salute to the lieutenant, then slowly drove the horse off the dock and out of the navy yard. Turning down a nearby dirt road, he ambled past a small port warehouse district that ended at an expanse of open farmland. A mile farther down the road, he turned into an uneven drive and parked the cart beside a dilapidated cottage. An old man with a game leg limped out of a nearby barn.

“Make your delivery?” he asked the driver.

“I did. Thank you for the use of your cart and horse,” the man replied, pulling a ten-pound note out of his wallet and handing it to the farmer.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s more than my horse is worth,” the farmer stammered, holding the note in his hands as if it were a baby.

“And a fine horse it is,” the man replied, giving Dolly a farewell pat on the neck. “Good day,” he said to the farmer, tipping his hat without another word, then walking up the drive.

He turned down the road and hiked a few minutes until detecting the sound of an automobile headed his way. A blue Vauxhall touring sedan rounded a corner, then slowed to a stop beside him. The deliveryman stepped closer as the rear door of the sedan opened and he climbed in. A staid-looking man in the attire of an Anglican priest slid across the backseat to make room. He stared at the deliveryman with a shroud of apprehension masking his dull gray eyes, then reached for a decanter of brandy mounted to the seat back. Pouring a healthy shot into a crystal tumbler, he passed it to the deliveryman, then directed the driver to proceed down the road.

“The crate is aboard?” he asked bluntly.

“Yes, Father,” the deliveryman replied in a sarcastic tone of reverence. “They bought the phony bill of lading and loaded the crate into the forward hold.” There was no longer any trace of a Cockney accent as he spoke. “In seventy-two hours, you can bid farewell to your illustrious general.”

The words seemed to trouble the vicar, though they were what he had anticipated. He silently reached into his overcoat and retrieved an envelope stuffed thick with banknotes.

“As we agreed. Half now, half after the . . . event,” he said, passing over the envelope as his words fell away.