“Yes.”
“Then pay for it in full cash, and get a signed receipt. Just make sure no one bangs it about too hard as it goes aboard. The last thing we need is for the bottom of one of the barrels to fall out. The quay will be waist-deep in Schmeissers.”
“When do the men come aboard?”
“Tonight after dark. One by one. Just Marc and Janni. I’m leaving Jean-Baptiste here for a while. He has the truck, and there’s one more job to be done at this end. When can you sail?”
“Anytime. Tonight. I can fix it. Actually, it’s rather nice being the managing director.”
“Don’t get too accustomed to it. It’s only a front.”
“Okay, Cat. Incidentally, where are we going when we leave?”
“Brindisi. Know it?”
“Sure I know it. I’ve run more cigarettes into Italy from Yugoslavia than you’ve had hot dinners. What do we pick up there?”
“Nothing. You wait for my telegram. I’ll be in Germany. I’ll cable you through the port office at Brindisi with the next destination and the day you have to arrive. Then you must get a local agent to cable the Yugoslav port in question and reserve a berth. Are you okay to go to Yugoslavia?”
“I think so. Anyway, I won’t get off the ship. We pick up more arms?”
“Yes. At least, that’s the plan. I just have to hope my arms dealer and the Yugoslav officials have not cocked it up. Do you have all the charts you need?”
“Yes, I bought them all in Genoa as you told me. You know, Waldenberg will have to realize what we are taking on board in Yugoslavia. Then he’ll know we aren’t running illegal immigrants. He accepts the speedboats and the engines, the walkie-talkies and the clothing as quite normal, but arms are something else again.”
“I know,” said Shannon. “It will cost a bit of money. But I think he’ll get the message. There’ll be you and me, Janni and Marc on board. Besides, by then we can tell him what’s in the oil drums. He’ll be so far in by then, he’ll have to go along. What are the two new crewmen like?”
Semmler nodded and stubbed out his fifth cigarette. The air was a blue haze in the small saloon. “Good. Two Italians. Hard boys, but obedient. I think they’re both wanted by the carabinieri for something. They were so pleased to get on board and under cover. They couldn’t wait to get to sea.”
“Fine. Then they won’t want to be put ashore in a foreign country. That would mean they’d be picked up without papers and repatriated, straight into the hands of their own police.”
Waldenberg had done well. Shannon met both men briefly, and short nods were exchanged. Semmler simply introduced him as a man from the head office, and Waldenberg translated. The men, Norbiatto, the first mate, and Cipriani, the deckhand, evinced no further interest. Shannon exchanged a few instructions with Waldenberg and left.
In midafternoon the two vans from Agence Maritime Duphot rolled to a stop by the Toscana, accompanied by the same man who had appeared that morning. A French customs officer, clipboard in hand, emerged from the customs house and stood by as the crates were swung inboard by the ship’s derrick: four crates of assorted rough clothing, belts, boots, and caps, for the Moroccan workers at the holiday village; three crated large-size inflatable dinghies for sporting and leisure purposes; three outboard engines for same; two crates of assorted flares, binoculars, ship’s gas-powered foghorn, radio parts, and magnetic compasses. The last crates were listed under ship’s stores.
The customs officer ticked them off as they went aboard, and confirmed with the shipping agent that they were either bonded for reexport, having arrived from Germany or Britain, or they were locally bought and carried no export duty. The customs man did not even look inside the crates. He knew the agency well, dealing with them every day.
When all was aboard, the customs man stamped the ship’s cargo manifest. Waldenberg said something to Semmler in German, and the latter translated. He explained to the agency man that Waldenberg needed lubricating oil for his engines. It had been ordered in Genoa but had not been delivered in time.
The agency man noted in his book. “How much do you need?”
“Five drums,” said Semmler. Waldenberg did not understand the French.
“That’s a lot,” said the agent.
Semmler laughed. “This old bucket uses as much oil as diesel. Besides, we might as well get it here and have enough for a long time to come.”
“When do you need it?” asked the agent.
“Five o’clock this afternoon will be all right?” asked Semmler.
“Make it six,” said the agency man, noting the type and quantity in his notebook, along with the hour of delivery. He looked up at the customs man. The official nodded. He was uninterested and strolled away. Shortly after, the agency man left in his car, followed by the two trucks.
At five o’clock Semmler left the Toscana, went to a phone in a café on the waterfront, rang the agency, and canceled the oil order. The skipper, he said, had discovered a full barrel at the rear of the stores locker and would not be needing any more for several weeks. The agency man was disgruntled but agreed.
At six a truck drove carefully along the quay and stopped opposite the Toscana. It was driven by Jean-Baptiste Langarotti in a bright green overall suit with the word “Castrol” on the back.
After opening the back of the truck, he carefully rolled five large oil drums down the plank he had fitted to the rear step. From the window of the customs house the duty officer peered out.