Dark Side of the Street

eyes, but he was desperately eager to please this strange, dark young man with the white face who was the one thing which had stood between him and ruin for almost two years.

'Not this time,' Vaughan said. 'But some people will be arriving within the next hour at the outside. Two men and a girl. They'll give you the usual password and they'll expect to be passed on.'

Bragg looked dubious. 'I'd like to oblige, but I'm not too sure I could make the trip with this foot of mine.'

'As I said before, that suits me fine. The foot gives you an excuse not to go. Make it seem even worse than it is. One of the men is a small boat expert anyway-an ex-petty officer in MTBs. He could probably sail the Pride of Man round the world if he had to.'

'You mean you actually want these people to go out on their own?'

'That's right. They'll ask you for a route and destination and you'll give it to them.' He smiled. 'They won't get there, of course, but there's no reason why they shouldn't travel hopefully for a while.'

'What about you?'

'As far as you're concerned I don't exist. I'm going down to the boat now to arrange things. I'll come back along the shore, just in case they turn up early.' He produced his wallet, took out five ten pound notes and dropped them on the table. 'Fifty now and fifty after they've gone-okay?'

Bragg scooped up the money and stuffed it into his hip pocket. 'Fine by me, Mr. Smith. I'll handle it just the way you said.'

'See that you do,' Vaughan said and the door closed behind him.

Bragg hobbled across to a cupboard by the sink, opened it and took out a bottle of whiskey. There was little more than an inch left in the bottle when he held it up to the light and he cursed softly. He swallowed what there was, tossed the bottle into a corner and sat down at the table to wait for what was to come.

Vaughan went down the stone steps and jumped for the desk of the Pride of Man, wet with rain in the sickly yellow light of the single lamp at the end of the jetty. There was no time to waste and he went straight below, peeling off his raincoat as he descended the companionway.

He opened a locker beneath one of the padded bench seats and took out an aqualung and several other pieces of skin-diving equipment which he laid on the centre table.

He knelt down and reached inside the now empty locker. There was a sudden click and the base of the cupboard lifted right out to disclose a secret compartment. There were several interesting items inside. A Sterling sub-machine gun, two automatic rifles, several grenades and half a dozen limpet mines in a straw filled box, each about the size of a dinner plate.

They were harmless until activated, but it was only the work of a minute or so to prime the fuse on one of them. He checked his watch, saw that it was just coming up to ten o'clock and turned the time switch through four complete revolutions. He stripped to his underpants quickly, pulled on the aqualung and went on deck.

He lowered himself over the side, clutching the mine to his chest with one hand, paused to adjust the flow of air from his aqualung and sank beneath the surface.

The water was bitterly cold, but there was no time to worry about that and he worked his way along to the stern of the boat. At that depth there was enough diffused light from the lamp on the jetty to enable him to see what he was doing and he chose a spot close to the propeller, the limpet mine's powerful electromagnets fastening instantly to the steel hull. He smiled through the visor of his mask and surfaced, well satisfied.

As he crossed the deck to the companionway, a van turned into the yard and halted by the house. As he watched, the lights and engine were switched off and he went down to the saloon quickly.

He replaced the skin-diving equipment in the locker, dressed hurriedly and went back on deck, pulling on his raincoat. As he paused in the shadows, he heard low voices at the end of the jetty as someone approached and went along the lower boardwalk quickly, jumped down to the beach and hurried into the darkness.

It was quiet and still when Chavasse cut the Ford's engine and they sat there in the darkness of the boatyard, rain drumming on the roof of the van.

'Well, this is it. The end of the line with any kind of luck.'

'It looks like the last place God made,' Youngblood said and then the front door opened suddenly beside the lighted window and Bragg appeared, leaning on his crutch.

'Who's out there?'

Chavasse and Youngblood moved forward, Molly a pace or two behind and they halted in a little group at the bottom of the step.

'We're trying to get to Babylon,' Chavasse said. 'We heard you might be able to help.'

Bragg stared at them for a long moment, a frown on his face and then he nodded slowly. 'You'd better come in.'

He made hard weather of his passage across to the table and sank into his chair with an audible sigh of relief. He wiped sweat from his face with a soiled handkerchief and looked them over curiously.

'I wasn't expecting anyone. They usually give a week's notice.'

'We're something special,' Chavasse said. 'There wasn't time to let you know.'

'Well, I'm not sure.' Bragg sounded dubious. 'The boat's ready to go-always is, but I broke two bones in my foot the other day. Takes me all my time to get to the door and back, never mind make the run to Longue Pierre.'

'Longue Pierre?' Chavasse said. 'And where would that be?'

'About twelve miles southwest of Alderney in the Channel Islands,' Youngblood broke in and grinned as Chavasse turned to him in surprise. 'You're forgetting, boy. The Channel was my stamping ground during the war and after it. I know it like the back of my hand.'

'He's right,' Bragg said. 'It ain't much of a place. About a mile across with cliffs three or four hundred feet high on one side. There's only one possible anchorage. That's on the south side of the island. There's an old jetty and not much else.'

'Who lives there?'

'Don't ask me, mister. I do what I'm paid to do which is run people across, leave 'em on the jetty and come right back again. There's a house. I know that 'cos I've seen it from the sea, but not much else.'

'Who pays you?'

'A fella called Smith. Drops in maybe once in every two or three months, but usually, he just gives me a ring on the phone.' He shook his head and looked worried. 'Funny I haven't heard from him about you people.'

'You will,' Youngblood said. 'And you'll get paid, I promise you. What kind of boat is it?'

'A motor cruiser-the Pride of Man. Thirty footer built by Akerboon. Twin screw, steel hull.'

Youngblood whistled. 'That's some boat. How is she powered?'

'Penta petrol engine. She'll do about twenty-two knots at full stretch, but not tonight. The weather's not too good.'

'What's the report?'

'Wind force three to four with rain squalls and fog in the morning.'

'A cake-walk.'

'Think you can handle her?' Chavasse asked.

'Handle her? I could sail her across the Atlantic if I had to.'

'You'd have a job, mister,' Bragg put in. 'Her range is only six hundred including the reserve tank.'

Youngblood grinned. 'Enough and to spare forpassage to the islands. Your troubles are over. You can stay home and watch your foot.'

'I don't know,' Bragg shook his head. 'It's Mr. Smith's boat, not mine.'

Youngblood sized him up quickly, taking in the stale whiskey breath, the watery eyes. He pulled out Crowther's wallet, selected a five pound note and dropped it on the table.

'I noticed a nice little pub up the street as we came in. I bet you could drag that leg of yours up there if you really tried.'

Bragg looked down at the note hesitatingly, then sighed and stuffed it into his pocket. 'I only hope I'm doing the right thing.' He opened a drawer and produced a copy of the Channel Pilot. 'You'd better have this. Three lights on your way out. Keep 'em in line and you can't go wrong.'

Youngblood picked up the book and turned to Chavasse, his face alive with a new kind of light. 'What are we