feet. He wore a waterproof windcheater, thick seaman's trousers tucked inside rubber boots and over this gear a dark green oilskin. His suitcase was protected with another oilskin lashed round it with rope.
'You will need luck to make contact a second time,' Gomez commented.
'The crew are all below decks?' enquired Anton.
'As arranged – except for a lookout who can be trusted.' In the dark he smiled. 'He has been paid to be trusted… Look. Over there.'
Anton had already seen the light flashing its return signal from the shore. He checked the number of flashes, then sent a brief final signal, acknowledging, and rammed the flashlight inside a pocket of the oilskin.
'Now we have to wait. But not for long, I suspect…'
He was right. As the freighter rocked slowly under the surge of the sea the sound of an engine approaching reached his acute hearing. The night was moonless but soon both could see the white wake of the small boat. Anton reached down and hauled up with both hands the heavy weight of the canvas bundle. Gomez picked up the suitcase with one hand; with the other he raised a pair of night glasses to his eyes, leaning against the rail as he scanned the shoreline. They were two miles out. To the east he picked out the lights of Porlock Weir. He lowered the glasses.
'Be very careful when you go down the gangway. The steps will be slippery. You are carrying a heavy weight.'
'I'll be all right. And when I've left you're turning round and sailing out to sea, ready to come back tomorrow?'
'Do not worry. No one will know we arrived off England earlier.'
The small grey-coloured motorboat, powered by an outboard at its stern, was close. Gomez could make out the figure of the solitary man aboard. As before, he wore a Balaclava helmet under a dark green oilskin. He cut the power, the boat glided forward, bumped against the platform. Balaclava hurled up a mooring rope. Gomez caught it with his free hand, the glasses looped round his neck, made the rope fast to the rail.
Anton stood on the top platform, slowly went down, step by step. He rested the bundle on the rails on either side, letting them take the weight, sliding it down. The moored boat ground up against the Oporto 's hull, made a grating sound. Anton was half-way down when the sea lifted the freighter, then dropped it. Anton lost his grip, the bundle tumbled down the remaining steps, landed on the lower platform. He swore in Greek, grabbing the rails to recover his balance.
Balaclava leant forward, took hold of the cargo, heaved it up and lowered it quickly inside the boat. Anton stepped off the platform and joined him. Gomez called down, dropped the mooring rope he had untied and Balaclava hauled it in. dripping, looped round the handle of Anton's suitcase.
Anton sat down as his companion started up the outboard, grabbed the tiller and guided the boat away from the Oporto. He was just in time. A large wave lifted the boat, would have hurled it against the freighter, but Balaclava had steered the boat round. He headed for the distant shore.
The motorboat was coming in close to the rock-strewn coast. Behind it cliffs loomed, hiding them from the mainland. Anton was careful not to stare at the eyes which looked out through the slit in the Balaclava helmet.
He had no idea of the identity of his companion. When he had landed on his previous trip to Exmoor the same man had met him, wearing the same gear. Because of the loose flapping oilskin he wore it was impossible for Anton to guess Balaclava's height, build or age. Only the voice was distinctive. Upper-crust, clipped. On the rare occasions when he spoke.
As they approached the shore, the boat pitching and tossing, the engine was cut out. Balaclava crouched over the tiller, peering ahead, steering the craft towards a slope. There was a grinding sound as the keel rode up over rocks and pebbles, stopped.
'Take the weapons, put them in the vehicle.'
Anton heaved up the bundle, stepped out of the boat and staggered to the canvas-covered four-wheel-drive vehicle parked close to the shoreline. He used his shoulder to ease up the flap at the rear, hoisted the bundle higher, lowered it inside on top of a pile of coiled ropes. The wind whipped at his oilskin, blew it round his legs as he let the flap drop and went back for his case.
Balaclava had taken an axe attached to the side and began hammering at the deck. The axe was heavy, its blade honed like a razor. As he worked chips of wood flew up and he protected his eyes by holding one arm across them. He paused as Anton lifted out his case, turned to him.
'The sea goes down a hundred feet here. We have to lose this boat. Don't stand there watching me – keep an eye out along the shore.'
The axe began to sweep down again in thudding arcs. Inside a few minutes the boat was holed. Balaclava went on working, enlarging the gaping cavity. He was only satisfied when the hole was a foot wide, then he hurled the axe into the waves and returned to the vehicle. Climbing into the rear, he shifted the Stingers and covered them with the mass of rope. Jumping back on to the shore he gestured Anton to join him.
'We want to heave the boat over the edge. Give me a hand…'
They stood near the bow on either side and pushed with all their strength. The boat slid slowiy backwards, the outboard poised over the edge. They straightened up, stretching their strained arms, took hold of the boat again. One more prolonged heave and the boat was floating. It filled rapidly with water, drifting just offshore. Then it went down stern first. The bow hovered above the surface, disappeared.
Balaclava strode towards the vehicle, climbed in behind the wheel and Anton sat beside him. They drove off without lights, heading away from the sea, bumping and jostling over the rough terrain.
The driver switched on his lights as they reached the track past the cottages. He never gave a glance at the darkened dwelling where Mrs Larcombe had talked with Tweed. He drove on along the road at higher speed, passing The Anchor Hotel, continuing towards Porlock.
Reaching the toll road, he swung the vehicle up the steep curving slope. At the top he turned right again along the coast road. Beyond Culbone he turned left off the main road down on to the winding country lane which eventually led to the Doone Valley. For the first time he broke his long silence.
'Here is the key to the small house where you spend the night. It is unoccupied. And here is a pencil flashlight so you can find your way round it. The electricity is cut off. You will find canned meat, a tin opener, a loaf of bread, butter, knife, two bottles of mineral water inside a brown paper parcel in a downstairs room. Also a sleeping bag. The place is unfurnished. We'll park the vehicle in a garage alongside. But take the weapons into the house. Sleep with them by your side. And here is a sheathed knife for protection – to be used only in an emergency.'
Anton took the weapon. 'This is a commando knife,' he commented. 'I brought a couple with me…'
'Listen!' Balaclava was concentrating on negotiating the road which dropped as it twisted between high hedges. 'Keep that knife. Now, in the morning you take the weapons to Cherry Farm. You remember how to get there from the drive we took last time?'
'Yes. It's near Liphook in Hampshire.'
Balaclava stopped the vehicle at a bend where he could see in both directions, pulled an ordnance survey map from the door's pocket. 'Use the flashlight and show me the location of Cherry Farm. Your route is marked part of the way in pen – driving along side roads. That way you should avoid all police patrol cars.'
Anton unfolded the map, studied it with the aid of the light. He pointed to an area. 'The track to it turns off about here.'
'Good. Keep the map. Burn it when you get there. And you've plenty to keep you occupied when you do get there. You will find you have company. You give him the password – Sandpiper.'
'What does he say in return?' Anton asked.
'Nothing.' Balaclava chuckled, a hard cynical sound. 'You'll recognize him. Tomorrow morning you drive this contraption to Taunton.' He hauled a slim folder from the same pocket. 'I've marked on this with a light pencil cross the car park where you leave this vehicle about ten in the morning. You park at the very back where there's a thick hedge. Hide the cargo under that hedge while you're away hiring a car from Barton's-they are marked with a pencilled circle. And here is a driving licence in the name of Partridge for hiring the car. Drive it to the car park. Collect the cargo. Then head for Cherry Farm. You leave this vehicle in the car park and you must be on your way by eleven o'clock. I will have the vehicle collected. Understood.'
'Let me check this.' Anton was studying the street plan of Taunton with the aid of the flashlight. He found the cross and the circle. 'All clear. But why can't I drive straight on to Cherry Farm now? Or am I dropping you somewhere?'
