Hassan did not go back to Cairo, then or ever. Exultation fdled him as his plane took off from Palermo. It had been close, but he had outwitted Rostov againl He could hardly believe it when Rostov had said, 'Get out Of MY sight.' He had felt sure he would be forced to board the Karla and consequently miss the hijack of the Fedayeen. But Rostov completely believed that Hassan was merely over-enthusiastio, impulsive, and inexperienced. It had never occurred to him that Hassan might be a traitor. But then, why should it? Hassan was the representative of Egyptian Intelligence on the team and he was an Arab. If Rostov had toyed with suspicions about his loyalty, he might have considered whether he was working for the Israelis, for they were the opposition-the Palestinians, if they entered the picture at all, could be assumed to be on the Arab side. It was wonderful. Clever, arrogant, patronizing Colonel Rostov and the might of the notorious KGB had been fooled by a lousy Palestinian refugee, a man they thought was a nobody. But it was not over yet. He still had to join forces with the Fdayeen. The flight from Palermo took him to Rome, where he tried to get a plane to Annaba or Constantine, both near the Algerian coast. The nearest the airlines could offer was Algiers or Tunis. He went to Tunis. There he found a young taxi driver with a newish Renault and thrust in front of the man's face more money in American dollars than he normally earned in a year. The taxi took him across the hundred-mile breadth of Tunisia, over the border into Algeria, and dropped him off at a fishing village with a small natural harbor. One of the Fedayeen was waiting for him. Hassan found him on the beach, sitting under a propped-up dinghy, sheltering from the rain and playing backgammon with a fisherman. The three men got into the fisherman's boat and cast off. The sea was rough as they headed out in the last of the day. Hassan, no seaman, worried that the little motorboat would capsize, but the fisherman grinned cheerfully through it all. The trip took them less than a half hour. As they approached the looming hulk of the ship, Hassan felt again the rising sense of triumph. A ship ... they had a ship. He clambered up on to the deck while the man who had met him paid off the fisherman. Mahmoud was waiting for him on deck. They embraced, and Hassan said, 'We should weigh anchor immediately-things are moving very fast now. 'Come to the bridge with me.' Hassan followed Mahmoud forward. The ship was a small coaster of about one thousand tons, quite new and in good condition. She was sleek, with most of her accommodations below deck. There was a hatch for one hold. She had been designed to carry small loads quickly and to maneuver in local North African ports. They stood on the foredeck for a moment, looking about. 'She's just what we iieed,' Hassan said joyfully. 'I have renamed her the Nablus,' Mahmoud told him. 'She is the first ship of the Palestine Navy.' Hamm felt tears start to his eyes. They climbed the ladder. Mahmoud said, 'I got her from a Libyan businessman who wanted to save his soul.' The bridge was compact and tidy. There was only one serious lack: radar. Many of these small coastal vessels still managed without it, and there had been no time to buy the equipment and fit it. Mahmoud introduced the captain, also a Libyan---the businessman had provided a crew as well as a ship, none of the Fedayeen were sailors. The captain gave orders to weigh anchor and start engines. The three men bent over a chart as Hassan told what he had learned in Sicily. 'The Stromberg left the south coast of Sicily at midday today. The Coparelli was due to pass through the Strait of Gibraltar late last night, heading for Genoa. They are sister ships, with the same top speed, so the earliest they can meet is twelve hours east of the midpoint between Sicily and Gibraltar.' The captain made some calculations and looked at another charL 'Ibey will meet southeast of the island of Minorca.' 'We should intercept the Coparelli no less than eight hom earlier.' The captain ran his finger back along the trade route. 'That would put her just south of the island of Ibiza at dusk tomorrow. 'Can we make-it?' 'Yes, with a little time to spare, unless there is a storm.' 'Will there be a storm?' 'Sometime in the next few days, yes. But not tomorrow, I think.' 'Good. Where is the radio operatorr 'Here. This is Yaacov.' Hassan turned to see a small, smiling man with tobaccostained teeth and told him, 'There is a Russian aboard the Coparellf, a man called Tyrin, who will be sending signals to a Polish ship, the Karl& You must listen on this wavelength.' He wrote it down. 'Also, there is a radio beacon on the Stromberg that sends a simple thirty-second tone every half hour. If we listen for that every time we will be sure the Stromberg is not outrunning us.' The captain was giving a course. Down on the deck the first officer had the hands making ready. Mahmoud was speaking to one of the Fedayeen about an arms inspection. The radio operator began to question Hassan about the Stromberes beacon. Hassan was not really listenin& He was thinking: Whatever happens, it will be glorious. The ship's engines roared, the deck tilted, the prow broke water and they were on their way.
Dieter Koch, the new engineer officer of the Caparelli, lay In his bunk in the middle of the night thinking: but what do I say if somebody sees me? What he had to do now was simple. He had to get up, go to the aft engineering store, take out the spare oil pump and got rid of it. It was almost certain he could do this without being seen, for his cabin was close to the store, most of the crew were asleep, and those that were awake were on the bridge and in the engine room and likely to stay there. But 'almost certain' was not enough in an operation of this importance. If anyone should suspect, now or later, what he was really up to ... He put on a sweater, trousers, sea boots and an oilskin. The thing had to be done, and it had to be done now. He pocketed the key to the store, opened his cabin door and went out. As he made his way along the gangway he thought: I'll say I couldn't sleep so I'm checking the stores. He unlocked the door to the store, turned on the light, went in and closed it behind him. Engineering spares were racked and shelved all around him-gaskets, valves, plugs, cable, bolts, filters . . . given a cylinder block, you could build a whole engine out of these parts. He found the spare oil pump in a box on a high shelf. He lifted it down-it was not bulky but it was heavy-and then spent five minutes double-checking that there was not a seoond spare oil pump. Now for the difficult part. I couldn't sleep, sir, so I was checking the spares. Very good, everything in order? Yes, sir. And what's that you've got under your arm? A bottle of whiskey, sir. A cake my mother sent me, The spare oil pump, sir, I'm going to throw it overboard ... He opened the storeroom door and looked out. Nobody. He killed the light, went out, closed the door behind him and locked it. He walked along the gangway and out on deck. Nobody. It was still raining. He could see only a few yards, which was good, because it meant others could see only that far. He crossed the deck to the gunwale, leaned over the rail, dropped the oil pump into the sea, turned, and bumped into someone. A cake my mother sent me, it was so dry ... 'Who's that?' a voice said in accented English. 'Engineer. You?' As Koch spoke, the other man turned so that his profile was visible in the deck light, and Koch recognized the rotund figure and big-nosed face of the radio operator. 'I couldn't sleep,' the radio operator said. 'I wasget ting some air.' He's as embarrassed as I am, Koch thought. I wonder why? 'Lousy night,' Koch said. 'Im going in.' 'Goodnight.' Koch went inside and made his way to his cabin. Strange fellow, that radio operator. He was not one of the regular crew. He had been taken on in Cardiff after the original radioman broke his leg. Like Koch, he was something of an outsider here. A good thing he bad bumped into him rather than one of the others. Inside his cabin he took off his wet outer clothes and lay on his bunk. He knew he would not sleep. His plan for tomorrow was all worked out, there was no point in going over it again, so he tried to think of other things: of his mother, who made the best potato kugel in the world; of his fiance, who gave the best head in the world; of his mad father now in an institution in Tel Aviv; of the magnificent tapedeck he would buy with his back pay after his assignment; of his fine apartment in Haifa; of the children he would have, and how they would grow up in an Israel safe from war. . He got up two hours later. He went aft to the galley for some coffee. The cook's apprentice was there, standing in a couple of inches of water, frying bacon for the crew. 'Lousy weather,' Koch said. 'It will get worse.' Koch drank his coffee, then refilled the mug and a second one and took - them up to the bridge. The first officer was there. 'Good morning,' Koch said. 'Not really,' said the first officer, looking out into a curtain of rain. 'Coffee?' 'Good of you. Thank you.' Koch handed him the mug. 'Where are we?' 'Here.' The officer showed him their position on a charL 'Dead on schedule, in spite of the weather.' Koch nodded. That meant be had to stop the ship in fifteen minutes. 'See you later,' he said. He left the bridge and went below to the engine room. His number two was there, looking quite fresh, as if he had taken a good long nap during his nighfs duty. 'Hows the oil pressureT'Koch asked him. 'Steady.'
'It was going up and down a bit yesterday.' 'Well, there was no sign of trouble in the night,' the number two said. He was a little too firm about it, as if he was afraid of being accused of sleeping while the gauge oscillated. 'Good,' Koch said. 'Perhaps it's repaired itself.' He put his mug down on a level cowling, then picked it up quickly as the ship rolled. 'Wake Larsen on your way to bed.' 'Right.' 'Sleep well.' The number two left, and Koch drank down his coffee and went to work. The oil pressure gauge was located in a bank of dials aft of the engine.'Tbe dials were set into a thin metal casing, painted matt black and secured by four self-tapping screws. Using a large screwdriver, Koch removed the four screws and pulled the casing away. Behind it was a mass of many. colored wires leading to the different gauges. Koch swapped his large screwdriver for a small electrical one with an insulated handle. With a few turns be disconnected one of the wires to the oil pressure gauge. He wrapped a couple of inches of insulating tape around the bare end of the wire, thm taped it to the back of the dial so that only a close inspection would reveal it was not connected to the terminal. Then he replaced the casing and secured it with the four Screws. Wben Larsen came in be was topping up the transmission fluid. 'Can I do that, sir?' Larsen said. He
