THERE was a March gale blowing with the savagery of a Gaelic air-demon around the craggy granite rocks of the north-west coast. A nondescript individual in a non-committal blue jersey, heavy serge trousers and seaman’s boots, leant against the side of a granite outcrop and screwed up his face against the spray which the gale was throwing on to the shore where he stood. Just over four miles out the defiant, rocky coastline of a small island could be seen standing proudly above the storm lashed sea.
The man by the rock lifted his binoculars and studied the island with thoughtful absorption. His interest in the island, together with the sound of the gale, prevented his hearing a soft, cat-like footstep behind him. The man who stood immediately behind the observer was tall and gaunt, with a rather central-European cast of feature.
There was something about his appearance that was almost scrofulous, he might almost have been the spurious founder of the celebrated Disumbrationist school! The man with the binoculars lowered his glasses and half turned, as though to change his viewing angle, by walking a little further north along the storm lashed rocks of the coast. As he half-turned he caught a glimpse of the black-jerseyed, gaunt-faced stranger and the newcomer smiled, a wolfish smile, which revealed long, sinister teeth, more animal than human. Before the man with the field glasses could utter a sound or make a movement, the gaunt man jerked his hand towards the first man’s stomach. It was only as he withdrew it that a small, sharp, blood-stained steel blade became obvious. With a look of horrified disbelief, the man with the binoculars sank to his knees. The gaunt man caught him gently under the armpits and lowered him soundlessly to the rock. The wounded man was still alive, but only just. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. His lips moved; the man in the black sweater raised one eyebrow interrogatively, then shook his head sadly. The lips parted again, revealing the frighteningly animal fangs that served the assassin as teeth. He wiped the blade of his knife carefully, and purposefully, on the dying man’s jersey, then, without waiting to reassure himself that the last flickering vestige of life had left his victim, Vladimir Zakminsky took the erstwhile observer’s feet and dragged him unceremoniously to the water’s edge. The wave tops lashed at the rocks, six feet below, and the gale whipped the spray up above Zakminsky’s head, making the rocks slippery and dangerous beneath his feet. He slid the helpless form of his victim over the edge of the rock into the water. The splash was drowned by the howling of the gale and the roaring of the waves. Zakminsky watched the body sink, then, his lips still parted in that wolfish grin, he made his way north along the beach. His mind was working with a cool, clear precision as he walked. It was unfortunate that Zukhov had been interested in Zakminsky’s objective, a pity for Zukhov, reflected Vladimir! However, in this business, a man could not afford any sympathies at all. Rivals must be disposed of relentlessly. There must be no compunction, no heart searching, no looking back, a man had to be a machine—cold and ruled by logic, never by emotion.
Zakminsky breathed in the fresh, salt tang of the Atlantic as the March gale brought it to him over the edges of the rocks along which he walked. He took his own binoculars from a rucksack on his back, and paused for a few moments, studying the island which Zukhov had been regarding immediately prior to his death. Zakminsky had been a professional for a long time. He was a man who had worked for more than one Government. Often he worked for two or three at the same time. He was an agent and a double agent, a spy and a counter-spy. His only loyalty was to Vladimir Zakminsky. Even that was not strictly true, for ‘Vladimir Zakminsky’ was merely a name which he had selected during one of his earlier exploits. He felt, somehow that it suited him, and that inasmuch as a spy can afford to have an identifiable personality, it suited the personality—or, at least, the persona—which he had chosen for himself. His gaunt, haggard face looked out behind the binoculars, as he focused on the island, where Elcomp maintained its headquarters. There was no doubt in his mind that Zukhov had been after the Mark IX. Just for a fleeting instant he wondered whether it would have been better to have allowed Zukhov to sabotage the great computer Elcomp had just completed, rather than take the risk himself. Zukhov might not have been successful, and an unsuccessful attempt would have put the British security authorities powerfully on their guard … Not that they were any means lax at it was, reflected Zakminsky! The job was a highly priced one, but he was going to earn his money, every penny of it!
He was doing his observing with his back and flanks protected by a niche in the granite behind him. This, he told himself, was where experience counted. There was no such thing as a safe place, there was no such thing as a safe time. Men like Zukhov and himself had to be on their guard every second of their lives. Upon that guard their very lives depended.
Vladimir put his binoculars away and stepped forward from the granite niche. He made certain that he was unobserved, and then, with the stealth of a prowling cat, he made his way rapidly and sure-footedly over the damp rocks towards the place where the boat was hidden. Only the most desperate, or the most foolish of men would have set out in a sea like that which the March gale was lashing to insane fury along the rocky coast. Whatever Zakminsky’s faults and failings, he was not a fool. There had been times when he was a desperate man. His actions were now to some extent the actions of desperation, but there is a substantial difference between the calculated risk of the experienced professional and the foolhardy risk of the pathetic, ignorant amateur.
Zukhov’s killer pushed his clinker-built, heavily fendered dinghy from its place of concealment, and leapt after it. The first wave carried it broadside against the granite, but the plastic foam fenders saved it from any damage. Zakminsky smiled a little wildly into the wind. His yellow fangs seemed to gleam defiance. Those peculiar teeth of his gained him the nick-name of ‘The Wolf’ long ago. He was still grinning defiance to the wind when he succeeded in pushing the boat clear of the rock and starting the electric motor.
The motor was something of an innovation. It had been specially designed for jobs of this nature. Its battery would last twenty minutes at the most and it would not be rechargeable. It was an expensive item, but Zakminsky’s principals were prepared to pay his fee and whatever expenses he deemed necessary; they were prepared to pay without a quibble.
As Zakminsky lowered his head against the gale, he wished that he had charged them a little more. The boat was capable of fifteen knots, despite the small size of the motor and the lightness of the expendable battery. Waves broke over the bows of the little dinghy. Zakminsky ignored them, time enough to bale if the water reached a significant level, he thought. He was not a man who believed in expending energy unless it was absolutely imperative to the success of his mission. Zakminsky’s theory of the economy of time was that only the necessary should be done. He had covered slightly less than half the distance to the island when the formidable bows of a naval patrol boat, battleship grey, and heavily gunned, bore down towards him. Zakminsky, prepared for any eventuality, put his emergency plan into operation with swift, ruthless precision. Motor and battery went overboard, with a single, sweeping gesture of the release clamps. Zakminsky lifted an oar from the bottom of the boat and began paddling pathetically. More water continued to break in over the top, and the saboteur stood up and waved frantically to the naval patrol boat. In a matter of minutes it was alongside and a ladder was thrown down over a gunwale; Zakminsky seized the end of it and scrambled up towards the gunboat’s deck.
Despite his Central European origins, Zakminsky was a brilliant linguist. He could not only speak impeccable English, he could put on a Scottish accent so effectively that it sounded plausible and natural to the English sailors on board the gunboat.
“Hoots! I thoct I was lost the noo!” exclaimed Zakminsky with a tight-lipped smile, as the chief petty officer regarded him with dour suspicion.
“What were you doing out on a sea like that, anyway?” demanded the chief.
“Well, it was no like that when I set out! I’ve been drifting in ma wee boat for a long time.”
“Where are you from?” asked the chief.
Zakminsky named a remote fishing village a dozen miles up the coast. His knowledge of geography was as impeccable as his command of the language. The dour suspicion faded a little from the chief petty officer’s interrogative eyes.
“Better come below, and they’ll get you a hot meal and some tea or coffee.”
“That’s verra kind. How soon will it be possible for ye to drop me back on the mainland? I know ma family will be verra worried.”
At that moment a fortuitous wave swamped the dinghy and sank it. Zakminsky looked at the little wooden hull disappearing below the waves.
“Oh, ma boat, ma boat!” He put a hand to his forehead, as though in resignation to despair. “That’s ma livelihood gone! I should never have put out in it. I should have known better!”
“You certainly should!”
“We needed the fish, you understand!” said Zakminsky. “The season’s not been a guid one, ye ken.”
The chief petty officer nodded sympathetically.
“Yes, I heard it had been pretty bad.” He escorted Zakminsky to the galley where the gunboat’s cook provided him with bacon and beans and a pint mug of steaming coffee.
“Verra acceptable,” said the saboteur as he sipped the steaming coffee. “Now, aboot takin’ me home, sir? I dinna want to put ye oot o’ your way, but you understand ma anxiety to get back?”
“Yes; unfortunately it may not prove quite so easy to do that.”
“Oh, dear! What’s wrong?” asked Zakminsky, in mock alarm.
“You see, our Patrol schedule is pretty rigid. We’re actually on security work for Elcomp, on the island over there.”
“Well, what’s that?”
“The less you know about that the better,” answered the chief petty officer, with a broad smile. “However, there’s some top secret work going on over there, I can tell you, and, actually, much as we would like to run you straight back, in the first place it’s not going to be easy to put in with the sea running like this, certainly not with a craft this size. You might be able to get a lifeboat in, but——” he shrugged his shoulders, “you kno. . .
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