The navigation officer, like so many of his Royal Navy counterparts, was known affectionately as Vasco. In the red glow of the submarine's control room he now quietly leaned over and touched the captain's arm. "Coming up to RV, sir."
Lieutenant Commander Andrew Taylor nodded in acknowledgement. "Stop all. Planes midships."
"All stopped," came back from the watchkeeper.
"Planes midship," answered the senior of the pair of planesmen, who sat strapped into their seats, like pilots, in front of depth and turn indicators, their hands on the yokes which operated the hydroplanes that controlled the submarine's depth.
"Sonar?" the captain asked quietly.
"Distant activity around Bornholm Island, usual heavy stuff in and out of Rostock, two targets that sound like small patrol boats distant, up the coast at around fifty miles, bearing Zero-Two-Zero. No submarine signatures."
Taylor raised an eyebrow. He was not a happy man. For one thing, he did not like operating his Trafalgar-class nuclear submarine in forbidden waters. For another, he did not like "funnies."
He only knew they were called funnies because he had read it in a novel. In other jargon he would have called them spooks, or maybe simply spies. Whatever they were, he did not like having them aboard, even though the leader held a Naval rank.
During wargames, Taylor had performed facsimile covert ops, but the real thing, and in peacetime, stuck in his throat.
To begin with, when the funnies had come aboard, he thought the Naval rank was simply part of a cover, but within a few hours he realized that Swordfish, as their leader was cryptonymed, knew a great deal about the sea --- as did his two companions.
That fact did not reduce Taylor's annoyance. It was all too cloak-and-dagger for his liking. It was also far from easy work. The orders had been explicit and precise:
You will afford Swordfish and his companions every assistance. You will run silent and submerged, making all possible speed, to the following RV.
This was a latitude and longitude that, after a quick glance at the charts, confirmed Taylor's worst fears --- a point some fifty miles along the small strip of East German coast, sandwiched between West Germany and Poland, and around five miles offshore.
At the RV, you will stand by, remaining submerged, under the direct orders of Swordfish. On no account will you disclose your presence to any other shipping, especially DDR or Soviet naval units that operate out of nearby ports. On reaching the RV, it is probable that Swordfish will wish to leave the boat, together with the two officers accompanying him. They will use the inflatable they have brought with them, and after their departure you will submerge to periscope depth and await their return. Should they not return after three hours, you will make your way back to base, still running silent and submerged. If Swordfish's mission is successful he will probably return with two extra people. You will afford them every possible comfort, returning to base as instructed above. Note, this operation is covered by the Official Secrets Act. You will impress upon all members of your crew that they will not talk about the operation --- either among themselves, or to others. An Admiralty team will debrief you, personally, upon your return.
Damn Swordfish! Taylor thought. The submarine's destination was not the easiest place to reach undetected: under the North Sea, up the Skagerrak, down the Kattegat, skirting the Danish and Swedish coasts, through the narrow straits --- always a tricky navigational exercise --- and out into the Baltic for a final fifty-odd miles. Then inland into waters that undeniably belonged to the DDR --- East Germany --- crawling with Eastern Bloc shipping, not to mention Russian submarines from bases at Rostok and Stralsund.
"Periscope depth," Taylor muttered the order, observing the quiet atmosphere of the silent-running mode of the boat.
The planesmen caressed their aircraftlike yokes, bringing the submarine up slowly from its 250 feet below the surface, then gently eased off.
"Periscope depth, sir."
"Up periscope."
The tubular structure hissed upward, and Taylor slammed the handles down, flicking on the night-vision switch and doing one complete circuit of three hundred sixty degrees. He could just pick up the coastline --- bleak and flat. Nothing else. No lights or ships. Not even a fishing boat.
"Down periscope."
He knocked the handles up, took two steps across the control room to the radio array, and picked up the internal broadcast microphone, switching it on with his thumb and speaking in almost a whisper: "Swordfish to the control room, please."
Up in the fore-ends, surrounded by red-marked safety equipment, just behind a bank of torpedo tubes in the only space available for passengers, Swordfish and his two companions heard the captain's voice as they lay on makeshift bunks, four feet above the deck.
Already, having had plenty of warning prior to the approach to the RV, they were kitted out in black rubber diving suits, each with waterproof holsters attached to his belt, while the cumbersome folded inflatable had been unstowed and now lay within reach.
Swordfish swung his feet onto the metal deck and, without undue haste, made his way abaft to the control room.
Only those inside that magic, confined, inner circle of specialists that is the global intelligence community would have recognized Swordfish as Commander John Bannon. His companions were members of the elite Naval Special Boat Squadron --- officers known for their discretion and often used by the Service to which Bannon owed his allegiance.
Taylor looked up as Bannon stooped to enter the control room. "We've got you here on time." His manner showed no particular deference, merely a taut professionalism.
Bannon nodded. "Good. In fact, we're about an hour early, which gives us a little leeway." He glanced at the stainless steel Rolex on his left wrist. "Can you let us go in about twenty minutes?"
"Yes. How long will it take you?"
"I presume you'll surface only partially, so just enough time to get the inflatable blown and paddle out of your downdraught. Ten, fifteen minutes?"
"And we use only the radio signals as instructed?"
"Three Deltas from you for danger. Two Bravos from us when we need you to resurface and take us aboard again. We'll use the exit hatch for'ard of the sail, as arranged. No problem there, I trust?"
"It'll be slippery on the casing, particularly on return. I'll have a couple of ratings out to assist."
"And a rope. A ladder for preference. As far as I know, our guests haven't had any experience boarding submarines at night."
"Whenever you're ready."
"Right, we'll get shipshape, then." Bannon turned and made his way back toward the pair of Special Boat Squadron officers --- Captain Joe Andrews, Royal Marines, and Lieutenant Dave Preedy, Royal Marines.
Quickly, they went over the drill again. They lugged the inflatable paddles and the small lightweight engine back toward the metal ladder that would take them to the forward hatch, and from there to the casing and the cold wetness of the Baltic.
Two ratings in oilskins already waited for them, and the entire party stood at the foot of the ladder --- one of the ratings ready to scramble up as soon as the order came.
In the control room, Taylor had taken another quick look around through the periscope and, as it was lowered, gave the order to surface to casing and black light. As the second command was obeyed, the interior of the boat became completely dark but for the glow of instruments in the control room, and the occasional flicker of a heavily shielded red torch. One such was carried by the rating at the foot of the ladder. He began to move quickly up the rungs until the soft voice came from the communications speakers: "Casing surfaced!"
There was a slight clang as the man turned the wheel unlocking the forward hatch; then fresh air poured in, like cold water, from the small open circle above them.
Dave Preedy was first up the ladder, assisted by the dimmed red glow of the torch held by the rating below. Joe Andrews --- partway up the ladder --- took one end of the inflatable from Bannon, hauling it up to Preedy, and together the two men heaved the bulky thick rubber lozenge up onto the casing.
Bannon followed them, the rating below him passing up the paddles and the heavily classified lightweight engine. Easy to handle, with small propeller blades, the IPI, as the engine is known, can run effectively, with little noise, on a fuel supply contained in a self-sealing tank that is a standard part of the rear section of the inflatable.
Finally Bannon ran the air tube up to Preedy and, by the time he reached the dark slippery metal of the casing, the inflatable had become its true self --- a long, slim, low cutter, complete with bucket seats and hand grabs.
Bannon checked that the two-way radio was firmly attached to his wetsuit and balanced himself on the casing while the two SBS men launched the inflatable, the rating holding a line from the shallow rounded bow until the paddles and IPI were transferred. Bannon then slid from the casing, taking his place in the stern. The rating let go of the line for'ard, and the inflatable was jerked away from the submarine.
They allowed the little craft to drift clear while Bannon took a quick compass reading. Then he set the luminous compass --- still attached to a lanyard around his neck --- onto the plastic well in front of him and, using his paddle as rudder, gave the order to make way.
They paddled with long steady strokes, fighting the choppy sea but moving the little boat with speed through the inky blackness. After two minutes, Bannon checked their course and, as he did so, heard the hiss of water as the submarine submerged again.
Around them the night merged with the sea, and it took almost half an hour of strong paddling, combined with a constant checking of the compass, before they could distinguish the coastline of the DDR. It was going to be a long pull to the shore, but if all went well they would use the engine for a quick sprint back to the sub's position.
An hour and a quarter later they were within striking distance of the coast, right on course, for Bannon could see the inlet, free of rocks with a tiny spit of sand, light against the surrounding darkness. They allowed the craft to drift in, alert and ready, for they were now at their most vulnerable.
Andrews, in the bow, raised his unshaded torch and flashed two fast Morse Code Vs toward the small stretch of sand. The answer was returned immediately, four long flashes.
"They're here," Bannon muttered.
"I only hope they're on their bloody own," grumbled Preedy, and they allowed the inflatable to drift inland, grinding onto the beach --- Andrews leaping into the water and holding the bow rope to steady the craft as two dark shapes came running to the foaming water's edge.
"Meine Ruh' ist hin." Bannon felt a shade stupid quoting Goethe --- a poet of whom he had little knowledge --- in the middle of the night on a deserted East German beach: My peace is gone.
"Mein Herz ist schwer." The answer came back from one of the figures on the beach, completing the couplet: My heart is heavy.
There was something familiar about the surprisingly feminine voice, but this was not the time to dwell on it. The three men helped the pair on board and had them quickly seated amidships, while Andrews hauled on the for'ard rope to bring the inflatable around as Bannon set the reciprocal course on the compass. Within seconds they were paddling out again. In thirty minutes they would start the engine and give the first signal to the waiting submarine.
Back in the control room of the sub, the sonar operator had been monitoring their progress via a small short-distance signaling device installed in the inflatable. At the same time he swept the surrounding area, while his partner did the same on a wider scale.
"Looks as though they're coming back, sir," the senior sonar operator muttered.
"Let me know when they start their engine." Taylor had no idea what the funny business was about, and he really did not want to know. All he hoped for was the safe return of his passengers --- and whomever they brought with them --- followed by an even safer, undetected run home to base.
"Aye aye, sir, I think... Oh, Christ..." The sonar operator stopped short as the signal came loud into his headphones and the blip appeared on his screen. "They've got company." His voice resumed its professional tone. "Bearing Zero-Seven-Four. He's coming from behind the headland on their starboard side. Fast and light, I think it's a Pchela."
Taylor swore aloud, something he rarely did in front of his crew. A Pchela was a Russian-made patrol hydrofoil, and though now elderly, carrying two pairs of 13mm machine guns and the old Pot Drum search radar, these craft were formidable in both inshore and choppy seas --- fast, and using a shallow depth foil.
"It's a Pchela signature, sir, and he's locked on to them, closing rapidly," from the sonar operator.
In the inflatable they heard the heavy thrum of the patrol boat's engines almost as they left the shore, pulling away with their paddles.
"Use the engine? Make a run for it?" Andrews shouted the questions back at Bannon.
"Never make it." Bannon knew what had to be done, and didn't like to contemplate the consequences.
He was spared making any decision by Andrews, who leaned back and shouted, "Let him come abreast and be ready for the bang. Don't wait up for me. I'll make my way back overland providing the limpet doesn't get me!" He was quickly over the side, disappearing into the sea before Bannon could say anything.
Bannon knew that Andrews carried two small limpet charges that, if placed properly, would blow holes directly into the fuel tanks of the hydrofoil. He also knew they would probably blow the SBS man to pieces as well.
At that moment the searchlight hit them, and the patrol craft appeared to bleed off speed, settling on her bows, off the long foils --- a ski-like structure --- that ran under her hull.
The strong pool of light hit the inflatable, dazzling them, and a voice came loud over the closing gap of water, carried by a loudhailer and speaking in German --- "Halt! Halt! We are taking you on board so that you can state your business. This is a military order. If you do not stop we will open fire on you. Heave to!"
"Raise your arms above your heads," Bannon commanded. "Show yourselves to be unarmed, and do as you're told. There will be an explosion. When it happens drop your heads between your knees..."
"And kiss your arse goodbye," Preedy muttered.
"... and cover your heads with your arms."
The patrol boat was low in the water now, engines at idle as she drifted in toward the inflatable, the searchlight unwavering.
The gap closed to almost fifty yards before Andrews' mines did their work.
The bows of the patrol boat suddenly disappeared in a blinding white flame turning to crimson. The explosion came a second after the flash --- a great ripping CRUMP, followed by a deeper roar.
Bannon, who had ducked his head at the first flash, now raised it to see that Andrews had set the mines in perfect position. He would, Bannon thought. Any good SBS man would have known the exact position for maximum effect on all Russian or Eastern Bloc craft, but this had been exceptionally well done. The boat had already tipped back by the stern. Fire ran its entire length, and the bows with their distinctive foils rose well out of the water as down she went --- all in less than a minute.
The inflatable had been affected by the blast, blown sideways to skid over the water and spin like a child's top. Bannon reached down for the lightweight engine, which they had already attached to its fuel line. He lifted it over the stern, pressing the ignition button. The little IPI buzzed into life, the propeller blades whirling. Holding its grab handle, Bannon pushed the engine down into the water, then leaned back and manipulated the machine so that it acted as propellant and rudder alike.
The whole area was now illuminated by the flames from the doomed patrol boat. Half a dozen queries went through Bannon's mind --- had the patrol already alerted other vessels along this closely guarded stretch of coast? Was the inflatable even now locked on to a land-based radar system, or another fast craft? Had Joe Andrews got clear after setting the limpets? Doubtful. Would their submarine have gone deep, preparing to crawl out to avoid detection? That was certainly a possibility, for a nuclear sub was more precious to its captain than Operation Swordfish.
He though on these things as Preedy shouted back corrections, using his own compass to guide them. "Starboard two points. Port a point. No. Port. Keep turning port. Midships. Hold it there..."
Bannon struggled to control the inflatable's progress by heaving on the engine. It took all his strength to keep the little craft moving on course, amid constant demands from Preedy to alter to port, then starboard, as they bounced heavily on the water, crashing down, then up again, with the stern low and bows lifting.
He felt spray and wind in his face, and in the final dying light of the patrol boat's last seconds he saw their two passengers, hunched together, huddling in anoraks and tight woolen caps. He could tell by the set of the shoulders that one was terrified. The other one looked back at him.
Their eyes locked for a moment, and now Bannon recognized the face. He hadn't expected to see her; for security reasons they hadn't told him whom he was meeting. Then the passenger was crawling back toward him and he yielded control of the engine, glad of stronger arms than his own.
As suddenly as the hydrofoil had ignited and lit the deep black waters, the darkness descended again.
"Half a mile. Cut the engine!" Preedy shouted from the bow.
Now they would know. Any minute they would discover if their mother ship had deserted them or not.
Down in the submarine's control room, Lieutenant Commander Taylor had witnessed the death of the hydrofoil. He wondered if Swordfish and his companions had perished in the explosion, and decided to give them four minutes. If sonar did not pick them up by then, he had to go deep and silent, preparing to edge his way out of the forbidden waters.
Three minutes and ten seconds later, sonar said he had them. "Heading back, sir. Going fast. Using their engine."
"Prepare to surface low. Receiving party to for'ard hatch."
The order was acknowledged. Then, "Half a mile, sir," from the sonar operator.
Taylor wondered at his own folly. All his instincts told him to get out while they remained undetected. Damn Swordfish, he thought.
The radio operator heard the two Morse Code Bs, clear in his headphones, just as Bannon transmitted them from the now almost stationary inflatable. "Two Bravos, sir."
"Two Bravos," replied Taylor with little enthusiasm. "Surface to casing. Black light. Recovery party clear for'ard hatch."
When the Swordfish party had been pulled on board and slithered down the ladder --- Preedy last, after ripping the sides of the inflatable and setting the charge that would destroy the craft underwater leaving no trace --- Taylor submerged, going deep and changing course. Only then did he move through the boat, toward the fore-ends, to the Swordfish party.
He raised his eyebrows at Bannon when he saw they were one short.
"He won't be coming back," Bannon said quietly, without waiting for the question.
Then Lieutenant Commander Taylor caught sight of the two new members of the Swordfish party. Women, he thought. Women! Nothing good about having a woman aboard a submarine, let alone two. Submarine drivers have always been a superstitious breed.
Turning away, he did not see one of the women wrapping her arms around John Bannon in an embrace and kissing him.
The cruise ship Aegean Princess had left Taranto at just after six in the evening, with its passengers looking forward to one last day at sea rounding the toe of Italy before reaching their final destination at Naples.
The act of piracy took place during dinner, just after eight that evening. Later, the company, Tann Cruise Lines, Inc., maintained that the men involved had slipped aboard at Taranto and hidden away until the ship's very wealthy passengers had started dinner. The rest happened quickly. Two of the intruders had gone to the bridge and held the ship's officer of the watch and his men at gunpoint. Two more had secured the areas where most of the crew could be found during dinner. This left six men who charged into the large dining room, their faces covered with ski masks, and their hands holding Uzis and pistols.
Two of the Uzi-toting bandits fired short bursts into the ceiling --- which brought screams from the ladies and muttered protests from the men --- while their leader shouted loudly, first in Italian and then in English, telling people that nobody would get hurt if they did exactly what they were told. This man immediately began to make his way around the tables, demanding that the diners take off all their jewelry and empty their pockets and evening bags of other valuables --- including wallets. Everything was taken and dumped into a big plastic garbage bag, held by the sixth man, and there was no doubt that the intruders meant what they said. Anyone who refused, or tried to be clever, risked death.
The whole operation was carried out with the kind of calmness and planning that signified careful, military precision.
John Bannon and Tyreen Mackenzie were seated on the port side at a table for four people --- the other two being a pleasant retired stockbroker and his wife from New Jersey. So, by the time the leader and his bagman reached them, Bannon had already signaled to Tyreen, using eyes and hands.
The stockbroker's wife was in near hysterics, but her husband stayed calm, telling her to do just as she was told. This caused a small delay, making the gunman more belligerent as he moved behind Bannon, sticking his automatic pistol into the back of the agent's neck.
"If you want everything," Bannon said calmly, "you'll have to let me stand up. I've a rather valuable fob watch attached to a chain which I can't unfasten while sitting down."
"Well, get on with it. Do it quickly." The leader retreated a pace to let Bannon push back his chair and get to his feet. The gunman kept his right arm stretched out, holding the pistol. Wrongly, for it is a golden rule never to leave your weapon too close to the person whom you are threatening with it.
Few were actually able to see what Bannon did. It was so fast that most of the diners became more agitated, thinking that reprisals were imminent from the men with the Uzis. Bannon spun around on the outside of the extended arm, which he caught with both hands and jerked violently. He could feel his back pressed hard against the gunman's back, but it took only a small, vicious chop with the cutting edge of his right hand to knock away the pistol. Then, turning again, he twisted the arm high up his victim's back, using his left hand. There was a cry, followed by an unpleasant crack as the arm broke and Bannon's right forearm snapped hard around the leader's neck, giving it a lot of pressure, so that the fellow was near to lapsing into unconsciousness.
The bagman dropped the garbage bag and went for the gun that was pushed into his waistband.
Tyreen Mackenzie was faster, superhumanly fast. Catapulting out of her seat and tucking her knees under her chin, she did a back flip. As she came up on her feet, the knife-edge of her hand struck the man's larynx hard. Her other hand grabbed the pistol out of the man's waistband before his body could fall away from her. He was dead long before he crashed into the next table, scattering food and drink and diners.
As his left hand dropped the thug's broken arm and he started to squat down to retrieve the fallen pistol, Bannon saw one of the Uzi-carrying men turning on the balls of his feet, lifting the muzzle of the weapon, swinging in his direction.
"John!" Tyreen shouted, the pistol flicking in the direction of the danger. In the double-handed grip she fired twice.
As the Uzi clattered from dead fingers, Bannon shouted, "Enough. I don't want anyone else hurt, and I'll kill your leader if you don't drop those weapons."
The remaining three men hesitated for a tense ten seconds before they realized that, while they might kill some of the people in the dining room, they would all end up dead very quickly. None had the stomach for the result of what had begun as simple work for bully-boy tactics. Slowly they dropped the Uzis and raised their hands, Tyreen swinging her pistol between the possible targets.
Bannon pulled the leader's head close back to him, so that his lips almost touched the man's ear. "If you want to live, friend," he whispered, "you'd better tell me if there are any other clowns on board."
"On the bridge and in the crew quarters," the man croaked, his voice constricted by Bannon's forearm.
"How many?"
"Four. Two on the bridge and two below."
"Good night." Bannon squeezed harder, cutting off the blood supply to his victim's brain so that he slumped heavily and unconscious to the deck, helped into a longer sleep by a swift chop to the back of the neck.
He and Tyreen distributed the Uzis to the stunned waiters. Leaving the headwaiter in charge, Bannon and Tyreen slipped out, each carrying a pistol. Splitting up, Tyreen made her way quickly to the bridge. The two men holding the hostages there did not really have too much fight in them. Theirs had been reckoned an easy job, and they did not expect the fury that the young woman unleashed on them --- cracking the first one over the head and winging the second armed man in the leg.
The couple who were looking after the crew were taken out by the Captain of the Aegean Princess and two other officers. The dead were eventually laid out in the small mortuary next to the sick bay, while those left alive were locked in one of the two "Secure Cabins" designed to take any violent or malcontented members of the crew. These two cabins had been on the list of specifications when the ship had undergone a complete refurbishment a couple of years before.
Back in the early 1970s the M/S Aegean Princess had been one of the flagships of a major cruise line, plowing its way out of Athens and through the islands that litter the Aegean. With a gross tonnage of around 19,000 and a capacity for some seven hundred passengers plus a crew of four hundred, she was an admirable proposition. But as the decade filtered into the '80s, Aegean Princess had become a liability. With the advent of the larger cruise ships --- the huge floating hotels that carry over two thousand passengers --- Aegean Princess was not economically viable. That is, unless you had the entrepreneurial foresight of a Maximilian Tann.
Tann had purchased Aegean Princess in 1980, together with two other ships of a similar size, and begun a major overhaul, his sights set on wealthy passengers who longed to experience the kind of cruises they had either read about or experienced during the days when cruises were for the rich and famous only.
The refit and refurbishing of Aegean Princess had cost millions, but it was done with care, turning the ship into a floating art-deco palace, outfitted with the latest in comfort and luxury. The basic interior had been virtually taken apart. First, the cabins on the main deck, and the two decks below that, were ripped out. In their place was a mall of glittering shops, a new theater with state-of-the-art equipment, a cinema, a beautiful indoor pool and saunas --- complementing the newly enlarged pool up on the sun deck --- and four luxury lounges.
Now Aegean Princess only catered for around seventy passengers, whose large and beautiful staterooms all ran along the promenade deck, each stateroom being a small suite, complete with bathrooms that contained both shower and Jacuzzi. In its new, sumptuous state, Aegean Princess started its series of fourteen-day cruises in November 1982, sailing between Naples and Athens, lingering among the islands that dot the Aegean. By late February of '83, she was showing a healthy profit, with her passengers paying three or four times more than people who took their seven-day vacations on the massive liners.
Tann Cruise Lines --- like the other small and particularly exclusive cruise lines in which individual millionaires invested --- had made a huge profit out of the venture. Like everything else in big business, it had been a gamble, but the famous Max Tann had banked on there still being people around who were prepared to pay anything for a different --- even snobbish --- kind of holiday.
Obviously that was why Aegean Princess had been a ripe target. Passengers of that kind came on board with a lot of valuables, while some even brought small fortunes to play at being high rollers at the gaming tables.
The excitement of the attempted robbery did not die down for a long time. Those who had handed over much in the way of precious jewels, money, and credit cards retrieved their property, and Bannon and Tyreen were soon the center of attention. In the main bar, they could have been drunk for nothing for the rest of the journey. But, in the event, there was no further journey.
The explosion took place shortly after eleven, ripping out two plates under the waterline, flooding one of the crew mess decks, and causing several injuries.
That Aegean Princess did not heel over and begin to sink immediately said much for its overall design, and the standard of building in the Italian shipyards where she had been launched in 1970.
Just before the incident, John Bannon and Tyreen Mackenzie had slipped away from the bar, looking for some solitude. They leaned against the guardrail, aft on the sun deck, surrounded by a velvet night, watching the boiling plume of white water scarring the dark sea behind them.
"Well, at least that was different." Tyreen leaned her head on his shoulder. "Old Sir Max Tann has cleverly turned a potential loss into a big business gain, but this won't do his publicity much good."
"The point is," Bannon said quietly, "Tann was, rightly, convinced that there were people out there who would still pay a lot of money to go on exclusive cruises. Others have done it, but have you noticed how the program is so carefully chosen? A new show in the theater every other night, with big-name entertainers, while everywhere we've visited has been on days when no other cruise ship is in port. No other crowds of tourists. Not another cruise ship in sight..."
"John." Flicking her cigarette butt over the railing, she held up a hand to stop him. "John, we had enough of that kind of talk during the courses, and the fine point of economics isn't really you, darling." She turned, smiling up at him.
The courses of which she spoke had lasted for nearly a year. They included such relatively dull subjects like Accountancy; Fraudulent Conversion; Methods of Gathering Financial Intelligence From Offshore Banking; Smuggling and Laundering Money; Breaches in International Arms Control; The Rôle of Terrorist Organizations Concerning Finance and Illicit Arms Shipments, together with such allied subjects, like large-scale drug and art smuggling.
While they reflected the changing nature of the international situation, officers of the British Intelligence and Security Services bemoaned these subjects as a far cry from the field operations for which they had been trained. Bannon and Tyreen had been in the field only once since the completion of the courses, on Operation Swordfish, when Tyreen had gone into East Germany to extract a deep-cover operative. This cruise was a delayed graduation present the two of them had given each other to celebrate the successful completion of the courses.
Bannon smiled sheepishly. "You're right there, Tyreen." He held her close, his face tilted as if to kiss her. "You have enjoyed this bit of extra-expensive luxury, though, haven't you?"
"Of course I have. You made a good choice, John. Wouldn't mind doing this for a honeymoon. I even quite enjoyed the little set-to this evening. Quite like the old days." This last remark was delivered with a twinkling smile.
"Talking of the old days, I think we can find more excitement in our stateroom."
"Mmmm." She nodded enthusiastically before tilting her face back to accept his kiss.
They were just turning away, heading for their stateroom, when the ship shuddered and lifted as the explosion ripped through the metal plates on her starboard side.
The deck beneath them tilted violently, and Bannon swore as her feet slid sideways, knocking him off balance, Tyreen falling almost on top of him.
"Did the earth move for you too?" she half choked. "What the hell was that?"
Bannon was holding on to her as she pulled them back up to their feet, one hand on the rail, the other arm around his waist. "Lord knows. Come on."
The ship was listing badly to starboard, and the old, familiar scent of explosives was easily recognizable. By now the ship's siren was emitting the short series of blasts signaling abandon ship, calling all passengers to their boat stations --- a drill that had been carefully rehearsed as they left Athens a dozen days ago.
The engines had stopped, but it was not easy to adjust to the slanting deck. Tyreen kicked off her high-heeled shoes as they crabbed along making slow progress toward their stateroom on the port side.
A disembodied voice was giving instructions through the ship's communications system, and there was a background of cries edged with panic. As they came to the long row stateroom doors and large curtained oblong windows set in the superstructure, they could see other passengers trying to keep upright on the slanting surface.
The deck was bathed in light from the emergency floods that had been turned on within seconds of the explosion. Beside the first door an elderly man was trying to assist his wife, who was sprawled on the deck wailing in miserable alarm. Tyreen went to her immediately, telling the husband to get the life jackets from his stateroom.
The elderly woman had obviously damaged her arm, probably broken it, and a moment later, two of the ship's officers appeared, banging on the stateroom doors and calling for all passengers to muster by the boat station.
Bannon was called to assist one of the crew members hacking at a stateroom door where they feared the occupants were somehow trapped, frozen in terror, as well they might be, for Aegean Princess was listing even more violently. As he moved to help yet another passenger, he saw a deadly flicker of fire coming from the forward companionway.
"Get to the lifeboats!" he yelled, reaching for the nearest extinguisher, banging the nozzle against one of the stanchions and directing the foam down into the fierce flames that reached upward like terrible claws.
Another of the ship's officers joined him in a battle they were rapidly losing. He crabbed his way aft and dragged another extinguisher to the companionway, once more pouring foam down onto the flames, hearing, in the background, the sound of the lifeboats being lowered. At the same time he was aware of people shouting to him, telling him to get off the ship, but he was already throwing the empty extinguisher to one side and moving forward to find a third.
He had scarcely gone two steps when he heard a great whoosh and felt the heat on his back. As he turned, he saw that the officer who had been beside him attacking the fire was enveloped in flames now gushing from belowdecks. The man had become a screaming walking torch, fighting his way toward the ship's rails, but falling before he could get to them. Bannon flung his jacket off and leaped toward the doomed man, beating at the fire with the once-elegant dinner jacket, but it was too late. The flames had eaten away at the man's body and his screams had stopped.
Bannon himself was now starting to feel the effects of the flame and smoke. His breathing was labored, and he knew that if he stayed on board, there was a distinct possibility of the smoke and heat overpowering him.
He lunged toward the ship's listing rail, climbed over, and leaped clear into the water below, immediately striking out for the nearest lifeboat. The coxswain spotted him in the water, and, in an act of great courage, turned back toward the crippled ship. However, it was Tyreen's strong arm that dragged him from the water.
The lifeboats were enclosed by tight orange-colored tarpaulins stretched over a light alloy framework, with thick mica panels for the coxswain and as light sources along the side. There were some forty people --- passengers and crew --- in the one that had rescued Bannon, and once the craft hit the water, the survivors had become away that the sea was less friendly than it had seemed on board Aegean Princess. The lifeboat bounced and rolled, churning through the water with a low, almost sullen hum from its engine.
By craning to look through one of the forward windshields, he was aware of two other small boats nearby, and he caught a glimpse of the cruise ship, lit up overall but seeming to be dangerously top-heavy, and sparkling with the fire that at least one man had died fighting.
To his rear, a medical orderly worked on the elderly woman who had fallen close to her stateroom door. She was still groaning with pain, so Bannon worked his way aft to see if he could assist.
"Broken arm, shoulder, and maybe a leg also," the orderly said with a distinct Scandinavian accent.
"Do we know what happened yet?" Tyreen asked over Bannon's shoulder.
"She fell."
"No, the explosion. Do we know what it was?"
The orderly shrugged. "An officer said he thought this was some mechanical problem. With the engines. An explosion with the engines. Could have been something those crooks set to explode after making their getaway, though."
Through one of the ports, Bannon glimpsed Aegean Princess, listing and wallowing, her lights and the fire blazing, throwing an eerie glow across the water.
Incongruously, an elderly female voice muttered, "What a waste. You'd think they'd have turned the lights off when we abandoned ship."
"It never happened before," the orderly said, as though he could hardly believe it had occurred now.
No, Bannon thought. No, it certainly never happened before, and it certainly was not the engines. Over many years he had become sensitive to distinctive odors, and he was certain about this one. While he was fighting the fire, his nostrils had been full of the scent of explosives.
The same aroma, explosives, and the stink of smoke, continued to hang around them, and was still there at five-thirty in the morning, as he stood beside Tyreen at the rail of one of the larger cruise ships. Several ships --- including two of the mammoth liners from other companies, had hastened to the stricken ship. Passengers had been rescued by the two larger cruise liners, and now, in the dawn, other craft were standing off while two Italian Navy vessels were close by Aegean Princess, having put out the fire, and were bent on taking her in tow, trying to keep her steady in the water.
"The ghost of Christmas past," Tyreen muttered, giving Bannon a quizzical look.
He nodded, his mind obviously far away, though he knew what she meant: stubble on his chin, hair tousled, the pair of ill-fitting jeans and denim shirt they had found for him to replace his soaking wet clothes. "You're not exactly a fashion plate yourself." As he said it, he reflected that this was not altogether correct. Even with no makeup, and the white evening gown --- the one with the devastating slit almost to the left thigh --- in a state similar to that of his own clothes, Tyreen Mackenzie managed to remain stunning. The events of the past few hours seemed to have hardly touched her. In her current disheveled state, she could have walked into a reception for the royal family and still caused heads to turn at her poise and elegance.
The after-scent of the disaster dragged his train of thought away again. There had been no shots of battle, no urgency of attack, yet he felt as thought the crippling of Aegean Princess had been an act of war, the most likely explanation being the one suggested by the medical orderly --- that the pirates had set charges to explode after they left the ship, probably in one of the lifeboats, or even in a craft arranged and factored into their plan.
Later, he was to remark that the cruise ship incident was the true beginning of the dangers that were to come in the next few months. He could still hear the Captain's voice coming through the speakers, giving the order to abandon ship, just as, in his mind, he saw the fragment of fear on the faces of officers and crew.
John Bannon and Tyreen Mackenzie had been a week late in returning from leave, as there were endless formalities to be gone through before their final release following the aborted cruise and subsequent rescue. More time was eaten up with the interrogations by both Italian and NATO authorities regarding the attempted holdup, while he had also been required to give evidence at the coroner's inquiry into the young officer's --- Lieutenant Mike Nichols --- death by fire.
A week can be a long time in the shadowland of Intelligence, so Bannon's first weeks back turned into hours and days jammed with paperwork. He did, however, get a chance to look over the various confidential reports concerning the explosion on Aegean Princess, for these were routed automatically across his desk, together with cryptic memos on Sir Max Tann, head of Tann Cruise Lines, Inc., and dozens of other companies in London, Paris, and New York.
Bannon could only presume that somebody, possibly the police, or maybe the Security Service, was taking a long look at the legendary Tann, so the memos came and went, accompanied by the latest theories on the near sinking of Aegean Princess --- which ranged from plastique set by the would-be thieves, to traces of what some expert suggested could be an explosive that had not been on the market since shortly after the end of World War II.
One senior US naval officer --- an expert on damage caused by weapons --- had written a pithy three-page report saying that the shape and condition of the large hole blasted in the side of Aegean Princess, and the resultant fire, were consistent with the type of damage inflicted by an old, and possibly unstable, torpedo.
Nobody was likely to take this last possibility seriously. Of course they would not, thought Bannon as he saw, with mounting incredulity, that the Italian naval forces had square-searched the area with sub hunter-killers both on the water and in the air. With the rising occurrence of terrorism in their country, the Italians had developed an almost novel fast reaction as far as probable terrorist activities were concerned.
After being a nine-day wonder, the Aegean Princess incident soon appeared to be put to one side, becoming another of those strange puzzles, like the events inside the Bermuda Triangle an ocean away. It was still only an unpleasant, frustrating memory to both Bannon and Tyreen on a Friday morning when Bannon was summoned to a sudden meeting of a hastily assembled committee.
The call came around noon, and he was warned by C's assistant Miss Pennington that the meeting would probably be lengthy. This news did nothing to sweeten his temper, for he had planned a long weekend with Tyreen in Cambridge, one of their favorite places. As he left for the Home Office, where the meeting was scheduled to take place, Bannon reflected that at least Tyreen was a professional and understood how these things worked. Other girlfriends and lovers in the past had been stubbornly put out by sudden calls to duty. At least he was tolerant when she was called away.
The small reading room at the Home Office had the atmosphere of a private club: a long table, the scent of beeswax, comfortable chairs, and ancient, almost chocolate-box painting of scenes from English country life, with the obligatory reproduction the HM The Queen at the far end, over what had once been a fireplace.
Along with his current boss C, he found his old boss the Director General of the Security Service, or MI5. Also present was the Head of Special Branch, a man named Wilson. As he moved to take his seat, Bannon sensed there was something beneath the surface in the reading room: a sensation of concern and underlying urgency, clear in the atmosphere and the covert glances that passed between the people present.
The Minister called The Committee to order, immediately asking Wilson to take the floor, which he did with a clarity and brevity born of giving accurate evidence in police courts all over England.
"Sir Maxwell Tann," he began as though the very name would capture attention. "As most of you know, we have for some time been acting on information from within the Tann business empire. Tann and his wife have been under constant surveillance, and we now have reason to believe that he is behind a number of dummy corporations around the world that deal in illicit arms."
"The first I've heard of it," grunted Bannon, almost sotto voce.
"We do still run matters on the need-to-know principle." The Minister gave him a cold glance.
"Told 'em last week that you should've been brought in sooner," from C, who appeared to have wakened from a deep sleep.
"Please." The Minister flushed with irritation. "We know that Mr. Bannon has had his hands full ever since that little incident in the Mediterranean. He was not included in the original briefings out of deference to his workload."
"Well, at least Wilson should tell him who got the ball rolling. You're leaving the man in the dark at the starting gate."
The Minister sighed and Wilson fussed with his papers.
It was the calm, untroubled voice of the very matter-of-fact head of the Security Service that broke the silent deadlock. "I think, Mr. Bannon, C would like you to know that his service is responsible for the intelligence from within Max Tann's vast and somewhat jumbled organization."
"Not just my service," C bristled. "The information came to me from a personal friend. Well, the son of a personal friend."
"Phillip Dahl," Wilson supplied.
"Quite. Knew the father for years. Old shipmate. Dolly Dahl. Fine officer, good family. The son had no desire to follow in his father's footsteps, though. Can't blame a man for that. Became a very good accountant. First Class honors in economics. Cut out for a political career but sidetracked by Tann."
"A mega-accountant," Wilson said dryly, glancing at his notes. "A superlative accountant who was sucked into Tann's business from one of the most prestigious London firms about a year ago. He apparently set up a somewhat clandestine meeting with Admiral... with C last month."
Bannon, now fully alert, asked if he could have this in some detail.
It was Wilson's turn to look put out. "Well, I suppose, if you must. We've all rather taken the thing for granted."
"Well, I certainly never take things for granted," C growled. "Fact is, John, the thing was so hush-hush that I dealt with it personally. Phillip got in touch with me at my home number, and I fixed up a meeting. All very cloak and dagger, because the man's scared to death. Had to meet him in some dreadful tearooms in Croydon, of all places."
"And he told you what?"
"I passed it on to Wilson. It all appears to be sound enough, and I trust young Dahl. The man's got a conscience, and what he'd discovered frightened him. Under the law it's a police matter, if they can collect evidence."
There was a pause as Wilson looked around the assembled company. He cleared his throat and began again. "The source claims that Tann is using at least four companies to launder money used to purchase arms illegally and pass them on to customers who pay him off to the tune of a hundred percent profit. He says there's firm evidence that one of the container ships of Tann Shipping Ltd. carried arms and munitions on several occasions, while one of his ships from Tann Cruise Lines, Inc. was used last year to pick up a special consignment from Odessa --- the passenger list was, he says, padded with people in Tann's employ. Also, Tann Freight Ltd. has brought stuff overland. The entire network lives off the smuggling and selling of arms. That's where the really big money comes from --- that and a couple of other nefarious sources: dodgy art and that kind of thing. The Tann empire, it seems, has been built on arms deals from way back."
"And he's buying them from where?" Bannon interrupted.
"Anywhere he can get them. British and American companies. Under the counter from Eastern Bloc countries. The Soviet Union itself, intermediaries in Switzerland and Luxembourg. It's big business, and the larger his orders the more likely it is that no questions are asked. Accounts in the Cayman Islands, Bermuda, and Lord knows where else. Our source says it would take months to trace the various huge sums of cash without his help. As C says, he took fright when he stumbled on the full extent of Tann's operation."
"Which is?"
"Well, it's not your usual few boxes of small arms and ammunition, Semtex and semiautomatics, stuff like that. Tann, it appears, aims a little higher. Aircraft, tanks, missiles, high-end matériel." He seemed to glare around the table at his colleagues as though daring them to dispute his statement. When he resumed, his sentences came out in short bursts, as if he was giving the bare bones of a précis. "It's not going to be a walk in the park trying to nail Sir Max. The man probably thinks he's fireproof. After all, he's one of the wealthiest men in the world. Tann International is, as we all know, a general umbrella company for a large number of subsidiaries scattered all over the place. Dahl is reluctant to bring documents out of the main office because he's too frightened. We'd have to pick him up as well and let him lead us through the paper trail."
"So you're suggesting?" Bannon already had an inkling of why he was being brought into the business.
"Several options." Wilson did not look him in the eye. "We have kept Tann and his wife under surveillance for the past ten days, and I do have warrants for search and seizure of documents from the offices of Tann International. Also warrants to lift Tann, his wife, and our asset, which seems to be the straightforward route. Tentatively, we plan to do this first thing on Monday morning. But... Well, it's going to bring his legal department down on us like the proverbial ton of bricks, and the media will have a field day. Arrest, seizure, and all that kind of thing could possibly ruin any case we might bring, because I have no doubt that the Tann organization has a kind of self-destruct plan in the event of action by the authorities."
"So you have another plan, sir?"
"Yes, there is another way to go. Problem is that it might take us some time to set up, and a delay could ruin the probability of any real success."
"You wouldn't by chance be thinking of flushing him out by putting somebody else in?"
"It's a thought." Wilson left the words hanging in midair.
"And it should remain just that. A thought." Bannon did not even try to disguise his anger. "Have you any conception of how long it would take to put someone in? Weeks, months. It would be like trying to put someone into the Eastern Bloc. It can take years to establish bona fides and get them to bite. If Tann's half as good as you say, he has the resources of a small country anyway. It could take one hell of a time."
"What about a walk-in?" The Director of the Security Service looked at his former agent with dead-fish eyes.
"You're suggesting that one of your people calls Sir Max and lays it on the line? Says to him, 'Look here, old chap. I know you're decent person, but I also know the authorities are about to lift you and go through your files like grease through a goose, if you follow me.' "
"Yes, something very like that." His old chief was still locking eyes with him.
"Whom would you suggest?"
C gave a long sigh, a huge sucking in of breath, followed by its expulsion from his lungs. He sounded like an old steam train, though not as benign. "I have to spell it out for you, Bannon?" The "John" had gone, a sure sign that the Chief was getting testy. "Quite recently there was an incident concerning one of Tann's cruise ships, Aegean Princess, one of the three he operates under Tann Cruise Lines, Inc. On the passenger manifest of that luxury vessel were a Mr. and Mrs. James Baxter. Mr. Baxter carried a British passport that described him as a civil servant attached to the Home and Foreign Offices. You follow me, Bannon? JB, James Baxter. JB, John Bannon."
"As, so the above-mentioned Mr. Baxter goes to Sir Max Tann and says he knows one or two things about the Aegean Princess episode, and will spill the beans..."
"Not quite," Wilson snapped. "The idea is that Mr. James Baxter has seen some confidential documents which he is willing to share with Sir Max."
"What kind of confidential documents?"
"First, you should know that Dahl has provided a verbal list of some recent purchases by Tann under the guise of artifacts for a military museum he plans to assemble on one of the Aegean islands as a special draw for passengers swanning around on his cruise ships. One item has us worried. Last autumn he acquired a submarine."
"A submarine?"
"An old submarine, admittedly. Possibly a very early Victor II-class Russian submarine."
"We don't have any idea where he's hiding the damned thing." C's voice was clipped and terse. "But we're pretty sure that Aegean Princess was, either accidentally or by design, at the receiving end of a small, and equally old, torpedo from this submarine. Damn it, Bannon, you've seen all the signals: all the confidential stuff that's passed between the Americans and ourselves."
"I've seen nothing to suggest that good old Sir Max --- as the tabloids so often call him --- owns a personal submarine which goes around taking potshots at his cruise ships." Sir Maxwell Tann was beloved by the British tabloids --- self-made man from an indistinct background, billionaire, the giver of large charitable gifts, and good copy for the columnists. "What are you really getting at, sir?"
"The fact that you, and your colleague Ms. Mackenzie, have built-in bona-fides. Good old Sir Max, as you put it, knows just about every name of every passenger who travels on his ships. He's a man who pays attention to that kind of detail. We know this from Phillip Dahl. Max Tann looks out for people who can be of use to him, and I should well imagine that James Baxter, civil servant working for the Home and Foreign Offices, has caught his eye. Anyone with that kind of job description can only really be one thing --- Security, and/or Intelligence. In many respects I'm surprised you haven't heard from Tann already. After all, you saved the day by putting paid to the attempted holdup. You're tailor-made for an approach, and I am correct in assuming that you're planning to stay at the University Arms, Cambridge, this weekend, aren't you?"
"How the...?" Bannon began.
"Don't be a fool, Bannon. The Security Service checked out all the bookings at this hotel for the entire weekend when we discovered that Sir Max and Lady Tann were going to be staying there. Good old Sir Max is speaking to a convention of economists tomorrow night. He's booked into the hotel until Monday morning. Mr. and Mrs. Baxter are also booked in until Monday morning."
C added, "I sincerely hope they were planning on leaving at the crack of dawn on Monday so that they could be in their respective offices by nine A.M."
"They were," Bannon bit out the words. "But how do you envisage playing this charade?"
"I'm sure you'll think of an approach. Find the right words. Put the fix in, as we used to say. What we need is to flush the fellow out, so the tabloids can announce that Good Old Sir Max and Good Old Lady Tasha have both gone missing. The idea, my boy, is to make them gallop off to some safe mansion so that we can give the ladies and gentlemen of the press some other reason for the Commissioner's lads and lasses to wander into Tann International's ghastly building at the bottom of Fleet Street. Like Sherlock Holmes, they'll be looking for clues."
"And I'm to tell him that you're on to him?"
"Well, you know the form. Don't worry, you won't be alone. The boys and girls from the Security Service will be with you --- unheard and unseen, but with you nevertheless, won't they?" C flashed an almost luxuriant smile at his counterpart from the Security Service.
"Invisible wall." The Director bleakly returned his smile.
"Good. Then that's settled."
"Weeellll," the Minister drew out the word, leaving Bannon in no doubt that everything had been agreed long before he was called to the meeting. "Weelll," he repeated, "we rather feel that it's in everyone's best interest."
"Your job is simply to flush him out. Make him run. Tip him off that things aren't quite as safe as he might think. After that, he can be followed anywhere he decides to go --- which I do not think will be London. We suggest that you drop the news on him sometime late on Sunday. In turn, we'll have taps on just about every telephone within reach --- including the one in his Rolls."
"And you're sure this is a safer way than just feeling their collars first thing Monday morning?"
"Infinitely better." The Minister looked at his watch. "We have a slim and incomplete dossier on Tann which you should look at." He slid a buff folder across the table. "Now, you'd best be going, 'Mr. Baxter,' or you won't make it to Cambridge in time for dinner."
"Thank you, Minister. I'd hate to miss dinner." Bannon rose.
"You do see that you're just about the only person we can trust with this," from Wilson.
"Oh, yes. As former passengers on his torpedoed cruise ship, we have all the right bona fides. I just hope we aren't all being a shade naïve."
"Oh, I think we're on the right track, Bannon. Keep in touch. Usual way, of course."
"Of course." Inwardly seething, Bannon left the room. Tyreen would not be as convinced as the other people in that room. The words "fool's errand" were uppermost in his head as he hailed a cab.
"They want us to do what?" Tyreen, an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips, was half-heartedly packing a weekend case when he returned to the Chelsea flat. "I didn't think you'd be back in time to go to Cambridge. Now you tell me we have to burn this damned financier."
"A little more than a damned financier, my dear." He had given her only an encapsulated version of the facts.
Tyreen had the most distracting habit of wandering around indoors clad in only the skimpiest garments. Now she came and stood next to him. "Why not forget about packing for a while, darling. Let's take a little time out."
From the first time they had come together those many years ago, when they were both young agents working for MI5, he had experienced that fleeting, sudden, and illogical twist of heart and mind that signaled either deep lust or something more lasting.
As they had shared danger, living close to one another, he had come to believe that this was different from lust. What had started as a pleasant, somewhat daring romp matured during the time they spent in circumstances where they could easily have died. Throughout that period they had grown closer, and he soon realized that they were, in many ways, a matched pair. Both disliked inaction and paperwork; Tyreen had a well-developed sense of humor and fast wit, as well as a body to live or die for --- fit, healthy, and tuned for the toughest action in the field or the softest pleasures of a connubial bed.
A body that was due in no small part to her Arion heritage.
Unfortunately, that same Arion heritage was also keeping them from making their current arrangement into something more permanent. She'd been married once, to another Arion. That marriage had lasted less than twenty-four hours, but it had told her that she could never find true happiness with someone not of her own race.
Already their differences were becoming apparent. Age was catching up with him, the end of his active field career just around the corner; while she was still in her prime, seemingly no older than when he had first started working with her.
Still, he wasn't that old yet. Taking her hand, he let her lead him to the bed. Once there, he again demonstrated that to their mutual satisfaction.
Now they lay spent, naked in the dark on the big double bed.
"Do we really have to make that drive to Cambridge tonight, darling?" Tyreen Mackenzie asked, tracing the fingertips of her right hand along John Bannon's left thigh. "All I want to do is eat and go to sleep in your arms."
After a long silence he said that he would like nothing better. "Unfortunately, my dearest Tyreen, we're like monks under discipline... Well, I'm like a monk, you're more nunnish."
"Then we are in grave and mortal sin, Brother John."
"Yes indeed, Sister Tyreen. Most grave."
He called the University Arms Hotel to say they would be late. They packed the weekend cases, went out, and dined in a nearby Italian restaurant.
"I shall have to take a long walk in Cambridge," she said, patting her stomach. "All this pasta..."
"Not to mention the veal and the strawberries and cream." He gave her a finger-wagging look, and she replied with a smug grin. Her Arion constitution allowed her to better metabolize food than a Terran.
Presently, as they finished their coffee, she asked, "Why, John? Why couldn't they just stick to their first plan --- pick up the Tanns on Monday morning, raid the Tann International offices, make it look as though this accountant --- what was his name?"
"Dahl, Phillip Dahl."
"... make it look as though Dahl had also been arrested, and take it from there. Why couldn't they do that? It was the original plan, you said."
"I doubt if it was really the original plan. Possibly it was one option --- the last one, to be used only in extremis. I think it's a question of politics and money. My impression is The Committee did not altogether trust the Dahl end of the deal. He's promised to deliver, but they only have C's word for that. Dahl is C's asset. There are a lot of internal jealousies and personal rivalries going on. My view is that nobody trusts anyone else. And no one wants to go out on a limb --- especially with someone as wealthy and powerful as Tann. Dahl has already said they won't be able to follow the paper trail unless they have him. So, pick 'em all up, cart off boxes of files and mainframe computer tapes from Tann International, and what have you got?"
"What?"
"Sets full of clever lawyers. An organization with the power to wipe out traces of a paper trail that goes far beyond Tann International offices. Our lords and masters're scared to death that Tann would be out, at least on bail, in a matter of hours, and that Dahl just wouldn't be able to follow through with all his promises. In other words, the entire case would turn to dust and ashes and a lot of people would end up with egg on their faces."
Tyreen grinned. Then: "And they really believe that we can put the fear of God into him and make him run for cover?"
"Yes, and we probably can. The real problem is whether they can keep a trace on him and stop him removing any hard evidence. If Tann's the man I think he is, he's probably too clever to leave any clues, any kind of trail. In Cambridge we'll undoubtedly be hedged about with security people --- watchers, vans, and cars with all the latest gizmos and gadgets intent on running Tann to earth. Whether, in the real world, they'll actually be able to do that is a moot point. What they're after is headlines on Monday which say that Sir Max and Lady Tann have disappeared. Foul Play Suspected. Suspicious Circumstances. Enough clout to let the police go in and root around --- with some of our people in tow --- without a great legal chorus telling them they can't do this, or that, or the other thing. Everybody'll be forced to cooperate or look guilty as hell. They'll only be doing a public service. Looking for clues. Trying to find out if the Tanns've been kidnapped, or whether there's something even worse lurking at the heart of his organization."
"I suppose that might just work."
"They're banking on it, Tyreen, and I have to admit that it's probably a safer way than going in blind and having the Tann legal department shouting 'Unfair! Foul! Hands off!' while other people are disposing of the evidence. Nowadays you can get rid of records in a matter of hours. In fact, the real records might not actually be there. Our tame police commissioner actually told me that Tann imagines he's fireproof, and in some ways he probably is."
"How're we going to get him trotting off to his favorite hiding place, then?"
"By doing what we can do best as a team. I reckon we have until late on Sunday afternoon. Perhaps a note left at the University Arms. A cryptic message that he can't ignore. That's the way I think we've got to do it."
"Mmmm," Tyreen mused. " 'Meet me at midnight, under the blasted oak. I have information that will save your life.' " She mimicked a witch's cackle.
"Nothing quite as dramatic as that. I'd rather tell him to his face. After all, our mentors and guides say that he'll already have my name on file --- from the Aegean Princess. They tell me he never misses a trick, not if he thinks it's going to be of use to him."
"He can't be that omnipotent. You did your best to save his damned ship, tried to save one of the officer's lives. Heavens, John, you can't believe he's got unlimited power?"
Bannon shook his head. "No, I believe that's just their paranoia, but we might as well be prepared." He glanced at his watch. "Time we were going. At least we'll have missed the worst traffic out of London by now."
As it turned out, most of London appeared to have decided to postpone leaving the city. They took Bannon's Saab but Tyreen drove, cursing other motorists and generally carrying on a running commentary, laced with liberal epithets concerning all drivers in general apart from herself.
Bannon leaned back in the passenger seat, put on the map-reading light, and opened up the slim dossier on Tann. It began with a series of photographs. The familiar, fit-looking, sharp-but-pleasant features stared back at him: the eyes --- even frozen by the camera --- seemed to glitter in their usual amiable manner below the neatly trimmed prematurely gray hair. Max Tann's friendliness and approachability were traits often commented on by the press, though other tales persisted, hinting at a darker, brooding, more sinister side.
About three pages in, he found the usual red flag denoting that the rest of the file --- some thirty pages --- was classified.
It began with a long note on Tann's lineage:
Born: circa 1939 --- possibly 20th June --- and probably to the old Prussian Tann family whose estates, ten kilometers from Wasserburg am Inn --- some seventy kilometers from the Austrian border --- were eventually confiscated by the Nazis. (See Note C).
His mother, Ilse Tann, had supposedly taken him out of Germany shortly after his birth. He was supposedly registered as an alien in London in 1940. The documents were extant, as were the naturalization papers that were dated 20th April 1940, but on these the Tanns --- mère et fils --- were described as Austrian Jews and classified as refugees. To this was appended a note that they were not lacking funds.
The Tanns settled in a small market town in Surrey, and eventually Max completed his education at a local school, winning a scholarship to Oxford, where he read politics, philosophy, and economics.
Attached to the section on Tann's background was a short study by the Security Service, which had performed a detailed scrutiny in 1968 when the Monopolies Commission was trying to rule on a takeover of one of the largest freight-carrying companies in England by Tann Freight Ltd.
The investigation turned up some odd stories, but could not gather any firm evidence. The then Director General of MI5 had noted that, bearing in mind the circumstances of the Tann's arrival in Britain, the stories were almost certainly true, but any release to the press or through any other agency would in all probability bring legal action. Max Tann and his mother --- it was suggested --- had all the necessary documentation to prove they were of Jewish origin and came from Linz, Austria.
The report from the two officers who had traveled to Wasserburg (Note C in the file) was of more than passing interest. The old and proud military family with their huge estates near the unique town of Wasserburg appeared to have come to the end of its line, while the old Tann mansion --- Tannenwerder --- was, in effect, still there, a crumbling Gothic ruin harboring tales of ghosts and bloody deeds. The local authorities had been attempting to have the entire estate cleared and developed for the construction of much-needed housing, but the old family lawyers --- Rollen, Rollen, u. Saal, who still had offices in the Marienplatz, Wasserburg am Inn --- had fought every step of the way, claiming that any attempt would be met by legal action as at least one member of the family may still be alive.
In Wasserburg, however, there were elderly men and women who had worked for the Tanns. They had a different tale --- especially of the last days of the great family. The old Graf von Tann and the Gräfin, they said, had been dragged from the house, in September 1939, by members of the SS who pillaged the place, removing the entire family, which consisted of the two elderly people, their son Klaus, and one daughter, Elsa. Their fate was generally believed to have been in one of the death camps, though some said they knew for a certain that the last four Tanns had been shot and buried on the estate. The house became a recovery center for SS officers, but was left to go to wrack and ruin at the end of the war.
A further interesting story was turned up in interviews with two old people who were certainly members of the Tann household during that fateful period. They claimed --- but would not give a signed legal statement --- that in the late 1920s the head housekeeper of Tannenwerder was a young Austrian woman called Ilse Katz, or strictly Katzstein. Ilse, they told the investigating officers, became pregnant by the old Graf and the family kept that secret close. Belowstairs there was talk that the old Graf had promised to have the girl looked after and would provide for the child in return for a legal document stating that Ilse's offspring would never attempt to claim the family name, or attempt to make any financial demands on the von Tann fortune. No legal document had ever surfaced.
Ilse Katz, the story went, had given birth to a son in the summer of 1939, and a couple of days before the SS arrived to arrest the family and take over Tannenwerder and its lands, she suddenly disappeared with a vast haul of von Tann jewelry valued at millions of reichsmarks.
Both the former retainers swore the story was true, though other locals claimed that the pair were in the first stages of senility. What did appear to be certain was that the vast fortune in jewelry and other valuables disappeared --- though many said that senior SS officers looted it to line their own pockets.
If the supposed Tanns who arrived in England as Jewish Austrian refugees in early 1940 were in fact the housekeeper Ilse and her illegitimate son, it would account for the wealth they brought with them --- the same wealth that had started Max Tann in the freight-haulage business in the early 1960s.
The rest, Bannon though as he read it, was history: Max Tann of Tann Freight Ltd. Had branched out; invested; acquired the stock of other companies until his freight business was the largest in the United Kingdom. To Tann Freight he had added four major magazines, and in the boom caused by the likes of Playboy and Penthouse, in the mid-sixties he had launched Tann Man and Tann Girl, followed by King of Hearts and King of Clubs, the latter almost a house magazine for his famous chain of Black Shield Clubs, which took off not merely in the UK but also in the United States and then, almost worldwide.
The huge amounts of money engendered by these businesses financed Tann Shipping Ltd. and later, the relatively new Tann Cruise Lines, Inc.
Money begets money, and the business empire stretched its tentacles into almost every lucrative field, from the business of import and export through the chains of clubs and magazines, to luxury hotels. His estimated personal wealth now ran to many billions, while he owned properties in every major world city. There was even a rumor --- never traced --- of a private island in the Aegean, according to some.
The knighthood had come in the mid-seventies, for services to charity organizations. Max Tann was full of charity, it appeared, and, after all, most of the money could be run tax-free. In 1981, at the age of forty-two, he had married the twenty-five-year-old Tasha Nicoletti, arguably the most sought-after model of her time. There were those who predicted the marriage could not last more than a year or two because of Max Tann's constant traveling in search of bigger and better money-spinning ventures, but the Cassandras were proved wrong. Lady Tasha blossomed, and wherever Max Tann went, on business or pleasure, Lady Tasha went with him, both of the Tanns trailing a small entourage of hairdressers, secretaries, and bodyguards.
The multitude of Tann's companies worldwide supplied company jets, and it appeared to most people --- from economic editors to the man in the street --- that the Tanns lived and worked as a new world-class royalty.
The final pages of the dossier dealt with the scant evidence that had sparked the recent probings. Plenty of smoke, but as yet no real fire. Enough hard evidence to warrant an investigation --- which would alert Tann --- but not really enough to make arrests.
"Interesting reading?" Tyreen had remained moderately silent while he had leafed through the document, and Bannon snapped off the reading light, looked up, and saw they had about twenty minutes before reaching Cambridge.
He returned the dossier to his briefcase and sighed. "It appears we'll be moving in a rarefied atmosphere if we get close to Sir Max and Lady Tasha." He stretched in his seat. "I'm really quite surprised that they're actually staying in a hotel like normal human beings. Reading that thing, you'd think he owned one of the colleges as his personal home."
"They are noted for parading their riches, John. Or hadn't you noticed?"
"I'm not strong on the gossip columns."
"You're not exactly weak on the financial pages, though, are you?"
"I see the names, yes. But I didn't quite realize how powerful he really was. A field marshal of industry rather than a captain. The man's like a Renaissance prince, Tyreen."
"The man is a Renaissance prince, my dear. Jealous?"
"Never fancied being one, actually. Too many courtiers waiting around to stab you in the back."
"But Max Tann is something else. Not just a Renaissance prince, but a saint --- contributions to every known charity, hospital wards, libraries, art collections named after him. The man's a king in his own right. That's why I wondered if he could be frightened enough to do a runner. People like that usually imagine they're above the law."
"There are things in his background," he mused. "Dirty work in his lineage. That could be a nice little lever."
"Really? Go on, John, tell me about his grubby background."
"Well, it appears that he might or might not really be connected to the old and revered Prussian family whose name he bears."
"Has he ever claimed to be?"
"Not in so many words."
"There's firm evidence?"
"No. But there's enough to make him pause for a moment. Reading between the lines, his birthright may well have been stolen on his behalf, and there's no evidence that he's actually been back to the supposed site of his inheritance, which, incidentally, is in need of the Tann billions. The old estate is in ruins, and you'd have thought he'd have dropped in to lay the ghosts of his past --- that is, if he really believed himself to have come from old Prussian nobility. The place, it appears, reeks with specters from long ago."
"You going to haunt him a bit, then?"
"Nothing like disturbing a few shades to put the mockers on the living."
A light sprinkle of rain fell as Tyreen threaded the car through the Cambridge one-way system into Regent Street and to the front of the University Arms Hotel, hard by the wide tract of parkland known to generations of students as Parker's Piece.
It was just past ten o'clock, and in front of them a Rolls-Royce was being unloaded, boxed in by two sleek black Land Rovers.
One of the porters motioned to them to stay back, while another came running over: "If you'd just wait a moment, ma'am." He bent to speak with Tyreen through her rolled-down window. "We'll be with you in a second. Checking in?"
She nodded, but her eyes were on four people alighting from the Rolls. One was a tall, slender woman, one hand lifted to a mane of black hair, her head thrown back as she laughed at something the man next to her was saying.
"Tasha Nicoletti, model extraordinary, as I live and go green with envy," Tyreen muttered, for despite her own Arion genetics, she had nothing on this Terran. At least, not in physical appearance.
"And there's our specter," Bannon breathed, taking in the equally slim, agile-looking man following Lady Tasha. He had a dark, velvet-collared coat slung over his shoulders and a wide-brimmed hat sat at a jaunty angle over the famous iron-gray hair. His back was ramrod straight and he looked as fit as an athlete about to take part in some strenuous Olympic sport. As the pair walked elegantly toward the hotel doors, Bannon whispered, "They even look like Renaissance royalty. Lord, you can smell the money."
"And they have their courtiers with them," Tyreen added. The other two men, staying a respectful couple of paces behind the famous couple, were equally well-dressed but did not seem to have the same polish as their employers. One was tall, well-built, even burly, carrying himself like a boxer, his head turning form side to side, then back to throw careful scrutiny over Bannon's Saab. His companion was shorter and had his hands thrust into the pockets of a long stylish raincoat that looked like some kind of riding dustcoat from the old American West.
Around the cars, more people were being off-loaded, the drivers in livery, the other young men in stylish street clothes.
As the Tanns reached the hotel doors, Sir Max paused, glancing back toward Bannon's car. There was plenty of illumination around the hotel façade, and for a moment it was as though their eyes locked and Tann recognized something of which he should be aware.
Bannon mumbled something under his breath.
"What?" Tyreen asked.
"Bit of a poem I once had to learn. Forget where it comes from." He recited a few more lines.
"John, I don't know what you're talking about. It can't be a touch of the sun, because we haven't been out in any lately."
He turned and gave her a smile that twisted his mouth. "I'm being ambiguous, Tyreen. Didn't you feel anything as you watched them?"
"A pinch of jealousy over that incredible figure of hers. What did you feel?"
"Evil," he snapped. "You talk of him as a Renaissance prince. He looked more like the Prince of Darkness to me."
"Can't say I noticed that particular Gothic charm, but you're probably right."
"Going to light him up like a bonfire." Bannon reached for the door handle only to be blocked from getting out by one of the other young men, who had moved from the Rover directly in front of them. The young man held the door almost closed. "If you'd wait for just one minute, sir..."
Bannon flicked the cutting edge of his hand against the young man's wrist, smacking it hard against the edge of the door. There was a nasty cracking sound, an almost feminine yelp as he immediately let go of the door. "An who are you to ask me to wait, and to prevent me from getting out of my own car, Sunny Jim?"
The young man moved closer, nursing his wrist. "I won't ask you again, sir..."
"Good. Who are you?"
"Security, sir. I must ask you to get back inside your car."
"Hotel security?"
"No, I'm..."
"An agent of the Security Service, then?"
"No, sir. I'm privately employed. Security for..."
"The people who left that Rolls? Well, don't worry about us, lad. You might tell your employer that I might be able to help him in a matter which he will find fairly pressing in a day or so." He pushed the door wide open and quietly told Tyreen to get out. Then, turning to the young bodyguard: "If I were you, laddie, I'd watch yourself. Also, I'd get that wrist seen to. Nasty bruise, by the look of it."
A voice called out, "Okay, Archie. They're upstairs."
The young man turned away and scurried in the direction of the man who had called him from behind the Rolls.
At the same moment one of the hotel porters came hurrying up. "Now, sir. Sorry to have kept you waiting. The luggage, sir?"
Bannon looked across the car toward Tyreen. "Light him up like a bonfire," he said again. "Or even a Christmas tree."
"A Tannenbaum. Give me half a chance and I'll do some of the destroying with you," she said softly.
The next day, Saturday, it was as though Sir Max and Lady Tasha did not even exist. Neither John Bannon nor Tyreen Mackenzie mentioned them --- not at breakfast, or during their walk along King's Parade, past the Senate House, and on down to Trinity and a casual stroll through St. John's College. They walked, hand in hand, through the wonderful old courts, then across the Bridge of Sighs and through the great stone filigree of New Court --- taking them out onto the Backs: the long grassy, tree-dotted parkland, past the old bridges leading to the major colleges. There were even a few punts out on the river, and the banks were covered with their springtime carpet of flowers.
John Bannon had always preferred Cambridge to Oxford. Here the colleges were more visible, and apart from the somewhat brash, angular additions of the twentieth century, colleges like King's, Trinity, and John's looked much as they had since they were first built. He even enjoyed the nineteenth-century addition of New Court at St. John's College; blasted by many as a Gothic horror, its cloisters and carved intricacies had long since mellowed, while the great views from the Backs gave an almost timeless atmosphere to the old University City.
During lunch, which they took at a favorite restaurant on King's Parade, there was still no mention of the Tanns, nor during their hike out to Grantchester, across the meadows, and back again. By early evening they both felt the fresh glow of good health that comes from exercise, and the mutual pleasure of each other's company. It had just been warm enough for them to sit in the gardens at the Grantchester Arms and have tea with plates of triangular sandwiches and cream cakes before the trek back to the University Arms. Once back they rode the birdcage lift back up their rooms and hung out the Do Not Disturb sign.
A couple of hours later, Bannon broached the subject. "You spot them?" he asked.
"Who?"
"Our friends the watchers. Our guardian angels and Tann's messengers of doom."
"Oh, them. I think I noticed the odd car, and they seemed to have a series of footpads walking and loitering."
"The footpads might just belong to Tann. I spotted our nasty little friend from last night, in street clothes. He had his hand taped up."
"Well, you did clobber him rather hard." This from the young woman with the strength of a dozen men.
"Not as hard as you could have, my dear. And yes, there are around six or seven cars and vans. I shouldn't be surprised if Tann's people've spotted them as well. The vans are pretty obvious, with that reflective glass in the sides and those damned great aerials. There's also a British Telecom van across the road, which they're digging up: playing with wires and getting visits from Head Office. Did you see the couple they've got on the inside?"
"The young lovers?"
"Don't look old enough to be out on their own, and they stink to high heaven. Real lovers wouldn't spend so much time in the foyer, they'd be up in their room."
"Like us, darling."
"Exactly like us, and more of it wouldn't come amiss."
She disregarded his last comment by asking about what he intended to do about Tann.
"I'm anxious about the high-profile surveillance, but the frontal approach is really the only way. A little note, probably first thing in the morning. Then we play it by ear. If his own people have got the scent of the MI5's highly visible lookouts, he should react favorably. On the other hand, I wouldn't put it past him to remain unruffled and just motor back to London as if nothing had happened. I've always thought that tipping him off contained the possibility of everything backfiring."
"So what would they do then?" She reached for a cigarette, putting it in her mouth.
"Nothing, if they're wise, though I don't set much store by their wisdom. Most likely they'll revert to their original plan and storm in, pull out the warrants, and end up looking like imbeciles. In fact, I think I'll call London and test the waters. They told me to keep in touch in the usual way."
"You're going to call from here?" She made no move to light the cigarette between her lips.
He headed toward the bathroom. "Not on your life. The switchboard --- even the automatic dialing --- will be well tied up. As we speak, there's probably some damned great van full of electronics and a dozen tape machines monitoring everything in and out of Tann's suites and our own."
Twenty minutes later he headed out of the main doors of the hotel, making his way onto the scrubby meadows of Parker's Piece, where there were three public telephones, two of them already occupied by gowned undergraduates talking loudly.
Taking the spare telephone and using a calling card, he dialed the contact number for MI5. It was answered immediately with a "Yes?" from a calm female voice.
"Brother John." Bannon rolled his eyes toward heaven. MI5 was responsible for the cryptos to be used in telephone contacts. They went through the ritual just for the sake of it. Evenwith the huge changes and reorganizations, old habit died hard.
"Yes, Brother John, how's your sister?"
"As well as can be expected. I called to say that I'll be posting the letter in the morning. Probably near lunchtime. Wondered if the Reverend Father Superior had any further instructions."
"No, everything appears to be running smoothly.
"Good. Perhaps you'd better tell him that I believe they've located the music."
"You mean Mr. Watchman's found it?"
"Almost certainly. I think it was with the Amateur Operatic Society."
"Oh."
"If some of it can be toned down, it might help."
A long silence, ending with "Nothing else you need?"
"No. I'll report either late tomorrow or first thing on Monday."
"I think late tomorrow would be best."
"Whatever you think appropriate." He closed the line and headed back to the hotel just in time to see Sir Max and Lady Tann, dressed to kill, being shepherded into the Rolls. Max was off to make his speech, no doubt. He hoped the dinner was terrible and that Tann's speech contained many clichés like "The long winter of recession is turning into a spring which demands a courage of commitment by our financial institutions."
They went down the road to a little Indian restaurant, where they gorged themselves on Onion Bhajjis, Lamb Korma with Bombay potatoes, chapatis, and relishes. "At least we'll only taste each other," Tyreen said as they walked back to the hotel. From their room they called down to room service, where Bannon ordered a large pot of coffee, specifying that he wanted it freshly brewed and piping hot, hinting that it would be sent back if it was not to his liking. Saturday nights in provincial British hotels --- even in a great university city --- often brought out the worst in room service. This time it worked and the coffee was excellent. They drank it together as they sat at the one small desk and worked on the note for Tann.
It took an hour before they were both satisfied with the wording and, even then, Tyreen had her doubts about the last sentence.
Dear Sir Max,
My name is James Baxter, and my wife and I were traveling on your ship, Aegean Princess, earlier this year when the so-called incident occurred. You may well have heard of us, as we were able to come to the other passengers' aid during the attempted holdup. We were both exceptionally impressed at the way your captain and crew acted when we were forced to abandon ship. They were very professional, putting the passengers first, and we have nothing but admiration for them and, naturally, for your organization.
I am a civil servant, highly placed in both the Home and Foreign Offices, and I have some rather sensitive information which concerns you and your various business enterprises.
We are spending the weekend in the hotel, and I would be grateful if you could spare me a few minutes so that I can both thank you and pass on information which should be of great interest to you.
It was signed J. Baxter, and Tyreen held that the final sentence sounded like a cloaked threat of blackmail.
"That's what I intended it to sound like." Bannon did not smile.
"Put him on the defensive?"
"No. Remember, he thinks he's home and dry. We've already agreed that he imagines himself fireproof. The letter is kind of disingenuous if you read it carefully --- slightly fawning, with the bit of veiled menace at the end. I want it to sound like something written by a middle-management type with just a hint that he thinks he's maybe on to fairy gold."
They spent the remainder of the evening watching an edifying TV program on the migratory and mating habits of whales. Normally it would have been interesting to both of them, but --- with the fresh air of the day and the large meal, and after engaging in a lengthy hands-on refresher on the mating habits of humans --- "Mr. and Mrs. James Baxter" were soon sound asleep in each other's arms.
