It turned out to be smoother than they thought. Toulon is known as an enormous navy base, and the skyline at the harbor is dominated by the superstructures of the French navy warships lying at anchor. The center of attraction for the tourists and the strollers of Toulon that Monday was the battle cruiser Jean Bart, home from a voyage to the French Caribbean territories, full of sailors with back pay to spend and looking for girls.

Along the broad sweep of esplanade fronting the harbor, the cafés were full of people indulging in the favorite pastime of every Mediterranean country— watching life go by. They sat in brightly colored hordes, gazing from the shaded awnings across the half-mile of bobbing yachts—from little outboard-powered runabouts to the sleek sea greyhounds of the very rich.

Up against the eastward quay were the dozen fishing boats that had elected not to go to sea, and behind these were the long, low customs sheds, warehouses, and harbor offices.

It was beyond these, in the small and hardly observed commercial port, that the Toscana slipped into her berth just before noon.

Shannon waited till she was tied up, and from his seat on a bollard 150 feet away he could see Semmler and Waldenberg moving about the decks. There was no sign of the Serbian engineer, who was probably still in his beloved engine room, but two other figures were also on deck, making fast and coiling ropes. These had to be the two new crewmen recruited by Waldenberg.

A small Renault buzzed along the quay and came to a halt by the gangway. A rotund Frenchman in a dark suit emerged and went aboard the Toscana. The representative of Agence Maritime Duphot. Before long he came back down, followed by Waldenberg, and the two strolled over to the customs shed. It was nearly an hour before the two men emerged, the shipping agent to return to his car and drive away into town, the German captain to get back to his ship.

Shannon gave them another thirty minutes, then he too strolled up the gangway and onto the Toscana. Semmler beckoned him into the companionway that led down to the crew’s saloon.

“So, what’s been going on?” Shannon asked when he and Semmler were seated below.

Semmler grinned. “All smooth and easy,” he said. "I got the papers changed to show the new captain, had a complete engine service done, bought an unnecessarily large amount of blankets and a dozen foam-rubber mattresses. No one asked any questions, and the captain still thinks we are going to run immigrants into Britain.

“I used the Toscana’s usual shipping agent in Genoa to book us in here, and the manifest says we are taking on a mixed cargo of sporting goods and leisure equipment for a holiday camp on the coast of Morocco.”

“What about the engine-lubricating oil?”

Semmler grinned. “It was all ordered; then I called up and canceled it. When it didn’t arrive, Waldenberg wanted to delay for a day and wait for it. I vetoed that and said we would get it here in Toulon.”

“Fine,” said Shannon. “Don’t let Waldenberg order it. Tell him you’ve done it yourself. Then when it arrives, he’ll be expecting it. That man who came on board…”

“The shipping agent. He has all the stuff still in bond, and the papers prepared. He’s sending it down this afternoon in a couple of trucks. The crates are so small we can load them ourselves with the derrick.”

“Good. Let him and Waldenberg sort out the paperwork. An hour after the stuff is all aboard, the fuel-company truck will arrive with the oil. Driven by Langarotti. You have enough money left to pay for it?”

“Yes.”

“Then pay for it in full, cash, and get a signed receipt. Just make sure no one bangs it about too hard as it goes aboard. The last thing we need is for the bottom of one of the barrels to fall out. The quay will be waist-deep in Schmeissers.”

“When do the men come aboard?”

“Tonight after dark. One by one. Just Marc and Janni. I’m leaving Jean-Baptiste here for a while. He has the truck, and there’s one more job to be done at this end. When can you sail?”

“Any time. Tonight. I can fix it. Actually, it’s rather nice being the managing director.”

“Don’t get too accustomed to it. It’s only a front.”

“Okay, Cat. Incidentally, where are we going when we leave?”

“Brindisil Know it?”

“Sure I know it. I’ve run more cigarettes into Italy from Yugoslavia than you’ve had hot dinners. What do we pick up there?”

"Nothing. You wait for my telegram. I’ll be in Germany. I’ll cable you through the port office at Brindisi with the next destination and the day you have to arrive. Then you must get a local agent to cable the

Yugoslav port in question and reserve a berth. Are you okay to go to Yugoslavia?"

“I think so. Anyway, I won’t get off the ship. We pick up more arms?”

“Yes. At least, that’s the plan. I just have to hope my arms dealer and the Yugoslav officials have not cocked it up. Do you have all the charts you need?”

“Yes, I bought them all in Genoa as you told me. You know, Waldenberg will have to realize what we are taking on board in Yugoslavia. Then he’ll know we aren’t running illegal immigrants. He accepts the speedboats and the engines, the walkie-talkies and the clothing as quite normal, but arms are something else again.”

“I know,” said Shannon. “It will cost a bit of money. But I think he’ll get the message. There’ll be you and me, Janni and Marc on board. Besides, by then we can tell him what’s in the oil drums. He’ll be so far in by then, he’ll have to go along. What are the two new crewmen like?”

Semmler nodded and stubbed out his fifth cigarette. The air was a blue haze in the small saloon. “Good. Two Italians. Hard boys, but obedient. I think they’re both wanted by the carabinieri for something. They were so pleased to get on board and under cover. They couldn’t wait to get to sea.”

“Fine. Then they won’t want to be put ashore in a foreign country. That would mean they’d be picked up without papers and repatriated, straight into the hands of their own police.”

Waldenberg had done well. Shannon met both men briefly, and short nods were exchanged. Semmler simply introduced him as a man from the head office, and Waldenberg translated. The men, Norbiatto, the first mate, and Cipriani, the deckhand, evinced no further interest. Shannon exchanged a few instructions with Waldenberg and left.

In midafternoon the two vans from Agence Maritime Duphot rolled to a stop by the Toscana, accompanied by the same man who had appeared that morning. A

French customs officer, clipboard in hand, emerged from the customs house and stood by as the crates were swung inboard by the ship’s derrick: four crates of assorted rough clothing, belts, boots, and caps, for the Moroccan workers at the holiday village; three crated large-size inflatable dinghies for sporting and leisure purposes; three outboard engines for same; two crates assorted flares, binoculars, ship’s gas-powered foghorn, radio parts, and magnetic compasses. The last crates were listed under ship’s stores.

The customs officer ticked them off as they went aboard, and confirmed with the shipping agent that they were either bonded for re-export, having arrived from Germany or Britain, or they were locally bought and carried no export duty. The customs man did not even look inside the crates. He knew the agency well, dealing with them every day.

When all was aboard, the customs man stamped the ship’s cargo manifest. Waldenberg said something to Semmler in German, and the latter translated. He explained to the agency man that Waldenberg needed lubricating oil for his engines. It had been ordered in Genoa but had not been delivered in tune.

The agency man noted in his book. “How much do you need?”

“Five drums,” said Semmler. Waldenberg did not understand the French.

“That’s a lot,” said the agent.