Semmler laughed. “This old bucket uses as much oil as Diesel. Besides, we might as well get it here and have enough for a long time to come.”

“When do you need it?” asked the agent.

“Five o’clock this afternoon be all right?” asked Semmler.

“Make it six,” said the agency man, noting the type and quantity in his notebook, along with the hour of delivery. He looked up at the customs man. The official nodded. He was uninterested and strolled away. Shortly after, the agency man left in his car, followed by the two trucks.

At five o’clock Semmler left the Toscana, went to a phone in a caf6 on the waterfront, rang the agency, and canceled the oil order. The skipper, he said, had discovered a full barrel at the rear of the stores locker and would not be needing any more for several weeks. The agency man was disgruntled but agreed.

At six a truck drove carefully along the quay and stopped opposite the Toscana. It was driven by Jean-Baptiste Langarotti in a bright green overall suit with the word Castrol on the back.

After opening the back of the truck, he carefully rolled five large oil drums down the plank he had fitted to the rear step. From the window of the customs house the duty officer peered out.

Waldenberg caught his eye and waved. He pointed to the barrels and back to his ship.

“Okay?” he called, adding with a thick accent, “ַa va?”

From the window the customs man nodded and withdrew to make a note on his clipboard. At Waldenberg’s orders, the two Italian crewmen slipped cradles under the barrels and, one by one, winched them aboard. Semmler was uncommonly eager to help, steadying the drums as they swung over the ship’s rail, shouting in German to Waldenberg on the winch to let them down easily. They slid out of sight into the dark, cool hold of the Toscana, and soon the hatch was back in place and clamped down.

Langarotti, having made his dispatch, had long since left in his truck. A few minutes later the overall suit was at the bottom of a waste bin in the heart of town. From his bollard at the other end of the quay, Shannon had watched the loading with bated breath. He would have preferred to be involved, like Semmler, for the waiting was almost physically painful, worse than going into action.

When it was over, things quieted down on the Toscana. The captain and his three men were below decks, the engineer having taken one turn of the ship to sniff the salt air and then having gone back to his

Diesel fumes. Semmler gave them half an hour, then slipped down to the" quay and came to join Shannon. They met around three corners and out of sight of the harbor.

Semmler was grinning. “I told you. No problems.”

Shannon nodded and grinned back with relief. He knew better than Semmler what was at stake, and, unlike the German, he was not familiar with port procedures.

“When can you take the men aboard?”

“The customs office closes at nine. They should come between twelve and one in the morning. We sail at five. It’s fixed.”

“Good,” said Shannon. “Let’s go and find them and have a drink. I want you back there quickly in case there are any inquiries still to come.”

“There won’t be.”

“Never mind. We’ll play safe. I want you to watch that cargo like a mother hen. Don’t let anyone near those barrels till I say so, and that will be in a harbor in Yugoslavia. Then we tell Waldenberg what he’s carrying.”

They met the other three mercenaries at a prearranged café and had several beers to cool down. The sun was setting, and the sea within the vast bowl of land that forms the anchorage and roads of Toulon was ruffled by only a slight breeze. A few sailboats pirouetted like ballerinas far out on the stage as their crews brought them about to catch the next gust.

Semmler left them at eight and returned to the Toscana.

Janni Dupree and Marc Vlaminck slipped quietly aboard between midnight and one, and at five, watched from the quay by Shannon and Langarotti, the Toscana slipped back to the sea.

Langarotti ran Shannon to the airport in midmorning to catch his plane. Over breakfast Shannon had given the Corsican his last set of instructions and enough money to carry them out.

“I’d prefer to be going with you,” Jean-Baptiste said, “or with the ship.”

“I know,” said Shannon. “But I need someone good to do this part of it. It’s vital. Without it we can’t go through. I need someone reliable, and you have the added advantage of being French. Besides, you know two of the men well, and one speaks a smattering of French. Janni couldn’t go in there with a South African passport. Marc I need to intimidate the crew if they cut up rough. I know you’re better with a knife than he is with his hands, but I don’t want a fight, just enough to persuade the crew to do what they’re told. And I need Kurt to check the navigation, in case Waldenberg chickens out. In fact, if the worst comes to the worst and Waldenberg goes over the side, Kurt has to skipper the ship. So it has to be you.”

Langarotti agreed to go on the mission. “They’re good boys,” he said with a little more enthusiasm. “It will be good to see them again.”

When they parted at the airport, Shannon reminded him, “It can all fall through if we get there and we have no back-up force. So it depends on you to do it right. It’s all set up. Just do what I said and cope with the small problems as they arise. I’ll see you in a month.”

He left the Corsican, walked through customs, and boarded his plane for Paris and Hamburg.

19

“My information is that you can pick up the mortars and bazookas any time after June tenth, and that was reconfirmed yesterday by Telex,” Alan Baker told Shannon the day after his arrival in Hamburg.

“What port?” asked Shannon.

“Ploce.”

“Where?”

“Ploce. Spelled P-L-O-C-E, pronounced Plochay. It’s a small port almost exactly halfway between Split and Dubrovnik.”

Shannon thought. He had ordered Semmler while in Genoa to pick up the necessary sea charts to cover the whole Yugoslav coast, but he had supposed the pick-up would be at one of the larger ports. He hoped the German had a chart covering the sea approaches to Ploce, or could get one at Brindisi.

“How small?”

“Quite small. Very discreet. Half a dozen wharves and two large warehouses. The Yugoslavs usually use it for their arms exports. The last shipment out of Yugoslavia I did by plane, but I was told at that time if it was to be by sea, it would be from Ploce. It’s better if it’s a small port. There’s usually a berth, and loading facilities are quicker. Moreover, the customs there must be a very small unit, probably with one lowly man in charge, and if he gets his present, he’ll see everything on board within a few hours.”

“Okay, Ploce. On June eleventh,” said Shannon.

Baker noted the date. “The Toscana is okay?” he asked. He decided to bear the Toscana in mind for later use. Shannon, he was sure, would have little use for her after whatever operation he was mounting was finished, and Baker was always on the lookout for a good boat for running his cargoes into deserted coves.

“She’s fine,” said Shannon. “She’s running for an Italian port now, where I have to let her know by Telex or letter where to head for. Any problems at your end?”

Baker shifted slightly. “One,” he said. “The price.”

“What about it?”

“I know I quoted you fixed prices, totaling fourteen thousand, four hundred dollars. But the system inside Yugoslavia has changed over the past six months. To get the paperwork through on time, I had to engage a Yugoslav partner. At least, that’s what he is called, though in fact he’s another middleman.”

“So?” asked Shannon.

“So he has to get a fee or salary for getting the paperwork through the Belgrade office. On balance, I supposed it was worth it to you to have the shipment ready on tune and no bureaucratic hang-ups. So I agreed to engage him. He’s the brother-in-law of the official in the Trade Ministry. It’s another way of taking a kickback. But what can you expect these days? The Balkans are still the Balkans, and they’ve got wised up.”