New Haven,
then began to manipulate his craft around the object. Manoeuvring with great delicacy he inched still closer, until no more than five or six feet separated his vessel from the object.
‘My God,’ he murmured. ‘This is it!’
The last doubt was removed as they saw a name on the side of the sunken object: ZOLOTO 14-2967.
‘Mission accomplished, Captain,’ the commander said, ‘I have located the Russian submarine.’
He spent more than an hour slowly making a circle around the sub, making certain that the hull was intact, that the ejection ports for all eight of the ship’s atomic projectiles were tightly closed.
‘I’ve run out of film, sir,’ the young lieutenant said.
‘I think we’ve seen enough for one day,’ the commander said, and added under his breath, ‘For a lifetime, maybe.’
Neither he nor his subordinates felt any sense of elation as they discarded iron ballast and the bathyscaphe began her slow ascent to the surface of the South China Sea. They had enjoyed complete success in the final phase of the intensive search conducted by the United States Navy for the Soviet atomic submarine that had vanished without a trace in the Pacific Ocean. Washington would rejoice: not only might it be possible to capture one or more Russian atomic weapons and learn precisely how they were made, but an even greater treasure, a copy of the Red Navy’s secret communications code, also was on board.
If it could be retrieved – and the commander had no idea how the feat might be accomplished – the US Navy would be in a position to decipher every message sent to and from the submarines of its Soviet counterpart. The superpowers might be enjoying what they called detente, but diplomatic cordiality didn’t mean the American admirals could relax their vigilance, and the capture of the code, if it could be done, would be even more valuable than a Russian atomic projectile.
But the commander was depressed, and so were the members of his crew. As men who spent their professional lives in underwater searches and exploration, they knew that the Zoloto class of submarine carried a complement of more than 100 men. That meant a large number of human beings were entombed in the 14-2967, victims of the cold War waged with relentless fury for more than thirty years.
Two
The Eurasian girl was insatiable, and he started to make love to her for the third time when the telephone rang.
He rolled over, cursing silently, and plucked the instrument from its cradle. ‘Porter.’
‘The mountains of Szechuan are very high,’ the man at the other end of the line said.
Porter immediately became alert. ‘I’ve been told there is snow in the higher passes all through the year.’ His accent marked him as English, but was a curious mixture of Oxbridge and Redbrick, with the vowels flattened by long association with Americans.
‘Your information is correct. It sometimes reaches a depth of twenty feet.’ The way the man slurred his consonants identified him as Chinese.
‘In July?’
‘Oh, yes. In August also, and sometimes in September.’
‘Then in winter,’ Porter said, ‘it must be at least forty feet deep. Remarkable, isn’t it?’ He replaced the telephone in the cradle.
The Eurasian girl pushed back a mass of long, blue-black hair, propped herself on one elbow and stared at him.
He was already on his feet, beginning to dress. ‘No more time for fun and games, my love. I’m on my way.’
Sulkily and without comment she climbed out of the other side of the bed and put on her clothes.
Porter checked his Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, strapped on his shoulder holster and donned his jacket. Then he packed his one valise.
The girl sat before a dressing-table mirror, carefully applying eye-liner and mascara.
He counted out an extra hundred Hong Kong dollars beyond the agreed fee and placed it beside her. ‘You’ll have to make yourself beautiful in your own time, my love. I’m in a hurry.’
She was unaccustomed to such treatment, but the finality of his tone made further discussion impossible, so she stuffed the money into her shoulderbag along with her cosmetics.
‘I’ll call you when I’m next in town.’ He held the door for her.
She made a dignified exit into the hotel corridor.
Porter bolted the door before he took a second pistol from a bedside table. It was a Lilliput that fitted into the palm of his hand, and he smiled without humour as he dropped it into his jacket pocket. Placing his toilet articles in a leather case, he closed his valise, then glanced at his watch before moving to the window. Hong Kong harbour stretched out below, its calm waters creased by freighters and passenger liners, sampans and diesel-powered junks, and the ferries that sailed endlessly between Victoria Island and Kowloon. He paid no attention to the civilian shipping, but concentrated for a few moments on the Australian cruiser and two American destroyers riding at anchor in the Royal Navy berths at the edge of the Wanchai nightclub district. He waited five minutes, then went down to the lobby, where he paid his bill with precisely the right amount of money before walking without undue haste to a small side entrance.
There he waited for another two minutes, waving away the attendant who wanted to relieve him of his luggage. Porter was of medium height and appeared to be in his late thirties, his inconspicuously tailored suit concealing an athletic build, his training enabling him to stand motionless, calling no attention to himself. Others who used the side entrance ignored him, and if asked would have said he was blue-eyed, perhaps, and that he was either very dark or very fair. Actually he was neither, and had hazel eyes, medium to short brown hair and chiselled features that showed no expression.
At the appointed moment he went through the revolving doors just as a dilapidated taxi pulled up to the entrance.
Porter dropped his valise on the floor and sat in the far corner. ‘Okay?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sure I wasn’t followed. Reasonably sure,’ the Chinese driver said.
‘Let’s make very certain of it, shall we?’ There was a hint of amusement in Porter’s tone.
The taxi shot away from the entrance, its powerful engine belying its appearance, and slipped into the mainstream of waterfront traffic. ‘Chang is waiting for you at Kai Tak Airport,’ the driver said. ‘He’ll meet you at hangar number four with your ticket and instructions.’
‘Ah, then, I’m travelling to the States.’
‘Apparently, sir.’ The man studied the traffic behind them through his rear-view mirror as he drove on to the overpass that would take them to the tunnel under the harbour.
Porter knew better than to ask why he had been summoned without warning. The Corporation discouraged unnecessary chat between its senior operatives and lower-level employees.
The taxi entered the tunnel, where two lines of cars were moving at high speed in the same direction.
Reacting instinctively, Porter removed the safety catch from his Lilliput and hunched down in his seat to make as small a target as he could. Tunnels were convenient for ambushes.
The taxi emerged on to a new highway built over the slums of Kowloon, the concrete ribbon cutting a broad path through mazes of buildings, twelve to fifteen storeys high, where millions lived in high-rise Crown Colony squalor. Entire families occupied single rooms, tomato plants were crowded on to tiny balconies beside drying laundry and one-burner alcohol stoves. The late afternoon heat softened the asphalt on the streets where pedestrians in vast numbers roamed, looking for bargains in cubicle-sized shops and markets, all with open fronts. There was no breeze, and the odours of cooking oil, garlic, and humanity drifted up to the highway.