COPARELLI SOLD TO SAVILE SHIPPING OF ZURICH. YOUR MESSAGE PASSED TO NEW OWNERS. STAND BY FOR THEIR INSTRUCTIONS.
Almost immediately afterward there was a signal from Savile Shipping:
OUR VESSEL GIL HAMILTON IN YOUR WATERS. SHE WILL COME ALONGSIDE AT APPROXIMATELY NOON. PREPARE TO DISEMBARK ALL CREW EXCEPT ENGINEER. GIL HAMILTON WILL TAKE CREW TO MARSEILLES. ENGINEER WILL AWAIT NEW OIL PUMP. The exchange of signals was heard sixty miles away by Solly Weinberg, the master of the Gil Hamilton and a commander in the Israeli Navy. He muttered, "Right on schedule. Well done, Koch." He set a course for the Coparelli and ordered full speed ahead.
. It was not heard by Yasif Hassan and Mahmoud aboard the Nablus 150 miles away. They were in the captain's cabin, bent over a sketch plan Hassan had drawn of the Coparelli, and they were deciding exactly how they would board her and take over. Hassan had instructed the Nablus's radio operator to listen out on two wavelengths: the one on which the Strombe?gls radio beacon~ broadcast and the one Tyrin was using for his clandestine signals from the Coparelli to Rostov aboard the Karla. Ilecause the messages were sent on the CopareIll's regular wavelength, the Nablus did not pick them up. It would be some time before the Fedayeen realized they were hijacking an almost abandoned ship.
The exchange was heard 200 miles away on the bridge of the Stromberg. When the Caparelli acknowledged the signal from Papagopolous, the officers on the' bridge cheered and clapped. Nat Dickstein, leaning against a bulkhead with a mug of black coffee in his hand~ staring ahead at the rain and the heaving sea, did not cheer. His body was hunched and tense, his face stiff, his brown eyes slitted behind the plastic spectacles. One of the others noticed his silence and made a remark about getting over the first big hurdle. Dickstein's muttered reply was uncharacteristically peppered with the strongest of obscenities. The cheerful officer tamed away, and later in the mess observed that Dickstein looked like the kind Of man who would stick a knife in you if you stepped on his toe.
And it was heard by David Rostov and Suza Ashford 300 miles away aboard the Karla. Suza had been in a daze as she walked across the gangplank from the Sicilian quayside on to the Polish vessel. She had hardly noticed what was happening as Rostov showed her to her cabin-an officer's room with its own head-and said he hoped she would be comfortable. She sat on the bed. She was still there, in the same position, an hour later when a sailor brought some cold food on a tray and set it down on her table without speaking. She did not eat it. When it got dark she began to shiver, so she got into the bed and lay there with her eyes wide open, staring at nothing, stiff shivering. Eventually she had slept-fitfully at first, with strange meaningless nightmares, but in the end deeply. Dawn woke her. She lay still, feeling the motion of the ship and looking blankly at the cabin around her; and then she realized where she was. It was like waking up and remembering the blind terror of a nightmare, except that instead of thinking: Oh, thank God it was a dream, she realized it was all true and it was still going on. She felt horribly guilty. She had been fooling herself, she could see that now. She had convinced herself that she had to find Nat to warn him, no matter the risk; but the truth was she would have reached for any excuse to go and see him. The disastrous consequences of what she had done followed naturally from the confusion of her motives. It was true that Nat had been in danger; but he was in worse danger now, and it was Suza's fault. She thought of that, and she thought of how she was at sea in a Polish ship commanded by Nats enemies and surrounded by Russian thugs; and she closed her eyes tightly and pushed her head under the pillow and fought the hysteria that bubbled up in her throat. And then she began to feel angry, and thatwas what saved her sanity. She thought of her father, and how he wanted to use her to further his political ideas, and she felt angry with him. She thought of Hassan, manipulating her father, putting his hand on her knee, and she wished she had slapped his face while she had the chance. Finally she thought of Rostov, with his hard, intelligent face and his cold smile, and how he intended to ram Nat's ship and kill him, and she got mad as bell. Dickstein was her man. He was funny, and he was strong, and he was oddly vulnerable, and he wrote love letters and stole ships, and he was the only man she had ever loved like this; and she was not going to lose him. She was in the enemy camp, a prisoner, but only from her point of view. They thought she was on their side; they trusted her. Perhaps she would have a chance to throw a wrench in their works. She must look for it. She would move about the ship, concealing her fear, talking to her enemies, consolidating her position in their confidence, pretending -to 'Share their ambitions and concerns, until she saw her opportunity. The thought made her tremble. Then she told herself: If I don't do this, I lose him; and if I lose him I don't want to live. She got out of bed. She took off the clothes she had slept i% -washed and put on clean sweater and pants from her suitcase. She sat at the small nailed-down table and ate some of the sausage and cheese that had been left there the day before. She brushed her hair and, just to boost her morale a little, put on a trace of make-up. She tried her cabin door. It was not locked. She went out. She walked along a gangway and followed the smell of food to the galley. She went in and looked swiftly about. Rostov sat alone, eating eggs slowly with a fork. He looked up and saw her. Suddenly his face seemed icily evil, his narrow mouth hard, his eyes without emotion. Suza hesitated, then forced herself to walk toward him. Reaching his table, she leaned briefly on a chair, for her legs felt weak. Rostov said, "Sit down." She dropped into the chair. "How did you sleep?" She was breathing too quickly, as if she had been walking very fast. "Fine," she said. Her voice shook. His sharp, skeptical eyes seemed to bore into her brain. "You seem upset." He spoke evenly, without sympathy or hostility. "I . . ." Words seemed to stick in her tbroat, choking her. "Yesterday ... was confusing." It was true, anyway- it was easy to say this. "I never saw someone die." "Ah." At last a hint of human feeling showed in Rostov's expression: perhaps he remembered the first time he watched a man die. He reached for a coffee pot and poured her a cup. "You!re very young," he said. "You can't be much older than my first son." Suza sipped at the hot coffee gratefully, hoping be would go on talking in this fashion-it would help her to calm down. "Your sonT' she said.
"Yuri Davidovitch, he's twenty." "What does he dor' Rostov's smile was not as chilly as before. "Unfortunately he spends most of his time listening to decadent music. He doesn't study as hard as he should. Not like his brother." Suza's breathing was slowing to normal, and her hand no longer shook when she picked up her cup. She knew that this man was no less dangerous just because he had a family; but he seemed less frightening when he talked like this. "And your other sonT' shq asked. 'The younger one?" Rostov nodded. "Vladimir." Now he was not frightening at alclass="underline" he was staring over Suza's shoulder with a fond, indulgent expression on his face. "He's very gifted. He will be a great mathematician if he gets the right schooling." "That shouldn't be a problem," she said, watching him. "Soviet education is the best in the world." It seemed like a safe thing to say, but must have had some special significance for him, because the faraway look disappeared and his face turned hard and cold again. "No," he said. "It shouldn't be a problem." He continued eating his eggs. Suza thought urgently: He was becoming friendly, I mustn't lose him now. She cast about desperately for something to say. What did they have in common, what could they talk about? Then she was inspired. "I wish I could remember you from when you were at Oxford." "You were very small." He poured himself some coffee. "Everyone remembers your mother. She was easily the most beautiful woman around. And you're exactly like her." That's better, Suza thought. She asked him, "What did you study?" G.Economics." "Not an exact science in those days, I imagine. "And not much better today." Suza put on a faintly solemn expression. "We speak of bourReois economics, of course." "Of course." Rostov looked at her as if he could not tell whether she were serious or not. He seemed to decide she was. An officer came into the galley and svoke to him in Russian. Rostov looked at Suza regretfully. "I must go up to the bridge."