it by the wrist.
Fontini-Cristi got up and crossed to the agent, tearing off part of his shirt as he did so. “Let me wrap that for you. Stop the bleeding—”
Apple jerked his head up and spoke in quiet anger. “Stay the hell away from me. Your goddamned principles cost too much.”
The seas were heavy, the winds strong, the rolls violent and abrupt. They had plowed through the drenching waves of the open water for thirty-eight minutes. Arrangements had been made, the blockade run; the trawler’s engines were now idling.
Beyond the swells, Vittorio could see a small flashing blue disc: on for a beat, off for a beat. The signal from a submarine. The Corsican on the bow with the lantern began his own signal. He lowered and raised the lamp, using the gunwale as a shutter, imitating the timing of the blue disc half a mile away over the waters.
“Can’t you radio him?” Pear shouted his question.
“Frequencies are monitored,” replied the Corsican. “The patrol boats would circle in; we can’t bribe them all.”
The two vessels began their cautious pavane over the rough seas, the trawler making most of the moves until the huge undersea marauder was directly off the starboard rail. Fontini-Cristi was hypnotized by its size and black majesty.
The two ships drifted within fifty feet of each other, the submarine considerably higher on the mountainous waves.Four men could be seen on the deck; they were hanging on to a metal railing, the two in the center trying to manipulate some kind of machine.
A heavy rope shot through the air and crashed against the midships of the trawler. Two Corsicans leaped at it, holding on desperately, as if the line had a hostile will of its own. They lashed the rope to an iron winch in the center of the deck and signaled the men on the submarine.
The action was repeated. But the second rope was not the only item that had been shot from the submarine. There was a canvas pouch with metal rings on the edges, and from one of these rings was a thick coil of wire that extended back to the crew on the sub’s deck.
The Corsicans ripped open the canvas pack and pulled out a shoulder harness. Fontini-Cristi recognized it immediately; it was a rig used to cross crevasses in the mountains.
Pear, bracing himself as he lurched forward on the rolling deck, approached Vittorio.
“It’s a bit skin-crawling, but it’s safe!” he yelled.
Vittorio shouted back “Send your man Apple first. His hand should be looked after.”
“You’re the priority. And frankly, if the damn thing doesn’t hold, I’d rather we find out with you!”
Fontini-Cristi sat on the iron bunk inside the small metal room and drank from the thick china mug of coffee. He pulled the Royal Navy blanket around his shoulders, feeling the wet clothes beneath. The discomfort did not bother him; he was grateful to be alone.
The door of the small metal room opened. It was Pear. He carried an armful of clothing which he dropped on the bunk.
“Here’s a dry change for you. It wouldn’t do for you to croak off with pneumonia now. That’d be a clanker in the balls, wouldn’t it?”
“Thank you,” said Vittorio, getting up. “How’s your friend?”
“The ship’s doctor is afraid he’ll lose the use of his hand. The doctor hasn’t told him, but he knows.”
“I’m sorry. I was naïve.”
“Yes,” agreed the Britisher simply. “You were naïve.” He left leaving the door open.
From the narrow metal corridors outside the tiny metal room, there was a sudden eruption of noise. Men raced by the door, all running in the same direction, fore or aft, Fontini-Cristi could not tell. Over the ship’s intercom a piercing, deafening whistle shrieked without letup; metal doors slammed, the shouting increased.
Vittorio lunged at the open door; his breathing stopped. The panic of helplessness under the sea gripped him.
He collided with a British sailor. But the sailor’s face was not contorted in panic. Or fear. Or
Fontini-Cristi got up and crossed to the agent, tearing off part of his shirt as he did so. “Let me wrap that for you. Stop the bleeding—”
Apple jerked his head up and spoke in quiet anger. “Stay the hell away from me. Your goddamned principles cost too much.”
The seas were heavy, the winds strong, the rolls violent and abrupt. They had plowed through the drenching waves of the open water for thirty-eight minutes. Arrangements had been made, the blockade run; the trawler’s engines were now idling.
Beyond the swells, Vittorio could see a small flashing blue disc: on for a beat, off for a beat. The signal from a submarine. The Corsican on the bow with the lantern began his own signal. He lowered and raised the lamp, using the gunwale as a shutter, imitating the timing of the blue disc half a mile away over the waters.
“Can’t you radio him?” Pear shouted his question.
“Frequencies are monitored,” replied the Corsican. “The patrol boats would circle in; we can’t bribe them all.”
The two vessels began their cautious pavane over the rough seas, the trawler making most of the moves until the huge undersea marauder was directly off the starboard rail. Fontini-Cristi was hypnotized by its size and black majesty.
The two ships drifted within fifty feet of each other, the submarine considerably higher on the mountainous waves.Four men could be seen on the deck; they were hanging on to a metal railing, the two in the center trying to manipulate some kind of machine.
A heavy rope shot through the air and crashed against the midships of the trawler. Two Corsicans leaped at it, holding on desperately, as if the line had a hostile will of its own. They lashed the rope to an iron winch in the center of the deck and signaled the men on the submarine.
The action was repeated. But the second rope was not the only item that had been shot from the submarine. There was a canvas pouch with metal rings on the edges, and from one of these rings was a thick coil of wire that extended back to the crew on the sub’s deck.
The Corsicans ripped open the canvas pack and pulled out a shoulder harness. Fontini-Cristi recognized it immediately; it was a rig used to cross crevasses in the mountains.
Pear, bracing himself as he lurched forward on the rolling deck, approached Vittorio.
“It’s a bit skin-crawling, but it’s safe!” he yelled.
Vittorio shouted back “Send your man Apple first. His hand should be looked after.”
“You’re the priority. And frankly, if the damn thing doesn’t hold, I’d rather we find out with you!”
Fontini-Cristi sat on the iron bunk inside the small metal room and drank from the thick china mug of coffee. He pulled the Royal Navy blanket around his shoulders, feeling the wet clothes beneath. The discomfort did not bother him; he was grateful to be alone.
The door of the small metal room opened. It was Pear. He carried an armful of clothing which he dropped on the bunk.
“Here’s a dry change for you. It wouldn’t do for you to croak off with pneumonia now. That’d be a clanker in the balls, wouldn’t it?”
“Thank you,” said Vittorio, getting up. “How’s your friend?”
“The ship’s doctor is afraid he’ll lose the use of his hand. The doctor hasn’t told him, but he knows.”
“I’m sorry. I was naïve.”
“Yes,” agreed the Britisher simply. “You were naïve.” He left leaving the door open.
From the narrow metal corridors outside the tiny metal room, there was a sudden eruption of noise. Men raced by the door, all running in the same direction, fore or aft, Fontini-Cristi could not tell. Over the ship’s intercom a piercing, deafening whistle shrieked without letup; metal doors slammed, the shouting increased.
Vittorio lunged at the open door; his breathing stopped. The panic of helplessness under the sea gripped him.
He collided with a British sailor. But the sailor’s face was not contorted in panic. Or fear. Or
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