One walked cautiously, alert to the spaces of black silence.
“Ecco!”
whispered the Italian, his eyes up ahead. “Someone’s in that doorway. On the left. Do you have a weapon?”
“No. I haven’t had time—”
“Then
quickly!”
The owner of Il Tritone suddenly broke into a run, passing the doorway as a figure lurched out—a stocky man with arms raised, hands poised for interception. But there was no gun in those hands, no weapon but the thick hands themselves.
Havelock took several rapid strides toward the prowler, then spun into the shadows on the opposite side of the alley. The man lunged; Michael spun around again and, grabbing his assailant’s coat, hammered his right foot up into the man’s midsection. He pivoted a third time, now yanking theman off the ground, and hurled him into the wall. As the man fell, Havelock sprang downward, his left knee sinking into the man’s stomach, his right hand gripping the face and clawing at the eyes.
“Basta! Por favor! Se Deus quiser!”
choked the prowler, holding his groin, saliva dribbling from his mouth. The language was Portuguese, the man one of the crew of the
Cristóvão
. Michael yanked him up against the wall, into the dim light; he was the seaman who had spoken a few words of English at the table in Il Tritone.
“If you’re going into theft with assault and battery, you’re not doing it very well!”
“No, senhor! I wish only to talk, but I cannot be seen! You pay me, I’ll tell you things, but not where I can be seen with you!”
“Go on.”
“You pay!”
Havelock clamped the sailor’s neck against the brick with his forearm, reached into his pocket and took out his money. Shoving his knee into the man’s chest and freeing his hand, he removed two bills. “Twenty thousand lire,” he said. “Talk!”
“It’s worth mora. Much more, senhor! You will see.”
“I can take it back if it’s not.… Thirty thousand, that’s it. Go
on!”
“The woman goes aboard the
Cristóvão
…
sete
… seven
minutos
before we sail. It is arranged. She comes out the east warehouse door. She is guarded now; you cannot reach her. But she must walk forty meters to the cargo boarding plank.”
Michael released him and added another note to the three in the seaman’s hand. “Get out of here,” he said. “I never saw you.”
“You must
swear
to it, senhor!” cried the man, scrambling to his feet.
“Sworn. Now get out.”
Suddenly voices were heard at the end of the alley; two men came running out of the light.
“Americano! Americano!”
It was the owner of Il Tritone; he had returned with help. As the Portuguese started to race away they grabbed him.
“Let him go!” yelled Havelock. “It’s all right! Let him go!”
Sixty seconds later Michael explained to the owner of Il Tritone. “It’s not the
Teresa
. It’s the
Cristóvão.”
“It’s what was missing!” cried the Italian. “The knowledgeable
capitano
, the great seaman. It was there and I did not see it. Aliandro. João Aliandro! The finest captain in the Mediterranean. He could work his ship into any dangerous coastline, dropping off cargo wherever he wished, wherever the rocks and shoals called for no observers on shore. You have found your woman, signore.”
He crouched in the shadows of a stationary crane, the open spaces of the machinery allowing him unobstructed sight lines. The freighter’s cargo had been loaded; the teams of stevedores dispersed, swearing as they went their various ways across the wide avenue and down the narrow alleys into cafés. Except for the four-man cast-off crew the pier was deserted, and even those men were barely visible, standing motionless by the huge pilings, two men to a line, fore and aft.
A hundred yards behind him was the entrance gate, the obsequious guard inside his glass booth, his figure a gray silhouette in the rolling early-morning fog. Diagonally to the left in front of the crane some eighty-odd feet away was the
“Ecco!”
whispered the Italian, his eyes up ahead. “Someone’s in that doorway. On the left. Do you have a weapon?”
“No. I haven’t had time—”
“Then
quickly!”
The owner of Il Tritone suddenly broke into a run, passing the doorway as a figure lurched out—a stocky man with arms raised, hands poised for interception. But there was no gun in those hands, no weapon but the thick hands themselves.
Havelock took several rapid strides toward the prowler, then spun into the shadows on the opposite side of the alley. The man lunged; Michael spun around again and, grabbing his assailant’s coat, hammered his right foot up into the man’s midsection. He pivoted a third time, now yanking theman off the ground, and hurled him into the wall. As the man fell, Havelock sprang downward, his left knee sinking into the man’s stomach, his right hand gripping the face and clawing at the eyes.
“Basta! Por favor! Se Deus quiser!”
choked the prowler, holding his groin, saliva dribbling from his mouth. The language was Portuguese, the man one of the crew of the
Cristóvão
. Michael yanked him up against the wall, into the dim light; he was the seaman who had spoken a few words of English at the table in Il Tritone.
“If you’re going into theft with assault and battery, you’re not doing it very well!”
“No, senhor! I wish only to talk, but I cannot be seen! You pay me, I’ll tell you things, but not where I can be seen with you!”
“Go on.”
“You pay!”
Havelock clamped the sailor’s neck against the brick with his forearm, reached into his pocket and took out his money. Shoving his knee into the man’s chest and freeing his hand, he removed two bills. “Twenty thousand lire,” he said. “Talk!”
“It’s worth mora. Much more, senhor! You will see.”
“I can take it back if it’s not.… Thirty thousand, that’s it. Go
on!”
“The woman goes aboard the
Cristóvão
…
sete
… seven
minutos
before we sail. It is arranged. She comes out the east warehouse door. She is guarded now; you cannot reach her. But she must walk forty meters to the cargo boarding plank.”
Michael released him and added another note to the three in the seaman’s hand. “Get out of here,” he said. “I never saw you.”
“You must
swear
to it, senhor!” cried the man, scrambling to his feet.
“Sworn. Now get out.”
Suddenly voices were heard at the end of the alley; two men came running out of the light.
“Americano! Americano!”
It was the owner of Il Tritone; he had returned with help. As the Portuguese started to race away they grabbed him.
“Let him go!” yelled Havelock. “It’s all right! Let him go!”
Sixty seconds later Michael explained to the owner of Il Tritone. “It’s not the
Teresa
. It’s the
Cristóvão.”
“It’s what was missing!” cried the Italian. “The knowledgeable
capitano
, the great seaman. It was there and I did not see it. Aliandro. João Aliandro! The finest captain in the Mediterranean. He could work his ship into any dangerous coastline, dropping off cargo wherever he wished, wherever the rocks and shoals called for no observers on shore. You have found your woman, signore.”
He crouched in the shadows of a stationary crane, the open spaces of the machinery allowing him unobstructed sight lines. The freighter’s cargo had been loaded; the teams of stevedores dispersed, swearing as they went their various ways across the wide avenue and down the narrow alleys into cafés. Except for the four-man cast-off crew the pier was deserted, and even those men were barely visible, standing motionless by the huge pilings, two men to a line, fore and aft.
A hundred yards behind him was the entrance gate, the obsequious guard inside his glass booth, his figure a gray silhouette in the rolling early-morning fog. Diagonally to the left in front of the crane some eighty-odd feet away was the
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