Tremor of Intent

A loud complaint came from the corridor: 'Making me bloody strip for a short-arm inspection. If that's the condition for going ashore I'm staying on board. Bloody Russkies.' A cabin-door slammed. So Theodorescu's prediction was being fulfilled: a very capable, though bad, man.

'Lured?' said Alan. 'How lured?'

'You have two techniques available. If one fails, try the other. You, my boy, take that camera on deck. The Japanese one-'

'Japanese one?' He looked puzzled.

'Yes, yes. The one you say Theodorescu gave you. Take it without the case, though-' There was a knock at the door. It was Clara who raised her finger to shushing lips. 'Come in,' shouted Hillier bravely. He would bare his chest to bullets; he knew when he was beaten. Wriste peered in, then entered. He was smart for a shore visit, the grey suit natty enough for London, the tie-a vulgar touch that went with the toothless jaws – mock-Harrovian. He said: 'Not dressed yet? Still not feeling so good?' He saw Clara sitting on the bunk and did a Leporello-type leer.

'All right, forgive me butting in, but there's two blokes in the bar asking for you.'

'Russians?'

'Yes, but nice blokes both. Laughing and joking, speak lovely English. They said something about typewriters.'

'And they asked for Jagger.'

'More like Yagger. I just happened to be there getting my passport stamped. I didn't say more than that I'd look to see if you was in.'

'Well, I'm not. Say I've gone ashore.'

'Nobody's gone ashore yet. They've got some kind of FFI thing going on in one of the cabins. A very thorough lot, the Russians. Looking for drugs hidden up people's arseholes, perhaps. I beg your pardon, miss. I do most definitely beg your pardon. I really and most sincerely apologise for what I said then. I just forgot myself. I do most definitely-'

'You've heard of industrial espionage,' said Hillier. 'The Russians are better at it than anybody. Slip me a mickey and then gouge out all my technical secrets. Say,' he said, inspired, 'that I left the ship with a certain Mr Theo-dorescu. You saw that helicopter. A lot of people did. Tell them that.' Wriste discreetly slid his thumb along his finger-ends, three times, rapidly. 'Here,' Hillier sighed. He dug out a hundred-dollar bill from his bunkside table drawer. 'And don't let me down.'

'You, sir? You're my pal, you are. And I'm really sorry, miss. Sometimes my tongue just carries me away-'

'What's FFI?' asked Alan.

'Free From Infection,' said Wriste promptly. 'We used to have it coming back off leave.'

'How about now?' asked Hillier. 'This business now, I mean?'

'That's the fu

'Yes,' said Alan. 'You said something about a camera.'

'Find a solitary policeman and offer it for five roubles. That's mad, of course, but never mind. Just hold up five fingers and say _rubl__. He ought to slaver over a chance like that. And then say you've got the case in your cabin, no extra charge.'

'How do I say that? I don't know any Russian.'

'You disappoint me, you do really. Use gesture. He'll understand. Then bring him in here. He'll be quite willing to come. Any chance to snoop. He won't be suspicious of you, a mere youngster. There won't, of course, be any camera-case. There'll just be me.'

'And supposing it fails?'

If it fails we bring Plan Number Two into operation. Or rather Clara does.'

'What does Clara do?'

'You offer a camera, Clara offers herself.' The two drooped and became what they were, children. They widened shocked and fearful eyes at Hillier. 'It's an act,' said Hillier rapidly. 'Just that, no more. Just a bit of playacting. Nothing can happen. I shall be here in that wardrobe, waiting. But, of course,' he ended, as they still looked at him dumbly and reproachfully, 'you can't really fail with the camera trick.'

'But how do I do it?' asked Clara.

'Do I really have to tell you that? I thought you were interested in sex. All you have to do is to sway seductively and give him a bold look, what they call the old come-hither. You're supposed to know all that instinctively.' Ridiculously, Hillier demonstrated. They didn't laugh.

'All right, then.' Alan didn't look too happy. 'I'll go and start Plan Number One.'

'And the very best of luck.' Alan went out hanging his head. 'Well,' said Hillier to Clara, 'that's deflated him a bit, hasn't it? Not quite so cocky as he was.' He considered sitting beside Clara on the bunk, but then thought better of it. He took the nearest chair instead, crossing his legs, disclosing a bare hairy one beyond the knee, swinging it. There were women, he knew, who pretended that male knee-caps could be sexy. Clara didn't look at it; she looked at him. She said: 'Alan hasn't got a camera.'

'What?'

'He's never had a camera. He's never been interested in photographing things.'

'But he got one as a present. He said so.'

'Yes. I couldn't understand why he lied. If he'd got one he would have shown it me. He certainly wouldn't have hidden it. What he got from that man he hid.'

'Oh, God. Why didn't he say? This is no time for having secrets from each other.' That touched something in her -not sexology but True Romances. Hillier again considered sitting beside her.

'Why don't you forget all about it?' she said. 'It's just not worth it, is it? Killing and spying and kidnapping. Men. A lot of children.'

'Would you like a lot of children?'

'Oh, fancy asking a question like that now. There'd be time for questions like that if you weren't mixed up in all this stupidity. We could have a nice voyage.'

'We shall have a nice voyage when I've finished the job. I promise you. We'll read your sex-books together and drink beef-tea at mid-morning. Or perhaps we'll throw your sex-books overboard.'

'You're laughing at me.'

'I'm not,' said Hillier, not laughing. 'I'm deadly serious.' And then he thought: seriously dead; a serious case of death; prognosis purgatory. He wanted to live. The vowel shifted. A fat letter for a thin one. It seemed a long time since Wriste had talked about his typing sister. 'I think,' said Hillier, deadly serious, 'I could talk about love.' No man, uttering that word outside the heat of urgent need, could ever fail to be embarrassed by it. It was a con-man's word. But with women, even more with girls, it was different. Clara went roseate and looked down at the Line's carpet. Hillier had to give the word a meaning satisfactory to himself. The love he proposed, still marvelling at himself, was the only genuine kind: the incestuous kind. 'I mean it,' he said. 'Love.' And as an earnest of meaning it he covered his knees with his dressing-gown, imagining himself glued by honour to his chair.

'You shouldn't have said it,' flushed Clara. 'Not to me. We don't know each other.'

'It's not a word in your sex-books. If I'd proposed fellation you'd have taken it in your stride. Love. I said love.'

'I mean, there's the difference in our ages. You must be old enough to be my father.'

'I am. Soon you'll be needing a father. And I still say love.'

'I shall have to-what's the word?-Jure him into my own cabin,' she mumbled, still looking down. 'It'll be -what's the word? – more plausible. You don't think ahead, that's your trouble. You just think of hitting him and taking his uniform. There's the time after that. A dirty old man breaking into a young girl's cabin-'

'You needn't choose an old one.' Love. He loved this girl.

'And then when you've gone off wearing his uniform I can scream till somebody comes and then I can say he took it off himself for what purpose everybody will know and then I _lured__ him and got him off his guard and hit him -What would I hit him with?'