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Semmler laughed. “This old bucket uses as much oil as Diesel. Besides, we might as well get it here and have enough for a long time to come.”
“When do you need it?” asked the agent.
“Five o’clock this afternoon be all right?” asked Semmler.
“Make it six,” said the agency man, noting the type and quantity in his notebook, along with the hour of delivery. He looked up at the customs man. The official nodded. He was uninterested and strolled away. Shortly after, the agency man left in his car, followed by the two trucks.
At five o’clock Semmler left the Toscana, went to a phone in a caf6 on the waterfront, rang the agency, and canceled the oil order. The skipper, he said, had discovered a full barrel at the rear of the stores locker and would not be needing any more for several weeks. The agency man was disgruntled but agreed.
At six a truck drove carefully along the quay and stopped opposite the Toscana. It was driven by Jean-Baptiste Langarotti in a bright green overall suit with the word Castrol on the back.
After opening the back of the truck, he carefully rolled five large oil drums down the plank he had fitted to the rear step. From the window of the customs house the duty officer peered out.
Waldenberg caught his eye and waved. He pointed to the barrels and back to his ship.
“Okay?” he called, adding with a thick accent, “ַa va?”
From the window the customs man nodded and withdrew to make a note on his clipboard. At Waldenberg’s orders, the two Italian crewmen slipped cradles under the barrels and, one by one, winched them aboard. Semmler was uncommonly eager to help, steadying the drums as they swung over the ship’s rail, shouting in German to Waldenberg on the winch to let them down easily. They slid out of sight into the dark, cool hold of the Toscana, and soon the hatch was back in place and clamped down.
Langarotti, having made his dispatch, had long since left in his truck. A few minutes later the overall suit was at the bottom of a waste bin in the heart of town. From his bollard at the other end of the quay, Sha
When it was over, things quieted down on the Toscana. The captain and his three men were below decks, the engineer having taken one turn of the ship to sniff the salt air and then having gone back to his
Diesel fumes. Semmler gave them half an hour, then slipped down to the" quay and came to join Sha
Semmler was gri
Sha
“When can you take the men aboard?”
“The customs office closes at nine. They should come between twelve and one in the morning. We sail at five. It’s fixed.”
“Good,” said Sha
“There won’t be.”
“Never mind. We’ll play safe. I want you to watch that cargo like a mother hen. Don’t let anyone near those barrels till I say so, and that will be in a harbor in Yugoslavia. Then we tell Waldenberg what he’s carrying.”
They met the other three mercenaries at a prearranged café and had several beers to cool down. The sun was setting, and the sea within the vast bowl of land that forms the anchorage and roads of Toulon was ruffled by only a slight breeze. A few sailboats pirouetted like ballerinas far out on the stage as their crews brought them about to catch the next gust.
Semmler left them at eight and returned to the Toscana.
Ja
Langarotti ran Sha
“I’d prefer to be going with you,” Jean-Baptiste said, “or with the ship.”
“I know,” said Sha
Langarotti agreed to go on the mission. “They’re good boys,” he said with a little more enthusiasm. “It will be good to see them again.”
When they parted at the airport, Sha
He left the Corsican, walked through customs, and boarded his plane for Paris and Hamburg.
19
“My information is that you can pick up the mortars and bazookas any time after June tenth, and that was reconfirmed yesterday by Telex,” Alan Baker told Sha
“What port?” asked Sha
“Ploce.”
“Where?”
“Ploce. Spelled P-L-O-C-E, pronounced Plochay. It’s a small port almost exactly halfway between Split and Dubrovnik.”
Sha
“How small?”
“Quite small. Very discreet. Half a dozen wharves and two large warehouses. The Yugoslavs usually use it for their arms exports. The last shipment out of Yugoslavia I did by plane, but I was told at that time if it was to be by sea, it would be from Ploce. It’s better if it’s a small port. There’s usually a berth, and loading facilities are quicker. Moreover, the customs there must be a very small unit, probably with one lowly man in charge, and if he gets his present, he’ll see everything on board within a few hours.”
“Okay, Ploce. On June eleventh,” said Sha
Baker noted the date. “The Toscana is okay?” he asked. He decided to bear the Toscana in mind for later use. Sha
“She’s fine,” said Sha
Baker shifted slightly. “One,” he said. “The price.”
“What about it?”
“I know I quoted you fixed prices, totaling fourteen thousand, four hundred dollars. But the system inside Yugoslavia has changed over the past six months. To get the paperwork through on time, I had to engage a Yugoslav partner. At least, that’s what he is called, though in fact he’s another middleman.”
“So?” asked Sha
“So he has to get a fee or salary for getting the paperwork through the Belgrade office. On balance, I supposed it was worth it to you to have the shipment ready on tune and no bureaucratic hang-ups. So I agreed to engage him. He’s the brother-in-law of the official in the Trade Ministry. It’s another way of taking a kickback. But what can you expect these days? The Balkans are still the Balkans, and they’ve got wised up.”