A large man in a skin-diving suit was on a ledge close to the water on the seaward side of the big rock which lay two hundred metres off shore. Less than a mile to seaward a white staysail schooner seemed scarcely to move as she reached to windward making up towards Botafoc lighthouse. The man on the rock, Werner Zolde, sat with his feet dangling in water which rose and fell, sucking and lapping at the base of the rock as the sea came in impelled by a light breeze from the north-east. On his lap were his goggles and schnorkel. He waited calmly, secure in the knowledge that he could not be seen from the shore, confident that at the appointed time he would do that which was required of him.
Now he looked at the diving watch on his wrist. It was 0602 and he thought of all the things that could go wrong: the man might not swim to-day, a stomach-ache perhaps, or a woman in his bedroom, or perhaps he would swim with a companion. Who could tell? But Werner Zolde was a phlegmatic man and he sat patiently, watching and waiting. And then, when a few more minutes had passed, he saw that from the truck of the schooner’s mainmast, where a moment ago there had been nothing, there fluttered a small dark pennant.
He knew then that the man on the beach, on the landward side of the rock, must have entered the water, must now be swimming to seaward. Werner Zolde pressed the button on his diving watch and started the lapsed-time hand. The swim should take from ten to twelve minutes, but to play safe he would work on eight. While he waited, he looked down the coast towards Figuretes. Lejeune should be getting into position now. He waited stoically, too confident of Lejeune to worry as yet, but conscious that timing was vital if …
His thoughts were interrupted by a high whine, the monstrous amplification of a sound like tearing linen, and to the south-east he saw the bobbing blurr of a skimmer sweeping to seaward, turning in a wide arc to head up the coast towards him, the white plume at its stern unfolding into a long line of foam which lay like old lace on the indigo sea. Compulsively Werner Zolde looked again at the diving watch. 6.04. Another three minutes, and he would move. He checked over his equipment, wiggled his toes in the flippers to ensure that the circulation was all right and then, slowly, carefully, he eased himself off the rock and into the water until his feet found the submerged ledge and the sea lapped about his shoulders. Again he waited, alert, listening, his eyes constantly checking the position of the schooner and the fast moving skimmer.
When the lapsed-time hand showed seven minutes forty seconds, he slipped in the mouth-piece of the schnorkel, fixed the nose-clip, adjusted the goggles, and let himself down into a cavity between the flutes of jagged granite which screened him to right and left. By moving his head a few inches forward he could see either end of the long rectangular rock. What little wind and sea there was came from the north-east, so he judged the swimmer would come round the western side of the rock, taking advantage of its lee on the outward swim, knowing that he would have wind and sea behind him for the return. But Werner Zolde wasn’t taking any chances, so he divided his attention between either end of the rock.
From where he waited, his goggled eyes almost at water level, the small seas lapping over his head, he could hear the note of the skimmer’s engine rising and knew it was approaching. Once more he looked at the diving watch. Nine minutes and forty-seven seconds had lapsed. It must be soon now, he thought, feeling along his belt with his free hand to make sure of the knife and cosh. Then, above the slap and gurgle of the sea against the rock, he thought he heard a new sound and knowing that he would hear better under water, he submerged. A few seconds later he picked it up … the measured splash and beat of a swimmer—a long slow stroke, the sound coming from his right, from the western end of the rock.
Slowly he raised his eyes clear of the water and concentrated on that end. The unseen swimmer must be close now for the sound of his strokes was clearly audible. With eyes at water level, watching from behind the jagged flutes which concealed him, he saw first an arm and then a head round the corner. Even before he saw the man’s face he knew it was Hassan—the copper bracelet on his left wrist, the white rubber skullcap, the muscular arms deeply bronzed.
The note of the skimmer’s engine died suddenly. With a quick glance to seaward Werner Zolde saw the black rubber hull, not far off now, turning towards the rock. He submerged again until only the tip of the schnorkel remained above the surface. Behind the goggles his eyes searched the opaque water while his ears listened like delicate hydrophones to the sound of the swimmer which grew in intensity. Steadily they came on, until he estimated they were opposite him and comparatively close, although the man was not yet visible under water. The sound effects were moving now from the German’s right to his left. He waited for a few seconds and then again raised his eyes just clear of the water, to see that the swimmer was about five or six metres away, moving towards the eastern end of the rock with deliberate, robust strokes.
Werner Zolde took a deep breath before he submerged. Then, bracing himself, he came away from the rock with the impetus of a racing turn and with flippers churning set off in silent pursuit, swimming beneath the surface. Soon he saw broken water ahead of him and then the undersides of beating feet. As he drew closer, he pulled the cosh from his belt and manœuvred so that he would come up behind Hassan and to his left. When he was in position he surfaced and sprinted alongside just as the other man completed a long slow stroke with his left arm and, looking back, saw him. Werner Zolde pulled off the schnorkel and shouted, ‘Hallo, Hassan!’
The Lebanese stopped swimming and trod water. ‘Hallo,’ he said looking puzzled, wondering presumably whose face it was behind the goggles. ‘How did you get here?’
‘Cold, isn’t it?’ replied Werner Zolde, moving closer.
‘Sure,’ said Hassan, eyes still puzzled.
Suddenly, deafeningly, the sound of the skimmer’s engine seemed to come from nowhere.
‘Look out!’ shouted Werner Zolde pointing with his schnorkel to the Lebanese’s right. ‘Look out!’
Hassan whipped round to see the skimmer coming for him, and in that moment Werner Zolde’s cosh struck. The German grasped the limp figure beneath the armpits as the skimmer stopped alongside and Lejeune leant over the side, stretching out his hands.
‘Quick!’ he called. ‘Get him down between the floats.’
When they had laid Hassan on the bottom boards, Werner Zolde stretched himself out alongside the recumbent Arab, and Lejeune, crouching, his backward stretched arm on the tiller, opened the throttle wide and the skimmer roared and bumped to seaward, making for the south-east at thirty knots—away from the white schooner which had gone about and was now standing out to sea. Werner Zolde looked at his diving watch. The act of snatching Ahmed ben Hassan from the Mediterranean, from cosh to full throttle, had occupied twenty-nine seconds.
The light breeze had fallen away but the schooner was moving faster now, and the wisps of blue smoke trailing astern told why. In the south-east storm clouds were massing, and to the west the sun was setting—soon it would be dusk and already the light on Dada Grande was flashing its warning message.