Suddenly all three of them were sober again; stone cold sober, watchful, and intent. As if impelled by some secret, well-remembered directive, they drew aside, under the lee of the bridge. There were plans to be made, and now it was amazingly easy to make them, and to plot their course, and to concentrate. The beguiling, necessary, and irresistible holiday was over. Now they were keyed high for their return.
‘We’ll lie offshore,’ said Simpson, speaking quietly, his voice in the darkness sounding cool and authoritative. ‘I’ll take the launch–’ he gestured behind him, at the grey shadow of the Wander Lust’s boat, still hoisted in its davits, ‘–and Crump, and about half the policemen, as many as the boat will hold. We’ll go ashore quietly, but as quickly as we can, make our landing on the beach, and put a cordon round the village so that no one can escape up the track to Shebiya … For all I know, this lot may be friendly, but we can’t take any chances. Then–’ he touched David on the arm, ‘–I’ll give you the signal by flashlight – one long and three short, the letter B – and you’ll take control here and have this ship brought alongside the jetty. Then we’ll unload our gear, and the rest of the policemen, and get on our way. Is that all clear?’
‘Yes,’ answered Crump, immediately. ‘But there’s just one thing. I know the layout of the village, and the actual hut of the man we want to find, as soon as we can. He’s the headman, an old chap called Pemboli. Nice old boy, much respected. He won’t be bloody-minded, I can guarantee. It’s the odds and sods we have to worry about.’ He looked at Simpson in the darkness. ‘If you’ll see to the outer cordon round the village, I’ll go straight into the middle of it, with about six of my chaps, and nail Pemboli straight away. He’s important, after all. We might have to get him to make a speech.’
‘All right,’ agreed Simpson, after a pause. David could almost hear him wondering if, in this variation, the roles were correctly assigned; if the classic lines of the cutting-out expedition – a strictly naval occasion – left a margin for such a military spearhead. It seemed that they did … ‘All right,’ said Simpson again. ‘But if you get into any trouble, fire three shots, close together, and we’ll close in from outside.’
‘Thanks,’ said Crump equably. ‘And if you get into any trouble, fire four shots, and we’ll come running.’
Suddenly, David found himself shivering; the night air, the reaction from the drinks, the certainty of danger, all contributed to a cold sense of doom. In search of privacy, he turned aside, looking up at the stars, and the faint outlines of the rigging; Wander Lust was moving forward very slowly, edging inshore towards the thin lights of Fish Village, and the vast and deadly bulk of Pharamaul behind it. Wavelets rippled at their bows; an arc of phosphorescent water curved away from them, and was lost in the darkness. He heard Simpson’s voice behind him.
‘All right with you, David?’
‘Yes,’ David answered, turning back again. ‘I wait for your signal, and then tell the skipper to bring her alongside the jetty.’
‘It shouldn’t take long.’
‘But what if–’ David began, and stopped.
‘Well?’ asked Simpson.
‘Suppose you run into trouble,’ David continued, unwillingly. ‘It’s just possible that the people here–’ he gestured towards the darkness, ‘–are the same as the people up at Shebiya. They may be on guard, waiting for us, ready to fight. Isn’t that so, Keith?’
‘It’s very unlikely,’ answered Crump. ‘There aren’t more than fifty families at Fish Village, and they’ve always been a bit self-contained. Pemboli is quite an old autocrat, and a good friend of ours. I don’t think they’ll have organized anything. Our principal worry is to make sure the odd straggler doesn’t light out for Shebiya, and give the whole show away.’
‘But if we do run into trouble,’ said Simpson, with a certain grimness, ‘you’ll hear it, soon enough. Any sort of continuous firing will mean that there’s real opposition. In that case, you must come in at full speed, and land the rest of the policemen. And to hell with secrecy. Make all the noise you can. Fire a few rockets – there are some up on the bridge. The more like an army you can sound, the better.’
‘All right,’ answered David. ‘But I’d much rather come ashore first, in the launch.’
‘Yes,’ said Captain Simpson, with an odd satisfaction in his voice. ‘Who wouldn’t?’
In the event, it was easy. Burning dimmed navigation lights, Wander Lust cut her engines and came to a gentle stop, a hundred yards from the shore; Simpson, Crump, and twenty armed policemen crowded into the launch, and sped for the beach, cutting a swathe of rippling foam across the dark water as they made their swift passage. On the bridge, the skipper remarked: ‘Nice going …’ Mr Loganquist poured himself a long drink. Mrs Loganquist, wearing a honey-blonde mink coat thrown carelessly over her slacks, said it was a hell of a way to hunt elephants, even for the English. David stood apart, staring through binoculars at the secret, unknown coast.
There was a long pause, of fifteen or twenty minutes; then – strong and clear against the flickering fires – a flashlight winked: one long beam, and then one, two, three short ones. David dropped his glasses, and turned to the skipper.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go alongside.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked the skipper. ‘There’s half a million bucks tied up here. Not to speak of my nerves.’
‘Certain,’ answered David. ‘They’re waiting for us.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said the skipper. But his hand on the telegraph was ready enough, as he rang for half-speed.
Crump, his white arm-sling gleaming in the darkness, was waiting on the rough wooden jetty, and two of his men, ready to take their lines, and a tall old Maula – the headman Pemboli. The latter bowed as David jumped ashore.
‘I greet you,’ he said formally. ‘You are welcome to my village.’
‘Thank you, Chief,’ said David.
‘Everything’s all clear here,’ said Crump, in elaboration. ‘They know what’s happened up at Shebiya, and they don’t want to get mixed up in it. Pemboli had a sort of local curfew imposed, long before we arrived.’
‘Where’s Simpson?’
‘Here,’ said Simpson. His tall figure loomed up from the darkness at the end of the jetty; light flickered momentarily on the Sten gun slung over his shoulder. ‘Strictly according to plan.’
‘How was it?’
‘Piece of cake … Let’s start the unloading.’
Beyond them was a ring of fires, and drifting smoke, and many watchful figures – men, old women, small children aroused from sleep. There was a deep gloom over everything, a waterfront murkiness interwoven with the acrid night-smell of Africa. At first, it seemed like a seaside village in the off-season, unavailable, sulkily private, closed for the duration. But as they began to unload the vehicles and the arms and the stores, men crept towards them, and stood watching, and presently began to help, carrying, hauling, coaxing heavy burdens away from the policemen. It was as if there were some guilt which they had to shrive, and this humble task was the only way to do it.
Everything was ashore, and loaded into the trucks, within half an hour.
To David’s surprise, Mrs Loganquist kissed him warmly, by way of goodbye.
‘Good hunting, honey,’ she said. ‘But take care of yourselves, with all those wild animals.’
‘Oh, we’ll be all right.’
‘How about a little drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘OK,’ said Mrs Loganquist. She leant towards him – perfumed, slim, a tough wild animal herself. She spoke softly. ‘I’m so glad you didn’t tell Logey what you’re really doing. He has a heart condition.’
As a last farewell, Charlie the steward leant over the rail above them, undeniably swaying, teeth gleaming in an ebony face, and called out: ‘Goodbye, Mr Bracken. And give those black bastards hell!’