D-Notice by Bill Walker (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

finding the old man’s anthropomorphic thoughts about his boat both sweet and sad. To have spent a lifetime—alone.

“In fact,” Nye continued, “the last time I made this crossin’ was in this very boat back in ‘40. Oh, Molly was a real looker then, let me tell you. Not that you aren’t a fine specimen now, my dear,” he said, as if to mollify the boat’s wounded feelings. “Molly’s been good to me, and she was good to the boys who needed a lift back from Dunkirk, she was.” He gave Michael an appraising glance. “I just want you to know I’m not doin’ this just for the money.”

“Why then?”

Nye’s faced turned pensive, his mouth pursing as he mulled the question over.

“Why, indeed.... The truth of the matter is I’m bored, mate—bored to bloomin’ tears. I’ve spent a lifetime on the sea.... Loved her as only and old salt can. And in return, she’s given me and Molly a right good livin’. But I have to admit—she’s been a trifle tedious, as of late. You and the lady looked as if you might be good for a bit of fun.”

“For your sake, Captain, I only hope it isn’t more than you bargained for.”

Karl stared out at the ferry’s wake. Twin tails churned up by the two screws pushed the boat at a moderate twelve knots. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the KGB man move to the railing, his expression one of distress. The dummkopf was actually seasick. The Channel was as flat as a schoolgirl’s chest and, with the exception of the thrumming of the ferry’s two engines, there was almost no sensation of movement. Unless one looked at the wake.

The KGB man leaned over the railing and expelled a stream of vomit.

Idiot. Even a state certified moron would know they sold Dramamine in the snack bar for two pounds, fifty. Still, it provided him with the perfect entré. Except for an old man asleep in a deck chair, they were alone.

The KGB man wiped his face, gasping for breath. To his credit he watched Karl’s approach, his muscles tensed.

“Chilly night for a boat ride, isn’t it old chap?”

Karl’s flawless accent has the desired effect on the KGB man, who relaxed. “Yes, very chilly.”

Gott in Himmel! Karl thought. This Slavic boob would never fool anyone.

Smiling again, Karl pulled a flask from out of his coat.

“Then why not have a nip with me to stave off the cold, eh what? A drink to the Queen.”

He took a swig and held it out to the KGB man, who eyed it with ill-concealed suspicion. Then, thinking better of it, he shrugged and took the flask.

“That’s a good lad,” Karl said, watching the Russian take several large swallows.

The man exhaled, grinned and said, “Cheers!”

Karl returned the smile and then spit something into his hand. He showed the plastic cap to the Russian and laughed. “You know, they finally had to drown Rasputin because the poison he drank wouldn’t kill him. I should imagine you won’t have that problem.”

The KGB man stared at him his eyes clouded by alcohol and incomprehension. Then, with a cry, he hurled the flask into the water and flung himself at Karl. But the poison had already begun its deadly work, robbing the KGB man’s muscles of the vital oxygen necessary for a fight. Instead, he began to gag and convulse, bloody foam appearing on his lips. He strained his hands upward, trying to claw Karl’s face, but the big German just laughed and batted the man’s hands away. Then he reached down and lifted the KGB man by his legs and tossed his limp body over the railing. One last look around, and Karl was satisfied the man on the deck chair was still asleep. He straightened his coat and began a stroll around the deck, the air filling with the sound of his jaunty whistle.

From his deck chair, Corwin Brady cracked open his eyes and watched the burly German disappear around the corner of the deckhouse, his weathered face creasing in a smile. With the way things were going, it looked as if both the Russians and the East Germans were racing to do his job for him. Either way, his assignment would soon be over. And then it would be back to his farm in Kerry and away from all this malarkey masquerading as politics. Smiling again, he tipped his rain hat back over his eyes and let sleep overtake him for the rest of the long ride across the Channel.

Chapter Thirty

Werner Mueller’s Daimler limousine streaked along the A23, exceeding the speed limit by a wide margin. He stared through the windscreen, keeping his eyes fixed on a point far ahead of the vehicle. Next to him sat a Stasi man poring over a map.

“We have just passed through Handcross, Comrade General,” the Stasi man said. His accent was thick and guttural, matching his jutting brow and low hairline. He reminded Mueller of a chimpanzee.

Mueller nodded absently, his thoughts resting with Karl. By now he would have eliminated the KGB presence on the ferry and would be in place when Mueller was ready for him. The one piece of the puzzle left lay several kilometers ahead of them in Peas Pottage. Scheisse, these foolish Englanders had such idiotic names for their towns. It was no small wonder that no one took them seriously anymore. They were still cozy bed partners to the Americans, however. And that relationship should never be underestimated.

“How much further is it, Comrade General?”

It was the driver who’d spoken, snapping Mueller out of his thoughts. “In another five kilometers, you will come to a crossroads with a little stone church