'This is some desolate place,' said Bernstein, who had known many desolate places in his life.

'Once it was a submarine base,' said Bret. The last time I was here that anchorage was full of ships of the Home Fleet: some big battle wagons too.'

Bernstein grunted and pulled up the collar of his coat and leaned into it to light a cigarette.

Bret said, 'The Royal Navy called this place HMS Peafowl, the sailors called it HMS Piss-up. That jetty went all the way out in those days. And there were so many depot ships and subs that you could have walked on them right across the bay.'

'How long ago was that?' said Bernstein. He blew smoke and spat a shred of tobacco that had stuck to his lip.

'The end of the war. There were subs everywhere you looked. The flat piece of tarmac was the drill field that the Limeys called "the quarter deck". The British are quite obsessed with marching and drilling and saluting: they do it to celebrate, they do it for punishment, they do it to pray, they do it for chow. They do it in the rain, in the sunshine and in the snow; morning and afternoon, even on Sunday. This… where we are now, was the movie theatre. Those concrete blocks along the roads are the foundations for the Quonset huts, row upon row of them.'

'And stoves maybe?' said Bernstein. He clamped the cigarette between his lips while he used his night-glasses to study the water of the bay.

'I can hardly believe that it's all gone. When the war was on, there must have been eight thousand servicemen stationed here, counting the engineering facilities on the other side of the bay.'

'I never had you figured for a sailor, Bret.'

'I was only a sailor for twenty-five minutes,' said Bret. He was always selfconscious about being invalided out of the service. Angry at having to divert and land him, his submarine captain told him he was a Jonah. Bret, who had falsified his age to volunteer, never forgot that Jonah label and never entirely freed himself from it.

'Twenty-five minutes. Yes, like me with Buddhism. Maybe it was long enough.'

'I didn't lose faith,' said Bret.

'You were in the US Navy?' said Bernstein, wondering if Bret had been with the British so long ago.

'No, I was in U-boats,' said Bret sourly. 'I won the Iron Cross, first class.'

'Pig boats eh?' said Bernstein, feigning interest in an attempt to pacify the older man.

'Submarines. Not pig boats: submarines.'

'Well, now you've got yourself another submarine, and it belongs to the Russkies,' said Bernstein. He looked at his watch. It was an antiquated design with green luminescent hands; another item acquired when he began surveillance work.

To the unspoken question, Bret said, They're late but they'll turn up. This is the way they always do it.'

'Here? Always here?'

'It's not so easy to find a place where you can bring a sub in close to the shore; somewhere some landlubber can launch an inflatable boat without getting swamped. Somewhere away from shipping lanes and people.'

'They sure are late. What kind of car are they in?' Bernstein asked with the glasses still to his eyes. 'A Lada? One of those two-stroke jobs maybe?'

'Deep water too,' explained Bret. 'And sand and fine gravel; it's got to have a sea bed that won't rip the belly out of you. Yes, they'll come here. It's one of the few landing spots the Soviets would dare risk a sub at night.'

'Take the glasses. I think I saw a movement on the water.' He offered them. 'Beyond the end of the jetty.'

'Forget it! You won't see anything. They won't surface until they get a signal, and they won't get a signal until their passengers are here.'

'Don't the Brits track them on the ASW… the sonar or radar or whatever they got?'

'No way. It can be done but there's the chance that the Russkie counter-measures will reveal they are being tracked. Better they don't know that we are on to them.'

'I suppose.'

'I could have asked the navy to track them with a warship but that might have scared them away. Don't fret, they will come.'

'Why not a plane, Bret? Submarines! Jesus, that's Riddle of the Sands stuff.'

'Planes? This is not Nam. Planes are noisy and conspicuous and too risky for anything this important.'

'And where do they go from here?'

'Somewhere close; East Germany, Sassnitz has submarine facilities. From there the train ferry could take her to Stockholm. Plane to Berlin.'

'A long way round. Why not take a train from Sassnitz to Berlin?'

'They are devious folk. They like to route their people via the West. It looks better that way,' said Bret. 'I'm going back to the car to phone. There was a car following them right from the time they left London.'

Bernstein pulled a face. His confidence in the British security and intelligence organizations, right down to their ability to follow a car, was very limited.

Bret Rensselaer walked back along the road and climbed the broken steps to where they'd left the car. It was out of sight behind the last remaining wall of the Sick Bay where, in 1945, Bret had been ignominiously deposited by his submarine captain after falling down a ladder during an Atlantic patrol.

Before getting into the car he took a look at the bay. The water was like black syrup and the horizon was getting brighter as the storm headed their way. He sighed, shut the door and phoned the other car. 'Johnson?'

It answered immediately. 'Johnson here.'

'Boswell. Where the hell have you got to?'

'A spot of trouble, Boswell. Our friends had a little collision with another car.'

'Anyone hurt?'

'No, but a lot of arguments about who was drunk. They've sent for the police.'

'How far away are you?'

'About an hour's drive.'

'Get them back on the road, Johnson. I don't care how you do it. You've got a police officer with you?'

'Yes, he's here.'

'Get him to sort it out. And do it quick.'

'Will do, Boswell.'

'And phone me when they are on their way. I'll stay in the car.'

'Will do.'

The phone gave the disengaged tone and Bret put it back in its slot. He looked up to find Bernstein standing by the car. 'Get inside and warm up,' said Bret. 'Another hour. At least another hour.'

Bernstein got into the car and settled back. 'Is it all okay? It's beginning to rain.'

Bret said, 'I figured I might sometimes be wiping the backsides of the Brits, but I didn't figure I'd be doing it for the Russkies too.'

'You're really master-minding this one, Bret. I hope you know what you're doing.'

'If I do,' said Bret, 'I'm the only one who does.' He started the engine and switched on the heater.

'Who owns this spread nowadays?' said Bernstein, looking down upon the abandoned brick buildings that had once been the administration block.

'The British Admiralty hung on to it.'

'Some chutzpah, those Russkies.' He reached into his pocket.

'It suits us,' said Bret. 'We know where to find them.' He raised his hand in warning. 'Don't smoke please, Sylvy. It affects my sinuses.'

Bernstein sat fidgeting with his hands as he tried to decide whether it was better to smoke outside in the freezing cold or sit desperately deprived in the warm. Bret watched him clasping his hands together and after five minutes or more of stillness and silence said, 'Are you all right?'

Bernstein said, 'I was meditating.'

'I'm sorry.'

'It's okay.'

Bret said, 'Did you really get into Buddhism?'

'Yeah. In Nam: Zen Buddhism. I was living with a beautiful Cambodian girl who taught me about meditation. I was really taken with it.'

'You're a Jew.'

'The beliefs are not mutually exclusive,' said Bernstein. 'Meditation helped me when I was captured.'

'Captured by the Viet Cong?'

'Only for about twelve hours. They questioned me.' He was silent for a moment, as if just saying it caused him pain. 'It was dark when I came conscious again and I got loose and escaped, crawling away into the jungle.'