Free Black Ice by Colin Dunne Page B

patrolling a harbour were unlikely to be trapeze  artists.
    'Yes,  that  is obvious, I  agree.  Let us  take  a look at  their vessel.'
    By the time we got to the first corner, they were just rounding the next one, two yards ahead. When we reached  that comer, they   were  disappearing  up  the  gangplank  of  a  dirty   grey trawler.
    'Fishermen- that's all?'
    'I'd say so.'
    They  were men, they were off a fishing-boat, so that was fair enough. What  he meant  - and  what  I knew perfectly  well he meant - was  that  they  weren't fishermen. From  what  little  I could see of their heads,  their hair was too well trimmed. They were too sprucely dressed. They were too clean.  They moved with short  twelve-inch  steps,  clipped,  quick,  purposeful. It's a style that stays long after you've forgotten  your drill sergeant's name.    Whatever they   called   themselves   now,   they   were military men.
    But  just  this  once  I  thought it  wouldn't do  any  harm  for Petursson to be doing the guessing.
    'Very  well,'  he said.  'Now see what  you can  tell me about their ship.'
    This  time, instead  of playing stupid, I decided  to show him what  a bright  little fellow I could  be.
    'Isn't it an AGI?'
    Under the brim of his hat, he looked surprised. 'How do you know about such things?'
    'Aliens  Gathering  Intelligence,' I  intoned   heavily,  and   I won't say that  I wasn't enjoying  his surprise. 'Oh, I've written about  them.'
    I looked over the grey hull with the white superstructure and the name  Pushkin in Cyrillic lettering on the bows and  English on the side of the bridge. The only smartly-painted bit was the hammer and  sickle  in  red  on  the  funnel.  That figured.  The Russians  knock  hell out  of their  trawlers  for a few years and then   flog  them   to  some   poor   unsuspecting Third-World country.
    'What makes you think it's a spy-ship?' he asked.
    Now I really did let myself go. 'Look at all those aerials  and DF  loops.  Christ, you  could  get  the  BBC's   News  at  One half-an-hour early with that lot. Even so, I'm surprised it's not got the Hydrographic Service flag flying- you know, blue with a white lighthouse.'
    He was just  about  to give me ten out  of ten  when  a sound above  made  us both look up.
    A fat old man with eyes like holes poked in grey pastry  came up to the side to have a look at  us. He dragged on a cigarette butt with  the  urgency  you always  feel for  the last  pull,  then watched  it fall into the oily sea below.
    'You are  very  well  informed,' Petursson said  admiringly.
    'You are  correct  about  the flag though. But don't you  think those nets are curious?'
    I looked where  he was pointing. The  deck was covered  in a jumble  of nylon netting. Why would a spy-ship want nets?
    'And  this is a stern  trawler. So far as I know, the Russians have not yet used a stern  trawler  as an AGI.'
    'So what is it then?'
    Again, he ignored my question, as we strolled  alongside the scarred  grey flanks of the trawler.  'We thought as you did,  at first. And of course for the Russians to bring a spy-ship in here even for. repairs,  as  they insist  would be  provocative. As a fulltrui  of the government, I sought  permission to  board her and  have a look around.'
    'Christ!' From a bit closer, I'd suddenly realised  that  the fat fisherman who was watching us wasn't a fat fisherman at all. It was a fat fisherwoman. Although how  I  managed to detect some  vestige  of femininity in that  waddling bundle  of rags,  I couldn't say.
    'A woman, yes. It is not so uncommon. So, as I say, I sought permission to inspect  this vessel.'
    'And did  you?'
    'Yes.' He stopped and  looked  down  at  me and  I saw  the twinkle of amusement in his face as he enjoyed telling his story.
    'They were most helpful,  the