The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  David concentrated on the military requirements. This was a great deal more difficult as very few wanted to take a chance. Spare parts for various pieces of military equipment remained a headache.

  The irony was that while the United Nations could announce an embargo, it did not possess the ability to enforce it. If countries like Germany and France only went through the motions, without any real intent, the UN was powerless.

  David found himself becoming more and more attracted to Gisela, continuously thinking of her, particularly at night. They still shared hotel rooms and he would lie in bed unable to sleep, highly aware of her in the bed alongside him. She made no move. She was always friendly and polite, treating him as a good friend. She would on occasion touch his hand or arm to make a point, but it was not a come-on touch. She occasionally questioned his judgement but ultimately would allow him his way in a manner which led him to believe that she thought his judgement of the situation to be better. As far as any subterfuge was concerned, he never tried to compete. He accepted that she was the expert. She had after all been trained by the best in the world.

  They had been busy for over two weeks, working at least ten or more hours a day, from hotel to hotel and country to country. David decided it was time for a rest. It seemed their changes of identity had completely thrown British Intelligence.

  ‘Come on, it’s Friday. Let’s take a full-blown holiday, courtesy of the Rhodesian government. Where would you like to go?’ David asked.

  Her surprise was evident. The offer was completely out of character for the David she thought she knew.

  ‘And where would you suggest?’ She lifted her eyebrows.

  ‘I’ll leave it to you. Anywhere, within reason, of course.’

  ‘That’s extremely generous.’

  ‘I know.’ He smiled. ‘But then, I’m not paying, am I?’ He sighed. I just have to get away. What I’m doing now is as far removed from banking as ice is from the Sahara, and I’m not adjusting very well. I’m mentally buggered. I’ve not been sleeping well at night.’

  She rested her head on her hands; her elbows propped on the table and she stared at him from under her lowered brow.

  ‘Is that because…’ She was about to ask whether his insomnia was a result of her close proximity but then thought the better of it. ‘Okay, let’s get out of the cold and at least go to where it’s hot.’ She laughed.

  ‘You were about to say something else?’

  ‘No, no, forget it. Will we be coming back here?’

  ‘No, we’re done here for a while.’ Still, he was curious, wondering what she had been about to say.

  Her face lit up.

  ‘Cape Town! That’s it. It’s autumn there. It never rains in the autumn. We eventually have to go south anyway, you know, to Beira.’

  CHAPTER 8

  David got in touch with Doyle and it was agreed that from Cape Town they would fly to Beira via Lourenco Marques in Mozambique.

  ‘But there’s no hurry, the Georgio V is still on the high seas. Extend your stay if you wish,’ he said magnanimously. ‘I’ll clear it with Salisbury.’

  They found seats on a virtually non-stop South African Airways flight out of Frankfurt the next day.

  It was a long, cramped flight in economy class, with a refuelling stop at Ilha do Sal. Then, it was non-stop to Johannesburg for the Cape Town connection. At least they caught up on some sleep.

  They arrived in Cape Town on a Sunday afternoon. It was hot and they were welcomed by the Cape Doctor, a southeast wind of considerable strength. It was so strong, it was said to blow all germs and viruses out to sea. They checked into the Ambassador Hotel in Cape Town, which overlooked Clifton Beach, South Africa’s own bikini beach, the home of the young and nubile females keen to wear as little as possible. While David was speaking to the reception clerk, Gisela interrupted.

  ‘Why two rooms? Why the change?’

  ‘Well, this is a holiday, not business – you know,’ he replied.

  ‘What’s the difference? I am all right with it. We’ve shared rooms for a few weeks now. Tell them to change it. We’re not in each other’s way. Just get the largest room they have. Remember, this hasn’t been sanctioned yet; maybe we’ll have to pay for this sudden bit of luxury ourselves.’

  ‘Christ, I hope not. That would be damn unfair. We’ve been working our arses off. Sure, they pay all expenses, but our salaries are nothing to write home about. The bastards need to be a little flexible. We’re out on a limb here.’ David’s stern voice was just above a whisper. ‘It would be a bastard if we had to pay.’

  ‘It could happen, so one room’s the way to go,’ she retorted.

  He did as she had asked, quietly elated at the arrangement, wondering if he should read something into it. Not once had she shown or implied that anything had changed. He knew that if he made a move and it backfired, the situation would become untenable; they would no longer be able to work as a team. James Bond, England’s mythical spy, the lucky bastard, did his job and grabbed arse all the time and still managed to retain a working relationship with the women he bedded. In real life, it was different. But he still saw those suspenders and stocking’d legs in the milk cart. What a turn-on they were. Just thinking about them made him harden. He had a problem; this woman was getting to him. He grinned.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  She shrugged.

  ****

  The hotel’s claim to fame was its attached restaurant which more outsiders frequented than hotel guests. Seafood was their specialty. Of course, if weather permitted and the awnings were up, the panoramic view of the bay under a crepuscular sky did much to enhance its reputation. He had booked a table for eight o’clock that evening.

  He dispensed with a tie, content with an open-necked shirt and a dark blazer. She was radiant in a while floral dress, which displayed some cleavage, no stockings, slingback flats and a white, lightweight evening jacket that was sufficient to ward off an evening chill should it materialise. They sauntered into the restaurant, situated on the top floor overlooking Table Bay, just as the last of the day’s sunlight faded on the horizon. Table Mountain loomed behind them. The usual wind had abated, allowing the awnings on the leeward side to be opened.

  She took him by the arm, momentarily pressing herself against him. ‘Come on, David, get that stick out of your arse, please. Relax, let’s enjoy ourselves. God, you’re impossible. It’s not really your war and you carry on as if you’re the last bloody Mohican. Let’s have a wonderful supper and lots of wine – we’re on holiday!’ She squeezed his arm, but stayed close.

  He chose a Backsberg Sauvignon Blanc, a true cultivar of the Cape, ice cold. They both opted for grilled calamari with lemon for starters. The succulent squid melted in their mouths. For their main course, they selected Cape lobsters, grilled over an open fire and served on a bed of rice and a fish sauce with a touch of lemon and garlic, a sauce only the Portuguese can prepare. They finished another bottle of wine, she matching him glass for glass.

  Decidedly mellow, their relationship was taking on a degree of conspiracy. The main course plates were removed and they washed their fingers in the finger bowls. For the first time, they had shed some of the shackles of decorum and reached the stage where they were prepared to be honest with each other. They might rue this the next day, but that was tomorrow. Tonight, they were not giving it a thought.

  Gisela insisted on Crêpes Suzettes for dessert. They drank more wine while watching the waiter go through the whole flambé ritual.

  Irish coffees topped off their meal. The table was small. Gisela had shed her flats and he was aware of her bare feet under the table. Every now and then, she would run her toe up his shin, seemingly free from all inhibitions. Her eyes shone. There was a slight smile on her face. She lapsed into German.

  ‘Here before me sits a man who looks an opportunity in the eye and does nothing about it,’ she announced with the solemnity of one r
eading a heavy German poem, again rubbing her foot against his. She half-rose from her chair, leaned over the small table, and touched his face slightly with her fingertips. Then she kissed him on the lips. As she drew away, he looked down her dress and saw that she wore no brassiere. He could taste her lipstick and the Irish coffee.

  She sat down again and reverted to English.

  ‘He looks down my dress and now the young man’s really confused.’ From under the table, she pushed her bare foot into his crotch.

  He was speechless and could only sit there grinning.

  Christ, he thought, I’m being seduced. Sure, he had been seduced before, but never so overtly. God, he had to do something about this. Her bare foot was still on his groin. He was so damned hard he thought he’d snap.

  ‘Oh, my goodness. He’s human after all.’ She giggled, feigning surprise as her toes walked over his erection.

  He groaned and beckoned the waiter. Scribbling their room number and adding a huge tip, he grabbed her hand and hauled her out of the dining room.

  ‘I think I’m drunk,’ he said.

  ‘I hope not, I’ll never forgive you,’ she whispered as she caressed him with her hand in his pocket.

  He had barely closed the room door when she pushed herself against him, drawing his head down, kissing him deeply and passionately. He ran his hands down her back and drew her buttocks closer, grinding himself against her. She worked his shirt buttons, finally just ripping his shirt off his shoulders to kiss his chest, her lips tracing a path down to his navel. He unzipped the back of her dress and it fell from her shoulders. She stepped out of it, now only in a pair of white panties.

  He picked her up in his arms and carried her across the room, doing a two-foot hop to shed his pants as he went.

  ‘God, I’ve wanted you for so long, what kept you?’ she whispered in his ear as they fell onto the bed together.

  Spent, he lay on his back and she on her side, cuddled into his shoulder, her head on his chest. They were both slick with perspiration.

  ‘You must know that since I lost my husband, you are the first man in my life again.’

  ‘I know.’ Somehow he knew this to be true.

  When he awoke the next morning, she was still in bed. They made love again, quieter and gentler this time, only getting up when the sun streamed into the room, forcing them to move. The rest of the day they were on the beach, covered in suntan lotion, amongst the huge boulders and sheltered from the wind. He had brought a cooler bag with ice and wine from the hotel, taking two wine glasses from the room. For lunch, he bought a large piece of smoked snoek, similar in taste to mackerel. They ate this with fresh buttered rolls and a salad.

  By the late afternoon, they made their way back to the hotel. He ached for her again. The moment they got back into the hotel, they both got into the shower and one thing led to another.

  It was a sultry, sexy two days.

  Then the holiday was over and they were flying to Johannesburg.

  ****

  Everything had progressed smoothly. The Georgio V had departed the Persian Gulf with her new crew of officers aboard and had travelled without incident, now entering the Mozambique Strait off of Madagascar. The master was a Captain Le Clercq, who had been properly briefed and was comfortable with the risk. Naturally, the officers would be paid an above-average remuneration with a promise of a substantial bonus if they were successful. Word was that the British frigate was stationed off of Beira. Whether the British were aware of the approaching tanker was not known, but they were sure to spot her well before Beira and realise what her intentions were.

  Captain Le Clercq had been adamant that he was not going to yield to British threats.

  The Georgio V now flew the French Tricolour. How Oosterwijk had managed to pull that off must surely be remarkable. To top it all, the officers were also French. Britain would have to tread wearily if they proposed to pressurise the French.

  The question was how they would react.

  ****

  The shrill ringing of the telephone attached to the bulkhead above his bunk woke Captain Le Clercq immediately.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. The chronometer above his desk said three in the morning.

  ‘Captain,’ the first officer said, ‘we have picked up a blip on radar, steaming towards us on an intercept course. She’s doing nearly twenty-five knots. It’s got to be a warship.’

  ‘Merde! It’s the British. I’ll be up in a minute or two.’

  The captain appeared on deck a few minutes later.

  ‘I’ll take over,’ he said.

  Captain Le Clercq stuck his head up against the hood over the radar display, and quickly found what the first officer had. It was closing rapidly. At that speed, there was no doubt she was a warship, and she was no more than fifteen miles away.

  ‘Let’s adopt a wait-and-see attitude. Hold your course. Do not attempt contact. Let them make the first move. Just see to it that we have an Aldis lamp up here. If the captain starts something, I’ll need to communicate with him. There’s to be no radio traffic, is that clear?’ he barked to the first officer.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A stiff wind blew from the stern, the ship in a following sea. She was fully laden but still rode the sea well. Her bulbous bow ploughed through the water, easily managing fourteen knots. It was still dark, but the ship was clearly visible, lit up like a Christmas tree.

  The warship closed the distance and when a mile or directly abeam, she turned sharply to port, doing a complete about-turn, and started to approach the tanker from the stern on the starboard side. She was well lit and, as she advanced, the officers recognised her as a frigate, not missing the helicopter deck on her stern. Once abeam and no more than a half mile from the Georgio V, the frigate slowed to match the tanker’s speed.

  The first officer had his binoculars clamped to his eyes. ‘It’s HMS Bristow, sir,’ he confirmed.

  ‘What are her gun turrets doing?’ Captain Le Clercq asked.

  ‘These are still facing for’ard, sir.’

  Le Clercq stepped closer to the first officer, not wanting the coxswain to overhear him.

  ‘Tell our radio operator to inform us the moment the ship attempts contact. Under no circumstances is he to respond. You got that?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  The first officer disappeared.

  The British ship held station. It would be at least nine to ten hours before they had Beira in sight. The frigate would have identified their ship by now and probably were babbling to their Admiralty trying to establish to whom she belonged and under what flag she sailed. It was still dark and no flag fluttered from her stern. Le Clercq mentally corrected himself – he was sure they already had the current information about the ship and possibly even more. They must have already realised that she was French-owned and that this could create a sticky political situation.

  Captain Le Clercq chuckled. This was difficult for all. Nobody was actually at war and no one wanted to upset the other.

  The first signs of dawn appeared on the horizon when the first officer returned to the bridge. The captain looked at him and the officer grinned.

  ****

  ‘Sir, the shit is hitting the proverbial fan. The British have obviously been in touch with the French, who are desperately trying to contact us. We have no responded to any messages. May I confirm that is what you want?’

  ‘Don’t worry. It won’t take long before our good British captain starts trying to contact us on the Aldis.’

  The captain was quite pleased with himself. The British would never fire on his ship. Either way, he and his officers were guaranteed their exceptional salaries, even if they did not make Beira.

  The bridge phone rang. The captain picked it up and listened, the others on the bridge watching him with apprehension. His face broke into a grin as he replaced the phone.

  ‘That was our wireless operator. He says all hell’s breaking loose on the airwaves because we are not replying.
Everybody’s calling us.’

  The first flashes of an Aldis spat out from the British warship, the Morse coming across in double-quick time. Operators always tried to impress their recipients.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘First he introduced himself as the HMS Bristow and then asked our destination,’ the first officer replied.

  ‘Let’s give the fucker something to think about. Send, but send very slowly, as if we are having difficulty sending Morse, “Cannot read you, send again slowly.”’

  Le Clercq was sure the speed at which they were operating the Aldis lamp would drive the British captain to distraction. It took a good while to get the message completed and it even contained a few transmission errors. There was a minute or two’s delay before the frigate responded, this time irritatingly slowly. It was a repeat of the first message.

  On the bridge, the first officer handed Le Clercq a piece of paper.

  ‘You don’t have to do that. Of course, I can read what he’s saying, at that speed my grandchild could read it.’ Le Clercq said. ‘Okay, send, “Who are you?” That should give the bastard apoplexy.’

  Again, this was laboriously transmitted.

  ****

  Captain John Reynolds RN, KFC, DSO was livid.

  The ratings and junior officers on the bridge of the HMS Bristow did not dare look at their commanding officer.

  The first officer handed the captain a piece of paper.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Number One, scrap the bits of paper! I can read that.’ He gestured towards the tanker’s flashing Aldis lamp as he crumbled the message into a ball and threw it onto the deck. ‘That bloody frog captain’s playing games with us. Are they still not responding to any radio messages?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘All right, Number One, let’s play his game. Send, “British Navy ship HMS Bristow. What is your destination?” Christ, he’s probably going to need fifteen minutes to formulate the reply,’ the captain said.