Hobart’s face was roseate from the fire, or perhaps it was from the tumbler of Cognac he held in one hand. His stiff leg — the left, hit in a shootout with Nazi Fifth Columnists in Morocco in ’45 — was stretched out in front of him. The wound had almost cost him the leg, but before that Hobart had been both captain of the army heavyweight boxing team and a national standard swimmer, and he still had the trimness and the massive, top-heavy shoulders to show for it. Hobart wasn’t tall, but everything else about him was larger than life — giant hands and feet and an enormous head that would hardly have disgraced a Siberian tiger. He was wearing what Sterling had come to think of as his ‘uniform’: shapeless tweed jacket with leather elbow-patches, cavalry twill trousers, hand-stitched shoes — all of which had seen better days, a shirt with frayed collar, and a Long Range Desert Group tie with its famous scorpion badge. A leather-bound book was balanced precariously on his knees, and he steadied it with his pipe hand as he turned to Sterling, his face as lined as a piece of old parchment, his silver Kitchener moustache carefully trained at the ends.
He beamed at his son-in-law. ‘Glad to see you, George,’ he said. He examined the golden liquor in his glass, warming it against the flames, then downed his brandy in a gulp and winked at Sterling, holding the glass out. ‘You look like a man who could do with a drink,’ he said. ‘Be a sport. Pour us a couple of tots of Cognac, would you?’
Sterling took the tumbler obediently, and carried it over to the well-worn sideboard nearby, where tumblers shared space with a clutter of photographs — of Margaret and Billy, of a bearded Hobart in Arab head-dress sitting in a Chevrolet truck bristling with machine guns against the background of the desert. There were other photos of Hobart in uniform with the almost legendary founder of the Long Range Desert Group, Ralph Bagnold, and another with an officer completely kitted out in Arab dress, who Sterling knew was Jock Hasleden, the equally legendary British intelligence agent.
He picked up another tumbler, examined it for specks of dust, then poured a generous measure of Napoleon for each of them. He arranged the remaining glasses in line abreast, then brought the full tumblers back to the fire. Hobart laid his pipe in the ashtray on the occasional table, and took the brandy glass in his left palm. He swilled the liquor around and tasted it with a look of deep enjoyment, then made a gesture to the chair opposite. Sterling sat down.
‘Isn’t it a bit dangerous to leave the front door open like that?’ Sterling said. ‘I mean, anyone could just walk in ‘
Hobart shrugged. ‘Let them,’ he said. ‘They’re welcome to anything I’ve got, except the wife. Come to think of it, they’re welcome to the wife, too.’
Sterling grinned weakly, glancing around the flat, at the threadbare Persian rugs, the dilapidated leather suite, the notched dining table, the overstuffed bookshelves, and was inclined to agree. ‘Where is Molly?’ he enquired.
‘Ladies’ bridge night.’ Hobart winked. ‘Gives her a break from the old bore, anyway.’
Sterling smiled, thinking that his father-in-law had turned out to be a very different kettle of fish from what he’d imagined when he’d first met Margaret Hobart at Cambridge back in 1930. Even then, Sterling had been a committed pacifist and, after they’d decided to get married, he’d dreaded the inevitable confrontation with Arnold, who had loomed in his mind as formidably as the famous Kitchener recruiting poster: ‘Your country needs YOU’.
He’d known then that Hobart had led a bayonet charge at Gallipoli in the First World War, and imagined him a dyed-in-the-wool imperialist. This was true, but Hobart had merely pointed mild fun at Sterling’s idealism, and had largely accepted it. Even when his son-in-law had been jailed for refusing to serve, Hobart had kept quiet. On that first dinner invitation, a decade earlier, he had astonished Sterling by taking him aside when the ladies had withdrawn after the meal and confiding, ‘Margaret’s dippy, you know, but that won’t mean anything to you, will it? Fact is, she’s beautiful, and that’s all you can see. I know. Been through it all myself. Nobody ever learns. I didn’t.’
Hobart belonged to old landed gentry, but his grandfather had squandered all the family money. He had had to accept his daughter’s marriage to a conscientious objector, had lost his only son, Justin, on Crete in 1941, his first wife in the Blitz, his daughter to suicide, and his only grandson in an air-crash in Morocco while in his charge. And yet, incredibly almost, Hobart had remained balanced and reasonable — one of those old war-dogs of the British Empire who always knew the best thing to do.
Now, he eyed Sterling appraisingly. ‘You look a bit piqued, old boy,’ he said. ‘Cheer up. The war’s over.’
‘Not for some, it’s not,’ Sterling said. ‘At least that’s what a man I met tonight told me — an American called Corrigan. He claimed to have been on the Rose of Cimarron when she went down.’
Hobart stiffened visibly. His eyes widened and went ice-cold. He put his drink down. ‘After seven years?’ he said. ‘This has to be a hoax, George.’
‘That’s what I thought at first, but I tell you, Arnold, the man was bloody convincing. Said he had a map of the crash site.’
Hobart was staring at him with deep interest now; his deeply lined face had gone buff, with only raw red patches showing on the cheeks. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘We searched every inch of that route.’
‘Corrigan reckoned the aircraft crash-landed in Spanish Sahara, miles off course.’
Hobart gripped the arm of his chair, his eyes searching Sterling’s face. ‘That’s impossible,’ he snorted. ‘A Dakota wouldn’t have the range. Not unless it had an extra fuel tank fitted. A Dakota C47 has a range of about 1200 kilometres on normal tanks — enough to get to Zagora with a full payload. So why would Rose of Cimarron have an extra fuel tank fitted for a standard run? That would have meant cutting down on her payload. It would have cost the company money.’
Sterling recounted the story Corrigan had told him, while Hobart listened in silence. He finished by pulling out Billy’s watch. ‘Margaret and I gave Billy this for his thirteenth birthday,’ he said.
Hobart turned a shade paler. He took the watch and examined it. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘But Corrigan could have got this anywhere ...’ He paused for a moment, and with great effort picked up his pipe. ‘Go to the police, George,’ he said. ‘This chap should be publicly horse-whipped. As if it isn’t enough that we’ve all suffered so much, these vermin have to crawl out of the woodwork just when everything’s starting to run smoothly again and rub salt in the old wounds. Man’s a deserter, you say? I can’t imagine a chap like Keith Craven taking him on. I mean, I knew a lot of the expatriates in Casablanca in ’46 and I don’t recall any Corrigan. Admittedly, the shower that Craven worked for employed all sorts of riff-raff, but I don’t remember Keith ever mentioning a Corrigan. My advice is to ring the police straight away. You say you have the chap’s address?’
Sterling remembered the dog-eared card Corrigan had given him and fished it out. He handed it to his father-in-law and Hobart turned it over in his big boxer’s hand.
‘Rotherhithe,’ he commented. ‘Near the docks.’
He handed it back to Sterling, who put it away.
‘Let the police go round there,’ Hobart said. ‘They’ll sort him out. He’s playing on your emotions. My God, good job Margaret’s not with us ...’
He broke off, clenching the big fists. Sterling remembered with a shudder how he had come home one day to find his wife Margaret, Hobart’s daughter, lying naked in a bathtub full of water and blood, her wrists slashed. He shook his head slightly to chase the horrific image away. ‘But say Corrigan’s telling the truth,’ he went on in a quiet voice. ‘The police would wreck everything — he was right about that. If he really has the map, I’d never get it. Look, I know it’s probably a hoax, Arnold, but to be sure I have to see that map.’
Hobart scratched his moustache with the stem of his pipe. ‘If it exists,’ he said. ‘It just doesn’t ring true. It’s taken him se
ven years to come forward? The idea of “going out there with you”, and everything. I reckon it was just a ploy to gain your confidence. Clever — but that’s how these chaps work.’ He watched Sterling with curiosity. ‘Go through the proper channels, George,’ he said.
‘I’m sure you’re right, but promise me you won’t breathe a word until I’ve decided.’
‘George,’ Hobart said. ‘You know Billy’s disappearance ... was one of the worst things that ever happened to me. Worse than Justin on Crete in forty-one, and that was bad enough. I mean, at least Justin was a soldier and we all knew what the chances were. But Billy was only a boy, and he was in my charge. I should never, never have let him go with Keith, but then Keith was the best flier I ever met. DFC and bar, George — and he was army, not RAF. I couldn’t believe that the kite had gone down. But she did go down — in the Atlas, in the desert — what’s the difference? It’s seven years, George, and Billy’s not going to come back. I hate myself for saying it, but why open old wounds? Let the dead rest in peace. Accept it. Accept.’
To Sterling’s embarrassment, two tears streaked down the old man’s leathery face. Hobart sniffed and brushed them off. ‘I promise I won’t report it to the police,’ he said, ‘but don’t do anything in a rush, George. Don’t go round there tonight.’
Sterling sighed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘It’s too late to be tramping round the docks, anyway.’ He paused and looked directly at Hobart. ‘There is one possibility that occurs to me,’ he said, ‘but I hesitate to mention it in view of your friendship with Craven.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, if Corrigan was telling the truth about ... you know, about wanting to join me on a search mission ... Well, maybe there’s something on the Rose of Cimarron that he wants. I mean something quite unrelated to Billy.’
‘What on earth are you getting at?’
‘All right, it’s a shot in the dark — but say the kite was carrying something valuable. I mean, it’s curious that Corrigan never referred to the cargo. What if something went down with Rose that he wants to get back?’
Hobart snorted. ‘You mean like contraband? But, George, we went into the cargo issue when we investigated it all in ’46. We even saw the manifest. The Rose was carrying supplies for the French Foreign Legion in Zagora — bully beef, oatmeal and sardines. Nothing more exotic than that. The French military confirmed it. Anyway, Keith was as honourable a man as you’d find anywhere. He’d never have got mixed up with any sort of smuggling operation.’
Sterling considered it for a moment. His memory differed slightly from that of his father-in-law — he recalled that they had not seen the flight manifest, only conferred with a slightly flaky French army clerk who’d told them so verbally. But Hobart was showing signs of irritation now, and Sterling decided he shouldn’t push it. His father-in-law had always made it clear that he held himself totally responsible for what had happened to Billy, and Sterling knew this would be adding insult to injury. ‘You’re right,’ he said submissively. ‘It was just a thought. Ninety-nine point nine per cent the man’s crooked, as you say.’
There was a movement from the hall outside and Sterling jumped. ‘It’s me!’ a female voice cried. ‘I’m home!’
A moment later Molly Hobart came striding through the doorway, a statuesque figure, five foot ten, with a bushy mop of hair going grey at the roots, and a rather severe face, heavily made up. Her ankle-length blue dress was not expensive, but it fitted her like a glove. She was a handsome-looking woman, George thought, but an ice-maiden if ever there was one. Molly was a war-widow. She’d been a nursing sister in Queen Anne’s during the war, and Arnold had met her while recovering from a gunshot wound in a hospital in Algiers — the one he’d received in a shootout with Nazi agents in Morocco. She was a good fifteen years younger than his father-in-law, and Sterling often thought that Hobart had chosen her to look after him in his old age. He wondered if he had chosen well. She was efficient at making him comfortable, all right, but to Sterling it was the cold efficiency of a drill sergeant. ‘George,’ she said, smiling thinly, ‘how nice to see you.’
Hobart and Sterling both rose politely, but when Hobart sat down, Sterling remained standing. ‘I’m just off,’ he said.
‘Oh, do you have to?’ Molly said, pouting, but not making much effort to sound as if she meant it. He and Molly had never got on. Her husband had been killed at Tobruk in 1942, and somehow she seemed to feel that Sterling was responsible. Although Sterling hadn’t heard it himself, she’d reportedly once expressed the opinion that all conscientious objectors ought to have been lined up and shot.
‘Yes, it’s late,’ Sterling said.
‘How did it go?’ Hobart asked.
Molly pouted again. ‘Rotten show,’ she said. ‘I got partnered with Jean Leithstone, who hasn’t got a clue. We lost an arm and a leg.’
‘You don’t mean you’re playing for money now?’ Hobart growled.
‘But, darling, did you think we played for matchsticks? It wouldn’t be much fun otherwise, would it?’
‘God,’ Hobart said. ‘Another fortune down the drain.’
‘Well, I’ll be off,’ Sterling said. ‘Don’t get up, Arnold.’
‘All right,’ Hobart said. ‘I’ll leave it to you, but just keep me informed, won’t you, old boy.’
*
At camp that night, Sterling’s back and legs were sore from the constant jogging of his camel, though he had ridden for only the last couple of hours. ‘Don’t worry,’ Churchill said, ‘you get used to it after a year or two.’
Sterling snorted. ‘Or maybe fifty years. Or maybe never.’
They were sitting amid their saddlery, at a distance from the camel-men who seemed furiously busy, hanging water-skins, stitching saddles, greasing the flanks of their camels with animal fat. The night was clear and cold, the stars out in myriads above them. Churchill seemed at home, but Sterling felt awkward, conspicuous and out of place.
Churchill groped in his kitbag and brought out a bottle of whisky. He unscrewed it and passed it to Sterling. ‘Only don’t let them see it,’ he said.
Sterling took the bottle gratefully. ‘Why?’ he enquired. ‘They’ll be insulted?’
‘You’re joking. No, they’ll want their share, and there isn’t enough.’
Sterling smiled and swigged whisky, feeling it burning down his gullet, warming the blood. He handed the bottle back to Churchill, who had a good swig and screwed the cap on again. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘We’re off, at any rate. We haven’t done too badly, after all.’
Sterling nodded. Churchill had certainly pulled out all the stops on this one. In Casablanca he had used his contacts among former French cronies, who had managed to get in touch by telephone with Sheikh Mafoudh, now residing near Rissani, an oasis in the pre-Sahara. The old man had agreed to meet them at the ruined kasbah of Tamerdanit, near the dunes of the Erg Chebbi. It had all gone smoothly — almost too smoothly — and no one had asked questions. Cash had eased away any difficulties that might have arisen. Sterling had to admit that Churchill had been a tower of strength and efficiency; his polyglot grasp of languages — Arabic, French, German, Spanish and God-knew-what-else — especially surprised him. If Churchill’s continuous rendering of his namesake’s speeches was starting to irritate Sterling, he had also revealed himself as a man of hidden depths.
‘Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duty,’ the big man was reciting now. ‘And so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, “This was their finest hour”.’
Sterling grimaced. ‘Old Winnie was being a bit optimistic there,’ he commented. ‘The Empire’s already had it. In fact, it’d had it long before the war even started. The economists reckon now that in September 1939 we only had enough resources to last four months. Thank providence for the US of A.’
‘Maybe,’ Churchill agreed morosely. ‘But it was great while it lasted.’
Ster
ling watched him in the light of the half-moon. ‘You strike me as a genuine patriot, Eric,’ he said. ‘Something I could never be, not if it meant killing supposed enemies of the state.’
‘It takes all sorts,’ Churchill said, primly. ‘Who was it who said patriotism is the last resort of the scoundrel?’
‘God knows — but I’d lay odds it wasn’t Winston Churchill. Tell me, you aren’t really related to him, are you?’
Churchill knitted his eyebrows as if he were about to deliver another speech, then thought better of it. ‘A minor branch of the family,’ he said.
Sterling watched him inquisitively, waiting for more, but Churchill only gave him a bulldog grimace, knowing that it made him look more like Winston than ever. Actually, the idea that he was related to the British wartime Prime Minister — the man who’d provided ‘the British Empire’s roar’ — had worked a blinder for him. His private-investigation business had flourished in the years immediately after the war, when thousands were clamouring to find out what had happened to sons, brothers and fathers lost in the conflict. Churchill specialized in tracking down Forces personnel who’d gone missing in Europe or North Africa during the war years — particularly American aircrew. His US clients were tickled to tell their friends back home that they’d been helped ‘by one of the Churchills’, and Eric had cashed in on his image by cultivating a suitably Churchillian appearance, complete with glowering brow-ridges, big cigars when he could afford them, and almost word-perfect renditions of the wartime speeches in a voice that seemed suitably pickled in whisky and cigar-smoke, and sometimes was.
He’d been spectacularly successful for a while — he’d even managed to locate USAF airmen who were happily but bigamously married to French wives and didn’t want to come home, and had paid him to keep quiet. But inevitably the bottom had fallen out of the market. It was now seven years since the Armistice, and the world had begun to move into a new era. Most of the boys who were going to come home were home, and those who weren’t could be left in peace.
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