by Antony Trew
Widmark’s laconic announcement jolted them. It meant they would be in action on Wednesday or Thursday night, and though they’d known the time was coming closer they tingled with apprehension at the approach of reality.
Rohrbach said: “Sooner the better, I suppose. Shall we suggest to-morrow for the party?”
“What—Monday?” Widmark shook his head. “I’d like to say ‘Yes,’ but it’s too soon. We must sail on the same night as Tactician and Clan McPhilly and that means Wednesday or Thursday, and we’re not ready in other ways.”
“But you’ll want the party before that, won’t you, Steve? That only leaves Tuesday.”
There was a moment of silence, then Widmark said: “I’m afraid the party’ll have to be on the night of sailing.”
Mike Kent’s puzzled voice expressed their bewilderment. “But what about the women, sir?”
“They’ll have to come with us, Mike. A trip down the coast won’t do them any harm.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Steve?” Rohrbach’s tone made it clear that he didn’t think so. But Widmark was not compromising. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. Ever since you mentioned the party. From every point of view it’s the best thing. Means we’ll have two of you on board at the beginning of the operation.” He chuckled dryly, “You may even be able to do something with the Newt’s love potion.” He paused, only to become serious again. “If there’s a party, Lindemann and his officers will be drinking. They’ll be off their guard. We’re counting on the element of surprise. It’s going to be twice as easy if there’s a party going on in the Captain’s cabin with two of you there.”
“You mean you want us to go to the party armed?” Johan was mildly shocked—this was something quite beyond the social pale.
“Of course,” said Widmark, “to the bloody teeth!”
“Wragtig—struth!” muttered Johan.
“I’m not happy about the women being there,” grumbled Rohrbach. “They may get hurt.”
Widmark’s nerves were on edge and he snapped: “It’s not a tea-party. We’re hi-jacking an enemy ship.”
There was a long silence while they thought about the new plan and wondered how it would work. When Widmark spoke next his tone had changed and they knew he was making amends. “The thing is, David, this party’s a priceless opportunity. We must use it. We can’t put the women ashore after it, because if we did the whole world’d know that the break out was a British operation. Another thing. If we staged it a day or so after the party, the girls might connect the disappearance on the same night of you two and the Hagenfels. They’d probably talk. I’m afraid there’s nothing for it. They’ve got to come with us.”
They discussed the new plan and it was agreed that Widmark would visit the Clan McPhilly and the Tactician the next morning, so that he could by lunch time let Rohrbach know the night for the party. Rohrbach would then tell Mariotta. The others were to be informed of the new plan and there was to be a full attendance at a rendezvous the night before D-night for a final rehearsal. On Monday night, Rohrbach and Johan were to go fishing but this time they were to pick up Hans le Roux and Mike Kent at the native fish dock, take them into the bay, and land them at the fish dock again on the way in. It was essential that they should learn how to handle the boat and know their way about that part of the Espirito Santo at night.
Rohrbach turned the car and drove back into the suburbs, dropping his passengers in dark streets not far from their hotels.
It was a thoughtful Mike Kent who made his way on foot up Avenida Aquiar, past the Vasco Da Gama Park to his hotel.
Inside he was frightened. This he acknowledged with a curious clinical interest and with no sense of shame. Frightened and vaguely sick and wishing that he’d not volunteered for this hare-brained operation. He’d longed for action and now that he was about to get it he wasn’t at all happy with the prospect.
Now that it was so close, the fun and excitement of the early days of planning seemed to have gone. He’d tried to recapture the zest but couldn’t. Instead he thought of his mother and wished that he were with her. It was a childish and most inappropriate thought, he knew, but intellectually he was too honest to deny it, so he set about analysing its cause and this took his mind off the unpleasantness.
After they’d dropped him in a side street near the Avenida da Republica, Widmark walked over to his car and drove down Alexandre Herculano, turned left at the bottom and made through the Aterro do Machaquene to the sea front where he parked facing the sea, absorbed in his thoughts.
Not for the first time he was thinking of the consequences of what he had done. He was certain that the decision he had made was right, and he excluded the likelihood of failure though it remained a remote possibility, an unpleasant shapeless thing in the background which he refused to contemplate. But he was troubled to-night by a picture which formed obstinately in his mind of a court-martial, with himself on trial, the red-bearded Commodore testifying: “Yes. I showed him the Commander-in-Chief’s signal which flatly rejected the operation and forbade any …”
Widmark shook off these thoughts and fell to worrying about the Newt and Di Brett—this had been gnawing at his mind ever since her “Oh, James, be a darling and fetch my glasses”; then he checked mentally every detail of the plan, examining it meticulously, making sure he’d forgotten nothing. Finally his thoughts turned to the next day. He knew that everything now depended on what he found when he visited the British ships at the Gorjao Quay.
Without the full co-operation of one of them it would not be possible to go ahead with the operation. If both captains refused to co-operate he would be confronted with defeat. For a long time he brooded over this and then, as if that were not enough, he was troubled by a lively picture of Olympia Stavropoulus sweeping past in the foyer as he spoke to Di Brett, her eyes flashing their twin messages of hatred and triumph. The hatred he understood, but triumph for what? Because she’d found him speaking to a pretty woman?
Dismissing these cheerless thoughts, he drove into the town and parked below the Port Captain’s office. It was close on midnight. He walked over to the Rua Araújo and then along it to Rua Salazar. In the Central Bar he ordered a double whisky and felt all the better for it. Then he worked his way back through Rua Araújo, past The Emperor with its brassy blast of music to the Carlton. It was as he passed it that he had this very strong feeling that he was being followed: whether he had heard footsteps, which he doubted because the night was full of sound, or whether it was instinct he did not know, but the feeling grew until the desire to look round was overwhelming. He turned and there was the balding man with the sunglasses. Farther down the road Widmark twice stopped and on each occasion his shadower did so too.
Widmark reversed his course, walked straight back past the man who was examining a shop window, apparently oblivious of Widmark who continued on his way until he was abreast of the Carlton where he slipped abruptly into the dark lane adjoining it. He went through a courtyard and up an iron staircase to the first-floor landing of an old and rambling building. In the main hall the band was playing and the dance floor and the tables round it were packed. He stood against the wall in the shadows, watching, getting his bearings. Johan le Roux and David Rohrbach were with a dark beauty at a far table and he wondered briefly if she were Mariotta. Then he began worrying about the oily man. There was no doubt that he’d been following him, and this on top of the incident in the Polana. But why, puzzled Widmark, is he interested in me? Why is he following me? Unable to answer these questions but conscious that he’d succeeded in shaking off his shadower, Widmark went over to the bar, collected another whisky, plopped in ice from a bucket on the counter, and made for the roulette room. He edged in between some women at the crowded table and watched the play with the absorbed attention of the gambler. But he held back, waiting until he’d got the feel of the table, watching the stakes go on, the wheel spinning, the croupiers calling and raking the table. When he’d bought twenty-five pounds w
orth of escudos counters from the cashier he went back to the table. As always he started with the equivalent of two pounds each on odd and red. The wheel spun, the small white ball ran round the rim, came lower as the wheel slowed and dropped into one of the thirty-seven cups. The croupier called twenty-two, even and black, and Widmark’s bets were raked away. That decided him. He’d work up to an odd red, since he always followed a losing bet. He raised his stakes, putting five pounds on the table, again on odd and red and this time the croupier called twelve, so it was even and red and Widmark was still four pounds down. He shifted his counters to manque, the wheel spun, and when it stopped the croupier called thirty-one. A woman cried out in dismay, and Widmark saw the rake take his money, and he made a mental note of his losses—fourteen pounds. He moved round the table to get away from the bad luck and put his remaining eleven pounds carré on seventeen, eighteen, twenty and twenty-one, and it was then that he looked up and saw the girl watching him. The croupier was intoning, and with his mind now more on the girl than the table Widmark was slow to register that twenty-one was a win for him; he saw the rake push a heap of counters against his stake, and woke up. The odds on the carré were eight to one, so this was ninety-eight pounds—the eleven pounds he’d staked plus the win of eighty-nine. Pocketing half the counters, he put those still on the table on twenty-seven, chasing his luck with odd and red, preoccupied now with the girl rather than the game.
The wheel spun, the white ball scampered and he waited impatiently for the croupier’s call; it came at last—ten, and Widmark saw his fifty pounds disappear.
Hunching his shoulders, he stood up, nodded to the croupier, exchanged his remaining counters for a pile of escudos which he reckoned at fifty pounds, and then looked for the girl. She was still standing against the wall at the far end of the bar, and beyond all doubt she was watching him.
The light from a wall lamp reflected on her face and their eyes met and held in one of those extraordinary moments of recognition; not of two people who’d known each other, but of a man and woman seeing other for the first time, both conscious of an irresistible attraction and acknowledging it without inhibition. She was tall and slim, and from an oval high-cheek-boned face, slanted hazel eyes watched him with a curious mixture of sympathy and inquiry.
Without consciously making the decision, he went over to her and said: “Hallo!”
She smiled and said “Hallo!” and he knew then that she wasn’t English; but her smile did something to him which he knew he’d never be able to describe.
For what seemed a long time they looked at each other, conscious of the strange thing that had happened. Then he said: “Come and dance,” and they went through the crowded tables to the small floor where he took her in his arms as if he’d known her all his life.
“I should not be doing this,” she said, mildly shocked. “I am with other people.” One eyebrow lifted as if she wanted some reassurance from him.
“You could have refused.”
“I could not!” Her eyes were serious but there was the hint of a smile. “You shouldn’t have asked me.”
“I had to. The moment I saw you.”
“I know. I felt like that. I couldn’t stop looking at you. Is it not strange?” Again the eyebrows registered interrogation.
“Very strange.” His hand tightened on hers. “I think I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”
“I too.” She said it serenely, looking away from him, as if the remark were commonplace.
“Who are you?”
“Cleo Melanides. I live in Lourenço Marques. We are Greek.” This was added with a proud little tilt of the head.
He looked at her hand. “You’re not married?”
“No.”
“Thank God!”
“And you?” She laughed gaily.
“No.”
“Thank God!” she mimicked. More seriously, she said: “What is your name. Tell me about yourself.”
She noticed his hesitation before he said: “Stephen Widmark, from Johannesburg.”
The band stopped and they stood waiting, clapping, hoping that it would begin again, but the lights went up and the floor emptied. She touched his arm. “I shall have to go back to the others.” As she said it she saw his disappointment and her eyes softened. “Shall I see you again?”
Holding her hand, oblivious of their surroundings, of the people round the empty floor, he said: “Of course. What’s your telephone number?”
As they walked off the floor she gave him the number and then, before he knew what was happening, she had stopped at a table and was saying: “These are my friends—Mariotta Pereira, David Rohrbach and Johan le Roux.” The three men looked at each other blankly, and Johan bowed. “It was nice of you to bring back our guest.”
“Not at all,” Widmark smiled remotely and was conscious of the other girl, Mariotta, looking at him.
Rohrbach pointed to a chair. “Won’t you sit down?” It wasn’t a warm invitation and, embarrassed at the turn of events, and torn between leaving Cleo and staying for what might be an unwise exercise in wits, Widmark shook his head. “I’d love to, but I must be going. It’s late.”
Johan looked at his watch and said: “Yes, it is,” with heavy emphasis.
The band started and Johan and Rohrbach took Mariotta and Cleo on to the floor. Widmark watched them go and from what seemed an eternity away Cleo gave him a sad little smile before she was engulfed by Johan.
Still tingling from the excitement of meeting the girl, Widmark made his way back to the bar. Everything was a pleasant blur until he found himself looking at short range into the face of an oily balding man who sat on a bar stool with his back to the room, smoking a cheroot. Because of the sunglasses Widmark couldn’t be sure that the man was looking at him, but as his face was less than four feet away it seemed highly probable that he was. Widmark gave him the sort of look reserved for bad smells, decided not to have a drink, and went down to the street. There he thought anxiously about this latest encounter, eventually deciding that he was getting jumpy and that it could all be coincidence; even the apparent shadowing in the Rua Araújo. After all, why shouldn’t they both have walked in the same direction at the same time? And while it was true that when he’d stopped the bald man had stopped too, it was probably because he’d been embarrassed by Widmark’s stare in the Polana lounge. And surely there was nothing odd about his presence in the Casino? After all, he was essentially the Casino type. Where better to flog his wares, filthy postcards or otherwise? Widmark dismissed him from his thoughts.
Had he been asked to, he couldn’t have described his walk to the car and drive back to the Polana; his thoughts soared and he felt tremendously excited; he had never before experienced such a state of euphoria and, thinking about it, he realised that he was in love—in love with a girl he’d just met in Costa’s: a girl about whom he knew nothing but that she was Greek, lived in Lourenço Marques, and evidently felt about him as he did about her.
The nearest thing to this experience, but a long way from it, had been in 1937, in San Francisco, a few days after they’d arrived in the Albatross.
At a party in the Mark he’d met a girl, fallen, he thought, deeply in love with her, and on the strength of a wild five days and a good deal of encouragement followed her across the North American continent to New York where he’d found she had a husband and two small children. Vowing never again to let a woman make a fool of him, he’d flown back to San Francisco, sad and chastened, to attend to the sale of the Albatross.
Then the war had come and what with the Kasos Strait affair, the loss of his mother, and the private disgrace of his return to South Africa, he’d become gloomy and preoccupied, and one way and another he’d not had much time or inclination for the company of women.
And now, sitting in his room at the Polana, thinking of Cleo, of that incredible meeting, of how she had looked and what she had said, he accepted with sombre resignation that in the few days left to him in Lourenço
Marques he’d have to keep away from her. He couldn’t afford to get involved in anything which might interfere with or endanger the task ahead. Afterwards, when it was all over, he’d come back. It wouldn’t be long and she’d wait. Then, with a distinct sense of disquiet, he remembered something: Cleo would be at the party in the Hagenfels—she, too, would be coming with them to Durban.
For a moment he panicked: thought of warning her that she mustn’t come, that she might be in danger; but even as he had them he discarded these thoughts. How could he tell her that? She knew Kurt Lindemann! There could be no change in the plans. For better or worse she’d have to come. His feeling of unease gave way to the agreeable prospect of seeing her again so soon. Of one thing he had no doubt: she was the future Mrs. Stephen Widmark.
At 2 a.m. Widmark made his way downstairs and along the passage to number 214. He tried the door, found it locked, frowned with irritation, and knocked on it quietly. But there was no response although he did this several times; then, just as he was about to go, thoroughly angry, the Newt came up the passage, winked heavily, unlocked the door and let him in.
“Where’ve you been?” said Widmark coldly.
“Having a pee, old boy! Any objections?”
Widmark gave him another frosty look. “Let’s see those charts and sailing directions.”
For some time they worked on them, and they decided eventually to abandon the idea of taking the normal course on leaving, Canal do Sul and Cabo da Inhaca, because of possible trouble with the pilot vessel.
Instead they would use the northern channel, Canal do Norte, which had ample water although it was not buoyed or lighted and was never used by large vessels.
When all this had been agreed, Widmark said what had been on his mind for some time: “Look, Newt! Your private life’s none of my business, but for God’s sake don’t get involved with Di Brett. She’s easy on the eye, I know, but we’ve got a hell of a lot at stake, and this isn’t the time for necking.”