A blink. ‘Yessir.’
‘You say “yessir”, but there’ve been occasions recently when your reactions have been slow and surly. You’ve even seen fit to argue the bloody toss. Is that acceptable behaviour, d’you think?’
Slight hesitation… Then: ‘No, sir.’
‘Nor do I. It isn’t. I repeat – it is not acceptable. If you can’t take orders, McKendrick, you’re not fit to give them either. That means that as far as I’m concerned you’re useless. D’you want to keep your job in this ship?’
‘Yessir! Please, I—’
‘Listen to me. We won’t have even one more conversation on these lines. This is the only warning you’ll get from me. I may say that I have no criticisms at all of the way you perform your duties; nor has the first lieutenant. It follows that you’d be particularly bloody stupid to throw away all your chances. That’s what you will be doing if I hear of just one more instance of insubordination – any suggestion of it, there’ll be no argument or discussion, you’ll to go Spare Crew, instantly. That’s a promise, and I never break my promises. Understood?’
‘Yessir. I’m sorry, sir.’
‘I’d make apologies to the first lieutenant, if I were you.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘All right. Carry on.’
‘Sir—’
‘Well?’
‘There’re some letters ready for your signature. As well as other bumf you ought to see…’
* * *
‘That’s it, then.’ He signed the last of the replies to demands for ‘returns’ of this and that. ‘What have you been doing, Sub – saving it up?’
‘Well it does accumulate, sir. But none of it’s exactly vital to the war effort, is it.’
A sailor poked his head round from the passage-way. ‘Lieutenant-Commander Mitcheson, sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘Staff Officer (Operations)’s compliments, sir, and would you spare him a minute, at your convenience.’
‘I’ll be there right away.’
‘Aye, sir.’
He turned back to McKendrick. ‘So – correspondence is right up to date now, is it?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘Keep it up to date from now on. And what about this new trainer Churchman?’
‘Seems a good hand, sir.’
‘You’d better lay on a dry run gun-action, hadn’t you?’
‘It’s arranged, sir. After stand-easy. Boards should be down by then, so we can use the tower.’
Glancing up: the guntower hatch was over this wardroom, with its access ladder folded up against the deckhead. Mitcheson said, ‘We’ll do a proper one after the trim dive – whenever that may be.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Teasdale asked him from the chart-table, ‘Any idea when we’ll be sailing, sir?’
‘None at all. Otherwise, any problems, Pilot?’
‘Well.’ He shrugged. ‘No new ones, sir.’
‘Lucky man.’ Mitcheson got up. ‘I’ll be down to see your gun-drill after stand-easy, McKendrick. Make the new man’s acquaintance then too. Anyone wants me before that, I’ll be in the Staff Office first, then seeing Commander (S.).’
McKendrick watched him go: then he blew out his cheeks. ‘Bloody hell…’
Teasdale grinned at him. ‘Rumbled you at last, eh?’
A snort. ‘Ask me, he didn’t get his oats last night.’
* * *
The Staff Officer (Operations) offered him a cigarette.
‘Thanks.’ Mitcheson flipped his lighter on, held it to him across the desk. Sitting back then, putting the flame to his own. ‘Right, I’m all ears.’
‘Thought you’d be interested in this little lot.’ Opening a clip-file containing sheets of pink signal-pad. Pink for secret… ‘Seeing as you were out looking for our human torpedo friends the other day.’
‘Found them, have we?’
‘No. Unfortunately not. But they’ve had another go at Gib. Day you got back here – 20th, early hours of. From their point of view quite successfully, too – although it might have been a hell of a lot worse, seeing that Ark Royal and Rodney were in the harbour that night. Anyway,’ – consulting the file – ‘explosions occurred at 0843 – that one was inside the harbour—’
‘Inside…’
‘Yes. Actually got in. To the detriment of a fleet oiler – Denby Dale, displacement 15,893 tons – which blew up and sank alongside the Detached Mole. She had a smaller oiler alongside her, too, took it down with her.’
‘Any fire?’
‘No, thank God. The next explosion – a few minutes later, 0852 – was right in the entrance. Blew the boom gate away, net and all. It might have been intended to blast a hole for the others to get through – so it’s suggested, not my theory, in fact I’d say it’s codswallop. In fact that was the dodge they tried in July – at Malta. Real Marx Brothers effort – as you’ll remember. But it wouldn’t make sense in this Gibraltar context – unless the time-fuse had gone berserk – and in any case this was a sneak attack, not a lot of speedboats tearing in like—’
‘Were there any other explosions?’
‘Certainly were. But not in the harbour. Out in the bay, the convoy anchorage.’ Consulting his pink sheets again. ‘Motorship Durham, 10,900 tons. Explosion at 0916, under her stern. Someone must have been on the ball, there, tugs got her to the beach before she settled. Then – finally – a small tanker, Fiona Shell, 2,444 tons. Explosion amidships, broke her in two.’
‘Easy targets, out in the roads.’
‘Yes. And when you think what the bastards might have hit, eh? Going for a tanker when they could’ve nobbled Ark Royal?’
‘Were harbour-defence measures in operation?’
‘Yes. Patrol boats dropping five-pound charges, primarily. As we have here. But on that score, Mitch reference to Alexandria – the Intelligence assessment is that they may have crossed us off their list. If that’s so, it might be on account of the distance they’d have to bring the things – which we discussed, as you’ll remember. We are a hell of a long way from their bases. And bear in mind this was the third attempt they’ve made on Gib. The most successful too – by a long chalk, the first two were flops. But Gib does seem to have particular attractions for them, and the theory is that it may well link to the Spanish factor. Suppose they’d hit the Ark and Rodney – right under Franco’s nose, eh?’
‘Telling him, “Come on in, the water’s lovely”.’
‘Precisely. Might just tip the balance.’
‘Wouldn’t preclude their having a crack at us here though, surely. I mean, Franco can’t be that short-sighted.’
‘Just easier, Mitch. Much easier than it would be here.’
‘I suppose.’ He nodded. ‘Any casualties, or prisoners?’
‘No. Seems they all got away.’
In and out again, Mitcheson thought. Right under our noses.
Imagining the satisfaction: how that team would feel.
Having done it, and all of them got back – wherever… To a parent submarine lying bottomed in the bay, perhaps. He could almost see them: seeing, in fact, his own men’s faces in Spartan’s Control Room – when they’d finally allowed themselves to believe that the hunt had lost them. A variety of faces, types, but one element in all of them, one common strand to which it would have been difficult to put a name.
It wasn’t triumph. You’d scored, but it wasn’t that. Wasn’t simply relief at having scraped out of trouble, either. A world apart, he thought. Those Wops would have a world of their own too.
‘One point, Mitch – re our friends picking on an oiler when they might have gone for the Ark – is that knowing Gib harbour, that would have been handiest target, wouldn’t it. On the Detached Mole, I mean. In the entrance and turn right, Bob’s your uncle. Putting the Mole between themselves and any charges exploding around the entrance, incidentally.’
Mitcheson nodded. ‘Could make sense. Could indeed. But another question is what are the odds that t
he Spaniards might be helping them?’
‘It’s – a possibility, certainly. There’s some evidence they’ve turned blind eyes to U-boats sheltering or refuelling in Spanish waters, on occasion.’
Everyone had heard such rumours. Might ask Josh Currie, he thought, about the likelihood or otherwise of Spanish collusion. Know-all Currie, with his Foreign Office background and Intelligence connections… He crossed two fingers, thinking: Get on to him anyway – now, next thing I do.
The S.O.(O.) was stubbing out his cigarette. ‘So – that’s it. Thought you’d be interested, Mitch.’
‘Well, very much so. Thank you.’
He waited: holding his own cigarette stub between thumb and fingertip, enjoying the last of it. The S.O.(O.) shut that file; glanced at him again, then at the bulkhead clock. Mitcheson said, ‘Misapprehension perhaps – I thought that was sort of by-the-way. Aren’t you going to tell me where I’m going next?’
‘Oh.’ He looked surprised. ‘No. Misapprehension’s right, I’m afraid. Fact is, Captain (S.) hasn’t decided yet. Mulling it over, obviously, but – well, it won’t have escaped you there’s something brewing – huh? And you’ll be too late now for that party, so it gives us a wide choice, doesn’t it. Since the others are all deployed elsewhere, you see.’
* * *
In mid-morning he sent a private signal to Currie in Queen Elizabeth inviting him to lunch and then to land for squash in the afternoon. Currie’s answer was MRU – ‘Much Regret Unable’ – to the lunch, but proposing a rendezvous at the Sporting Club at 1500.
He was there when Mitcheson arrived. Bouncy and muscular in shorts and singlet, telling Mitcheson: ‘My God, you look as if you could do with a bit of exercise!’
‘Been at sea. Some of us do put in some sea-time, you know.’
‘You came in on Thursday. And I don’t need two guesses as to where you’ve been ever since. How is she, by the way?’
‘If you’re asking about Lucia, she’s in Cairo, visiting her mother.’
‘Ah, that’s it. When I got your signal I thought oh, another one on the rocks.’ Currie bared his white teeth in a grin. ‘Romance still going strong, eh?’
‘Josh, I’d like you to understand something.’
‘Tell me what, and I’ll apply the grey cells to it.’ He shut the door of the court, bounced a ball as he came in after Mitcheson. ‘Knock up for starters?’
‘Why not. But in regard to Lucia – lay off the jokey stuff?’
‘Oh. My God. Bad as that?’
‘Not bad, Josh – bloody marvellous, actually… Sorry if I seem to lack a sense of humour, but—’
‘That’s all right.’ Another flashing smile. ‘What d’you want, an apology or congratulations?’
‘Neither. Let’s play this game.’
‘Right…’
An hour later – Currie had won every game – they showered and went to swim. Drying-off beside the pool then, pleasurably contemplating the girls who on a Saturday afternoon were there in force, Mitcheson asked Currie when he’d be going to sea.
‘Going out soon, aren’t you?’
Currie was frowning. ‘Don’t think I’m with you, quite.’
But there was no-one within earshot: plenty of noise from the pool, too. Mitcheson said quietly, ‘You’re obviously informed of arrivals and departures, so you must know the whole of our flotilla’s at sea. Therefore, something big’s happening or about to happen.’ He returned a wave from a friend of Lucia’s, an ivory-pale Greek girl whom they’d met in a party at the Auberge one evening. ‘But – Josh – all that concerns me is whether you personally are going to be around or not. I rather suspect not, and it happens there’s something I’d like you to do for me. So if I’m right, it’s a case of sooner the better – see?’
‘Well, well.’ Opening his cigarette-case. Silver, with a crest on it. ‘Smoke, Mitch?’
‘Thanks.’
‘What is it you want?’
‘Chez Seydoux, ever meet a Wop by name Ettore Angelucci?’
‘Yes. Friend of Bertrand’s. Angelucci senior does business of some kind with Maurice Seydoux, I believe. And they have a villa out at Buckeley. Why?’
‘If I give you some information to pass to your Intelligence friends could you do so without revealing the source?’
‘Not easily. Would I be allowed to know the source?’
‘Conceivably. But if I gave it to you, you might be persuaded to pass it on, and if they were careless about it the source could be endangered, personally.’
Currie studied him, for a moment. Then: ‘Very close to home, this, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘And you wouldn’t want that, would you.’
‘You could say you’d heard it as gossip among the Seydoux social set?’
He was frowning again. ‘There’s no reason she would be endangered, Mitch.’
‘What the hell do you know about it?’
‘You’re saying she would be – by Angelucci, if he got to know she’d – what, informed on him?’
‘Quick with the guesswork, aren’t you?’
‘Not only a pretty face, you mean.’
‘I could go to them direct, I suppose. Central Intelligence – offices at Ras el-Tin, am I right?’
‘Just for a moment, Mitch, let’s approach it another way. You haven’t told me the source and I’ve no way of guessing. Scout’s honour. Now – what’s it all about?’
‘Ettore Angelucci belongs to some Italian association – pro-Axis, anti-British—’
‘I’d be amazed if he didn’t.’
‘You know about the association, then?’
‘Of its existence, yes. How much else is known – by those whose job it is to know – I don’t know.’
‘Would they know for instance that Angelucci and his friends have some kind of direct communication channel with the Italian Army Command?’
‘Do they, indeed!’
‘That’s all it amounts to, really. But you can take it as fact.’
‘Obviously should be passed on.’ Thinking about it: rubbing his jaw, and eyeing a dark-skinned beauty whose sloe-eyes had lingered on him for a moment. ‘They may know already, of course, but – look, you could come with me, if you like. I’ll make a call from here, and – we could bowl along there right away, if it’s OK with him. You might just as well meet him – or them. Man called Henderson, if he’s around.’
‘What is he?’
‘R.N.V.R., two-and-a-half. Like all the best chaps are. There’s an airman and a Pongo as well, but he’s the chap I deal with – on occasion. As I think I told you, my Italian’s not all that hot, but he’s fluent, so when I need help I go to him. Currie the linguistic genius – eh? But – all right, Mitch? Had long enough here?’
‘Sure. Let’s go.’
‘Question remains, though – where does Lucia come into it, and why are you so positive she might be endangered?’
‘Did I mention Lucia?’
‘You didn’t need to. Anyway, Mitch, if there’s some threat to her – she’s your informant, I take it?’
‘I haven’t said so.’
‘Well – she’s on our side, isn’t she?’
‘Very much so, for God’s sake!’
‘Absolutely certain?’
‘Yes, damn it—’
‘Well, then – just bloody tell them!’
‘But you see – if they went to Angelucci, either right away or in the near future – to question him or arrest him or – whatever – he’d have no doubt at all that Lucia was responsible. And he has already threatened her.’
‘Well, listen. If you don’t tell them, they might rush in where angels fear to tread – with consequences such as you describe. But if Henderson knows the score there’d be no such cock-up.’ Currie added, ‘That’s to say, he’d ensure there wasn’t. He personally doesn’t have powers of arrest or interrogation – not with foreign civilians anyway.’
They were to meet Henderson in the
bar of the Cecil Hotel. Currie had caught him at Ras el-Tin just as he was about to leave, to go into town, and had suggested meeting at Simone’s, and Henderson had said he’d prefer the Cecil.
‘We could go on to Simone’s later. Leave our gear with the hall porter at the Cecil, perhaps. Take a tram now, eh?’
They got on at the Sporting Club station, rattled through Ibrahimia and Chatby-les-Bains, then Chatby and Mazarita, to the terminus at the near-end of Rue de la Gare de Ramleh. Currie provided a sporadic commentary along the way: approaching Chatby, for instance, pointing out that they were passing through the ‘Region of the Dead’, where cemeteries had been dug in ancient times and present-day ones were still in operation. Greek, Armenian, Jewish, Catholic… In antique days, he explained, this was the walled boundary of the Royal City, it stood to reason that the dead would be buried outside the walls.
Then – arriving at the terminus – ‘Cleopatra’s Needles used to stand here. Nothing much to do with Cleo herself; they were put up at Heliopolis initially, long before her time, only brought here in – oh, I forget, but BC for sure. As you’ll know, one’s on the Embankment in London now and the other’s in Central Park, New York. Don’t ask me why. But I’ll tell you one thing—’ pausing, outside the station – ‘what was also here was the Caesareum – a huge temple – which Cleopatra did build, in honour of her boyfriend Mark Antony. At least she started it – it was half built, I think, when she and Antony knocked themselves off. Some other geezer finished it.’
‘So who knocked it down?’
‘I believe it took a bashing from all and sundry, over a period of centuries. I don’t think we had any hand in it. That’s something, isn’t it? We did bombard this town, last century – 1880 or ’82, wasn’t it – and did a certain amount of damage. Don’t recall precisely what for. Pour encourager les autres, I suppose. But—’ he waved an arm across the open, dusty space – ‘look upon my works ye Mighty and despair, eh?’
‘The way Shelley put it was look on my works.’
‘Crikey. Dartmouth did teach you something, then!’
‘Patronizing sod.’
‘I must say it did teach you—’ He checked himself. ‘No. You didn’t learn your French at Dartmouth, did you. Swiss stepfather – right?’
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