‘Right.’
‘How come? Was your real father—’
‘Killed on the Somme. 1916, the year of Jutland. I was five. My mother remarried in the early twenties.’
‘What did or does he do?’
‘International banking. He’s been a naturalized British citizen for years now, has a war job to do with paying the Yanks for the stuff we get from them. But I had to learn French, really. My mother had two daughters by him, they were growing up as much at home in French as they were in English – he’d kept a house in Geneva, still has it actually – and I didn’t want to be left out in the cold, as it were. What’s your parental situation?’
‘In a word – horses. Newmarket. The old man’s a trainer.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘Keeping the racing world alive, now. Thinks he is, anyway. Vaguely laudable endeavour, I suppose. By the way – this sharia on the left here – Rue Nabi Daniel – isn’t time to stop now, but just along there there’s a mosque that’s built on the site of Alexander’s tomb. Alexander the Great – founder of this town? And it’s said he’s still under there, somewhere. There’s a whole labyrinth of underground passages and chambers, apparently, and some Russian claimed to have seen the body – about a hundred years ago. Alexandria was all marble colonnades then, apparently. I don’t mean a hundred years ago, I mean in ancient times. Do I bore you?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘Better put a spurt on anyway. Henderson might think we’re not coming.’
It was a long street. And crowded; they were getting along as fast on foot as they might have done in a gharry. Bicycles, carts, lorries, cars whose drivers looked either homicidal or deeply philosophical; on the pavements, small boys offered dirty photos. Gharry drivers banged the butt-ends of their long whips on the boards beside their feet, and bawled what sounded like O-alaminak, O-ariglek…
Meaning – or so Currie had told him on some previous occasion – ‘Mind your left buttock – mind your right…’
‘Hear about the thing at Gib yet?’
Currie glanced up and sideways. ‘Yes. I did, as it happens.’
‘Galling thing is they got clean away. D’you think the Spaniards help them?’
‘Well. On the cards, isn’t it?’
Approaching Mohamed Ali Square, finally. Almost running – at least Currie was, on his short legs. Slowing now – with the hotel’s bulk actually in view, ahead and to their right – he looked round again, snarled: ‘Bloody Spaniards!’
‘Hear, hear. Although mind you, we don’t actually know—’
‘Got a damn good notion of it though, haven’t we. How the hell else would the buggers get away?’
Henderson was there, all right, waiting for them at the long bar. A big man – blond, more florid than tanned and wearing kahki instead of whites. And brothel-creepers, for God’s sake. Mitcheson looked for the fly-whisk, and sure enough there it was, dangling from one hand while the other toyed with a near-empty beer glass. He was watching the more or less resident ‘Gully-Gully’ man producing little yellow day-old chicks out of thin air or the customers’ pockets. The term ‘Gully-Gully’ derived – or so one was told – from its being an approximation of the sound he emitted in a high whining tone while he performed his tricks. A stout man, middle-aged, in a tarboosh and striped nightshirt: releasing yet another batch of chicks from an Australian captain’s trouser-leg as Mitcheson and Currie approached the bar.
Currie introduced them and Henderson and Mitcheson shook hands.
‘Better move out there. Away from the bloody poultry.’ A wave of the fly-whisk towards the vestibule with its potted palms, tables in alcoves here and there, ceiling-fans slowly circling. ‘What’ll you drink – beer?’
‘Fine. But let me—’
‘No, I’ll do it. The horse is just about fit for work, today.’ It was an old joke, a reference to the local beer. ‘Same for you, Currie? Ibrahim—’ addressing the barman — ‘thalathah beerah,’ – pointing again – ‘out there. Ana mosta’ajel – uh?’
‘Impressive.’ Currie asked him, ‘What did it mean?’
‘Told him I’m in a hurry. Which I am. So if we could get right down to whatever the hell this is?’
8
Alexandria’s harbour had a deserted look about it when Mitcheson was conning Spartan out, late that Monday afternoon. The fleet had departed before dawn, by breakfast-time had been conspicuous by its absence. The two battleships – flagship Queen Elizabeth, and Valiant – five cruisers, a dozen or so destroyers… It was the absence of the battlewagons that one noticed most, those huge presences having left their anti-torpedo net enclosures empty – QE’s at Gabbari, Valiant’s this side of her, off the end of the coaling arm.
Like elephant pens with no elephants in them, Matt Bennett had observed. Bennett was quietly pleased with himself, Mitcheson had noticed – didn’t grudge him that sense of achievement, either. He and his E.R.A.s had worked wonders getting the boat fit for sea this quickly.
Not that a mere four-day break between patrols was really much to cheer about. Even a short patrol, or one when you hadn’t managed to get yourselves knocked about, imposed a certain strain. Once in a blue moon, though – and for sound operational reasons, such as prevailed now – you had to forego the rest period you normally took for granted. The ship’s company seemed cheerful enough, anyway. But then, they were a damn good bunch of men. The new gun-trainer, Churchman, had offered something of a testimonial to this fact. He’d told the coxswain – who’d told Mitcheson – that he’d been tickled pink, and envied by his friends in the Spare Crew, at getting his draft to Spartan. Apparently she had the reputation of being a happy ship as well as a successful one, was the boat most of them would choose to serve in. It had been nice to hear.
And having had enough success to be going on with, maybe this one would be a restful, quiet patrol. They’d not had such a thing yet, but most submarines did get them from time to time and it could be about Spartan’s turn. Touch wood – touching the timber coaming on the bridge’s forefront; and passing close to the vacated cruiser moorings. The only sizeable warships in sight from here were those of the interned French squadron over on the far side, with the outer breakwater a putty-coloured barrier behind them and, beyond that – way out, for a mile or so it was in the visual lee of the breakwater – undulations of grey-white sea. It was going to be roughish out there, with a wind from the northeast and a strong swell running.
You were leaving the flies behind, anyway. In this month the Egyptian Times carried a warning on the top of its front page: In September the Egyptian house-fly bites in the shade. Actually it bit anywhere: and bred in the Delta swamps where human excrement was used as fertilizer. There were nicer flies to be bitten by, that was for sure. Diesels rumbling, a haze of exhaust wafting away to port, towards a shoreline of wharfs and godowns, the road and railway out to Mex behind them and, half a mile inland, the western end of Lake Maryut. In which Lucia’s brother Emilio – the thug in the photo-frame – had learnt from Egyptian schoolmates how to catch wild duck by swimming out from the shore under water and grabbing their webbed feet, dragging them under. Lucia had laughed, describing her young brother’s pride in this accomplishment, when all around the enormous lake – almost an inland sea – rich Egyptians and sometimes their foreign guests – dignitaries like Gamoose Pasha, for instance – were blazing away from hides and boats and as often as not missing. The King – Farouk – missed practically everything he shot at, apparently.
Henderson, the Intelligence man, had been startled when Mitcheson had told him that Lucia had a brother in the Italian navy. Almost offensively so: as if the same brush tarred her, for God’s sake.
Ahead, two anti-submarine trawlers which had entered a few minutes earlier were heading for their berths in the inner harbour. Having been apprised of current movements, Mitcheson knew they were the Wolborough and Kingston Cyanite, and that the file of small ships coming in behind them were empties which
they’d escorted back from Tobruk and Mersa. There was supposed to be a Hunt-class destroyer with them; it would still be outside, he guessed, having covered the little convoy’s rear.
He lowered his glasses. Acknowledging McKendrick’s report of, ‘Casing secured, sir’, then telling Forbes: ‘Fall out harbour stations, if you like.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Forbes passed the order down: ‘Fall out harbour stations. Patrol routine. But lookouts wait below.’ Lookouts weren’t needed yet. Forbes asked him, ‘Do we know what the fleet’s doing, sir?’
‘We do indeed.’ He put his face down to the voicepipe: aware that that was the second of the two questions at the forefront of all their minds. The first was what they were doing. ‘Three-six-oh revolutions.’ He’d only been given the answers himself this morning, at his briefing in the Staff Office. And now, contact with the land having to all intents and purposes been severed, everyone else could know it too. He stooped to the pipe again: ‘Steer three degrees to port.’ Glancing back then… ‘Chief, want to hear this?’
Bennett, who’d been taking his ease at the back of the bridge, came to join them. Teasdale too now, climbing out of the hatch: and the signalman, Jumbo Tremlett, edged up closer. Mitcheson told them: ‘It’s a Malta convoy operation. Operation Halberd. Convoy’s from the other end, with a strong escort. From here the fleet’s only making a diversion – I suppose steaming towards the Italian ports. Coming from Gib, meanwhile, nine fifteen-knot merchantmen covered by Nelson, Rodney, Prince of Wales, Ark Royal – and of course cruisers, etcetera.’
‘Prince of Wales…’
He nodded to Teasdale. ‘Detached from the Home Fleet. They started east from Gib this morning. Admiral Somerville’s flag in Nelson. If all goes according to plan the big ships’ll turn back short of Malta, cruisers’ll go on into Grand Harbour with the convoy.’
Forbes queried, ‘Our lot covering the Wop bases?’
He meant all the others of this flotilla. Mitcheson nodded. ‘And the Malta boats. But we’re part of it too. Weren’t going to be, but they decided we might be in time to be of some use after all.’ He glanced at Bennett. ‘Thanks largely to our plumber’s sterling efforts. Our billet’s the Andikithira Strait. We’re taking over there from Tigress – she’s moving up closer to the Piraeus, and we become long-stop.’
‘Andikithira.’ Bennett screwed his face up. ‘Name’s familiar, but—’
Forbes said, ‘Doesn’t have oil all over it, so he doesn’t know it.’
Teasdale murmured, ‘Better than another hunt for the elusive pig, anyway.’
‘West end of Crete, Chief. Kithera and Andikithira are islands in the strait between Crete and Greece. We were there a month or so ago, remember?’
The S.O.(O.) had explained, ‘May be all over by the time you get there. But Cunningham’ll still be at sea – on his way back here, but – at sea, that’s the point, there could well be U-boat movements through that gap. If nothing else.’ He’d added that when he’d said U-boats he’d meant exactly that – German U-boats, as well as the Italian variety; Intelligence reports left no doubt that quite a few Kraut submarines had moved from the Atlantic into the Mediterranean in recent weeks, probably in response to Rommel’s cries for help.
Mitcheson explained this. ‘So on passage we’ll spend the days dived. Tigress isn’t leaving the strait immediately, there’s no desperate rash.’ He told Forbes, ‘I’ll talk to the ship’s company when I come down, Number One.’
The Hunt-class destroyer was entering now. He had his glasses on her as she swept through the gap at speed and under helm, her wash breaking in a white explosion against the end of the breakwater, and rocking the boom-gate vessel. In a hurry to get in, he thought. Maybe her C.O. had a girl ashore.
* * *
He’d telephoned Lucia at her mother’s house in Cairo yesterday – Sunday – evening. A servant had answered the telephone and then gone to find her, and meanwhile Huguette de Gavres had come on the line.
‘Just a word with you, Commander. Lucia’s coming. But how nice to hear from you, she’ll be so pleased. She talks about you all the time, I may say!’
‘For your sake I hope not all the time.’
‘As it happens we were saying only at lunch today that we must persuade you to come here for a weekend too, when you can manage it. My husband would be only too delighted – and you don’t need to give us long notice, Lucia could simply call us and – oh, here she is, so I’ll—’
‘You’re very kind, Madame, and I would certainly like to take you up on that invitation. Later on, if—’
‘Any time. Please. At the first opportunity. Now I’ll say au revoir—’
‘Ned, darling?’ Lucia’s voice was very much like her mother’s. ‘Darling, are you lonely? I hope you are – I miss you terribly!’
He told her, when that part of it was over – his own contributions necessarily more guarded than hers – that he’d talked to certain people, as he’d said he would. ‘But don’t worry. There’ll be no – complications. That’s a firm promise. All right?’
‘Well – I suppose…’
‘I told them what I had to, that’s all. Will you speak to Solange – when you get back?’
‘To Solange… Oh, about – yes. Yes, I expect I will – I haven’t thought about it, really, since we—’
‘I really think you should talk to her.’
‘Yes. Well… Ned, will I see you when I get back?’
‘That’s – well, really I can hardly—’
‘No. Of course. Sorry, I shouldn’t have—’
‘When will you be back?’
‘Monday evening. To go to work Tuesday morning. I telephoned my boss at his home and it’s all right.’
‘Very understanding boss, you have.’
‘Also I have a very understanding—’ she was whispering – ‘lover. He’s the most heavenly—’
‘He doesn’t have the freedom to talk that you have. Not all that private, here. But listen—’ he’d lowered his voice too, although he’d been speaking quietly anyway – ‘see you some time—’
‘Some time! Oh, if I had any doubt of it, I’d—’
‘Darling, I didn’t mean it like that exactly…’
He had a feeling of unease now, over that conversation. It had been the nearest he’d ever come to actually telling her that he was leaving for patrol. He had as good as told her. Had foreseen the problem, too, before he’d put the call through, and realized that the only way to avoid it would have been not to telephone at all.
Needn’t have, either. She’d known he was going to pass on the information about Angelucci, and there was nothing for her to do about it. Needed to talk to her; that was all. To hear her voice. Not simply vanish into the blue. Resolution for the future now, anyway. Near departure dates, no telephoning. Warn her not to expect it, maybe.
Henderson, Currie’s Intelligence friend, had said it was indeed known that the Italian Patriots’ Association had on occasion been in touch with Rome. He thought the method of communication was known too, and that it might be through the Palace, Farouk’s Italian entourage. They – the former servants, now courtiers – were certainly members of the Association, and – strictly for Mitcheson’s private information – the British ambassador had recently been stepping up pressure on Farouk to have them shipped back to Italy. But in fact none of this was strictly Henderson’s pigeon, he’d explained, it was more a matter for his Army colleague – and of course for the Egyptian police. The trouble there, he’d confided, was that although the police force was British-run at the top, at other levels there were individual officers whose politics inclined towards the Young Officers’ movement, which of course was pro-Axis.
‘Well, in that case—’
‘Hold on.’ He’d seen the alarm in Mitcheson’s expression. ‘I know what you’re thinking. But forget it. I assure you – her name won’t come into it. Nor yours. But also – however it seems from where you’re sitting – this information isn’t
exactly going to set the house on fire. Nobody’s going to dash out and grab this Wop shit by his little velvet collar – eh?’
Currie had looked pleased. ‘See, Mitch? What I told you?’
‘Your main worry – as I understand this—’ Henderson had finished his beer and refused the offer of another – ‘is your girl’s – vulnerability. But I’d say, myself, there’s really no cause for alarm. Except if everything fell apart here, and Rommel broke through – then she’d have problems. In fact her best bet would be to scarper before it happened. God knows where or how, but – well, it wouldn’t be our concern then, I’m afraid. But as we can assume that situation won’t arise—’ he tapped his own forehead – ‘if I were you, I wouldn’t let it spoil my sleep.’
Mitcheson shook his head. He had a hand over his glass, to keep the flies out.
‘I take it, incidentally—’ Henderson had been on the point of leaving, but paused on this after-thought – ‘I take it there’s no doubt—’ he hesitated. ‘Look – casting no aspersions, I have to ask, that’s all - you are absolutely sure of this young lady’s political orientation, are you?’
‘Yes,’ Mitcheson told him flatly, ‘absolutely.’
‘Despite her brother having gone back to Italy to join up…’
‘I thought we’d dealt with that – what her damn brother does, or did—’
Currie broke in: ‘I’ve known her socially a lot longer than Mitch has. Know her relations, the Seydoux family, really very well. Maurice Seydoux is her mother’s brother. They’re all French born and bred, and her mother’s recently married a Free French colonel by name of Jules de Gavres – based in Cairo, a leading Gaullist. More to the point is the fact – as Mitch told you – Lucia’s father was a confino – unquestionably anti-Fascist, died in a camp on Lampedusa, in—’ he asked Mitcheson, – ‘thirty-nine, was it?’
‘If the year’s important—’
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