Ross took out his pipe, unable to forget the dead girl’s icy body in his arms, her broken, unmoving stare. Not your sort. Tucker was upset about it too, probably because of what he had said about her.
‘I don’t know, Charles, but I think they want to pick your brains.’
Villiers looked back at him warmly. ‘I’ll always trust your judgement. About Singapore, you mean?’
‘Just a feeling.’
‘Are you worried that they might want me to go back?’
‘It would be madness. No one can force you. If I have any say in the matter . . .’ He shrugged again. ‘Just be prepared, O.K?’
A Wren brought some coffee, and Ross thought of the girl named Victoria down the passageway in Operations. What was really going on in her mind? She was obviously still shocked by her officer’s brutal death, and the little gold watch with its engraving seemed particularly to disturb her.
The lunch ended precisely on time. It was somehow typical of Pryce, Ross thought, that it should have been laid out in his office and not in his quarters. Wary of some outsider who might discover something personal about him, a whim or a weakness?
A steward came out carrying a tray of dishes. There were no wineglasses on it.
Somewhere a telephone rang briefly, and immediately afterwards Petty Officer Mackenzie came to the outer office, a notebook in one hand.
She said, ‘You’re to go in, sir.’ To Villiers she added, ‘You are to wait here for a few moments.’ For all of them, that moment of peace in the Colonel’s lovely garden and her swim under the stars seemed a lifetime away.
Ross held open the door for her, remembering the pressure of her body, her scent, when he had held her against him to demonstrate to Major Guest how simple it was to commit murder.
The three faces in the main office looked up as they walked in. Surprisingly, the only one who seemed confused, even startled, was the wiry little brigadier.
‘I thought you had a Wren officer seconded to this unit?’
Commander Crookshank said, ‘She died. Unfortunately at such short notice . . .’
Pryce cut it short. ‘Petty Officer Mackenzie is the most experienced and certainly the most reliable member of my staff here.’
The brigadier’s eyes were still on the girl’s bare arm, the blue crossed anchors on the sleeve. ‘If you say so.’
Pryce glared at him. ‘I do say so.’
Ross felt a little glow of admiration for him.
Brigadier Davis took out a notebook and said, ‘Very well – ah, Mackenzie. Shorthand notes, and two complete copies for my file and Captain Pryce’s. Top Secret.’
Ross studied him surreptitiously. Brigadier of what, he wondered. Or was it one of those fictional titles he had heard were prevalent among the cloak-and-dagger élite?
Davis said, ‘Now, about Lieutenant Villiers.’
Crookshank said carefully, ‘A very good officer, sir. Temporary wartime commission, but all the same . . .’ Keeping the peace. He was well known for it. He had found his niche and did not want to lose it.
Pryce said, ‘It was all in his report. An extremely wealthy family, famous too, by all accounts. How much he can help your department is something else.’ He added harshly, ‘Up to him, don’t you think?’
Ross glanced at the girl’s tanned arm on the table beside him. She was gripping her pencil so tightly he was surprised that it did not snap. Her eyes were downcast and he wondered if she were hiding anger, as on the occasion when she had known that he and Pryce were discussing her. Or did she resent Davis’s hesitation, reluctance even, as another personal, perhaps racial slight?
Davis said distantly, ‘As long as he can be relied on. Top Secret means just that, in London in any case.’
Pryce did not accept it gracefully. ‘The last time I was lunching at the Savoy, I was sitting next to three staff officers who blabbed so much about the defences at Dover I could have captured the place single-handed.’
Crookshank asked quickly, ‘How was the old Savoy?’
Pryce regarded him and gave a wintry smile. ‘Still there. Will that do?’
The door opened and Villiers walked into the room, his shoulders still dark with rain.
Again, Ross saw her fingers tighten on the pencil. Reliving it. The drenching, deafening rain, the naked body being covered by the redcaps. Or was it something she felt for Villiers?
Pryce introduced the others and said, ‘Sit down, old chap.’
Villiers glanced at Ross, as if to reassure himself that he had heard correctly. Old chap. This was another Pryce neither of them knew.
Davis said, ‘I am aware of your connections with Singapore and Malaya, or most of them anyway. My department works like bricklayers, putting facts together, trying to discover a pattern, making things fit. We don’t disregard any information that might help us and, of course, the country.’
Villiers said, ‘It was my home, sir. In many ways, it still is.’
Davis looked into his little book. Like Major Guest, Ross thought. ‘Do you recall anyone named Richard Tsao, an acquaintance perhaps?’
Villiers stared past him. If he felt surprise, or any other emotion, he concealed it. ‘I knew him fairly well. He was a junior manager of the South China Lighterage Company of Singapore and Malaya. Has something happened to him?’
Davis did not reply. ‘The South China Lighterage Company was one of the businesses owned by your family, I believe?’
Villiers nodded, his mind working, trying to anticipate what was coming, why this casual mention of somebody from his past.
Davis glanced coolly at the girl’s hand as she scribbled a few more notes. ‘Richard Tsao is now running that company.’ He turned his attention to the lieutenant, his eyes very still, like stones. ‘He is working for the Japanese Occupation Army.’
Villiers did not even raise his voice. ‘If he wanted to stay alive, it was the sensible thing to do. Two of my father’s employees were beheaded, simply because they signed their names in English.’
Ross watched him, wanting to help, to stop the relentless interrogation. Had Villiers discovered that grisly little piece of information when he had returned to Singapore covertly, when Ossie Dyer had been so furious?
Davis continued, ‘We have agents there, of course.’ He sounded very vague. ‘Richard Tsao has intimated that he might give us certain information.’
The pencil moved again. Villiers said, ‘He’d be a fool to take that kind of risk. He has his whole family to consider.’
Davis turned a few more pages. ‘So have many of us, Lieutenant.’
Ross saw Villiers’ hand clench into a fist. How could anyone make such a stupid, cruel remark?
‘For months now, our combined intelligence forces have been baffled by some German interest in Singapore. They are to all intents brothers in arms, although this seems to be something other than that. There is repeated mention of an operation named Monsun.’ He paused. ‘For the record, it means monsoon.’
Pryce said irritably, ‘Bloody topical, anyway!’
Davis ignored him. ‘An agent verified Tsao’s knowledge of it, purely by accident.’ He spread his hands. ‘It’s not much to go on.’
Villiers said without expression, ‘You’d like me to meet him, sir.’
‘If it can be arranged. You will be consulted every inch of the way, naturally.’
‘And in return, sir, what is he asking?’
‘I am not yet able to say. But Operation Monsun is real, and it is necessary to know what it is, no matter how flimsy it might appear.’
Villiers said, ‘I could do it.’
Davis sounded neither relieved nor surprised. ‘There is another snag, but we may be able to overcome it, bypass it, even.’
Ross interrupted, ‘This Tsao chap wants assurance, right? To meet someone less involved with the personal aspect.’ He looked at Villiers. ‘I would go with Lieutenant Villiers, if it would help.’
Villiers stared at him and shook his head. But he sa
id nothing. Perhaps there were no words.
‘Did you get that, ah, Mackenzie?’
Her eyes came to rest on Ross’s face, with a shocked disbelief. But she glanced at her pad and said coolly, ‘I did, sir.’
Davis rubbed his hands. ‘Well, that’s it, gentlemen. A good afternoon’s work, I think.’ To Victoria he said, ‘You may go and type the report, and bring me the shorthand notes afterwards.’
He looked at Villiers. ‘We shall keep you informed. And, thank you.’
Pryce said, ‘I must protest at your handling of this matter, sir!’
‘Out of my hands – our hands.’
He stood up, his suit creaseless. ‘I shall see you shortly. Right now I have to arrange some signals.’ He paused with one neat hand on the door. ‘Don’t forget the shorthand notes, will you?’
Pryce watched the door close and snapped, ‘Does he think she’s a spy, for God’s sake?’
Ross said, ‘I thought we had an operation of our own on the cards, sir.’
Pryce muttered angrily, ‘Not in front of him!’ To Commander Crookshank he added, ‘Top Secret goes for this too!’
He got up slowly from his desk, as if to give himself time to calm down. Then he tapped the big wall map. ‘It may be useless – too late, anything – but I’ve alerted the submarine Turquoise, and I’ll want one chariot crew ready to take passage the minute I get the affirmative.’ His fingers rested on the coast of Burma. ‘Not so far as the last operation,’ he smiled as if at some secret thought, ‘Emma. But we have received information that a large Japanese freighter went aground here, to the west of the Irrawaddy River delta. As I said, it could be too late. They might have moved her, but I doubt it. She was loaded to the deck beams with steel railway tracks and other gear.’
Crookshank leaned forward, his earlier discomfort momentarily forgotten. ‘I read that signal. The Jap Army is constructing a new railway at Rangoon, to run eventually to Mandalay. That’s about four hundred miles through very rough territory. So they’ll need this cargo and more supplies if they hope to finish it on time.’
Pryce said savagely, ‘No prizes for guessing who’s doing all the work.’
Crookshank nodded. ‘Prisoners of war. Dying like flies, I believe.’
Pryce let the map fall into place and turned to Ross. ‘I want you to send young Napier again. I’ve heard the gossip, but I don’t want any arguments. It will be the making of him. I shall see what I can do about advancing his second stripe afterwards.’
Ross said, ‘Don’t I have any say in this, sir?’
‘I think you’ve said quite enough!’ Surprisingly, he smiled and touched Ross’s arm. ‘I am right about this, you know. He’s good, but he was simply not ready for Emma. This will be a copy-book job, like an exercise.’
He was almost jovial as he went on, ‘The pity of it is, young Napier will miss the party for Howard Costain. It’s being fixed for next week.’
Ross walked out of the room, seething, and yet knowing in his heart that Pryce was probably right. Napier had to rise above his difficulties, otherwise he was finished.
He saw her coming slowly towards him, the typed report in her hand. She held out her notebook. ‘Shall I burn this in front of them?’
He took her arm very gently. ‘I could have hit him,’ he said.
She did not remove her arm from his grip. When he looked at her he saw the expression in her eyes, the way she was studying his face as if she were searching for something. Or somebody.
‘I know I must not talk about it. But when you said what you did, what you believed you must do for Charles Villiers, I wanted to stop you, to tell them you’ve already seen and done enough.’ She paused: it was difficult for her. ‘Suppose they really do send you.’ Her mouth quivered, but she could not stop. ‘Suppose they . . .’
He pressed her arm gently. ‘They won’t. Charles may be young and in love, but he knows that island as well as you do!’
She wiped her cheek as if she expected to find that a tear had betrayed her. ‘In love? I’m so glad for him.’ She was suddenly very serious. ‘But he must be careful. The Villiers family was very powerful and much admired, by their own sort.’ She hesitated, wondering if she had gone too far.
Ross said, ‘I know. The Sons of Empire are not always as popular as they are led to believe.’
She heard a bell ringing somewhere. ‘I must go.’ She held up the papers. ‘Monsun is German for Monsoon, remember?’
As if to make its point, the rain began again.
8
Next of Kin
FROM SLEEP TO an instant awareness, Mike Tucker was no longer surprised at how quick and complete the transition could be. As his hands moved swiftly to the steel cot above where he was lying, his whole body was coiled like a spring, ready to leap out into the dimmed lights of the P.O.s’ mess. Piece by piece, his mind was sifting and disposing of the normal sounds and sensations. The quivering vibration of the submerged hulk, the occasional click of machinery, a sense of movement but without any human voice. It was as if the submarine Turquoise was an underwater phantom which needed nobody to sustain her.
The air was heavy, too long confined, and without freshness. There had been no opportunity to vent the boat and run the diesels for charging batteries. Four days since they had left Trincomalee, and the closer they had got to their destination on the Burmese mainland, the more aware everyone had been of enemy activity, which had made even casual sightings with the periscope too dangerous to contemplate.
Four days. A lifetime. The submarine’s company had one another with whom to share their thoughts. For the chariot crew, Sub-Lieutenant Peter Napier and his Number Two, Telegraphist Nick Rice, there was no such comfort.
Tucker lay back with his head on his clasped hands and stared at the cot above him. Submarines were a way of life if you allowed them to be. He pictured the solitary chariot snugged down on the saddle-tank, inert but deadly. Waiting. A few more hours and it would be time to go. Or to make a decision that was the choice of the submarine skipper, Bob Jessop, alone. To call off the whole operation. Tucker smiled in the gloom. Rather him than me . . .
He thought too of Ross, his expression when he had gone to him to suggest he should go with Napier for support. As one of the old team. The pro. Now Tucker was not so sure. Nick Rice had seen him privately and had repeated his dissatisfaction with Napier as his officer.
Tucker had tried to explain to him that it was too late for complaints or doubts. They were not, after all, green recruits. They were brave, highly skilled men; there was no time or room for sloppiness. Rice would be sitting with his kit right now. Going over it, remembering all the details of the proposed attack. When Turquoise had managed to make wireless contact there had been virtually no news which had warranted a change of plan. The damaged freighter was still there; there might be a tug in company. It was possible that the unwieldy cargo of steel rails would have to be offloaded before the ship could be moved and another sent to replace her. All so vague. As usual, Tucker had concentrated on the job in hand. If you banked on a dicey one being cancelled at the last minute, you were usually wrong.
He thought nostalgically of his home in London, the Battersea skyline all the way to the river before the smoke and fog closed in. It would be Christmas soon. The pubs would do well.
He found himself thinking of the girl who had died in Ceylon. He faced it. Who had been murdered. He had heard some of the others discussing it, how Ross and the P.O. Wren, Mackenzie, had been there at the scene. Now the girl was just a memory. He tried not to compare her with Eve again. She must still be lying there, buried under fallen buildings; they had insisted that it was not so, that she had been laid to rest in one of the big communal graves where the bombing had been at its worst.
But suppose not? Was she still lying there with nobody to care? Or maybe there hadn’t been enough of her to bury anywhere.
‘What?’ He almost snarled at the seaman who had pulled back the curtain.
&n
bsp; The sailor said, ‘The old man wants you in the control-room.’ He winked. ‘Just dreaming of a juicy bit, were you?’
Tucker’s feet hit the deck almost soundlessly. He glanced at the curtained bunks, the men off-watch. So many times. He could still remember his first boat, the warnings about getting a move on when the klaxon tore the place apart. He had regarded his messmates with some scorn, thinking, no bloody fear there. One or two of them had been quite plump, not all that fast on their feet.
When the klaxon had sounded, however, he had found himself alone in his mess. They had been able to move when they needed to.
Into the oily air of the control-room: men welded to their seats, eyes watching their instruments. Tucker took a quick look at the depth gauge. One hundred feet, no swell, no other sounds.
The skipper was by the chart table and the plot with his navigating officer. Peter Napier was peering at the chart, his notes under one hand. There was hair like down on his cheeks; perhaps he intended to grow a beard to impress the ladies. Tucker found he could still grin. Some hopes of that. The first bit of wind would blow it off.
Bob Jessop raised his head. ‘Good weather. The proverbial mill-pond up top. The last run in should be fair enough.’
Tucker noticed that the navigator had suddenly vanished, and the duty stoker by the periscope well had also melted away.
Jessop said, ‘It seems that the Number Two wants to pull out.’
Napier looked directly at Tucker, his eyes defensive, resentful. For just a second in that youthful face, Tucker could see Ross’s friend David Napier, who had died in that other attack.
Napier said, ‘I don’t know what to say about it. We’re a team. Rice is good. I’ve never worked with anyone else.’
Jessop said flatly, ‘You should have seen Captain Pryce, or Jamie Ross before we left. This is a bit late!’
Napier stared at him. ‘Well, it’s not my fault! I’m ready and geared up for it. A piece of . . .’ He coloured slightly and let it drop.
Jessop said, ‘As far as I can estimate, I shall have to put you off here.’ His pencil tapped the chart. ‘It will take you at least three hours to locate the target, do the job and then get back to the pick-up area.’
A Dawn Like Thunder Page 13