by Colin Forbes
'I'll watch it, sir,' Ford had replied and had then watched Prentice throw his trilby on the bed with a despairing cry.
'Ford!' he had bellowed. 'You've just done it again! Look, I know we're at the fag-end of our trip with the military mission to carry out liaison with the Turks in case Jerry attacks them, but we really have got to watch it...'
The trouble really had been the Turks themselves. Anxious to keep out of the war if they could - and who could blame them for that? - they had invited the British to send a military mission to discuss possible defence measures if the worst happened. But to avoid provoking the attack they feared, or rather, to avoid giving Berlin an excuse for launching that attack, they had insisted that the mission should travel in civilian clothes. A Signal Corps man, Prentice had found plenty to discuss with his Turkish opposite numbers in the way of a plan for setting up communications, and Staff-Sergeant Ford, ex-Royal Artillery, was now one of that rare breed, an ammunition examiner, an expert on explosives, both British and foreign. In this role he had also finished his work late when he had been taken to see a Turkish dam it was proposed to blow up in the event of a German invasion. So both of them had returned to Istanbul to find the plane with the military mission aboard had already left for Athens.
'When's the next one?' Prentice had light-heartedly asked the chap at the Legation.
'There isn't one,' the Legation official had informed him coldly. 'You'll have to catch a boat out of here. The very first available boat,' he had added. 'I've already looked it up for you - it's a ship called the Hydra. Sailing for Greece tomorrow morning. Just after dawn,' he had concluded with a twinge of waspish humour which Prentice, who hated rising early, had not fully appreciated.
Later, Prentice had discovered that normally there was a regular service operating between Istanbul and Athens, but the Turks had just cancelled this because of rumours of German troop movements along their northern borders. So, that left the ferry to the peninsula of Zervos, which was in northern Greece, much closer to Salonika than Athens, but at least it would land them on Greek soil. The Legation, of course, had been in the devil of a hurry to see the last of them. Prentice had a shrewd idea that the Ambassador was having kittens at the thought of British soldiers disguised as civilians wandering the streets of Istanbul. As he expressed it quietly to Ford in the saloon of the Hydra while he swallowed the ouzo in two gulps: 'I really think if there'd been a boat leaving for Russia they'd have pushed us on that.'
'Maybe. I still think it's queer there should be three Jerries all on the same trip on this leaky old tub,' Ford persisted. He could hear the rattle of a chain somewhere. They'd be off any minute now.
Prentice grinned. 'They may be embassy staff transferred from Istanbul to their place in Salonika.' He studied Ford, noted again the stocky build, the neatly cut black hair and the alert eyes which watched the room constantly. Always wanting to have a go, was Ford. An aggressive, controlled chap who carried an air of competence and energetic ability. As for Prentice, he never went out of his way to have a go, but if the necessity arose he was more than able to cope with his leisured, laconic manner. The difference was that for Ford, the army was a way of life, whereas for Prentice it was a necessary but time-wasting interval which kept him from his advertising job in the West End of London.
'But if they're embassy staff,' Ford went on obstinately, his hands cupped to hide his mouth, 'why are they travelling separately? They don't know each other, that's obvious enough.'
Prentice felt the ship moving away from the quayside and checked his watch. 7.30 AM. Ford had a point there, he was thinking. And if they were embassy staff going to Salonika why the devil hadn't they taken the train from Istanbul along that line through Macedonia? By all accounts it was a nightmare trip, stopping at every little out-of-the-way village and taking anything up to a couple of days, but at least it would have got them there direct. So why were they in such a rush to reach Greece by the earliest possible hour? Why, Prentice kept asking himself? Why?
Field-Marshal von List stood up from behind the desk at his GHQ in southern Bulgaria and walked to the window, still holding the meteorological report. Beside the desk his staff officer, Colonel Wilhelm Genke, waited patiently. The field-marshal was worried and from long experience Genke knew that this was not the moment to speak. The clock on the desk registered 7.30 AM.
His face seasoned and grim, List gazed out at the view, and this didn't please him either because it was a reminder of the piece of paper he held in his hands. It was an hour after dawn and beyond the stone houses of the village he could make out where the mountains rose to meet the clouds which hung low over Bulgaria, clouds which promised more snow on the way. Which the Met report also promised. He could vaguely see the snow from where he stood - great drifts of it piled up on the lower slopes under the cloud ceiling. His voice was harsh when he spoke.
'It's foul, unspeakably foul weather. They could be wrong, I suppose. They're wrong half the time, these so-called weather experts. Look at what happened in Norway.'
Genke coughed, timing his intervention carefully. 'Spring is late all over Europe, sir. There is still deep snow across the Russian steppes and no sign of a thaw...'
'Don't let's talk about Russia yet. We have to settle this business first.' List turned round, a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. 'Berlin, of course, is quite confident.'
'Berlin is always confident when other people have to do the work, sir. But you have exceptionally powerful forces under your command.'
On that point, at least, the field-marshal agreed. The Twelfth Army comprised two motorized, three mountain Alpenkorps and light infantry divisions, three regiments of the Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler Division - and five Panzer divisions, the spearhead of the coming onslaught on Greece and Yugoslavia. A force of enormous strength and great mobility -theoretically powerful enough to overwhelm everything which stood in their path. But there was deep snow on the Greek mountains, deep snow on Olympus and Zervos. Could the machines overcome the hazards of this damnably prolonged winter? The question was never far from his mind - and zero hour was almost here.
Gazing out of the window, he thought that Bulgaria was the most Godforsaken spot he had encountered in his life, and even as he watched, white flakes drifted down outside the window, several clinging to the glass and beginning to build up opaque areas. Would spring never come? Yes, zero hour was very close indeed. Beyond the window he heard a familiar sound - the grind and clatter of tank tracks moving over cobbled streets. The supporting Panzers were rolling towards the border and would be in position before nightfall. The timetable had been set in motion and the operation was under way. Now no power on earth except Berlin could stop it. And within hours even Berlin would have forfeited that prerogative.
From outside the house came the sound of a vehicle stopping, its engine still left running. Genke shuffled his feet.
'The car has arrived, sir.'
List buttoned up his coat to the ndck, put the peaked cap on his head and started for the door. But on the way he paused to glance at the wall map which an orderly would take down as soon as they had left, a map of the southern Balkans and eastern Mediterranean zones. Then Genke opened the door and Field-Marshal von List strode out with his assistant following. Genke had noted that pause to glance at the map and he knew which area had attracted List's attention. He had looked first at Istanbul, then his eye had followed the sea route through the Dardanelles and across the Aegean where it had finally alighted on a certain peninsula.
Zervos.
'The Rupescu?' The Senior Naval Intelligence Officer at Alexandria looked up at his assistant, Lieutenant-Commander Browne. 'Is that the Rumanian ship the Legation people at Istanbul sent the message about?'
'Yes, sir. It left the Bulgarian port of Varna yesterday and arrived at the Golden Horn a few hours ago. There's some mystery as to her ultimate destination.'
'What mystery?'
It's a bit vague, sir. Apparently she's bound for Beirut -but it's he
r first trip out of the Black Sea for months and I suppose the Legation's bothered because the Germans control Rumania now.'
'I see. That's rather delicate - we still haven't declared war on Rumania. You're suggesting we keep an eye on her? To make sure she is heading for the Lebanon?'
Browne looked out of the window where a white jetty sparkled in the early morning sunshine, its arm enclosing a basin of brilliant blue water where warships lay at anchor. A transport bound for Greece was just beyond the jetty wall, sailing north-west and leaving behind a clear wake of white on the blue. 'It's the only vessel in the area which has the remotest connexion with the Axis powers - and so far we have no idea what she's carrying.'
'Probably collecting rather than carrying - trying to pick up a cargo before war is eventually declared and we can pounce on her. We're very stretched, you know that, Browne.'
'I was thinking of the Daring, sir. She's patrolling off the Turkish coast and could intercept the Rupescu soon after dark. I'm not thinking of boarding her - but it might be interesting to get her reaction when a British destroyer comes in close.'
'Send Willoughby a message, then. And radio another one to Istanbul. We've had two requests already from those querulous diplomats.' The senior officer looked at the wall clock. 7.30 AM. Yes, it would be after nightfall before Willoughby arrived.
CHAPTER THREE
Saturday, 10 PM
The tension had slowly risen aboard the Hydra, a tension which seemed reproduced by the steady beat of her throbbing engines as she left the Dardanelles and proceeded far out into the open Aegean. By nightfall she was midway between the Turkish and Greek coasts, steaming through seas which were beginning to curdle. The tension rose from small, meaningless incidents. The meeting at a doorway between Prentice and the squat, dark-haired German, Volber, when the latter had started to push his way through first and had then changed his mind, offering prior entry to Prentice. The episode at dinner when a cork came out of a bottle like a pistol shot and for several seconds the company had frozen. The careful way in which passengers of different nationalities turned to go in another direction when they saw someone coming towards them.
'It's not frightfully funny any more,' Prentice had remarked over dinner irritably. 'Look at the way they're sitting - like pallbearers at a funeral.'
'They'd have more fun at a funeral - afterwards, anyway,' Ford had pointed out. 'It's almost as though they're waiting for something to happen.' All the others occupied a table to themselves. Macomber, Hahnemann, Volber and Grapos - all sitting in splendid isolation with empty tables between them while each ate and drank as though he were the only person in the room, taking care to make no sound except for the occasional clink of cutlery. Even the captain, Nopagos, who came in later, was unable to help. Ke had explained this briefly to Prentice in his careful English while visiting each table in turn before taking a table of his own.
'It is difficult, Mr Prentice - British and Germans on board, you understand.'
'Frightened there'll be a rumpus?' Prentice had inquired genially.
'Rum... pus?'
'A battle, a fight.' Prentice had play-acted with his fists, glad of the chance to pull someone's leg, then had relented when he saw the Greek's doleful expression. 'Don't worry, we'll be good. But I bet you'll be damned glad to drop this lot off at Katyra in the morning.'
'The safe arrival in port is always the happy time,' Nopagos replied ambiguously and went away to his solitary table.
When dinner was over one passenger, Macomber, lingered in the room long after the others had left, smoking his cigar and drinking coffee from the pot the steward had provided after clearing his table. Like the saloon, the dining-room was panelled and small gold curtains were still drawn back from the porthole windows. Occasionally, he glanced out of the nearest window which gave him a view across the moonlit sea to the north-east, a sea which had now ceased to tremble with small waves and was already developing massive undulations which heaved towards the vessel with foam-topped crests. The dining-room was beginning to sway ponderously and the Scot shifted his feet wider apart to counter the movement as the woodwork creaked ominously, the horizon beyond the porthole dipping out of sight and then clambering into view again. The fourth German, Schnell, had still not appeared, and Macom-ber had mentioned this to the steward when he had brought the extra pot of coffee. 'Perhaps he's dead,' he had said with rough humour, 'he could be for all we've seen of him.'
'He had dinner served in his cabin,' the steward had remarked, 'and he wanted a Thermos of coffee made up for the night. Probably he doesn't sleep well at sea.'
'He won't if he drinks a whole Thermos of this,' Macomber had replied. The coffee was Turkish and the prospect of consuming it in such quantities suggested a steel-plated stomach and an inability to sleep at all.
'We get passengers like that occasionally,' the steward had prattled on. 'They just don't seem to like mixing with strangers. This man is like that - he was in the toilet when the dinner was taken in, as though he didn't even wish to see the steward. He's Austrian, I think,' he had added.
'Indeed? Why do you say that?'
'His big cabin trunk has labels on it from the Hotel Sacher in Vienna. The steward thinks he spends a lot of time sitting by his porthole gazing out to sea - there was a pair of field-glasses opened by the table next to his wrist-watch. Call me if you want anything else, sir.' Left alone by himself Macomber had drunk two cups of the strong-tasting liquid while he thought about the invisible Herr Schnell. It was ten o'clock when he walked out of the deserted dining-room to take a final tour of the vessel, and at this hour the Hydra had the feel of a ghost ship, one of those phantom vessels which drift round the seaways of the world and are only seen as a mirage in the night. There was no one about as he descended a creaking staircase and began to walk along .the empty companionway on the deck containing the passenger cabins. He had chosen this staircase deliberately and his rubber-soled boots made no sound as he paused by the first cabin which the Austrian occupied. Cabin One was silent but there were narrow streaks of light in the louvred upper half of the closed door. He made no attempt to see through the louvres - he had tested that possibility with his own cabin door earlier in the evening - but clearly the mysterious Schnell was still secreted inside his own quarters. He might not be awake, Macomber was thinking as he stood quite still, since a man who spends hours inside one small room is likely to get drowsy and fall asleep with the lights still on.
The next cabin was the wireless-room. Here, instead of pausing, Macomber walked past slowly, seeing through the half-open door- the Greek wireless operator reading a newspaper as one hand reached out for a sandwich. So far everything seemed normal, perfectly normal, but the Scot could not rid himself of a feeling of growing unease. The next cabin was in darkness. Volber's. The German who looked like the owner of a small business - or a member of the Gestapo. Often the two types could easily be confused. Cabin Three still had the lights on and from behind the closed door came the faint sounds of dance music. Herr Hahnemann was tuned in to Radio Deutschland, perhaps feeling a little homesick aboard this swaying ferry in the middle of the Aegean. There were lights in the next cabin, too, the temporary home of the two Britishers. Macomber paused outside and then walked steadily on as the mumble of voices died suddenly. When a cabin door opened behind him he was careful not to turn round. An interesting thought had struck him: was Volber really asleep inside that darkened cabin or was he somewhere else, having deliberately given the impression that he had gone down for the night? Silently he passed his own darkened cabin and began to mount the staircase at the other end of the companionway. The vessel was steaming steadily westward and as he opened the door at the top he faced the stern, consciously bracing himself and squaring his shoulders as the moan of the wind took on a higher note, rasping his face with its icy blast. Macomber had experienced the wind from the plains of Hungary, a wind which swept straight in from the depths of faraway Siberia, but as he slammed the door shut he thought
he had never felt a more penetrating chill.
The deck was deserted. No sign of Volber. But the boat was still there, the vessel he had seen through the porthole from his dining-room table. She was moving along a course parallel to the Hydra's, ploughing through the rising seas perhaps three kilometres to starboard. The deck was lifting sufficiently for him to hold onto the rail as he made his way to the stern, his face muscles drawn tight and not from the bitter wind which froze his skin. Taking out his Monokular glass, which was small enough to conceal inside the palm of one hand, he looked back along the deck. Lifeboats, the snow melted and gone during the day, swung slowly on their davits, reproducing the movement of the sea. A thin trail of smoke floated from the Hydra's funnel, was caught up by the wind and thrown into a spiral. There was no sign of life anywhere. He aimed his glass, saw the other ship as a blur which merged in one long glowworm of light, focused, brought the lights forward as separate portholes, noted the white funnel and the unidentifiable flag which whipped from the masthead. For perhaps a minute he stood motionless, one part of his mind on the lens, the other part alert for the slightest sound which might warn him that he was no longer alone on that empty deck, a sound which might warn him of the attempt on his life he had feared ever since coming aboard. Then he closed the glass, pocketed it and checked his watch once more. 10.10 PM. Yes, it was the Rupescu, the vessel which had got up steam as soon as the Hydra had made preparations to leave the Golden Horn. Shoulders hunched against the wind, he made his way back along the unstable deck and went down into the warmth which met him as soon as he opened the door. Inside his own cabin he took off his hat and coat, lit a fresh cigar, put the Luger within easy reach and settled down to wait. Assassins often preferred to operate at night.
