He spoke and understood English perfectly. When he chose.
Wykes spread his hands. ‘Well, gentlemen, it seems it is a time for action.’
They were both staring down into the pool, each viewing the midget submarine differently. No doubt the small, stooping Beamish saw it as another solved puzzle, no longer his responsibility. His straight-backed companion saw it as a means to an end.
Wykes said, ‘It has been confirmed that the Germans are preparing to transport their supply of the new mines from the Channel Islands to the mainland. After that, it will be a much greater task to pinpoint their locations. They will be scattered. The exact timing of this operation is still unknown.’
Lalonde said bluntly, ‘Our agents found the storage and assembly points months ago. They should have been bombed there and then.’
‘The P.M. was unwilling to condone air attacks on the only part of Britain occupied by the enemy. It was considered bad for morale. The people there are suffering enough.’
Lalonde smiled humourlessly. ‘He is less squeamish about bombing my country, which is also suffering enough!’
Wykes relaxed. This was the Lalonde he knew and, for some reason, respected.
‘The mines are small, as you know, and in large numbers could compromise any invasion’s main weapon, surprise. The Channel Islands were a good choice for the training and experimental stage as far as the enemy were concerned. Now they are ready to move on.’
He recalled the photographs which had been taken at great risk, and had arrived eventually on his desk. Ragged Russian prisoners of war, hands tied behind them, being driven across the experimental mines. As slaves they had no other value, and any islander showing sympathy or protest was severely punished.
The Channel Islands had been a sound choice for another reason. Commando raids or any attempt to land sabotage parties would be forestalled before they had begun. Only the few could have any hope of success.
He said, ‘It will be soon, of that we are certain.’
Beamish removed his glasses and polished them briskly in a piece of tissue. Without them, his eyes looked tiny and ineffectual. He said abruptly, ‘My department is satisfied, James. It is a good machine, and we have made it better!’ He was not boasting. It was simply another statistic.
Lalonde stared at the green, flickering water. One of the frogmen was sitting on the craft’s whaleback, his hood removed, smoking a cigarette.
As he turned to call something to his companion the little submarine rocked steeply. Even with the added weight of the explosives, it seemed too small and vulnerable for its hazardous work.
Lalonde returned his attention to Wykes.
‘Have you heard anything? About Mademoiselle de Courcy?’
It was pointless to try and fob him off with the usual security sermon. Lalonde knew all about it. He had even been over there on a couple of secret missions, and had almost been captured after a woman recognized him and reported his presence to the military police.
A French woman, too! A friend of my mother’s! The danger of capture and what would have followed seemed to take second place to such treachery.
Wykes said, ‘I have received no further news. When I do, I shall call you.’
Lalonde shook his head. ‘She should never have gone, never been sent.’
‘I know. She volunteered. After that . . .’ He shrugged. ‘We were running out of alternatives.’
Lalonde strode to the safety-rail again, as if he could not restrain his agitation.
‘And who will “volunteer” for this escapade, eh?’
Wykes took out his cigarette case and opened it deliberately.
‘I think I know just the man.’
‘Then I pity him.’ He eyed him gravely. ‘And you also!’
Wykes tapped a cigarette on the silver case. It helped. Gave him time.
‘We cannot all be squeamish, Capitaine!’
16
In All the Old Familiar Places
David Masters walked unhurriedly along the jetty, giving himself time to think, and taking care not to trip over any loose piece of gear. It was evening, with a stiff, cold wind off the bay and layers of dark cloud moving swiftly overhead. But there was a full moon in the offing, so that the jetty and its moored charges were occasionally lit up, like a stage set. A bomber’s moon, they called it, and even with fighter protection and anti-aircraft batteries this was still a target worth risking. If the enemy knew or cared enough about it, when there were so many bigger objectives.
There was always mention of security, and ‘careless talk’ in the same breath. It had become more pointed recently when a local woman whose husband was away in the army had been discovered in bed with one of the Italian prisoners of war. To all intents and purposes Italy was out of the war now, unless you were an Italian unfortunate enough to be in the German-occupied area of the country. The prisoners of war, who worked so willingly on the farms and market gardens, had become part of the local scenery. But all the same, there was the fear of careless talk.
He had spent most of the day near Weymouth, at the one-time boarding school with Captain Wykes and some of his experts. He paused and looked at the nearest motor launch, Foley’s command until today. How did he feel, he wondered. Something so familiar and so personal. On the drive back from Weymouth Margot Lovatt had been very quiet, even downcast. She knew about Foley’s new command, and what it might mean to them. It happened often enough in wartime. Separation, and the fear of losing something only just discovered.
And there was Wykes and his new toy, the midget submarine. The chain-smoking captain had seemed surprised that he had known so much about the ‘catch’, even though he had had plenty of time to examine it, and check the details, on that first visit to Osprey. And later, when he had offered her a chair. And his coat.
Wykes had somehow reminded him of Bumper Fawcett. Were a submariner. And they had talked about the mines, the very real threat they posed, and what steps might be necessary.
And all the while the midget submarine had been lying there in the old school swimming bath, almost familiar.
He realized he was touching the scar on his cheek. It had all seemed unimportant when set against the news that Elaine was missing. As he had known in his heart. Feared.
Wykes had been unusually open and frank. He had told him a little of her background. Born in the Channel Islands; her mother was English, and her father, who had once had some business connection with the dead Critchley, a Channel Islander, although he had stronger inclinations towards France. She had come to England to complete her studies and to take up journalism, mostly connected with holidays and travel, for those who could afford it. Then the war, and the German occupation. She had been evacuated just before the first invaders landed, and her father had continued to work for the new masters.
Elaine de Courcy was fluent in French and German, and when her father’s good friend John Critchley had introduced her to his naval connections she had found herself working, as a civilian, in the Admiralty Intelligence department.
Wykes had said, ‘At no time was it even suggested that she should become an active agent!’
Masters was not sure he believed him. All that mattered was that she had gone, that night, after they had been here together.
She might be dead. He could not contemplate the alternatives.
‘Evenin’, sir!’
He turned and saw a tall figure, dark against the boat’s pale hull. It was Bass, 366’s coxswain. He could smell smoke, and guessed that Bass had a cigarette carefully secreted in the cupped palm of his hand, in the way of sailors.
‘Work going well?’
Bass shuffled his feet. ‘The usual, sir. You knows ’ow it is.’ He added quickly, ‘My rate came through, sir. I’m actin’ petty officer as of today. ’E said he’d fix it. Course, that was before ’e knew about the promotion, an’ ’is new command.’ He flicked ash discreetly into the darkness. ‘But ’e said ’e’d fix it. Never lets anyone dow
n, does Mister Foley!’
‘You’ll miss him?’
Bass said without hesitation, ‘I’ve stuck in for a transfer, sir. They was askin’ for volunteers.’ He grinned, his teeth very white in the darkness. ‘As if they cares about that!’
There was the sound of marching feet; a patrol was approaching. Security. Bass straightened up and stood firmly at the foot of the brow.
Masters said, ‘I’ll put in a word.’ He walked into a moving carpet of moonlight.
He had spoken to Rear-Admiral Fawcett on the telephone about it. Bumper had been evasive, not very forthcoming. Perhaps he already had someone else in mind for this appointment? Someone who could plan and delegate, and who could watch with detachment as men went off to be killed, because the enemy had schemed up another new trick.
‘There’ll be more centralisation, and soon too. D.T.M. at Admiralty has become top-level stuff nowadays, and the Director will be needing a new sidekick to speed things along. It would mean promotion, y’know, a brass-hat, not to be sneezed at, what?’
The Department of Torpedoes and Mines. Masters could imagine it. Still more remote, with the war at an even greater distance. At least you wouldn’t see the people you were sending off to their last incidents.
He stood on a slipway, the weed slippery under his shoes. Never walk to the end of a jetty, his father had once said. Somehow, the superstition had remained with him.
Wykes had said, ‘It will have to be planned to the last detail. No foul-ups, no chances.’ He had gazed at him steadily. ‘I don’t have to explain the risk. I wouldn’t know where to begin. But I don’t think there is any other way.’ Unexpectedly, he had gripped his arm. ‘If anyone can do it, you can.’
And when had he said anything that made sense? When had he agreed?
All he could remember was the French officer shaking his hand, the one he had seen in the restaurant en route to a cabaret with Elaine de Courcy. The boat cloak, and the same glittering brooch which was now in Brayshaw’s safe. When he had thought that she and Lalonde had been lovers. And the small man with the bottle-top glasses, bobbing and smiling; he, too, had shaken his hand . . .
He had glanced once more into the green water.
It was as if the little submarine had been waiting for him.
Masters ducked beneath a crane and turned back towards the top of the yard. Another visit to Operations, and then back to his quarters. He could not face the wardroom and the curious stares. Ops would ring him if anything new turned up.
He saw the car parked in its usual place and went over to it.
‘Don’t get out.’ He put his hand on the door and peered in at her. ‘I’ll not be needing you again today.’ He paused. ‘By the way, I’m seeing your quarters officer about getting a few days’ leave for you. You’ve been overdoing it since you came back.’ He gripped her wrist against the open window. ‘Please, don’t waste it.’ He noticed that she did not flinch; they had both come a long way since that first day.
He could smell her perfume, very faintly. But he was thinking of somebody else.
A siren had started up somewhere, and he turned away from the car, towards the Operations section. It was suddenly bathed in eerie light, until the next cloud bank. A bomber’s moon.
He heard the car drive away and was suddenly glad of what he had said.
Now, it seemed more important than ever.
Michael Lincoln shook his head and waved aside another drink. He had already lost count, and he needed to be careful. Anyway, he thought, it was strange to be offered a glass by someone you didn’t know, in the house where you had grown up and lived for most of your life. The same house, and yet so changed. Packed from wall to wall with people, drinking and eating the many snacks which were laid out on various tables. There was certainly no shortage of anything. Quite the reverse.
And his father; he seemed to have changed more than anything. Only a few months since that last leave, when they had parted with scarcely a word, but he seemed to have opened out, boisterous and very much in charge.
He was wearing a new suit, and his hair was well trimmed and slicked down over his shining forehead. And he was drinking gin, a lot of it. Lincoln had never seen him touch anything but mild and bitter before, unless it was Christmas or somebody’s wedding.
In the few hours since he and Downie had arrived by taxi from the station it had not stopped. Some of the people he recognized; others seemed to be his father’s friends or working acquaintances. It seemed he had become a somebody in the district, had even been elected to membership of the local council. His mother had managed to toss him fragments of information while she had been busily refilling plates and fetching fresh glasses.
‘Your dad may stand for mayor one day, Michael. Just think of that! And he’s so proud of you – just look at him, will you! Pleased as Punch.’ She had winked at him. ‘Won’t do his chances any harm either, will it?’
He had not spoken to his father very much. Not alone. He had seemed surprised to see Downie, and when he had been taken aside by one of his minions had murmured, ‘An ordinary sailor? What are you thinking of? Your fellow officers might not care for that!’
Lincoln could not remember how he had managed to remain so calm. Detached. His fellow officers were the ones his father had once referred to as ‘stuck-up’ and ‘toffee-nosed bastards’. He had changed indeed.
He had already told them about Downie’s parents in a letter to his mother. Maybe his father had forgotten, or was using the moment to put the boot in again. Just to remind him where he stood.
‘He’s my assistant, and he’s been with me on every job, and many more before that. We have to take this leave together. He’s got nowhere else to go.’
His father had grinned. ‘That’s okay, then. We don’t want the neighbours giving us the old nudge-nudge, do we?’
His mother had been more tactful.
‘The spare room’s been made into another office for your dad. We can fix your young assistant with a camp bed, if that’s all right.’
Lincoln had hugged her. She was getting so old, so frail, in stark contrast to his father, he had thought.
‘He won’t complain, Mum. And call him Gordon. We’re not here as officer and rating, you know.’ She had hurried away, smiling and shaking her head.
He saw his father pushing another man through the noisy throng and tensed. It was the editor of the local paper, the South London Courier. It was his father’s idea. Pride? Or thinking of his own chances for mayor?
He should have expected it. He had been warned.
‘You remember Frank Mason, don’t you, Mike? He runs the Courier.’
‘We’ve met a couple of times.’ They shook hands. Mason’s was like sandpaper.
‘You’ve been making a name for yourself, Mike. I know we’re not supposed to print anything until it’s official, but I’d like to use the local angle for my paper. I get little enough to crow about!’ He laughed, but Lincoln noticed that it did not reach his eyes.
Mason glanced around. ‘You brought your helper with you, I hear?’
‘He has nowhere else to go. He lived in Coventry.’
‘Enough said. Too bad. I’d like to chat with him, all the same, if that’s all right by you. His officer!’
Lincoln smiled, and wanted to hit him. ‘I’ll find him for you.’
He did not have to look far. Downie was in the kitchen, drying glasses while a woman he did not know washed them in the sink.
Downie listened with the characteristic frown and said, ‘If you think I should.’ He glanced at the woman and lowered his voice. ‘I could slip away and get booked into the Union Jack club or somewhere. Don’t want to be a nuisance.’
‘I invited you. I want you to stay.’ He touched his arm. ‘And if you think you’d find a billet at this time of day you’d be in for a shock!’
Someone had started to bang out ‘There’ll Always be an England’ on the old piano, and there was a ready response from most of the gu
ests; his father’s voice was the loudest of all. More like the father he had known before, especially on Saturday nights after the Royal George had turned out.
Mason of the Courier ushered them into the tiny room which had been added to the house just before the war. It was littered with fire-fighting gear and work clothes, and some old ledgers, as if it had not yet made up its mind what it was supposed to be.
‘Now, you work with an officer all the time, right? And you’ve been at it for some while, I believe. With another officer originally?’ He was making notes in shorthand. ‘He died, is that right?’
Downie gripped the dish towel and was twisting it in his hands. ‘Yes. He was very brave. He was awarded the George Cross, the highest . . .’
Mason held up his pencil. ‘You get pretty close to somebody in those circumstances, I’d say?’
‘Yes.’
Mason smiled. ‘And what about Mister Lincoln here? You can tell me – how does he rate?’
Downie looked away. ‘That’s not for me to say, sir.’ He faltered. ‘We work well together.’
Mason nodded. ‘And he saved your life.’
Downie looked at Lincoln. ‘He saved my life. Yes.’
Mason scribbled a few more notes and closed his pad with a snap.
‘I’ll send you a copy when it comes out. Your mother has given me a photo. Should do the trick.’
Lincoln tried to relax, muscle by muscle. The Courier only came out once a week, and was very local in its news and views.
Mason had gone. Downie said, ‘Was that all right, sir?’
Lincoln tried to laugh it off. He saved my life. ‘You did fine.’ He looked around. ‘Now I do need that drink!’
What would his father say and do, in front of his friends and the people he was obviously using to his own advantage, if he knew the truth? That I was afraid. Unable to move. Not only once, but other times. Because I tried to prove something. To match something which wasn’t worth the effort.
Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Page 28
