The Lonely Sea: Collected Short Stories

by Alistair MacLean

  He looked — and sounded — pretty weary.

  'OK, OK, Stella. Let's leave it at that.'

  Nicky and I went outside and stood leaning on the rail. After a minute I turned to him.

  'Nicky.'

  'Yeah?'

  'You don't seriously suspect her, do you?'

  He turned slowly and looked at me.

  'Just how damned stupid can you get, Scotty?' he asked. His voice was cold, hostile. Abruptly, he turned and left me.

  I was alone with my thoughts. I had plenty to think about.

  'What do you reckon Admiral Starr made of it all?' Nicky asked.

  I finished off my Benedictine, put my glass down thoughtfully and smiled at him. Eight hours' sleep had put us both in an infinitely better humour.

  'Difficult to say. He's a cagey old bird. Personally, I think he's as much in the dark as we are.'

  'Just about what I figured. Hullo, here's Stella.'

  He nodded towards the street door of the Triannon and waved.

  She was worth waving at, I thought soberly. Dressed in a plain button-through white frock, quite uncluttered by any jewellery, she looked, and was, a lovely and desirable girl.

  Nicky must have been watching my face.

  'She's quite something, isn't she, Mac?'

  I nodded slowly, but said nothing.

  'Couldn't blame anyone for falling for her,' he murmured. The smile on his face was half a question. 'Even you, Mac.'

  'I might at that,' I replied quietly.

  He looked at me, a curious, enigmatic expression on his face.

  'Don't, laddie, don't.' He grinned. 'It's like I told you, Mac — in our line of business, it's just too much grief. 'Evening, Stella.' He smiled at her and turned towards the barman. 'A Dubonnet for the lady.'

  Conversation was desultory for a few minutes. I lit a cigarette, peered into the bar mirror and said suddenly: 'You two made your peace yet?'

  Stella smiled. 'Yes.'

  'I thought so.' I reached round her and firmly disengaged the hand which I had seen in the mirror gently closing over Stella's.

  'Ah, ah, Major Ravallo!' I said severely. 'Don't touch! Not in our line of business — too much grief, you know.'

  They looked at each other, then at me, and laughed.

  I felt suddenly tired. Not sleepy — just tired. The rain had stopped and a moon was struggling to break through the watery clouds. The facia clock stood at 4.15. Another one hundred miles to London.

  It was the first and last meeting with Nicky, I reflected, that was etched so clearly in my mind. The years between, in hazy retrospect, were a kaleidoscopic blur.

  We three — Stella, Nicky and I — had grown very close to each other. With the crew of the 149, we had been a great team — at first. Three times our base of operation had shifted

  — Palermo, Salerno, Naples. Eleven times we had set them down, singly or together, on the enemy coast, and each time picked them up without mishap. The completely selfless devotion to their job of my crew — especially Wilson and Passiere, both of whom had twice refused promotion — was extraordinary.

  But, towards the end, there had been a steady deterioration — in several ways. Laughter, I could see, came less and less readily to Stella's eyes. She had grown thinner, was intense at times, at others listless and despondent. Scarcely a week went by but she saw Forts, Liberators and Lancasters battering targets in her own homeland — twice, to my certain knowledge, on information supplied by herself. It must have been hell for her.

  Nicky, too, had changed. The laughing cavalier of the Malta days had vanished. Taciturn and uncommunicative, he rarely smiled. It was his homeland too, of course. Perhaps it was Stella, but I was pretty sure it wasn't. Nicky, after his one brief lapse in Malta, followed his own example and armoured himself in indifference towards her. They rarely spoke together without bickering.

  Again, in the winter of '43, a mixed battalion of Rangers and Commandos, leapfrogging the Allied Army, had landed on the coast in a quiet bay selected by HQ and guaranteed clear by Nicky and Stella. Half-an-hour after the last man had gone ashore, the battalion had been cut to pieces by a Panzer division. It could have been coincidence.

  A month later, the largest arms and ammunition drop of the war had fallen into German hands. The waiting Partisans had been wiped out — completely. That, too, could have been coincidence — but coincidence couldn't explain how the enemy had obtained the correct recognition signals and the agreed sequence of flare markers.

  Finally, in the late Spring, eight agents had been set down near Civitavecchia by the 149. For three nights we had waited for radio signals. None came. We did not need to ask what had happened.

  It was growing light now on the A1, but there was no corresponding lift in my spirits. I felt again that same nameless sadness, that same heaviness of heart I had felt on that blazing summer afternoon as I had made my way to Admiral Starr's office in Naples. I had known, subconsciously at least, why he had sent for me.

  Admiral Starr, too, had changed. He was tireder now, his face more lined. And he was brutally frank.

  ' "Betrayal" is a nasty word, McIndoe,' he said heavily. The time has come to use it. Thousands of British and American boys are being maimed and killed every month. Kid gloves are out. Agreed?'

  I nodded silently.

  'We have no proof,' he went on bitterly. 'Not a scrap. But this I do know. Three coincidences are just three too many. Also, after that battalion massacre, the base security staff was completely changed. It made no difference. The leakage is at your end, McIndoe. The logic of it is simple.' He paused, and smiled thinly. 'I assume I am above suspicion.'

  He looked down at his hands.

  'Ravallo and his friend are both Italian-Americans,' he went on quietly. 'US Army Intelligence swears both are absolutely loyal. I'm not so sure. Neither, I suspect, are you, McIndoe.'

  He glanced at me under his bushy eyebrows — to see how I was taking it, I suppose. Again I said nothing.

  'You will meet them in Anzio tomorrow,' he continued harshly. 'You will tell them that, owing to a base HQ leak, this will be their last mission. You will lead them to believe that this is a normal mission organized by our base security staff. This is untrue. Only you and I, McIndoe, know of this. Both will be allowed to come and go as they wish until they embark on the 149. Understand?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Can you trust your chief and radio man?'

  'Implicitly, sir.'

  'Good. You will take them and them alone into your confidence. Inadvisable, perhaps, but unavoidable. They are to deny all access to deck signalling equipment and the radio room. Any questions?'

  I didn't reply at once. The word 'radio room' had exploded a bomb in my mind. And when they came down, the pieces were all in place. I cursed myself for my own stupidity.

  'No questions, sir.' I took a deep breath. This was going to hurt. 'As you infer, sir, I have had my suspicions for some time. It's Ravallo, sir.'

  He looked up sharply. 'Good God, man, how can you be so sure?'

  I told him.

  We left Naples at dawn and arrived in Anzio at midday. On the way I had briefed both Wilson and Passiere. They were incredulous, of course, and grieved — there was no other word for it. They had developed an affection for Nicky and Stella almost as deep as mine.

  At midnight that night the 149 was lying offshore three miles north of Civitavecchia. Both Ravallo and Stella were very quiet — had been ever since I had told them. On the whole, they seemed relieved.

  Only Stella was to go ashore. She was to contact the local Partisan group — who had already been warned by Starr, by parachute drop the previous night, to prepare for a German sortie tonight — and radio back as soon as possible. I had expected Ravallo to protest violently when Starr's radio instructions to that effect had come through a couple of hours ago — but he had said nothing.

  His easy acceptance of the orders confirmed me in my suspicions. I guessed this suited him perfectly. I
suspected he had contacted the enemy before leaving Anzio. How, I didn't know — but the place was reported to be swarming with spies, Ravallo certainly hadn't had a chance to communicate with anyone ashore since embarking on the 149. Wilson and Passiere had seen to that.

  Stella went ashore and Hillyard rowed the dinghy back.

  Three hours later the radio room receiver started crackling. Ravallo and I stood just inside the radio room door, waiting.

  Suddenly Passiere's expression changed. He looked startled, apprehensive. He listened intently, jabbed furiously three or four times at the transmitting key, then leapt to his feet, tearing his headphones off. His hands were shaking,

  'They've got her!' he burst out. 'They've got Stella! Just after the code-sign and acknowledgement came MMR, MMR' (the Special Service code-sign for danger). 'Then something about an armoured car. Then — finish.' He cut down his right arm in a gesture of finality.

  I felt sick inside. The best laid plans of mice and men… There had been a slip-up somewhere. Stella — captured! Why hadn't the Partisans been there?

  I flung a glance at Ravallo. His face was expressionless. I wondered savagely how he ought to look. Was that the way Judas had looked? Was Nicky Ravallo paid in pieces of silver?

  I wrenched myself back into the present. I knew then what I would have to do. I also knew what it would mean for me — court martial. Just then I didn't care.

  Swiftly I turned to Ravallo.

  'Do you know where she went, Nicky?' I demanded.

  'Sure I do.' He had divined my intentions immediately and was into the boat before me.

  Hillyard rowed us ashore. We jumped out on the pebbly shore and raced up the beach. Halfway up I stopped short and called softly.

  'Nicky!'

  He turned round.

  'Dammit, Scotty, there's no time — '

  He broke off short. His eyes didn't have to be very good to see the dull gleam of the.45 in my hand.

  He remained motionless.

  'What is this?' he asked slowly.

  'This,' I said, 'is as far as I go. Incidentally, that was a marvellous piece of acting. Congratulations.'

  He was a trier, I had to admit. The anger, the impatience, the puzzlement — they were perfectly done.

  'Stay where you are!' I said sharply. He had taken a step forward.

  'The only explanation you are entitled to is why you are still alive. I'll tell you.

  'Renegades, Ravallo, aren't always monsters. I liked you, Ravallo — in your own idiom, I thought you were one helluva good guy. Secondly, war is no reason for inhumanity. You know that. And I think it inhuman to ask a man to spy on his own country.'

  'What are you trying to tell me?' His voice was almost a whisper.

  'Save it, Ravallo. I could have had you taken back to Naples,' I went on. 'You know what that means. Court martial — and the firing squad. Or you could have been dropped over the side. I drew the line at that also. So,' I added, 'you're getting what you never gave Stella, Ravallo — a chance. Among your own people,' I finished bitterly.

  'You betrayed yourself a year ago, Ravallo. I didn't get it till yesterday. Remember Passero? Remember the rowing boats the Germans used that night to try to board us? Remember the visit you paid to the empty radio room? Remember the fast launches that Stella said the Germans had in Passero? Remember, Ravallo, remember?'

  I flung the words at him, hammered them at him. They had no effect. He seemed dazed, showed no reaction at all. The man was a superb actor.

  'How were the Germans tipped off, Ravallo?' I went on relentlessly. 'Why didn't they send their fast launches after us? I'll tell you, Ravallo. Because they knew they hadn't a hope in hell of catching us. They knew that a sneak attack was their only hope. They knew that because YOU told them, Ravallo. And ONLY you could have told them. Only YOU of all suspects fulfilled the four essential conditions — you knew the speed of the 149, you knew our destination that night, you knew how to use and had access to a transmitter — the 149's.'

  There was no answer to this and Ravello knew it. There could be no defence — only denial. He said nothing for a long time. His head was bent. The moon, almost full, had broken through the cloud, and I was in a hurry to be gone.

  He lifted his head slowly and looked at me.

  'Got it all buttoned up, haven't you, Mac?'

  'I have indeed. I wish to God I hadn't. You gave yourself away again today.

  'Starr had it narrowed down to you two — you and Stella. He guessed it was you — rather, I did. He had fixed it so as to give you a chance to sell Stella down the river. You thought her usefulness was over. So you sold her down the river. You didn't know that base weren't briefed on this mission, Ravallo, did you? Only you, Stella, Starr and I knew. And once, Ravallo, I could have sworn you loved that girl.' I looked at him, trying hard to hate him. 'You know,' I said, 'I couldn't have done that to a dog.'

  His face was expressionless.

  'So you threw her to the wolves? Is that it, Mac?'

  Why hadn't the Partisans looked after her, I thought to myself. They had plenty of warning. Illogically, I felt guilty as hell and knew for the first time the salt taste of self-loathing. But I didn't show it — I knew that.

  'I had my orders. Besides, Nicky, 'I added ironically, 'we should never have succeeded without your invaluable cooperation. Goodbye.'

  He called after me. 'Mac!'

  I turned round.

  'Don't forget, Mac, I'll be looking you up one of these days.'

  One of these days. Well, that was it.

  I had arrived in London at 6.00 a.m. and gone straight to bed. For hours I had lain awake, trying to figure the whole thing out.

  It was A mess and it was fantastic. Why hadn't the Allied authorities seized him after the war? He was obviously a prosperous man now. He had much to lose — I marvelled at his nerve in seeking me out.

  What did he want, I wondered. Just to gloat? No, whatever he was, Ravallo had never been small-minded. Revenge — it could only be that. But how? A fusillade of shots in the lounge of the Savoy? Ridiculous — just too fantastic. Besides, Nicky was a smart boy. About midday I gave the whole thing up and fell into a troubled sleep.

  7,00 p.m. The lounge at the Savoy was full, but I saw him almost at once. It wasn't difficult. He was the only man in the place wearing a lounge suit. He was over by the far wall and, characteristically, had managed to obtain — and retain — a table for himself.

  There was no change in Ravallo that I could see. Still the same vital, dark haired, laughing d'Artagnan — and he was laughing now. Laughing — the smile on the face of the tiger.

  He leapt from his table and came swiftly towards me, hand outstretched, his white teeth shining in a great grin of welcome.

  'Mac, you old son of a gun!' he shouted cheerfully. 'Man, oh man, but it's good to see you again!'

  'Meaning you'd lost all hope of ever catching up with me?' I asked quietly. I made no move to take his hand and he let it drop slowly to his side. I was dimly aware that dozens of curious people were looking at us.

  Ravallo still smiled — albeit a trifle ruefully now. It was the perfect picture of the unjustly slighted friend, still good humoured and tolerant. You're good, Ravallo, I thought, you're damned good.

  'My address,' I said harshly. 'How did you get it?'

  'Easy. The Admiralty — you're still on the Reserved List.' The smile was a trifle uncertain now.

  I should have thought of that.

  'Well, I'm here now. What's on the cards, Ravallo? A cosy little Italian knifing session? Maybe one of your pals in the Mafia? What do you want, Ravallo?'

  'Civility, Scotty, civility.' The smile was quite gone now. And five minutes of your time — if you can stop being completely daft for that length of time. Here's my table. How about a drink?'

  'The lapse of nine years and the fact that the war is over doesn't make treason any less heinous a crime.' I didn't bother to lower my voice, 'As for the drink, not with you, Ravallo.
I'll get my own.'

  Something was badly out of focus — I needed time to think. I turned to push my way to the bar through the knot of people crowding round.

  Ravallo caught my arm. He was immensely strong.

  'Same as Civitavecchia, eh, Mac?' he asked softly. 'Still the same jury, judge and executioner. Is that it?'

  'Yes,' I said evenly. That's it.'

  'And I'm the condemned man?'

  'You're the condemned man.'

  'A last favour, then.' His voice was very low. 'It's my privilege.'

  Something about him, about his voice, his eyes, his desperate sincerity caught me. Not even Spencer Tracy was that good. For the first time I knew doubt.

  I followed him slowly back to his table and sat down. The curious crowd gradually melted away.

  'Well, I'm listening.'

  'You don't even have to do that, Mac,' he said smilingly. 'Just read these.'

  Carefully he placed two documents on the table and smoothed them out. After some hesitation, I picked one up.

  It was a transcript from the US Navy Records Office. It had been made in the Pentagon and ran as follows:

  Leading Signalman Georges Passiere, Official No P/JX 282131.

  A body, dressed in Royal Naval tropical kit, was found on the beach, fourteen miles South of Civitavecchia. 16 May, 1944.

  Identified as above rating by identity disc.

  Secret lining discovered in flap of belt pouch. Oilskin envelope. List of thirty transmitting and receiving station wavelengths: VHP (very high frequency): mainly short-range. Six positively identified as German: remainder unknown.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, I laid the document on the table. I was dimly aware of a waiter by my side, and a tray of glasses. Automatically, unseeingly almost, I picked up a glass with one hand, the remaining document with the other.

  Deutscher Geheimdienst.

  German Counter-Intelligence Records captured Turin.

  Decoded Naples, October 1944.

  Luigi Metastasio: Born Rome 1919.

  (Then followed an account of Metastasio's school life, civilian employment, Fascist indoctrination, army service, counter-intelligence training.) Speaks French, German and English fluently: smuggled into France April 1940, German-occupied France August 1940, thence to Fecamp: fishing boat to England. Accepted Portsmouth barracks May, 1941: qualified telegraphist.