by Antony Trew
The Newt became distinctly offhand. “My dear Steve, please! I didn’t come down in the last shower of rain. I enjoy her company, it’s no more than that. And since I’m supposed to be here on holiday I might as well behave as if I were. After all, it wouldn’t be very convincing if I spent all day on my own. On the contrary, I’d say it’d look damned suspicious.”
“Well, maybe you’ve got something there. But for God’s sake be careful.”
“Of course I will,” said the Newt huffily. “I’m not a bloody fool.”
Chapter Eight
It was Monday, and Widmark was down at the docks early. He’d discarded the casual dress of a tourist for a tropical suit, a Hawks tie, a silk shirt and sunglasses.
His first call along the Gorjao Quay was at the Clan McPhilly where he showed his boarding permit to the gangway guard. On the upper deck he found all the bustle and activity of a merchant ship loading: shouting African stevedores, whirring electric cranes, and the thud of loaded cargo nets landing in the holds. There was the customary litter of dunnage, of wooden hatch covers, steel hatch beams, folded tarpaulins and cordage.
At number three hold he found the third officer, a red-haired young man with a freckled face, uniform cap pushed well back on his head. Widmark showed him the letter and asked to be taken to the Captain. They went forward along the starboard side and by way of various ladders and alleyways to the Captain’s cabin.
He turned out to be a thick-set Scot from Glasgow with a weather-beaten face, beaky nose, and challenging grey eyes.
After the introductions, the third officer left and Widmark handed the Captain a letter from the chief agents in Cape Town.
It was brief and to the point.
Dear Captain McRobert,
This will introduce to you Lieutenant-Commander Stephen Widmark of the S.A. Naval Forces. I shall be grateful if you will give him every assistance.
Yours sincerely,
R. L. Hendry
From his wallet Widmark produced his Naval Identity Card which the Captain examined carefully, his eyes moving from the photograph to Widmark and back. Then he said: “Take a seat, Commander.”
They sat down and McRobert began to fill his pipe. “What can I do for you?”
Widmark produced an Admiralty envelope marked “Most Secret.”
In the few minutes he’d been in McRobert’s cabin he’d decided that this was his man, and that it wouldn’t be necessary to visit the Tactician. Had it been otherwise, had the Captain not so favourably impressed him, he wouldn’t have produced the second letter. Instead he would have asked whether he could ship his car to Cape Town in the Clan McPhilly; the answer he knew would be “no,” because her next port of call was Durban, whence she would sail direct to Liverpool.
“Before I hand you this letter from the Naval Chief of Staff, Captain, I must emphasise that you are under no compulsion to help us. Your part, if you decide to help, will be voluntary. But you are bound to secrecy whether or not you agree to co-operate. Do you accept those conditions?”
McRobert grunted his assent.
Widmark handed him the envelope. The Captain looked at the “Most Secret,” then at Widmark, put it down on the table and lit his pipe. “It’s early yet. No cause to hurry.” He puffed away at the pipe and put his lighter and tobacco pouch away with slow deliberation; then he picked up the envelope and took out the letter. It was typed on Admiralty paper and addressed to the Master of the Clan McPhilly. It read:
1. You are asked to give every assistance to the bearer, Lieutenant-Commander Stephen Widmark, D.S.C., South African Naval Forces, once he has identified himself to your satisfaction.
2. It is necessary to enjoin you to the strictest secrecy and to emphasise that this matter may not be mentioned to anyone outside those of your ship’s officers whose help is essential. Under no circumstances may it be mentioned to shipping agency, consular, port or other authorities or persons with whom you are or may in future be in touch.
3. Upon conclusion of the matter concerned you are to continue to maintain this secrecy. For reasons which Lieutenant-Commander Widmark will explain, the Naval Staff will be obliged to deny the existence of this communication and any knowledge of the subject with which it deals.
4. The successful conclusion of this officer’s most important task will depend in large measure upon your co-operation, which the Royal Navy feels sure will be forthcoming.
Lieutenant-Commander Widmark will in your presence destroy this letter by burning once you have read it.
(Signed) A. J. F. Cardington
Commodore
Chief of the Naval Staff
The letter was stamped, Cape Town, 5th November, 1942, with an official Admiralty stamp.
While the Captain was reading, Widmark’s thoughts went back to his visits to the Clan and Harrison Line agents in Cape Town to get the boarding permits and letters of introduction. There had been no mention of Lourenço Marques; the agents had understood that he intended visiting the ships in Cape Town on their way up the coast, to discuss operational matters with their captains. He remembered, too, his anxiety while typing the Admiralty letters—one for the master of each ship—that they might not look sufficiently authentic and the many attempts he’d made before he was satisfied. Finally, he recalled the time he’d spent copying Cardington’s signature before signing the letter.
Now through clouds of tobacco smoke McRobert’s rough homespun voice and piercing eyes challenged him. “What’s all this aboot, laddie?”
Widmark met the disconcerting stare. “You’ll be sailing on Wednesday or Thursday, Captain—lying in the stream a day or so before that, I understand?”
“Correct. It’s Wednesday we’re sailing. Finish loading to-morrow. Anchoring in the stream as soon as the last sling of cargo’s aboard.”
Widmark watched him intently. “When you go out into the stream, Captain, we want you to anchor close to one of the German ships—the Hagenfels.”
McRobert gave him a sharp look. “That’s a bit far up-stream. Port Captain might not like it. But go on. I’ll be telling you what can be done when I’ve heard more about it.”
“There’s one other thing we want you to do, Captain. Delay your sailing on Wednesday night from 2200 to 2315.” He paused. “On account of windlass trouble. That’s why you had to anchor upstream. You discovered the trouble as you cleared your starboard cable for lowering. You decided then to anchor at once.”
“Windlass trouble,” echoed McRobert. “That’s something the Clan McPhilly’s never had.” But he was uneasily aware of the compulsion in the younger man’s stare and of his air of authority when he said: “Yes, windlass trouble, Captain. Rivets have worked loose in the base plates. You daren’t put the strain of weighing on to the gypsies. You’ll have to drive rivets on that fo’c’sle of yours from 2200 to 2300 on Thursday night, Captain. The more noise you make the merrier.”
“For what reason?”
Widmark looked away. “It’s better for both of us if I don’t go into too much detail. Afterwards, if you’re asked questions, you’ll be able to answer them more truthfully.”
“What sort of questions?”
“Like what was happening on the Hagenfels between ten and eleven on Wednesday night.”
From under shaggy brows the Captain’s eyes questioned him. “And what will be happening?”
Widmark hesitated, sizing up McRobert. Then he decided it was better to tell him. “I’m going to board her with a British naval party.”
“My God! So that’s it.”
Widmark nodded, his mouth shut in a firm line.
McRobert sucked at his pipe, looking at the bulkhead clock behind Widmark’s head, thinking about what he’d been told, trying to grasp all its implications. “And the Portuguese? What about them?”
“They’ll know nothing until the Hagenfels has gone. And when she has, they’ll think it was a break out by the Germans. The Portuguese haven’t a clue that we’re here or what’s on the g
o.”
“And this riveting. This noise you want, laddie. What’s the idea?”
Widmark looked at him quizzically, shrugging his shoulders. “We shall have to use force. Our coshes may not be enough.”
“Aye.” McRobert’s eyes glinted. “Use them if you can, laddie. Better not to spill blood.” Intensely practical, he added: “At least not in a neutral port.”
“So you’re prepared to help?” For the first time Widmark’s calm deserted him.
“I’d be a damned poor Scot if I wasn’t. Of course I’ll help. Man alive! How often d’ye think we can hit back at Jerry with his bluidy U-boats and the like.” He put down his pipe. “But there’s a man I’ll have to take into ma confidence. The chief engineer. We can’t get to riveting without Fergus Duncan gie’ing a hand. And the mate. We’ll no weigh anchor without him.”
“Of course, Captain.”
For some time they discussed the plan as it affected the Clan McPhilly, settling how the port authorities would be told of the sailing delay, how the pilot would be dealt with, and the eventual sailing of the Clan ship herself.
Before they’d finished, Widmark had destroyed the “Admiralty” letter by burning and explained to the Captain why the Royal Navy would have to deny any knowledge of the operation if things went wrong—and, for that matter, if they didn’t.
He went down the gangway of the Clan McPhilly feeling that he could not have found a better man for the part than Captain McRobert, but as he stepped on to the quay this acceptable thought received an ugly jolt, for standing on the quay opposite the foot of the gangway, perhaps twenty yards from it, reading a newspaper and smoking the inevitable cheroot, was the oily man.
Widmark went quickly down the quay, turning once to see if he was being followed. He was not, but now he really was worried. This was more than a coincidence. The oily man was shadowing him. Widmark decided to find out who he was. That might provide some sort of clue. But he was frantically worried. The man was almost certainly a German agent. If he was, the one place Widmark would prefer him not to have been was at the foot of the Clan ship’s gangway. He decided to alert the rest of the party as soon as possible. If necessary they’d have to bump the fellow off, but that was actually the last thing Widmark wanted. It would, he decided, have been a pleasure in almost any other circumstance, but not now when there was so much at stake and the one thing absolutely essential to their operation was the element of surprise.
It was a hot day, the sun a fireball in a patchwork sky, the sea reflecting blues and browns and mauves, the horizon quivering with heat, and Chefine Island dancing in the haze.
Widmark walked down Bartolomeu Dias past the red-fezzed sentries of the Quartel-General, behind them white walls splashed with bougainvillaea; down a side street past a vacant site filled with sunflowers, the pavements lined with flamboyants. He came next to an overgrown garden where an old wood and iron house stood back in the shadows, the top of the stone wall surrounding it feathery with antigna, and beneath it a hedge of plumbago.
At Bellegarde da Silva he turned north, went up the road between the houses, their pastel shades holding off the heat of high noon, turned into Rua Dos Aviadores, from there crossed over Avenida do Duque de Connaught into Rua San Rafael where he saw them waiting: Rohrbach and Johan, sitting on a bench under a wild-fig tree. He sat down at the far end of the bench, opened his newspaper and told them in undertones of the visit to the Clan McPhilly. The operation, he confirmed, was for Wednesday night.
Much had to be done in the time remaining; there would be a final rendezvous the next night, Tuesday, on the road to Marracuene, soon after midnight, when there would be few cars about. Arms and equipment would be issued. Wednesday to be spent resting in their hotels. Mariotta must be told that Wednesday was the night for the party as they’d be leaving for the Transvaal on Friday, and had another engagement for Thursday. Rohrbach must arrange with Domingos Parao for the hire of the fishing boat for Wednesday night.
Widmark turned the sheets of his newspaper. “That’s all, I think. Any queries?”
Rohrbach said: “You say the Clan McPhilly’s due to sail at 2200 on Wednesday. What time does the Tactician sail?”
“2310.”
“So we take the Hagenfels out just ahead of her.”
“That’s right.”
“What time do you come alongside the Hagenfels?”
“2200. Should have the situation under control within fifteen minutes. There’ll be seven of us, and with their liberty-men ashore we’ll easily cope with ten or eleven Jerries. They won’t be expecting us. Won’t have time to arm, though we must reckon on the night watchman carrying a revolver.”
Three Africans came down the road, and conversation on the bench stopped until they’d passed. Widmark turned the sheets of his newspaper, frowning at the picture of a torpedoed merchant ship sinking in heavy weather.
“We’ll tackle the upper deck and fo’c’sle as soon as we get on board,” he said. “The crew live for’ard. The officers will probably be in Lindemann’s cabin—the steward nearby. There’ll be a night watchman on the upper deck, and a greaser or two in the engine-room. That leaves two or three men in the fo’c’sle. Should be a piece of cake. Don’t start anything in the Captain’s cabin unless the Jerries raise the alarm. Wait for us to join you. But if we haven’t arrived by 2230 you’ll know we’ve come to a sticky end.”
“The chap I’m going to mark,” said Johan, “is that big bastard who looks like a prize-fighter.”
“Heinrich Schäffer,” said Rohrbach.
“That’s it. Heinrich. He’s my baby.”
Widmark looked at Johan’s fifteen stone. “Don’t be brutal,” he said dryly.
“That’s nice, coming from you,” Johan said and immediately regretted it.
Rohrbach came to his rescue. “Well, that’s about all for now, isn’t it, Steve? Hadn’t we better get back and brief our oppos. Johan and I’ve got a date with the girls. They’re lunching with us.”
Widmark looked at him curiously. “You’ll be seeing Cleo?”
There was something in Widmark’s voice, a wistfulness perhaps, Rohrbach had not heard before. “Yes. Nice girl, isn’t she?”
Widmark got up and folded the newspaper deliberately. Down the Rua San Rafael bright patches of sunlight were scattering the shade from the flamboyants which spread their branches like scarlet umbrellas. At the end of the street the sea shimmered with heat and the horizon melted into the sky. “Yes,” he said quietly, “she is.” Then he walked away, down the road towards the sea.
At lunch Widmark sent for the head waiter, a Goan with whom he had already established a sound customer-client relationship. He began circumspectly: would there be any difficulty about getting a picnic lunch from the hotel if he decided to drive down to the Maputo elephant reserve for the day. The head waiter assured him there wouldn’t be. After that there were various questions about Maputo until finally, as the Goan was about to leave, Widmark said with studied casualness: “Who’s the man sitting inside the window behind me? Bald with sunglasses. Looks like somebody I know, but I can’t place him.”
The head waiter walked down the veranda, came back and held the menu in front of Widmark. He was a discreet and understanding man, the Goan. “It’s a Mr. Jules Kemathi, sir.”
“Kemathi—Kemathi——” Widmark repeated the name softly. “No. That doesn’t ring a bell. And yet——”
He looked at the menu, then at the table-cloth, then at the head waiter. “Where’s he from?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ll find out.”
Widmark shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not important. I just wondered. Feel I know him. I’ll have the iced consommé.”
The head waiter saw the possibility of a tip. “It’s no trouble, sir.” He raised his voice. “The iced consommé, sir.”
Towards the end of the meal he was back at Widmark’s side, bending over him, holding the menu with studied solicitude. “He came a week ago, sir. From
Egypt.”
“From Egypt,” echoed Widmark quietly. “Happen to know what part?”
“Alexandria, sir.” Then louder: “Try the scampis, sir. Bought on the market this morning. Excellent. I can recommend them.”
When the head waiter had gone, Widmark thought about Kemathi. From Alexandria. How many more from Alex.? And yet, of course, that was exactly what Kemathi looked like. Straight out of the Levant. Hence the oily look. But what was he doing here and why was he following Widmark? That was a question which had to be answered. Kemathi was from Alexandria. Widmark had been well known in Alex. Could there be any connection? Was Kemathi an enemy agent? Lourenço Marques was said to teem with them. And if he were, could the Germans draw any worthwhile conclusions from his visit to the Clan McPhilly? He doubted it. What more natural than that a British naval officer, even if recently invalided, should go on board a British merchant ship in a foreign port. Widmark thought, I’m getting nervy. Must keep a grip on myself, and not see something sinister in every goddam thing that happens.
As he went through the lounge Olympia Stavropoulus bore in sight on a converging course, aglitter with jewels; tall, erect, her bosom, mien and bearing more imperial than ever. She swept past him with a swish of silk, a trail of Chanel behind her; but he might have been a chair for all the attention she paid him. Never again, he decided, did he want to see Alex., or anyone from that ancient city.
Later that afternoon Widmark drove into town and parked in the Praça McMahon. From there he walked to the Gorjao Quay passing down long lines of railway trucks. Between the rails lay pools of water from the afternoon’s thunderstorm, and steam was still rising from the tarmac. At the far end of the quay he stopped and looked across the Espirito Santo to the Catembe side where he could see the beach at Ponta Chaluquene with its array of small craft. Off shore were the wrecks of old lighters, and behind the beach a cluster of bungalows with iron roofs. He was as near now as he could get to the German ships. Absorbed in his thoughts he watched them: the Dortmund, the Aller and then to the right the Hagenfels and behind her the tall masts of the sailing ship.
