Love For An Enemy

by Love For An Enemy (retail) (epub)

  Great stuff, hope.

  Rowntree clears his throat.

  ‘All around us, sir. More starboard side than port, but—’

  ‘Nearest to the ship’s head as we’re lying?’

  ‘Red oh-two, sir. And green – one-three.’

  ‘And on both beams – and astern?’

  A nod. Sweat glistens on Rowntree’s nose and forehead. His beginnings of a beard are so fine and light it’s like a halo, a transparent aura. ‘Must’ve passed by quite a number. Want other bearings, sir?’

  ‘No.’ Turning back isn’t an attractive proposition anyway, and if there are mines astern as well as ahead it’s even less so. Mines to get past whichever way you go, but eastward you’re getting out – please God – and westward you’d be getting back in. No more charges have been dropped back there, but it’s odds-on they’ll be hunting in the Lipsos channel, probably one or more of them lying stopped and listening.

  ‘What’s our course to pass north of Tripiti island, Pilot?’

  Teasdale checks this out. Mitcheson thinking it’s a good bet that the wider gap between Tripiti and the next rock to the north – he goes to the chart to refresh his memory: that one’s called Kalopodi – that stretch could well be clear. Might not be, but… Teasdale tells him, ‘Oh-five-five, sir.’

  ‘Ship’s head now?’

  ‘Oh-six-three, sir!’

  ‘Still fine to port, the closest?’

  Rowntree fiddles the knob around: stops, hunts this way and that in steps of no more than a degree – or less… ‘Yessir. Red oh-two.’

  ‘And to the left of that one?’

  ‘Next one port side is red—’ he’s finding it – ‘red one-four, sir.’

  ‘That’s it, then.’ Mitcheson leans against the ladder. Seeing the dark water out there, and the mines, the ones Rowntree’s located. Plenty of others, obviously, but those are the ones that count – at this stage. You can only guess at distances, unfortunately, but—

  He reminds himself: your guesses, your decisions.

  Fourteen degrees on the port bow, when the ship’s head was on 063, meant a true bearing of 049. And a course to scrape past to the north of Tripiti was 055, Teasdale had said. Call it 053, say – giving Tripiti a slightly wider berth. If one altered to that course now, the thing currently two degrees off the port bow would then be six degrees to starboard. In fact you’d be aiming quite nicely between those two. Making a longer trip of it, of course, slanting diagonally across instead of going straight through, eastward.

  Longer, but safer. If one could use such a word, in these circumstances. He pushes himself off the ladder.

  ‘Slow ahead together. Port five, steer oh-five-three.’

  ‘Port five, sir—’

  ‘Both motors slow ahead, sir.’

  ‘Sixty feet.’

  Get right under the bloody things. Touch wood. She’d been at fifty-five anyway. Forbes is having to pump a few gallons out amidships now, that’s all. But sixty might be a better bet than fifty – spinning the mental coin, which was all you could do – and there’s deeper water that side of Tripiti than there is here. Deeper water, less likelihood of mines? More likelihood of MAS-boats: that’s one disadvantage. Small one, though, weighed against the desirability of getting into water that isn’t littered with high-explosive.

  ‘Distance to having Tripiti abeam, Pilot?’

  ‘About a mile, sir.’

  Two thousand yards…

  ‘Bearings now?’

  The question’s addressed to Rowntree, who was expecting it and starts spouting figures again. Confirming – Teasdale realizes – that Spartan is still right in amongst the bloody things. Hearing the transmissions – pings – and hearing them reflected back, at every contact. Telling himself – doodling, decorating the scripted phrase ‘A Miss is as Good as a Mile’ – that the coldness of sweat on his skin and a fast, loud heartbeat aren’t much to be ashamed of when you’re nosing through a submerged minefield poking an Asdic beam around like a blind man’s white stick. Others must be feeling much the same – even if they don’t show it. No more than I do – please God… Looking around – to his right, pencil poised above the doodle – seeing the skipper semi-reclining against the ladder again, one foot up on its bottom rung, one arm up, that hand hooked over a higher rung – and Forbes the other side of it with his back this way, his khaki shirt black with sweat. ’Planesmen like seated graven images, E.R.A. Halliday over there fingering his long, bony jaw like a man in deep philosophical contemplation, and Jumbo Tremlett with his head back on that thick neck of his, sweat like a sheen of oil on his face as he stares up at the dribble of leakage around the gland of the big periscope.

  ‘Sir—’

  The H.S.D.’s stiffened on his seat: a dozen pairs of eyes fasten on him. He swallows – an effort maybe to keep his voice even: ‘Right ahead, sir—’

  11

  ‘In that case…’ Cesare Caracciolo paused – for dramatic effect probably, but covering it by tapping ash from his Spanish cheroot – ‘… in that event, I’d prefer it if she were dead.’

  He’d got his effect, all right. Emilio, aware that the statement had not been made at all casually, sat motionless, staring at him. Cesare still gazing at the ashtray, which was a marble bowl held in the arms of two naked girls.

  Emilio’s question had been ‘What if she won’t come with me?’

  Kill her?

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘Uncle. You’re speaking – you can’t be saying that if I’m faced with a refusal I should – well, mother of God, of course not, your niece, you wouldn’t—’

  ‘Wouldn’t order you to kill her?’

  The light-brown eyes held his. Annoyance at Emilio’s stammering protest had over-ridden his momentary – perhaps not quite shame, ‘embarrassment’ might describe it better. A shake of the expensively barbered head. ‘No. I’m not ordering you to do that. In the first place because I’m confident she’ll seize the chance when she’s offered it – I expect she will, or at any rate that if she has doubts you’ll be able to persuade her – amounts to the same thing. In the second because you, Emilio, wouldn’t have to – dirty your hands. You’ll be amongst friends, after all – Italians, who’ll respond to whatever demands are made on them. You’d only have to tell them. Most regrettably – miserably, I share your own sentiments and just as deeply, Emilio, but—’

  Drawing on the slim, black cigar. Eyes sombre, still holding his nephew’s. Emilio dazed, asking himself: Am I hearing this?

  ‘Understand the logic behind it, do you?’

  He looked down at his own large, as yet un-dirtied hands. ‘That it would be better if she came with me – yes. Yes. I understand the importance – the family, so forth—’

  ‘Not doing so badly up to now, are we? You with your Silver Medal for the Gibraltar action, and I – well, I’m of some consequence, I believe. In fact I’ve had certain intimations…’ He reached to stub out the cheroot. ‘Things look good, Emilio. I admit I was angry when I heard you’d been included in the Gibraltar operation. Having had certain positive assurances, I’d reason to be. If they hadn’t sent de Courten to a sea command, it wouldn’t have happened. Slip in communications, basically. Giartioso didn’t know of our agreement, nor did Cavagnari.’

  Admiral Cavagnari was Chief of Naval Staff, for God’s sake. Admiral de Courten was the man who’d given the Light Flotilla C.O. the Supreme Command’s instructions – when Moccogatta had been alive, that was – and Admiral Giartioso had taken over from him. Cesare added: ‘So I can hardly blame Borghese either. But you, boy – you knew damn well—’

  ‘Uncle – sir – I—’

  ‘As it’s turned out – no harm done. Rather the opposite. You did well, you have that valuable experience behind you and you have your Silver Medal. Which on its own is – of value. He was fingering another cheroot out of the box. ‘But I wonder how clear an appreciation you have of our situation at this juncture, Emilio. Eh? Technically, pr
ofessionally, you’re bright enough – and brave as a lion, no argument about that. I’m less certain that the socio-political side of our present environment is as evident to you as it should be.’ He used a match to light the cheroot, although there was a lighter on his desk. Dropping the match-stub into the bowl, and in a continuance of the same motion brushing the naiads’ marble breasts with the backs of his fingers. ‘Nice, eh?’ His eyes creased, in a man-to-man smile. ‘How’s your love-life, boy?’

  ‘Well – here in Rome—’

  ‘Same one, still?’

  ‘Oh, for sure ’

  Renata was waiting for him. He had three days’ leave ahead of him now, before departure for Leros, and he was taking her to the mountains. He’d told her: ‘We might fit in some skiing too…’ He turned his wrist, squinted – surreptitiously, he thought – at the time.

  ‘She can wait half an hour, lad.’ That smile again. Wrinkling his eyes up. ‘Never hurts ’em to be kept waiting. Take the advice of one who’s been round that buoy a few times!’ And who was still rounding it pretty often, Emilio thought. According to the gossip…

  But this thing about Lucia. Christ…

  ‘Main points now, Emilio. First – family. The basic here is that my brother, your father, disgraced us all. Then that his widow deserted Italy with you and your sister. You, thank God, put that right – with a little encouragement from me, eh? Your mother – well, she’s French, to that extent there’s a degree of irrelevance. In any case I don’t want to bruise your feelings for her. A good son’s love for his mother has to be respected. Nobody’s going to argue with that. Your sister on the other hand – different matter entirely. She’s Italian-born, and a Caracciolo. It’s true she was removed to Egypt – beyond her control, as it was beyond yours; and it could be argued that in present circumstances she has no option but to remain there. On the other hand – here’s what’s bad, Emilio – one, she’s refusing to associate with our national movement in Alexandria, and two, she’s consorting with an Englishman. To put it more crudely, she has an English naval officer as her lover.’

  Emilio nodded. ‘Vittorio Longanesi told me.’

  ‘And you view her behaviour with equanimity?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘I’d hope not. Two points now. First, concerning ourselves. With your father’s record in mind, we have not only to shine, we have to dazzle. We’re not doing badly this far, but we still can’t afford to have your sister where she is and conducting herself as she is. I wanted her back in any case, long before this. It was a dream I first entertained – oh, a year ago. Then it grew into a practical proposition – through your own rapidly developing capability – and now, thanks to her conduct, it’s an absolute necessity. You realize, it amounts to treachery? For which the penalty in wartime – I don’t have to tell you, do I. Can you grasp this – your own sister – huh? Potentially, Emilio, it’s very damaging. I mean to us. One black mark against the Caracciolo name is more than enough, even though it’s old history now. A second—’ he shook his head – ‘and continuing now – no old history about this, eh?’

  Emilio spread his hands. ‘If I could persuade her—’

  ‘You have to. Even for her own sake. But listen to me. The strategic situation, at this stage, is highly propitious. On the thirteenth of last month we sank the only aircraft-carrier they had. On the 25th, the battleship Barham. Now they have only the two battleships which you’ll shortly be attacking, and please God destroying. We have five battleships, Emilio. Two brand-new, three modernized to the highest standard. Those two in Alexandria – if we can write them off – huh?’

  ‘We’ll be doing our utmost, sir. But on the strategic situation, isn’t it a fact that the Afrika Korps is on the run?’

  ‘No. It is not. Oh, technically speaking, at this moment – Rommel is withdrawing, certainly. He was on the Egyptian border ten days ago, but – well, it is a fact that at this stage the enemy has the upper hand. But it’s of no lasting consequence – as it happens. I’ll explain this in a moment. Reverting to the naval situation – when we’ve eliminated their battlefleet, the Mediterranean’s ours. They’ll have no reinforcements to call on – developments in the Far East are a gift from the gods, in that respect. The British will have no ships to spare as replacements – none. They’re on the ropes – or damn soon will be. This is our great moment, Emilio!’

  Yesterday – 7 December – the Japanese had virtually annihilated the U.S. battlefleet in Pearl Harbor, and this morning the United States and Britain had declared war on Japan. The U.S. wasn’t yet at war with Italy or Germany: presumably would be, very soon, but at least in the foreseeable future they’d have their hands full with the Japanese, would hardly be in a position to influence events in this theatre.

  Cesare wagged a finger: ‘Another thing I’ll tell you. Any minute now the British are going to find it’s become too hot for them in Malta. Three days ago, Adolf Hitler signed an order to transfer an entire Fliegerkorps to bases in Sicily. They’ll be mounting round-the-clock raids on Valletta. Those cruisers and destroyers the submarine flotilla too – they’ll either pull out or they’ll be destroyed. Won’t be anything like safe at sea, either. Our supply routes to the desert will no longer be interrupted, and at the same time the British army will lose all their support from the sea.’ He tapped ash into the bowl again. ‘This is why I tell you it’s of no great worry to us that the Afrika Korps happens to be withdrawing westward just at this moment.’

  ‘Well.’ Emilio nodded. ‘As you say – our moment.’

  Renata would be wondering where the hell he’d got to. This was taking much longer than he’d expected. And this Lucia business: he wanted to wake up, find he’d been dreaming. In any case, what her situation had to do with Malta and a Fliegerkorps in Sicily, for Christ’s sake…

  Coming to it now, no doubt. His uncle was leaning forward – forearms on the desk, cigar-stub between his teeth, mobile lips moving around it.

  ‘Here’s what it boils down to. On the one hand, the certainty of an Italian-German victory at sea and in the desert, the Afrika Korps in Cairo and Alexandria and astride the Canal within – oh, say a few months. On the other, your sister in Alexandria, consorting with the enemy. That’s putting it politely.’

  He moistened his lips. Waiting for the worst.

  ‘When you present her with the opportunity to make amends – don’t you think she’ll grab it?’

  ‘If I get that far. It’s not as sure-fire as you might think. We have first to get into the harbour – which certainly won’t be easy – then perform our various tasks, and then – well, in my case, to survive without being caught and somehow get ashore and into the town. Frankly, that’s not—’

  A hand up, stopping him…

  ‘In that last stage, Emilio, we’ll be giving you some help. I’ve a man waiting outside here who’ll go into it with you, presently. The rest of it – well, it’s your job, and you’ll do it. I don’t want lecturing on the problems – they’re yours, what you’ve been trained for!’

  He shook his head. ‘Sir, I was only pointing out—’

  ‘About Lucia, now. If she agrees to come – well, splendid, we’ll have a heroine in the family. It’s one way or the other, you see – always is, in politics – and this is a political issue, very much so. Never mind what she’s been up to: against all odds she’ll have got away, come back where she belongs – by her own free will and with the help of her gallant brother – who by that time’s a Gold Medalist – eh?’

  ‘Gold.’ He looked surprised: as if the thought hadn’t occurred until this moment. ‘Well, I suppose—’

  The finger wagged again. ‘But if she declined your offer, and was still there when our victorious army storms into the town – how would it be for her then?’

  He saw that clearly enough.

  ‘Not exactly good for us, either. Wouldn’t be any secret, you know. Politically – same applies, extreme to extreme – could be disastrous. At my level, gl
ory or ignominy is—’ he fluttered his well-manicured hands – ‘in the gift of the gods of chance, and ninety-five per cent politics, and there’s always a knife or two at one’s back. One Achilles heel – to mix the metaphors a little – well, I’ve been able to face that down, so far. Two – no. No.’

  ‘Yes, I – I understand…’

  ‘Then you must also understand why I say that if she refuses to go with you she’d be better dead. Eh?’

  ‘I’ll have to persuade her.’ His mouth was dry. ‘Have to.’

  ‘Explaining the alternative might help, in that… We’ll talk again before you leave, anyway. Your take-offs early on the 12th, isn’t it? Friday… Well, my secretary can arrange a time. Now, we’ll have our tame cloak-and-dagger expert in to brief you.’

  * * *

  It occurred to him, on his way across town by taxi to pick up Renata and then hurry to the station that Uncle Cesare would rather see him dead too, than have him alive and anything less than brilliantly successful. Uncle Cesare, in fact, was a thorough-going shit – as well as one’s best card, in terms of the influence he wielded. This new scheme he’d laid on – the second interview, which he’d sat in on – really could make a big difference, actually gave one quite a good chance. Something of an object-lesson – a demonstration of the fact that one would be very stupid not to toe the line and play the dutiful, obedient nephew. Whether one liked it or not, it was a hell of a lot better to be seen as the nephew of Ammiraglio di Squadra Cesare Caracciolo than as the son of the late Felice Caracciolo, enemy of the State. Even when one had to recognize that the corpse of same dutiful nephew found floating in Alexandria harbour, if it had been taking part in a daring and preferably successful operation mightn’t discomfort the admiral very much at all. As witness, for instance, his dismissal of the point which Emilio had tried to make, that getting into Alexandria harbour would be fraught with danger, blowing up the battleships and getting out again even more so.