Love For An Enemy

by Love For An Enemy (retail) (epub)

  Rid of the suit’s remains, at last. He had only to set the destruction charge.

  Which, he realized, if its time-fuse mechanism had been damaged – as it might have been – might explode when he switched it on. He thought about that for a moment. Then shrugged, began groping in slow motion along the body of the pig. Stopped – struck by the thought: Why not the warhead?

  It had been well clear of the point of impact, one might guess its time-fuse was less likely than the other to have been – what, short-circuited. No guarantee it hadn’t been, just – a better bet. A snag which manifested itself then was that being on the port side of the warhead, the recess containing the control knob was buried under the slime of the harbour floor. But – still accessible, surely. Kneeling – getting down there slowly, kneeling beside the warhead with his right arm encircling 300 kilos of high-explosive, he was able to dig the muck away with the other hand and eventually get his fingers to it. Shutting his eyes, then, screwing his face up inside the mask – telling himself: Go on, bloody do it!

  14

  Currie was part-woken by the clatter of his cabin door. Then the overhead light snapped on: the midshipman of the watch’s blather was only noises-off, background to some dream or other, until the sound of his own name penetrated: ‘—Commander Currie, sir – wake up, please—’

  ‘Hell d’you want?’ By a superhuman feat of memory, straight out of sleep like this, he remembered the snotty’s name. ‘Grayson, what—’

  ‘Sir – the Commander’s compliments, you’re to get dressed and go over to Valiant and—’

  ‘You’re joking. I know, it’s some kind of gunroom prank—’

  ‘No, sir, not at all, I swear—’

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Three-thirty, sir, just after. Thing is, sir—’

  ‘Three-thirty…’ He checked it for himself. It was three thirty-five, in fact. ‘God almighty—’

  ‘They’ve caught two Italians, sir. They’re to be taken ashore to Ras el-Tin – for interrogation, and as you talk Italian—’

  ‘All right.’ Sitting up, sliding his legs off the bunk. ‘All right. Not that I understand any of this…’

  ‘Picket boat’s been called away, sir. It’ll be alongside by the time you’re on deck. And they’re drawing a pistol for you. Commander’s up there, he’ll—’

  ‘You say I’ve got to go over to Valiant – and someone’s caught—’

  ‘Two Wops on her mooring buoy, sir.’

  ‘Well.’ He half suppressed a laugh. ‘Where else would one expect…’ Cutting himself short. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘These – Wops. Why – would they have been on—’

  ‘Honestly don’t know, sir. Bit of a flap on, though, I’d better get back up there, if—’

  ‘All right. I won’t turn in again.’

  It had been known to happen. Midshipmen shaking officers for their watches were trained to make certain they were well and truly awake before they left them. Dressing, Currie mentally added a paragraph to the letter that was lying unfinished on his desk:

  Had to stop at this point last night, and turned in, only to be shaken at the unearthly hour of 0330 and told I was to arm myself with a pistol and rush off to our sister ship Valiant to interrogate some Italians who for some extraordinary reason—

  With any luck, they’d talk English. One’s own vocabulary was so limited. Just about manage Italian into English, but – hey, take a dictionary? No. No… He put on a roll-neck sweater instead of a collar and tie. Reefer over that. And it would be damn cold, so – greatcoat. If these Wops had been on the mooring buoy, they must have been in the water before that. He thought. Sooner them than me… They’d very likely be in the human torpedo business, he supposed. Whatever that involved. His guess was that they’d aim their torpedoes at a target and then jump off. That had been the modus operandi with their explosive motorboats, one had heard, the things with which they’d sunk H.M.S. York in Suda Bay. And if that was it, the Italians now on Valiant’s buoy must have missed, then swum to it. They’d have been hauled on board by now, obviously. And the first thing one would want to know was whether they’d been on their own or had any others with them – what threat if any still existed. Might work out a few questions on the way over there, he thought. Vocabulary was likely to be the main problem: it might have to influence the kind of questions one asked. He jammed his cap on, left the cabin, went up one level and then aft along the main deck; finally, up to the for’ard end of the quarterdeck, starboard side.

  ‘There you are at last, Currie!’

  ‘Morning, sir!’

  ‘Yes, well – let’s not waste more time. They’re waiting for you over there – Valiant’s fished out two Italians who may or may not have planted some infernal device under her. Or elsewhere – under us for all we know. Anyway, they’re to be taken ashore for interrogation, and as you talk the lingo you might get something out of them en route. I don’t know whether they’ll be keeping ’em there, or what, but when you’ve done your bit come back and let us know the score. All right?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘And you’d better put that on.’

  Pistol. Merriweather, officer of the watch, handed it to him, a webbing belt wrapped around a holster with a Service .45 revolver in it. Then some bullets, loose in his other hand. ‘Here, sir. Six rounds.’

  ‘Right.’ He dropped them into a greatcoat pocket and began buckling the pistol on. Jocular musings again: telling himself that six rounds might be enough to settle the hash of two Italians, provided it was at point-blank range… The Commander had sloped off towards the quartermaster’s lobby. Merriweather told him: ‘Boat’s coming alongside now, sir. I think Valiant’ll be using one of hers for the Ras el-Tin trip, in which case would you send this one straight back?’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ They were at the rail, above the port-side gangway, and one of QE’s two picket-boats was just coming from the boom. The ship was coming to life, meanwhile: lights were appearing here and there, and from for’ard he heard the squeal of a bosun’s call, and voices. He asked Merriweather, who was an R.N.V.R. lieutenant. ‘What else is happening?’

  ‘Well.’ A wave of the arm… ‘Patrol boats all over the show dropping charges; there’s some discussion as to whether we should go to action stations, all tugs in the port have been told to raise steam—’

  ‘Tugs?’ He’d got the belt fastened. Hearing the thud of some small explosion at that moment. ‘Why, what—’

  ‘In case any of us is damaged, I suppose.’

  ‘Ah.’ He shook his head. ‘Well, please God…’ The stark realities, or rather the possible enormities, of the situation – underwater sabotage, the battlefleet immobilized – took shape in his mind as they hadn’t until this moment. A nightmare scenario: an Alexandrian Pearl Harbor… Merriweather was saying: ‘—and we’re preparing to pass bottom lines. They’re on the fo’c’sl organizing that now. In case there’s anything stuck under us already. We’ve got extra lookouts posted – have had all night, actually, but—’

  ‘Boat’s alongside, sir.’

  That was Grayson, the snotty. Currie nodded. ‘I’ll be off.’ He saluted the side as he stepped on to the gangway’s upper platform, then went quickly down its scrubbed oak steps. Brass fittings agleam like gold in the light from the gangway’s head, a whitened hemp handrail with decorative splices and Turk’s heads at both ends. The picket-boat looked smart enough for an admiral’s inspection, too. Its midshipman – it was Horrocks – asked him, ‘Valiant and then Razzle Tin, sir?’

  ‘Probably only to Valiant.’ Boarding, he returned the lad’s salute. ‘Are you and your crew permanently on duty, Horrocks?’

  ‘You might think so, sir. Came off half an hour ago, just turned in and we’re called away again. Seems the other crew’s out dropping whizzbangs.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have joined, Horrocks.’

  ‘Often tell myself that, sir. Leggo, fore and aft�
�’

  He’d have had to have told himself before about his thirteenth birthday, Currie reflected. Horrocks was seventeen, had only been out of Dartmouth a few months. In the boat’s sternsheets, he took the revolver out of its holster, broke it and loaded the six rounds. Horrocks opening his throttles, and the boat’s forepart lifting as she picked up speed, rounding QE’s bow and steadying on course for Valiant. Only about two and a half cables’ lengths between them: Valiant with lights all over her, men moving around on her upper deck and a team on her fo’c’sl – passing a bottom-line as in QE, he guessed. Boats all around her too: on this side a launch and a picket-boat, torches shining into the water along her sides. There was also a motorboat lying-off, close to the port after gangway. Queen Elizabeth’s boat, its bow slumping as Horrocks eased his throttles shut, growled in through the gap in the nets in neutral, curving in with some of its own wash following and rocking the stern up: then the starboard screw was revving astern to stop her, abreast the gangway. He’d done it neatly enough; Currie told him, climbing out, ‘Wait. I’ll give you a shout.’ He ran up, conscious of the weight of the revolver banging against his hip.

  Valiant’s captain – name of Morgan – swung round and stared at him as he came aboard. He had a group of senior officers around him, and at a distance two Italians – one exceptionally large – stood close together, visibly shaking with cold and guarded by Royal Marines with fixed bayonets. There was a pool of water round the big one’s feet. Their clothing, as well as Currie could see in the uncertain light, looked like dark jackets and trousers with white shirts. And plimsolls. A heap of what looked like wet seaweed in the scuppers near the head of the gangway was probably their rubber suits.

  The officer of the watch asked him, ‘Lieutenant-Commander Currie, sir?’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘Currie!’

  Captain Morgan. Currie marched up to him, saluted. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Taken your time, haven’t you?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Came as soon as—’

  ‘Never mind. Listen, now. Those two are to be taken ashore for interrogation. Take charge of the escort—’ he gestured towards the Marines, and dropped his voice – ‘and see what you can find out. Priority of course is whether they’ve planted explosives under us – or anywhere else, for that matter.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  The O.O.W. told him, ‘Using our boat, sir. I’ve told yours to clear off, but—’

  ‘All right.’ He went to the gangway, saw Horrocks waiting down there as he’d told him to. ‘Mid – back to QE. Thank you.’

  The picket-boat moved off, and the waiting motorboat slid in alongside. One of the three Marines was a sergeant; he told him. ‘Prisoners into the boat, please.’

  The big Italian nodded to him in a friendly way as he passed. Hands in his trouser pockets, soaking wet and obviously very cold, but not – Currie thought – all that unhappy, not at all like a man who’d lost out. A very big man: in that moment of passing he’d looked down at him almost vertically. The other, more of a standard size, followed him down the ladder; he might have been slightly damp but he wasn’t soaking wet like the big one. The Royal Marine sergeant was carrying a revolver – in his hand, not holstered. Currie was last down and last into the boat, and before he started down a lieutenant-commander whom he didn’t know but who’d been in the group round Captain Morgan hurried over and caught him by the arm: ‘Word to the wise: the big fellow’s your best mark. He’s a lieutenant, name of Penny or somesuch, other one’s a P.O. All right, old man?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He went on down. The boat’s coxswain, a leading seaman, saluted him as he climbed aboard. Currie returned it: ‘Carry on, please, cox’n. Ras el-Tin.’ He told the sergeant: ‘Put that one in the cabin and your men with him. I’ll talk to the man-mountain out here. Stay with us, will you?’ He told the big man – airing his Italian for the first time – ‘I want to talk to you.’ Pointing at the bench which ran around the sternsheets: ‘Sit there. My name is Currie, Capitano di Corvetta.’

  ‘Mine is Luigi Durand de la Penne. Tenente.’

  Sitting, he seemed slightly less enormous. Glancing wistfully towards the shelter of the cabin: for which one could hardly blame him, in his soaked condition and the cold night air. Currie asked him, pointing at Valiant’s waterline as the boat sheered out towards the gap in the line of buoys, ‘You were under there, were you?’

  A shrug, and a gesture at the harbour generally. ‘It’s cold, for swimming.’

  He thought of putting him at his ease with a pleasantry such as: If you’d told us you were coming we’d have had it warmed up for you, but he wasn’t sure of the grammatical construction, that subjunctive, and in any case the Italian seemed pretty much at his ease already. Apart from having shivering spells. He tried instead, ‘How did you come to be so wet? Were those not diving suits I saw?’

  The Italian raised both hands, slapped them down on his large, wet knees. ‘You have my name – rank—’

  ‘Your man in there isn’t wet like you are. I suppose your suit leaked – did it?’

  He looked as if Currie’s guess had surprised him. ‘Yes – it leaked. And the sea is very cold.’

  ‘How did you enter the harbour?’

  ‘Oh. Usual way. You know?’

  ‘Just you two, or others with you?’

  He was staring over the boat’s quarter. At QE, Currie realized. An intent, anxious look. Looking at Currie again, then. ‘What will you do with us?’

  ‘I’m taking you to be questioned. Ashore here.’

  A shake of the head. ‘Names and ranks. That’s all. Questions on other matters would only waste time.’

  ‘It might be better for you if you told us what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘You mean – if I don’t, you’ll shoot me?’ His snort of amusement as he glanced at Currie’s and the sergeant’s pistols came with another fit of shivering. ‘Shoot us all, eh?’ All. Not both. Currie absorbed that without showing he’d noticed it, and de la Penne – pronounced ‘Penny’, more or less – seemed unaware of having let that cat out of the bag. Currie assured him: ‘We only shoot if you try to escape.’

  If there’d only been himself and the P.O., he surely would not have said ‘us all’. He’d withdrawn into silence now: perhaps he’d caught on to it… Leaning forward, forearms on his knees, head in his hands. The attitude, Currie thought, of a man waiting. For what? Well – to be questioned: not necessarily for bloody great explosions. But in any case, that was only a theory. It was just as much on the cards that the mission had failed – torpedoes misfired or sunk, or – whatever.

  But if there were others besides these two: as seemed almost certain…

  ‘Were you attacking Queen Elizabeth as well as Valiant, Lieutenant?’

  De la Penne looked up. ‘We’re to be interrogated ashore, but you do your part of it afloat, eh?’

  ‘Well, I have – a personal interest in the matter.’ What might seem to be a ‘personal’ – or unofficial – line of approach occurred to him as he said that; the thought was inspired at any rate to some extent by the fact that de la Penne seemed to be quite a decent sort of fellow. He explained: ‘I’m from Queen Elizabeth. I have friends in her – most of them fast asleep, at this moment. Friends in Valiant too: so if you have left explosives—’

  ‘It would be – regrettable.’

  ‘Are you saying you have?’

  ‘Of course not. If I had, would I announce it to you?’

  ‘You might. If your purpose was only to sink or damage a ship, or ships. We pull each other’s survivors out of the water, don’t we? So if there are any explosives, mines, whatever—’

  ‘If there were—’

  He’d checked. Currie prompted, ‘Yes?’

  The sergeant murmured, ‘Just about there, sir.’

  ‘All right.’ He urged de la Penne, ‘You were saying?’

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Don’t you have a watch?’

 
‘I had, and they took it from me. Also my knife—’

  ‘Well – a knife—’

  ‘And—’ touching his head — ‘my woollen cap. That’s theft, uh?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get the watch and cap back.’

  ‘What’s the time, please?’

  ‘Four. Just after.’

  ‘Four o’clock…’

  ‘I suppose any explosive charges would have—’ stumped for the word, he tapped his wristwatch – ‘a switch—’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Coming alongside, sir…’

  There was a petty officer with two armed seamen waiting for them on the jetty, and the P.O. expected to take over as escort there and then. Currie declined the offer. ‘This is the escort, and I’m the officer in charge of it. Is it Lieutenant-Commander Henderson who’s waiting for us?’

  ‘Yessir – but my orders—’

  ‘I’ve got mine, too. Come on, let’s go.’

  He could have found his way blindfolded to the Intelligence section, but the P.O. insisted on leading the way, his two matelots bringing up the procession’s rear – and de la Penne looking interestedly around him, Currie noticed, reading the signs on buildings as they passed them. Signals Distribution Office – Fleet Mail – Supply and Secretariat… The two of them began a murmured conversation, at one stage; Currie stopped this as soon as he realized it was happening, telling the Marines to separate them.

  Henderson met them in his outer office, a sort of guardroom. He was wearing a pistol, too, and wasn’t surprised to see Currie; they’d have telephoned him, of course. He beckoned him into the inner room.

  ‘Get anything out of ’em?’

  ‘Nothing really positive.’