Love For An Enemy

by Love For An Enemy (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  Dewar had had a long telephone conversation with someone called Glover, who was either one of their own people or a policeman of some kind. Henderson had referred to him as ‘Bimbashi’ Glover; Lucia told Currie it was a police rank – equivalent to an army captain, she thought. This was all about setting up the surveillance operation, and Glover was on his way out to them, apparently. Meanwhile Dewar took Solange to fetch things she needed from home, and Currie was alone with Lucia while Henderson drifted around inspecting the lift, stairs, approaches to the rear of the building and the garden.

  Lucia asked him. ‘Do you think Ned might be back here for Christmas?’

  ‘Oh, your guess is as good as mine. But—’

  ‘You see, if I was away in Cairo—’

  ‘Is that what you’re planning?’

  She shrugged. ‘How can I plan?’

  He thought of offering to find out when Spartan might be due back from patrol. But he doubted whether they’d tell him – or would know, even. And also whether if he did find out, he could tell her.

  Ridiculous, but there it was…

  ‘Tell me, Lucia – if you can. Rather a basic question though, really. Why is your brother going to such lengths to get you out of Egypt?’

  ‘Oh.’ She’d put a hand over her eyes. ‘It’s crazy. Really, stupid. But – we have an uncle – Cesare Caracciolo—’

  ‘The admiral.’

  ‘You know about him?’ Surprise faded: ‘Of course. You’ve checked on me. Everything, eh? An enemy alien – isn’t that what I am?’

  ‘You’re not our enemy, Lucia. We know that. But—’

  ‘It’s my fault, of course – for having an Italian father… Anyway, Josh – Emilio didn’t explain – there wouldn’t have been time - but he mentioned our uncle Cesare, and that’s enough. He’s crazy, about family, and – what my father did was very damaging to him, then when my mother took us away he was furious. He tried to persuade me to go back, as well as Emilio.’

  ‘So now he’s trying it a different way. The hard way… Does he have enough pull to have organized this?’

  ‘It seems so. But it isn’t only this, is it – Major Dewar said there are others, not just Emilio – and there are rumours in the town—’

  ‘Yes.’ He took out his cigarette-case. ‘Yes, I dare say.’ The attack on the harbour was definitely not a subject for discussion. ‘Smoke, Lucia?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He lit his own. He didn’t usually smoke as much as this. Changing the subject. ‘Did you discuss Christmas with Mitch – Ned – before he left?’

  ‘Not really. But I tell you – Emilio knows about Ned, too. Me, his sister, and an Englishman –huh?’

  ‘News does get around, doesn’t it… But listen – if he did get back and you weren’t here, wouldn’t he realize you’d be in Cairo?’

  ‘I suppose he would. Or I could leave a note, of course. It’s my mother who wants me to go there.’ She fluttered her hands. ‘I don’t know. It depended so much on Ned, and now this other… In any case I want to see him back, know he is back!’

  ‘Yes. I see.’

  She’d shrugged. ‘I have to just – keep my nerve. Convince myself he’ll be back some time.’

  ‘Well of course—’

  ‘No, Josh. There’s no – certainty… Oh, perhaps I will have a cigarette.’

  ‘Here—’

  ‘I have these, thank you. I prefer… Ned never speaks of any such – eventuality. We don’t. Not in so many words. But it’s always there, we live in awareness of it, you might say. Submarines, after all – sometimes they don’t come back – uh?’

  He thought, with the day’s news fresh in the back of his mind, Not only submarines… Shaking his head: ‘Mitch’s will. Believe it.’

  ‘Whether I do or I don’t makes no difference. What happens, happens. Every night, I—’

  She’d stopped. ‘Sorry. Talking so much. Nerves… And because you’re here – my patient victim, eh?’

  ‘Don’t feel victimized, I assure you. Talk all you like.’

  ‘If he didn’t come back, Josh, I’d – I’d die.’

  ‘No, Lucia. You would not. But in any case—’

  ‘I know. I’m being stupid. I am stupid. Ned’s very good at what he does, isn’t he?’

  ‘So I’m told. Yes. D’you spend a lot of time alone, Lucia, when he’s away?’

  ‘Quite a lot, but—’

  ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t. Why not have Solange with you more? Isn’t she marvellous, by the way?’

  A hint of a smile… ‘You think so?’

  ‘She’s very fond of you. Candice is too.’

  ‘Well – it’s quite mutual.’ She’d cocked an ear: ‘Here comes – you know…’

  Henderson. He came in and sat down. ‘No call yet, I take it.’ Checking the time. ‘Bimbashi not here yet either. He’ll bring a whole troop with him, I imagine.’

  * * *

  Currie didn’t take in many details of the surveillance operation. It was late by the time Glover got there, there was a lot of coming and going and no reason anyone should waste time explaining it to him. He arranged with Solange that he’d telephone in the morning, and that they’d keep in touch generally; she’d ring him if she needed any support.

  Glover, who was in his thirties and had an Italian look about him – despite a Scots accent rather more pronounced than Dewar’s – had a van which he’d parked fifty yards away and which was to serve as his headquarters. There were two other men whom Currie saw, one of them an Egyptian. Henderson said, in Dewar’s car on their way back to Ras el-Tin, ‘Trap’s baited and set. When it’s sprung, Currie, I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘Have you done this sort of thing before?’

  ‘Not personally. Glover has, of course.’

  Dewar said, ‘If I was in the brother’s shoes I wouldn’t show my face near that apartment. I’d telephone and have her meet me somewhere miles away.’

  ‘No problem in that, surely. If she goes out—’

  ‘They’ll tail her. Aye. And she might be able to let us know where she’s pointing, before she starts. I did ask her – so did Glover—’

  ‘But even without that—’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ A glance round towards Currie: ‘They could use that van, or go on foot, or bicycle. They have two bikes in the van.’ He chuckled. ‘All mod cons, you might say.’

  ‘If they follow her—’ Currie was leaning forward, from the rear seat – ‘and she leads them to him, will they grab him right away?’

  Dewar slowed, at the intersection of Rue Fuad and Rue Cherif Pasha. Going through the middle of town, now that the roads were fairly empty. Henderson answered that question: ‘Depends on circumstances. We want his chums as well – as you know – if there are any. As long as Glover’s sure he’s on top of things, he’d trail ’em for a while.’

  ‘Does Lucia know that?’

  ‘Oh, surely—’

  ‘I feel a certain responsibility – in Mitcheson’s absence—’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Dewar swung the car to clear a gharry with a broken wheel. ‘Glover’s on the ball.’

  He still didn’t feel at all easy in his mind about it. But it was well after midnight when he got back on board, and he put his state of anxiety down to being dog-tired – having been up since 0330, and with the submarine still alongside, her diesels rumbling into the dark night, a reminder of earlier events.

  If anyone had needed reminding… This was Saturday – today, now, 20 December: yesterday had been ‘Black Friday’ – which was what Dewar and Henderson had called it during the drive back to town. Neither of them knowing about the disaster to the Malta force, at that. Just as well: here and now the prognosis, as far as naval operations in the Mediterranean were concerned, was blacker than anyone had any business knowing.

  But Lucia would be all right, he told himself. As Dewar had pointed out, they weren’t going to let her brother slip through their fingers. She�
��d have to be all right.

  He thought…

  Fell asleep thinking it, and was still thinking it in the morning – still no call received, chez Lucia – and throughout the forenoon and most of the afternoon. Then there was some news: two Italians, named as Engineer Captain Antonio Marceglia and Petty Officer Diver Spartaco Schergat, had been arrested by Egyptian police at about 3 p.m. on the banks of the Nile, thirty miles east. This was terrific news, of course, and Henderson sounded overjoyed when he rang to let Currie know. Then just before six Solange was on the line – breathlessly – to tell him that Emilio had telephoned – twice, first to get Lucia’s decision and then again only minutes later telling her to meet him near Fort Kom el Dik as soon as she could get there. Solange had already passed this information to Henderson: there was nothing to do now but wait.

  Kom el Dik was on the eastern edge of the central part of the town. It was a hillock covered in small streets and alleys: an urban Arab village with a view south across the maidan to Lake Mareotis, and with Bab el Gedid railway station at its feet.

  Getting towards sunset now. Lights would be burning in the cafés and brothels, Arab music shrilling.

  Currie hung around within hearing-distance of the lobby where the shore-linked telephone was. Fretting when anyone else came to use it: watching the minutes tick by. Then an hour: two hours… Telling himself that he was probably being stupid, that it was bound to be some time before Glover could report progress, or success.

  Eventually he went in to eat dinner in the wardroom. Expecting to be called out to the ’phone at any moment: but he finished, and still – nothing… He took his cup of coffee to an armchair, made himself browse through several months-old magazines.

  At nine-thirty he couldn’t stand it any longer – called Henderson, and as soon as he heard the man’s voice knew something had gone wrong. He’d been just about to ring him, Henderson claimed. ‘Everything seems to be happening at once, here…’ Currie forced it out of him, then. Glover had been following a couple whom he’d picked up at Kom el Dik and who’d gone through the motions of shaking off any tail, then jumped on the tram to Mex. He’d had no doubt at all that they were Lucia and Emilio Caracciolo. Two of Glover’s men had been on the tram with them, and he’d followed in his van. At Mex station one of his men had waited for him, and eventually all three had moved in on the couple and two other Italians whom in the interim they’d joined – which had made it look even better to Glover, who’d been told there might be others meeting up at some rendezvous. They’d been on the shore-front by that time, walking towards Dekhela. But all four had turned out to be Italians, legally resident in Alexandria; they’d been going to an Arab restaurant in Dekhela village, and they’d been indignant at being stopped and questioned. It had been a set-up, obviously – the girl wasn’t unlike Lucia, at any distance, and the Italian who’d been her escort was built like an ox – but none of them had committed any crime, and meanwhile Emilio had disappeared with Lucia.

  16

  Spartan’s ‘shift billet’ signal reached her after she’d surfaced on the Friday evening, the 19th, twenty miles south-east of Lindhos. The message read:

  Shift billet immediately to Karpathos Strait. Italian chariot-carrying submarine departed vicinity Alexandria at about midnight 18/19 December destination probably Leros.

  The signal was repeated to Spartan’s flotilla mate Thane, who was patrolling an area north of Suda Bay, and in a separate signal – repeated to Spartan – Thane was ordered to move to the Kaso Strait. So both holes would be stoppered, in less time than it would have taken either submarine to get up to Leros. Spartan in fact had only about thirty-five miles to travel – although in Alex they couldn’t have known this, she could have been at the far end of what had been a fairly large patrol area. They would know, probably, that the weather up here was foul.

  A game of Liar dice had been interrupted for the deciphering of these signals. Barney Forbes asked, stubbing out a cigarette, ‘What’s a chariot?’

  ‘What the Italians call “pigs”. Things we went looking for at Bomba, a while ago.’ Mitcheson told him this from the chart table. Adding: ‘Buzz is we’re making some of our own now. Copy-catting.’ He went round the corner to the control room, to the voicepipe. ‘Bridge!’

  Teasdale’s voice – over the racket of wind and sea – ‘Bridge…’

  ‘Bring her round to two-four-five, Pilot, and break the standing charge. Three hundred revs, running charge starboard.’

  ‘Aye, sir. Helmsman – port fifteen…’

  He went back into the wardroom, wondering what might have been happening down at Alexandria. Presumably the long-awaited and then more recently discounted ‘human torpedo’ attack had taken place. Or had been attempted. He told the others – Forbes was on his way aft, to see about the battery-charge – ‘Whatever he’s been up to down there, this fellow could be passing through tomorrow night.’

  ‘Unless he goes through Kaso…’

  He nodded to McKendrick. ‘In which case Thane’s lucky and we aren’t. Better put those books back in the safe, Sub.’

  The code books, in their weighted covers. One diesel had been stopped while they’d been putting in the tail-clutch. Going ahead again: and on the new course now, with the weather on her beam, rolling about as hard as she knew how. Mitcheson pulled his chair back and sat down on it quickly – holding himself to the table – before she began to throw herself the other way… ‘Sparrow – any coffee left?’

  ‘Yessir – comin’ up!’

  Bennett said, fiddling with the poker dice, ‘Won’t be back for Christmas, will we.’

  ‘Never thought we would, Chief. Did you?’ He certainly hadn’t expected to be back that soon himself. Glancing up at Sparrow and his coffee-jug: ‘Good man.’

  ‘Nicer at sea, is Christmas.’ Sparrow had one arm hooked over the side of Mitcheson’s bunk while he chose his best moments for pouring one-handed from the jug. ‘Cox’n’s layin’ on tinned turkey an’ tinned pud – and we got our tots, like. Give us a nice quiet day dived, sir, and – I mean, what more—’

  McKendrick cut in: ‘Sink this Wop, sir – use up all the fish?’

  Meaning, then you’d be recalled. Spartan carried thirteen torpedoes altogether; four had been used in sinking a big troopship on their first day off Lindhos, and another two wasted in a long-range shot at a smaller steamer which for reasons best known to itself had altered course dramatically right after Mitcheson had sent the last one on its way. So now there were only the six in the bow tubes, and the single stern one.

  Sipping his coffee, he thought McKendrick’s suggestion wasn’t at all bad. A bit of a pipe-dream, but – well, why not?

  Lucia on my mind…

  A lot of the time. Always, in the back of it. Not necessarily as a positive shape, face, or name, but – an aura of promise, a new and marvellous dimension to life itself. Something like that.

  Forbes was back from his visit to the motor room. Telling McKendrick from the gangway, ‘Time you got dressed for your watch, Sub. Pretty damn wet up there too, by the sound of it.’ In fact Lucia would spend Christmas in Cairo with her mother, Mitcheson thought. He hoped she would. He knew Maman had asked her to. Asked him too, but… He shrugged mentally. New Year was the time one surely could look forward to.

  * * *

  He let McKendrick dive her at 0530, in the centre of the Karpathos Strait. It has been a very rough night, wet and noisy, was still in fact blowing about force 7, and as always it was very pleasant to get down into the peace and quiet.

  ‘Fifty feet, sir.’

  ‘If I’m asleep, Sub, shake me at six-thirty.’ It would be light enough to use the periscope, by then. He told Piltmore – who was still with them, his application for the Higher Submarine Detector’s course having been forwarded but not answered yet – ‘Keep your ears pricked.’

  Piltmore’s lugubrious nod…

  Asdic conditions were pretty hopeless. And Mitcheson didn’t see how the cha
riot-carrier could possibly get here before dark tonight. In fact, with the weather gone to pot as it had now, it mightn’t even be here before tomorrow.

  But – there could be other targets… He went to the chart table. Checking distances and courses again, wondering which of the two passages he’d use if he was in the Italian’s shoes. On the face of it, this would be the most direct route, but coming this way would mean a couple of doglegs between here and Leros, while going via Kasos he’d be steering virtually a straight course all the way. Damn little in it, actually. If the Italian was boxing clever he might decide on Kasos simply because it looked like the longer route and might therefore not be covered.

  Spin of a coin: heads he’d be Spartan’s target, tails he’d be Thane’s. Hugo Whiteman, Thane’s captain, would have the same questions in his mind.

  In the darkened wardroom, Mitcheson pushed himself up on to his bunk, swung his legs up and lay back. Saturday, he thought. She wouldn’t be working today. He shut his eyes: seeing her dark hair spread like a stain across the pillows in the early light: and the space in the bed beside her.

  Not for long, he told himself. Told her, in his mind. Not for long, my darling.

  * * *

  During the forenoon, officers of the watch saw nothing except a flight of three Heinkel bombers on course from Crete to Rhodes, and around midday a solitary Savoia Marchetti which seemed to be patrolling the northern approaches to the strait. Periscope watch was trickier than usual; you needed a lot of stick up to see over the waves, and although at forty feet she was as steady as a rock there was enough turbulence at thirty to keep the ’planesmen working hard.

  Lunch was pilchards – canned, in tomato sauce, a dish almost as familiar now as corned beef – with bread and butter. Bread baked the night before last, off Rhodes, by Leading Cook Hughes. Bennett, who’d been asleep until the food had actually been on the table – he’d simply dragged himself up out of his bunk and there he was, grouchy as hell – muttered, ‘How anyone could be expected to stay healthy on this garbage…’