The Lonely Sea (16 page)

‘Yeah, he's a she.' Nicky was laconic. ‘Why not? She's one of the best in the business—and less liable to suspicion. Parachuted in two months ago.'

I turned this over on my mind.

‘Speaks the language fluently, I suppose?'

‘Strange if she didn't,' Nicky smiled. ‘She was born in Leghorn.'

‘An Italian!' I made a grimace of distaste. ‘Well, I suppose the money's good.'

In two quick strides he was beside me, his hand gripping my shoulder.

‘Watch it, Scotty,' he murmured softly. ‘Careful of what you say. She's a naturalized American, same as I am.'

Silently I cursed myself and gently disengaged his hand.

‘Looks as if this is going to be a record night for apologies, Nicky,' I said wryly. ‘Damned stupid of me. Keep your eyes skinned, will you?'

We spent an hour of steadily mounting anxiety waiting at the rendezvous. Nicky, I could see, was worried and upset—not at all in character, I thought.

Shortly after one o'clock we heard the angry hum of a small outboard. A 12-foot skiff with two dark figures aboard appeared out of the darkness and slid smoothly alongside. A bump, a couple of out-stretched arms, a heave—just so quickly was the small boat away again and a slender figure in slacks and windbreaker standing there on deck, shivering involuntarily in the cold.

Nicky's voice was harsh and low. Perhaps from relief, perhaps from anger.

‘You're late. Far too damn late. How often do you have to be told not to keep a boat waiting in enemy waters? Had to powder your pretty little nose, I suppose?'

‘Sorry, Nicky,' she pleaded. Her voice was warm and soft and husky. ‘Johnny found a leak in the petrol tank and had to return for more and—'

‘Keep quiet!' I whispered urgently.

Nicky spoke angrily: ‘Look, Mac, that's the second time—'

‘Shut up and listen!'

This time they, too, heard it—a muffled creak, ominous, stealthy.

‘Petrol, hell!' I said softly, bitterly. ‘Nipped back to give his pals the tip-off, you mean. Take her to my cabin, Nicky, quickly.'

She broke from his grip and caught my lapel.

‘Get away as fast as you can,' she whispered. ‘The Germans have two fast motor-launches in harbour. They're armed. They're manned day and night and—'

‘Take her below,' I interrupted. I wrenched her hand away. ‘And keep her there.'

The crew of the 149 were superbly trained. A couple of low-voiced commands and, as our port and starboard magnesium rockets curved upwards, the 149 was already thrusting through the water at close on twenty knots. Wilson was behind the searchlight and every gun was manned.

There were three of them astern of us, cockleshell rowing boats, with three soldiers—Germans, I thought—in each, every one life-jacketed and armed to the teeth—as wicked looking a boarding party as I'd seen for a long time. But this was going to be easy.

I stopped the engine momentarily, wound down a window, yelled to the crew to get under cover, called to Taffy for full speed and swung the 149 round in a skidding half-turn.

Twenty seconds later it was all over. A brief fusillade of carbine shots—some starring the wheelhouse's bullet-proof windows—a couple of twenty-five knot racing turns and the three boats were swamped and overturned. We stopped, fished a couple of bedraggled soldiers from the water—prisoners were always welcome at HQ—and headed south-west for home.

Not till then did I realize that Nicky and Stella were with me in the wheelhouse.

‘I thought I told you to get below,' I said angrily.

‘No fear!' said Nicky enthusiastically. ‘That was too good to miss.'

‘Please do as I ask. You're only in the way here,' I said coldly. ‘Higgins will bring you coffee and sandwiches.'

When I joined them half an hour later, the coffee and sandwiches were still untouched. Stella was sitting on my bunk. This was the first time I had seen her face and not even the harsh glare of
the deckhead light could mar the flawless beauty of its perfect oval, the olive complexion, the patrician little nose, the plaited coils of hair, lustrous and silky, black as a raven's wing. Not even her swimming eyes and tear-smudged cheeks could do that.

‘Oh Lord!' I said tiredly. ‘What's up now?'

‘Professional disagreement,' Nicky said shortly. His black hair was more tousled than ever. ‘Look, Mac, there's been a slip-up somewhere. A leak from base is almost impossible. So it must have been Stella. Somewhere, somehow, in the past day or two, she made a mistake. She must have.'

‘But I didn't, Nicky,' she whispered huskily. ‘I swear I didn't. I didn't put a foot wrong. Honestly, Nicky.'

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 Passière, 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 to 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 asssume 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 Passière. 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 Passière 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 Passière'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 codesign 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?