The Sea Break (9 page)

For a moment he panicked: thought of warning her that she mustn’t come, that she might be in danger; but even as he had them he discarded these thoughts. How could he tell her that? She knew Kurt Lindemann! There could be no change in the plans. For better or worse she’d have to come. His feeling of unease gave way to the agreeable prospect of seeing her again so soon. Of one thing he had no doubt: she was the future Mrs. Stephen Widmark.

At 2 a.m. Widmark made his way downstairs and along the passage to number 214. He tried the door, found it locked, frowned with irritation, and knocked on it quietly. But there was no response although he did this several times; then, just as he was about to go, thoroughly angry, the Newt came up the passage, winked heavily, unlocked the door and let him in.

“Where’ve you been?” said Widmark coldly.

“Having a pee, old boy! Any objections?”

Widmark gave him another frosty look. “Let’s see those charts and sailing directions.”

For some time they worked on them, and they decided eventually to abandon the idea of taking the normal course on leaving, Canal do Sul and Cabo da Inhaca, because of possible trouble with the pilot vessel.

Instead they would use the northern channel, Canal do Norte, which had ample water although it was not buoyed or lighted and was never used by large vessels.

When all this had been agreed, Widmark said what had been on his mind for some time: “Look, Newt! Your private life’s none of my business, but for God’s sake don’t get involved with Di Brett. She’s easy on the eye, I know, but we’ve got a hell of a lot at stake, and this isn’t the time for necking.”

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.”

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.

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:

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 go.”

“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?”