The Lonely Sea: Collected Short Stories

Rendezvous

It was quite dark now and the Great North Road, the A1, that loneliest of Europe's highways, almost deserted. At rare intervals, a giant British Roadways truck loomed out of the darkness: a courteous dipping of headlamps, immaculate hand-signals, a sudden flash of sound from the labouring diesel — and the A1 was lonelier than ever. Then there was only the soothing hum of tyres, the black ribbon of highway, and the headlights of the Jaguar, weirdly hypnotic, swathing through the blackness.

Loneliness and sleep, sleep and loneliness. The enemies, the co-drivers of the man at the wheel; the one lending that extra half pound of pressure to the accelerator, the other, immobile and ever-watchful, waiting his chance to slide in behind the wheel and take over. I knew them well and I feared them.

But they were not riding with me tonight. There was no room for them. Not with so many passengers. Not with Stella sitting there beside me, Stella of the laughing eyes and sad heart, who had died in a German concentration camp. Not with Nicky, the golden boy, lounging in the back seat, or Passiere, who had never returned to his sun-drenched vineyards in Sisteron. No room for sleep and loneliness? Why, by the time you had crowded in Taffy the engineer, complaining as bitterly as ever and Vice Admiral Starr and his bushy eyebrows, there was hardly room for myself.

I glanced at the dashboard clock. 2.00 a.m. Nine hours since I had left Inverness and only one stop for gas. I realized I was very hungry.

A couple of miles further on a neon sign blinked garishly through the heavy drizzle. A drivers' pull-up. I swung the Jaguar off the road, parked beside the heavy trucks and limped inside.

It was a bright, noisy, cheerful place, about half full. I picked up my bacon, sausages and eggs and went over to an empty table by the window.

The meal finished, I lit a cigarette and stared out unseeingly into the driving rain. Now and again I could hear the rumble and swish as a truck or night-coach rolled by on the Great North Road.

The Great North Road. The prelude, the curtain call to all the highlights of my life — long Italian summers on my father's ship, Oxford and the Law, the Royal Naval Barracks, Portsmouth. All these other times, I reflected, there had been uncertainty. So, too, this time. All these other times excitement, anticipation. But this time only doubt and wonder, foreboding and slow anger.

I fished out Nicky's telegram again.

I pushed the telegram back into my pocket. RRR. The Special Service code sign — 'Where do we rendezvous?' I had wired back

Even now I did not know why I had done it. It just had to be done. This was one loose end in my life that simply had to be cut off. Courage, fear, curiosity, anger — these did not enter into it. There was just simple compulsion. This I had to do.

I paid my check, climbed into the Jaguar, pulled out on the A1, set the hand throttle and headed south.

I was confused. The bit about the De'il — the Devil looks after his own — a phrase he had picked up from me: that I could understand. He had seen the flaming eruption of disintegrating steel and burning oil as the Heinkel's glider-bomb had smacked accurately into the engine room of the F149. I had no right to be alive, the surgeon had said — but he had made a pretty good job of my crocked leg and mangled arm.

But I couldn't figure the rest of the telegram. It was too friendly. Too friendly by half for a man who, when we had last parted — five minutes before the explosion — had been standing on a desolate Tuscan beach at the wrong end of my Service Colt.45. I could see him yet, could see the anger dying in his eyes, the disbelief, the astonishment, the emotionless mask, I had stood there trying to hate him — and failing miserably — and trying not to hate myself. I had failed in that too. And I heard again his promise, quiet, almost conversational: 'Don't forget, Mac — I'll be looking you up one of these days.'

I sighed. Our first meeting had been rather different. I flicked the dashboard switch. 2.45. Two hundred miles to London. I shoved the hand throttle up a notch.

Malta, 1943. The George Cross island. The island of Faith, Hope and Charity — the three obsolete fighters pitted against the savagery of the Axis air fleets. Malta. The sorely battered capital of Valetta and the Grand Harbour, that destination of a very few, very lucky merchant ships, of the 40-knot plus gauntlet-running minelaying cruisers, of the submarine gasoline tankers, of the immortal 'Ohio'.

But the war was very far away that Spring morning. All was peaceful and still and bathed in sunshine as I walked into the Admiralty HQ.

'Lieutenant McIndoe to see Admiral Starr?' the duty petty officer repeated. 'Along the passage, first on the left, sir. He's alone just now.'

I knocked and went in. A large bare room, with Venetian blinds and walls covered with maps, it was completely dominated by the huge figure sitting behind the only table in the room. Two hundred and fifty pounds if an ounce, red-faced, white-haired and with bushy eyebrows, Vice-Admiral Starr had become a legend in his own lifetime. He had the face and expression of a bucolic farmer, a mind like a rapier and a deep-rooted intolerance of those who wasted either time or speech.

He pushed some papers away in a folder and motioned me to a seat.

'Morning, McIndoe. Carried out your instructions?' he asked.

'To the letter, sir,' I replied carefully. 'Gunboat F149 is completely stripped. The extra fuel tanks are fitted and the short and long-range receiving and transmitting sets were installed yesterday. She's fuelled, provisioned and ready for sea.'

He nodded in satisfaction. 'And your crew?'

The best, sir. Experienced, completely reliable.'

'Right.' He stood up. 'You'll contact Ravallo this evening and receive final instructions from him.'

'Ravallo, sir?'

'Major Ravallo, US Army. A top espionage agent and just about the best lend-lease bargain ever. From now on, he's your immediate boss.'

I felt distinctly aggrieved. 'Am I to understand, sir — '

'These are your orders,' he interrupted flatly. 'Besides,' he chuckled, 'Ravallo will welcome you with open arms. The last time he came back from Sicily, he had to swim the last two miles. Damned annoyed, he was.'

'Quite so, sir. Do I meet Ravallo here?'

Admiral Starr coughed. 'Well, no, not exactly. Major Ravallo is an American — ' he spoke as if this explained everything — 'and not subject to our discipline. You'll find him in the Triannon bar at six o'clock.'

'Have another, Mac,' Nicky Ravallo urged hospitably. 'You'll be needing it tonight yet.'

Major Ravallo, I reflected, would have made a big hit in Hollywood. With his dark, tousled hair, crinkling blue eyes, dark tan, white teeth and weird hodgepodge of a uniform designed strictly by himself, he looked ready-made material for a Caribbean pirate or a second d'Artagnan. But the gallant Major, it seemed to me, treated war much too lightly; besides, I was still smarting from the insult of being placed under an American's command — and from his smiling refusal to give me any details of that night's operation until we got to sea.

'No thanks,' I replied stiffly. 'So far I've never felt the need for any pre-operational stoking up on alcohol. And I'm not starting now.' I knew I was behaving badly.

'Suit yourself, Scotty.' Ravallo was not only unruffled but positively affable. 'Starr tells me you're a specialist on the Italian coast and language and just about the best gunboat handler in the business. That's all I want. Come along.'

In silence we walked through the white-walled streets towards the harbour and in silence we descended by the fearsome open elevator on the cliff-face to the gathering gloom of Christ's steps. Here we hired a dico and were rowed out to Motor Gunboat F149, moored at the far end of Angelo creek.

Once aboard, I had him meet my crew — Taffy, Passiere, Hillyard, Johnson, Higgins and Wilson, my second in command. They seemed favourably impressed by Ravallo, and he by them, although I did not take too kindly to his cheerful invitation to 'just call me Nicky, boys.' They would be calling me 'Sammy' next and I wasn't sure that I would like that.

'How come Passiere?' Ravallo asked when we were alone again. 'Hardly an Anglo-Saxon name that.'

'Like Ravallo?' I suggested.

He laughed. 'TOUCHE. But still,' he persisted, 'what's he doing here?'

'Free French,' I explained. 'There are thousands of them on our side — mostly in their own ships. He's a refugee from Vichy France, a holder of the CROIX DE GUERRE and just about the best radio operator I've ever known. I hope,' I added sweetly, 'that you have no objections to the presence of non-British nationals aboard this boat?'

'Sorry again,' he laughed. 'I guess I asked for that.' He ran his hand ruefully through his thick black hair and grinned quizzically at me.

For the first time, I smiled back.

An hour later, the 149 cleared the entrance of Grand Harbour. Ravallo was in the wheelhouse with me, sitting on a camp-stool, quietly smoking.

He spoke suddenly.

'We're going to Sicily, Mac. Rendezvous, midnight, two miles northwest of Cape Passero. OK?'

I said nothing, but turned to my charts and tables.

'Half-speed, Chief,' I said to Wilson. 'Course zero-five-zero. Hillyard, Johnson on watch. Right?'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Ravallo jumped to his feet.

'Here, what's this?' he demanded swiftly. 'Half-speed? Look, Mac, we gotta hit the rendezvous on the nose. Midnight, Scotty, midnight — not tomorrow morning. Last time I came from Sicily it took fourteen hours. Including two hours swimming,' he added bitterly.

Wilson and I grinned at each other.

'Chief,' I said sorrowfully, 'I'm afraid we've a doubter on our hands. The Major and I are taking a walk forrard. Ask Taffy to open her up — demonstration purposes only.'

The demonstration was brief and entirely effective. At its conclusion we walked slowly aft to the stern and sat down, leaning against the recently emptied depth-charge racks, Ravallo looking very thoughtful, almost dazed.

The effect was almost always the same. The hypnotic effect of the rushing waters and the gigantic bow-wave, coupled with the sheer physical shock of the bone-jarring vibrations of the deck and the banshee clamour of the great aero-engines, was almost literally stunning.

Ravallo broke the silence.

'Sorry again, Mac.' His face lit up with remembered enthusiasm. 'My God, Mac, that must be one of the last thrills left on earth. What was she doing — forty-five, fifty knots?'

'Official secret,' I said solemnly. 'Seriously, though, I don't think you need worry about anything on the surface of the Mede catching us. And now — how about some more information, Major?'

'Nicky,' he corrected absently. 'Right, Mac, this is how it is.

'This cloak-and-dagger sealed orders act isn't just for fun. It's a must. Do you know how many agents we've lost this year in Italy?' he asked slowly. 'Twenty-six.' He pounded his fist, very gently, on the deck, his eyes quiet, his voice level.

'Twenty-six,' I echoed. 'That's impossible.' (Neither of us knew at the time that the British had already lost twice that number in Holland alone. All died.)

He didn't seem to hear me.

'A couple by natural hazards,' he went on. 'Maybe half-a-dozen through leaks. The rest — ' he waved a hand forrard — 'well, that's what this boat is for.' He paused.

'Well, go on.' I was becoming interested.

'German and Italian radio monitoring stations,' he explained. 'Almost all information is sent out by radio. Fairly powerful transmitting sets which are as easily picked up by the enemy as by us. A few cross-bearings and — finish.'

'But you still haven't explained — '

'I'm coming to that. The idea is to fit our agents with weak, short-range transmitters — hardly more than fields — which cuts out ninety per cent of the risk of detection. Your boat will lie close offshore — two or three miles — pick up our agents' reports on its short-range receiver and re-transmit to base by the big RCA. Starr says he will have six of these boats in action by the end of the year.'

'Aha!' I said. 'Light dawns. I should have thought of that before. It should work.'

'It MUST work,' he said heavily. 'We've lost too many of our best agents already.'

We sat on deck for several minutes, companionably silent, having the last smoke on deck of the day. Presently Ravallo spun his cigarette over the side and rose easily to his feet.

'Mac?'

I turned my head.

'Do you mind if I have a look at the radio room?'

'Help yourself. Passiere's having supper just now.'

He left me. I sat for another couple of minutes, pondering over Ravallo's news, then went to darken ship.

After supper, we went to the wheelhouse. I took over from Wilson, who went below. The sea was as calm as a millpond and there was no moon that night. Conditions were ideal.

I looked at my watch. 11.00 p.m. I wished I could smoke.

'What happens at the rendezvous, Nicky?' I asked.

'Picking up an agent,' he said briefly. 'The Syracuse area is getting too hot these days.'

'Friend of yours?'

'Sort of. One can't afford to have friends in our line,' he said quietly. 'Too much grief. Besides — ' he paused — 'Stella doesn't encourage — er — friendship.'

'Stella?' I glanced quickly at him. 'You mean — '

'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 outstretched 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 lifejacketed 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 southwest 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 Passiere, 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 too 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 assume 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 Passiere. 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 Passiere 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 Passiere'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 code-sign 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?

I wrenched myself back into the present. I knew then what I would have to do. I also knew what it would mean for me — court martial. Just then I didn't care.

Swiftly I turned to Ravallo.

'Do you know where she went, Nicky?' I demanded.

'Sure I do.' He had divined my intentions immediately and was into the boat before me.

Hillyard rowed us ashore. We jumped out on the pebbly shore and raced up the beach. Halfway up I stopped short and called softly.

'Nicky!'

He turned round.

'Dammit, Scotty, there's no time — '

He broke off short. His eyes didn't have to be very good to see the dull gleam of the.45 in my hand.

He remained motionless.

'What is this?' he asked slowly.

'This,' I said, 'is as far as I go. Incidentally, that was a marvellous piece of acting. Congratulations.'

He was a trier, I had to admit. The anger, the impatience, the puzzlement — they were perfectly done.

'Stay where you are!' I said sharply. He had taken a step forward.

'The only explanation you are entitled to is why you are still alive. I'll tell you.

'Renegades, Ravallo, aren't always monsters. I liked you, Ravallo — in your own idiom, I thought you were one helluva good guy. Secondly, war is no reason for inhumanity. You know that. And I think it inhuman to ask a man to spy on his own country.'

'What are you trying to tell me?' His voice was almost a whisper.

'Save it, Ravallo. I could have had you taken back to Naples,' I went on. 'You know what that means. Court martial — and the firing squad. Or you could have been dropped over the side. I drew the line at that also. So,' I added, 'you're getting what you never gave Stella, Ravallo — a chance. Among your own people,' I finished bitterly.

'You betrayed yourself a year ago, Ravallo. I didn't get it till yesterday. Remember Passero? Remember the rowing boats the Germans used that night to try to board us? Remember the visit you paid to the empty radio room? Remember the fast launches that Stella said the Germans had in Passero? Remember, Ravallo, remember?'

I flung the words at him, hammered them at him. They had no effect. He seemed dazed, showed no reaction at all. The man was a superb actor.

'How were the Germans tipped off, Ravallo?' I went on relentlessly. 'Why didn't they send their fast launches after us? I'll tell you, Ravallo. Because they knew they hadn't a hope in hell of catching us. They knew that a sneak attack was their only hope. They knew that because YOU told them, Ravallo. And ONLY you could have told them. Only YOU of all suspects fulfilled the four essential conditions — you knew the speed of the 149, you knew our destination that night, you knew how to use and had access to a transmitter — the 149's.'

There was no answer to this and Ravello knew it. There could be no defence — only denial. He said nothing for a long time. His head was bent. The moon, almost full, had broken through the cloud, and I was in a hurry to be gone.

He lifted his head slowly and looked at me.

'Got it all buttoned up, haven't you, Mac?'

'I have indeed. I wish to God I hadn't. You gave yourself away again today.

'Starr had it narrowed down to you two — you and Stella. He guessed it was you — rather, I did. He had fixed it so as to give you a chance to sell Stella down the river. You thought her usefulness was over. So you sold her down the river. You didn't know that base weren't briefed on this mission, Ravallo, did you? Only you, Stella, Starr and I knew. And once, Ravallo, I could have sworn you loved that girl.' I looked at him, trying hard to hate him. 'You know,' I said, 'I couldn't have done that to a dog.'

His face was expressionless.

'So you threw her to the wolves? Is that it, Mac?'

Why hadn't the Partisans looked after her, I thought to myself. They had plenty of warning. Illogically, I felt guilty as hell and knew for the first time the salt taste of self-loathing. But I didn't show it — I knew that.

'I had my orders. Besides, Nicky, 'I added ironically, 'we should never have succeeded without your invaluable cooperation. Goodbye.'

He called after me. 'Mac!'

I turned round.

'Don't forget, Mac, I'll be looking you up one of these days.'

One of these days. Well, that was it.

I had arrived in London at 6.00 a.m. and gone straight to bed. For hours I had lain awake, trying to figure the whole thing out.

It was A mess and it was fantastic. Why hadn't the Allied authorities seized him after the war? He was obviously a prosperous man now. He had much to lose — I marvelled at his nerve in seeking me out.

What did he want, I wondered. Just to gloat? No, whatever he was, Ravallo had never been small-minded. Revenge — it could only be that. But how? A fusillade of shots in the lounge of the Savoy? Ridiculous — just too fantastic. Besides, Nicky was a smart boy. About midday I gave the whole thing up and fell into a troubled sleep.

7,00 p.m. The lounge at the Savoy was full, but I saw him almost at once. It wasn't difficult. He was the only man in the place wearing a lounge suit. He was over by the far wall and, characteristically, had managed to obtain — and retain — a table for himself.

There was no change in Ravallo that I could see. Still the same vital, dark haired, laughing d'Artagnan — and he was laughing now. Laughing — the smile on the face of the tiger.

He leapt from his table and came swiftly towards me, hand outstretched, his white teeth shining in a great grin of welcome.

'Mac, you old son of a gun!' he shouted cheerfully. 'Man, oh man, but it's good to see you again!'

'Meaning you'd lost all hope of ever catching up with me?' I asked quietly. I made no move to take his hand and he let it drop slowly to his side. I was dimly aware that dozens of curious people were looking at us.

Ravallo still smiled — albeit a trifle ruefully now. It was the perfect picture of the unjustly slighted friend, still good humoured and tolerant. You're good, Ravallo, I thought, you're damned good.

'My address,' I said harshly. 'How did you get it?'

'Easy. The Admiralty — you're still on the Reserved List.' The smile was a trifle uncertain now.

I should have thought of that.

'Well, I'm here now. What's on the cards, Ravallo? A cosy little Italian knifing session? Maybe one of your pals in the Mafia? What do you want, Ravallo?'

'Civility, Scotty, civility.' The smile was quite gone now. And five minutes of your time — if you can stop being completely daft for that length of time. Here's my table. How about a drink?'

'The lapse of nine years and the fact that the war is over doesn't make treason any less heinous a crime.' I didn't bother to lower my voice, 'As for the drink, not with you, Ravallo. I'll get my own.'

Something was badly out of focus — I needed time to think. I turned to push my way to the bar through the knot of people crowding round.

Ravallo caught my arm. He was immensely strong.

'Same as Civitavecchia, eh, Mac?' he asked softly. 'Still the same jury, judge and executioner. Is that it?'

'Yes,' I said evenly. That's it.'

'And I'm the condemned man?'

'You're the condemned man.'

'A last favour, then.' His voice was very low. 'It's my privilege.'

Something about him, about his voice, his eyes, his desperate sincerity caught me. Not even Spencer Tracy was that good. For the first time I knew doubt.

I followed him slowly back to his table and sat down. The curious crowd gradually melted away.

'Well, I'm listening.'

'You don't even have to do that, Mac,' he said smilingly. 'Just read these.'

Carefully he placed two documents on the table and smoothed them out. After some hesitation, I picked one up.

It was a transcript from the US Navy Records Office. It had been made in the Pentagon and ran as follows:

Leading Signalman Georges Passiere, Official No P/JX 282131.

A body, dressed in Royal Naval tropical kit, was found on the beach, fourteen miles South of Civitavecchia. 16 May, 1944.

Identified as above rating by identity disc.

Secret lining discovered in flap of belt pouch. Oilskin envelope. List of thirty transmitting and receiving station wavelengths: VHP (very high frequency): mainly short-range. Six positively identified as German: remainder unknown.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I laid the document on the table. I was dimly aware of a waiter by my side, and a tray of glasses. Automatically, unseeingly almost, I picked up a glass with one hand, the remaining document with the other.

Deutscher Geheimdienst.

German Counter-Intelligence Records captured Turin.

Decoded Naples, October 1944.

Luigi Metastasio: Born Rome 1919.

(Then followed an account of Metastasio's school life, civilian employment, Fascist indoctrination, army service, counter-intelligence training.) Speaks French, German and English fluently: smuggled into France April 1940, German-occupied France August 1940, thence to Fecamp: fishing boat to England. Accepted Portsmouth barracks May, 1941: qualified telegraphist.

The rest was unimportant — and I knew the last line before I read it.

Assumed name — Georges Passiere.

I placed this report on the other and gazed at it as though hypnotized. I said nothing — I couldn't say anything. Neither thoughts nor words would come. My mind seemed to have stopped. I felt beaten, empty, sick — and hopelessly confused.

Nicky was merciful, infinitely so. I hardly heard his voice at first.

'It was a sweet racket, Mac. The beauty of the short-range receiver.' He laughed shortly. 'Sure the Germans couldn't monitor our agents' radio messages. By the same paradigm we couldn't monitor Passiere's short-range reports, probably relayed back immediately afterwards to German and Italian listening posts. The massacred Partisans, the butchery of the Rangers and the Commandos, the capture of our agents, the tip-off at Passero — all friend Passiere's work.'

'And — and Stella?' With a great effort I forced the words out. My mind was working again and the realization, stark and unforgiving, of what I had done these long years ago now smashed home like a hammer blow.

I answered my own question, my voice an unbelieving whisper.

'Passiere! That's how Stella went, Nicky. It must have been. Passiere!' I took Passiere into my confidence. 'Nicky — I, _I_ TOLD HIM EVERYTHING'.'

'Yeah,' murmured Nicky quietly. 'I thought it had to be something like that. If he knew she was finished, no more use to him, he would try to tip them off, wouldn't he?'

Maybe Nicky didn't stop there. Maybe he went on talking. I don't know. All I know is that his voice, quiet and level and kind, died away in my ear. I couldn't hear Nicky any longer. I couldn't even look at him. I knew I should be apologizing, saying something about never forgiving myself — but I knew that this lay outwith the reach of words.

'_I_ sold her down the river. I threw her to the wolves,' I said dully. '_I_ did that. Nobody else, Nicky, only me. Just me.' I buried my head in my hands.

I knew a hundred pairs of eyes were on me and I didn't care. The lounge had gone very quiet. The seconds — each one an eternity of self-loathing, of bitterness, of despair — ticked slowly by. Slowly, terribly slowly.

Suddenly, petrifyingly, a pair of soft hands clasped gently over my eyes and a well-remembered voice, husky with emotion, whispered compassionately:

'Enough is enough, Nicky. Hullo, Mac, darling.'

For four or five dazed, reeling, unbelieving seconds I sat motionless. Then I leapt to my feet, swung round, knocked several glasses crashing to the floor — the ritzy clientele of the Savoy were certainly getting their money's worth tonight — and faced Stella.

Stella! For a moment I could say nothing. I could only stand and look — and look. She stood there, dark and lovely and smiling, the old Stella of the Malta days — only, there were tears in her eyes now.

Then I grabbed her. I hugged her till she cried for mercy. Finally, I kissed her.

The gallery hadn't missed a thing. They were right on the ball and this was their cue. We sat down to a storm of hand-clapping.

'And they didn't get you after all?' I asked stupidly.

'Why should they have?' she smiled.

'Passiere faked her message,' Nicky explained. 'There was no MMR, no armoured car. When he jumped up, he must have knocked off the receiving switch. He'd hoped we would go after her and then he'd contact his pals and they'd get the lot of us. Only, it didn't quite work out that way. You came back and his own pals — the guy in the Heinkel — contacted him first.'

'Nicky picked me up that night,' Stella went on. 'He told me what had happened — about the sinking of the 149. I cried. Didn't I, Nicky? I cried all night. I'm a fearful crybaby, really. Very second-rate spy material.' She dabbed her eyes with a tiny square of lace.

I smiled and turned to Nicky.

'So you looked Stella up after the war? Is that it?'

He grinned. 'Well, in a way.'

I looked at the rings on her left hand.

'So then,' I continued morosely, 'I suppose you got married?'

Stella smiled. 'Well, no, not exactly. You see, we always were — 1938, to be precise!'

My nervous system couldn't take much more. I'd just about used up all my reactions. I just sat there half-stunned, conscious that my face was turning a bright and glowing crimson.

'Sorry, Mac.' Nicky was apologetic. 'Couldn't even tell you. Had anyone known — our side, their side — our usefulness would have been at an end. We would have been a menace to our own people. I told you, Mac, often. You can't give hostages to fortune.'

Slowly, it all came back to me. I could see it all now and cursed myself for my blindness.

Their overdone casualness and offhandedness towards each other. The constant bickering, yet the unswerving loyalty and belief in each other — how familylike, I thought with chagrin. Nicky's strange behaviour when I suggested I might fall for her (I squirmed at that thought). His anger when I expressed distaste for her spying. The secret holding of hands. His increasingly haggard and worried appearance — God, I thought, how would I have felt if MY wife had been in that position. Finally, his desperate eagerness to rescue her — strictly in defiance of all Special Service orders and, as far as he had known at the time, in the face of certain capture or death.

Without a word I pushed my chair away from the table and rose carefully to my feet. Slowly my leg came back and deliberately, and with great accuracy, I kicked myself.

The gallery, first-nighters to a man and obviously trained to a hair, applauded with great fervour. And as I sat down, I realized that the unbridled enthusiasm of the audience wasn't entirely on my behalf.

Laughter and tears and love walk always hand in hand. Stella and Nicky were kissing each other with a most unEnglish lack of restraint. They looked for all the world like a pair of newly-weds.

Which for me, of course, was exactly what they were.