The Freedom Trap [= The Mackintosh Man]

I

I checked my watch for the twentieth time in fifteen minutes and decided that time had come. I put on the scuba gear, tightened the weighted belt around my waist, and hung the mask around my neck. Then I started the engines and the boat quivered in the water. I cast off the painter and pushed the boat away with one hand and then tentatively opened the throttles a notch, not knowing what to expect.

At a slow speed she didn’t handle too badly although there seemed to be something a little soggy about her response to the wheel. I switched on the lights because I didn’t want the harbour patrol to pick me up for running illegally, and went down French Creek into the Grand Harbour. Here, in time past, the British Battle Fleet had lain, line upon line of dreadnoughts and battle cruisers. Now, there was another, but odder, naval craft putting to sea, but this one was in an earlier tradition — more like one of Drake’s fireships.

Across the harbour Valletta was all lit up and there were strings of coloured lights spangling Floriana. Tinny music floated across the quiet water punctuated by the thumping of a bass drum. The merry-making was well under way.

I rounded the head of Senglea and steered to the harbour mouth. Nothing was coming my way so I decided to open up and see what the boat would do. The note of the engines deepened as I opened the throttles and I felt the surge of acceleration as 200 hp kicked her through the water. In terms of horse-power per ton of displacement this little boat was perhaps forty times as powerful as Artina; that’s where the speed came from.

The steering was worse than bad — it was dreadful. The wheel kicked in my hands violently and my course was erratic, to say the least, and I went down the Grand Harbour doing a pretty good imitation of a water boatman, those jerky insects that run across the surface of ponds.

The damned boat wouldn’t get on the step and plane and I don’t suppose her speed was more than twelve knots, and that wasn’t going to be enough. All the power going into the screws was doing nothing more than raising waves and I wasn’t supposed to be in the wave-raising business. In desperation I slammed the throttles hard open and she suddenly rose in the water and took off, picking up at least an extra ten knots in as many seconds. But the steering was worse and there was a definite lag between hauling the wheel around and the corresponding reaction.

I throttled down again and she sagged into the water, and her speed dropped as though she’d run into a wall. This was going to be a dicey business. At a pinch I could get the speed, provided the engines didn’t blow up, but I didn’t know if I could steer her straight enough to hit my target. In spite of the flow of cooling night air I found I was sweating profusely.

If the only way to get her to plane was to run the engines at full bore I’d better not try that again. There would be no more trial speed runs because I was scared of the engines packing up, and next time this boat would be at speed again would be the last time. As for the steering, I’d have to handle that as best I could.

I dropped speed even further and plugged on towards St Elmo’s Point. Fort St Elmo reared up starkly against the night sky as I passed between the point and the breakwater. Now I was in the open sea and the boat wallowed sickeningly. That heavy steel bar slung three feet under the water was acting as a pendulum. This lubberly craft was enough to give any self-respecting boat designer the screaming meemies.

I rounded the point and turned into Marsamxett Harbour, glad to get into sheltered waters again, and headed towards Manoel Island. Valletta was now to my left and I wondered from where they shot their fireworks. I checked the time and found I had little to spare.

As I approached Manoel Island I closed the throttles until the engines were barely ticking over, just enough to give me steerage way. Not far away a light flickered and I saw that Alison was in position; she had struck a match and held it so that it illuminated her face. I steered in that direction and made contact.

She was in what seemed to be a small runabout driven by a little outboard motor. ‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘I took your advice; I stole it,’ she said, and laughed quietly. I grinned in the darkness. ‘It’s our duty to save government money,’ I said virtuously.

‘How did you get on?’ she asked.

‘She’s a bitch,’ I said. ‘As cranky as the devil.’

‘She was all right when I brought her from Sliema.’

‘That was a different boat. She’s damned near uncontrollable at speed. How much time have we got?’

‘About ten minutes.’

I looked about. ‘I’d better get in position. We don’t want to stay here or we’ll be run down by the Sliema ferry — she’s coming now. Is Artina in the same place?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll be on my way. I’ll go right down Lazzaretto Creek and turn around so as to get a good run up. You keep clear on the other side of Artina? ’ I paused. ‘The steering is so bloody bad I might even miss her on the first pass. In that case I’ll turn around and have a go on the other side. Don’t be in my way or you’ll get run over.’

‘Good luck again,’ said Alison.

I said, ‘If you see Wheeler give him a good clout with my compliments. He was looking forward to seeing his Chinese friend operate on me. If things work out I’ll see you in Ta’Xbiex — at the same place as last night.’

Gently I eased the throttles forward and moved off. I passed Artina quite closely; there were three men on deck — Wheeler, the Skipper and the Chinese, Chang Pi-wu. I could see them quite clearly because they were illuminated, but I was low on the water in the dark and there was no chance of them recognizing me. I was just another ship passing in the night

Mentally I made a cross on the place on the hull I intended to hit, and then I carried on down Lazzaretto Creek. At the bottom, near the Manoel Island bridge I turned with idling engines. I switched on the air from the scuba bottle and checked the demand-valve, and then bit on the mouthpiece and put on the mask. If things went well I wouldn’t have time to do any of that later.

Behind me traffic passed on the road and presently a procession came by with a band of pounding drums and off-key brass. I ignored it and looked across to Valletta and the forthcoming firework display. There was what I thought to be a heavier thump on a drum but it was a mortar banging off. A maroon burst over Valletta in a yellow sunburst and in the echoing reflection from the water of the harbour I saw Artina clearly for a brief moment. The fireworks had begun and it was time for me to add my share to the festivities.

I advanced the throttles and moved off slowly as a rocket soared up and exploded in a shower of red and green fiery rain. I steered with one hand and with the other liberally doused my cargo with petrol from an open can, hoping to God that the sparks from the fireworks were totally extinguished by the time they reached water level. It only needed one of those in the boat and I’d go up in a cloud of glory.

Then I pushed open the throttles wider and by the time I was making any kind of speed the sky was alive with lights as the Maltese spent their fireworks with reckless abandon. Artina was clearly silhouetted as, with equal abandon, I jammed the throttles wide open.

The engines roared and the boat reared up in the water almost uncontrollably as she began to plane. The wheel kicked in my hands as I strove to keep her on course and I zigzagged dangerously close to the line of yachts moored at the marina. I swung the wheel hard over but the bitch was late in responding and there was an outraged cry from the bow of one of the yachts. It sounded like the curry-voiced colonel who must have got the fright of his life as I scraped his paint at twenty knots.

Then I was past him and heading out into the harbour, bucking and twisting and steering a course which would have brought tears to the eyes of any self-respecting helmsman. The fireworks banged and flashed overhead striking dazzling reflections from the water and my heart jumped into my mouth as a small runabout came out of nowhere and cut across my bows. I cursed him and swung the wheel and missed him by a whisker. That made two damned fools at large in Marsamxett Harbour.

As I swung the wheel hard over the other way I looked for Artina and I saw that I was going to miss her by a sizeable margin. I cursed again at the thought of having to make another mad sortie. It occurred to me that with the steering being as crazy as it was then I’d better aim at anything but Artina and then I might have a chance of hitting her.

I estimated I was going to shoot under her stern but just then the hard-pressed port engine blew up and, with a nasty flailing rattle of a broken connecting rod, it expired. The boat checked a little in the water and her bow came over to aim directly at Artina. I hung on as she loomed over me and then, with a satisfying smash, my underwater ram struck her amidships.

I was thrown forward and bruised my ribs on the wheel but it saved me from going into the water. I still had one last thing to do. As I groped for my cigarette lighter I heard a shout on deck and I looked up into the eye-straining alternation of light and darkness and saw a movement as someone peered over the side to see what the hell had happened now. I couldn’t see much of him but I must have been clearly visible as another batch of rockets went up.

I flicked the lighter and it sparked but there was no flame. In the rocket’s red glare I saw that the boat’s bow was smashed and broken with the impact against Artina’s side. The ram must have been deeply embedded because she showed no sign of wanting to drift away.

Desperately I flicked the lighter again but again there was no flame. There was a bang from above and a bullet smashed into the instrument panel next to my elbow, ruining the rev counter. I leaned forward and put the lighter right next to a bunch of petrol-soaked fireworks. The boat was making water and I had to start a fire before she went under.

I flicked again and the whole damned lot went up in a brilliant sheet of flame. It was only because I was fully equipped in scuba gear that I wasn’t instantly incinerated. It went up, as suddenly ignited petrol does, in a soft explosion — a great whooof of flame that blew me overboard. And as I went something hit me in the shoulder very hard.

Whether or not I was actually on fire for a moment I don’t know. When I hit the water I was dazed, but the sudden shock brought a reflex into action and I struck for the depths. It was then I found that my right arm was totally useless. Not that it mattered very much; in scuba diving the flippered feet do most of the work. But it worried me because I didn’t know what could be wrong with it.

I swam under water for a short while, then stopped because I didn’t know where I was going. I was absolutely disoriented and, for all I knew, I could have been swimming out to sea. So I surfaced cautiously and looked around to get my bearings and to see what was happening to Artina.

I had not swum as far as I thought — she was about a hundred yards away, too close for comfort, especially in view of the little piece of hellfire that I had established amidships. My fireship was going great guns. With the ram stabbed into Artina’s side like a narwhal’s tusk she was securely fixed, and the fireworks were exploding like an artillery barrage, showering multi-coloured sparks and great gouts of flame which licked up her side. Already a canvas deck awning was on fire and men were running about the deck every which way.

A big maroon went off like a howitzer shell, sending out a burst of green flame and sparks which reached out to patter on the surface of the water about me, hissing viciously as they were extinguished. I was close enough to be seen if anyone had the time to look, so I sank beneath the surface again after a last glance around, and struck out for the shore.

I had not done a dozen strokes before I knew something was wrong. I felt curiously weak and light-headed and my right shoulder had developed a dull throb which was rapidly sharpening up into a stabbing pain. I eased off and felt my shoulder with my left hand and the pain jabbed me with such intensity that I nearly yelled aloud which is a good way of getting oneself drowned.

So I surfaced again and drifted, becoming more light-headed and feeling the strength ebbing from my legs more swiftly every minute. The fire by Artina was still going strong but it all seemed blurred as though seen through a rain-washed window. It was then I knew that I was probably going to die, that I no longer had the strength to swim to the shore which was so close, and that I was drifting out to sea where I would drown.

I think I passed out for a moment because the next thing I knew there was a light flashing in my eyes from very close and an urgent whisper, ‘Owen; grab this!’

Something fell across my face and floated in the water next to my head and I put out my left hand and found a rope. ‘Can you hold on?’ I knew it was Alison.

An engine throbbed and the rope tightened and I was being drawn through the water. Desperately I concentrated all my attention on to holding on to that rope. Whatever strength I had left must be marshalled and pushed into the fingers of my left hand so that they would not relinquish their grip. The water lapped about my head, creating a miniature bow wave as I was towed behind Alison’s boat and, even in that extremity, I paid tribute to the efficiency of Alison Smith and Mackintosh’s training. She knew she could not haul an almost unconscious man into the boat without either capsizing or, worse, attracting attention.

It was a ridiculously short distance to the shore and Alison brought up at a slipway. She rammed the boat up it, careless of the consequences, and jumped overboard into two feet of water and hauled me out bodily. ‘What’s wrong, Owen?’

I flopped down and sat into the shallow water. ‘I think I was shot,’ I said carefully, and my voice seemed to come from miles away. ‘In the shoulder — the right shoulder.’

The pain washed over me as her fingers probed, and then I heard the rip of cloth and she bandaged the wound roughly but effectively. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had operated there and then, using a penknife and a hairpin to extract the bullet. I was becoming used to her surprising range of talents.

I said tiredly, ‘What’s happening to Artina!’

She moved away and I saw Artina in the harbour beyond. All the sea was on fire about her and above the yellow flames rose the roiling cloud of greasy black smoke that could only come from oil. The ram had done its work. Even as I watched there was a red flash just under the wheelhouse and then the wheelhouse vanished as an oil tank exploded in her vitals and blasted through the deck. A deep boom came across the water, echoed and re-echoed from the cliff-like fortifications of Valletta.

‘That’s it, then,’ I said abstractedly.

Alison leaned over me. ‘Can you walk?’

‘I don’t know. I can try.’

She put her hand under my left arm. ‘You’ve been leaking blood like a stuck pig. You need a hospital.’

I nodded. ‘All right.’ It didn’t really matter now. The job had been done. Even if Slade or Wheeler had survived they were done for. I would be asked why I had destroyed Artina and I would tell the truth, and I would be listened to very carefully. People don’t wander around blowing up millionaires’ yachts for nothing and what I had to say would be heard. Whether it was believed or not would be another matter, but enough mud would stick to Wheeler to make sure that hard, professional eyes would be on him for ever more. As for Slade, I had escaped from prison with him and if I was on Malta and said that Slade was around then he would be picked up in jig time. It’s a small island and strangers can’t hide easily.

As for myself I didn’t know what would happen. Alison might give evidence in camera as to my part in the affair, but if Mackintosh was dead I didn’t know how much weight that would carry. There was a strong possibility that I would spend the rest of my life in the maximum security wing of Durham Gaol. Right at that moment I was past caring.

Alison helped me to my feet and I staggered like a drunken sailor up the slipway, hanging on to her arm with a flabby grip. We had just reached the top when I paused and stared at the man who was waiting. He looked remarkably like that tough, young copper, Sergeant Jervis, who had taken such a strong dislike to me because I had stolen some diamonds and had not the grace to tell him where they were.

I turned my head and looked in the other direction. Brunskill was there with Forbes just behind him. Already they were striding out and coming towards us.

I said to Alison, ‘The end of the line, I think,’ and turned to face Brunskill.

He stood in front of me and surveyed me with expressionless eyes, noting every detail of my disarray and the bandage on my shoulder. He flicked his eyes at Alison, and then nodded towards the harbour where Artina was going down in flames. ‘Did you do that?’

‘Me?’ I shook my head. ‘It must have been caused by a spark from the fireworks.’

He smiled grimly. ‘I must caution you that anything you say may be taken down in writing and used in evidence.’ He looked at Alison. ‘That applies to you, too.’

‘I don’t think Malta is within your jurisdiction,’ she said coolly.

‘Not to worry about that,’ said Brunskill. ‘I have a platoon of the local constabulary on call.’ He turned to me. ‘If you had as many lives as a cat you’d spend them all inside. I’m going to wrap you up so tight this time that they’ll have to build a prison just for you.’

I could see him mentally formulating the list of charges. Arson, murder, grievous bodily harm, carrying weapons — and worse — using them, driving a horse and cart through the Explosives Act. Maybe, with a bit of twisting, he could toss in piracy and setting fire to the Queen’s shipyards. Those last two are still capital offences.

He said, ‘What in hell did you think you were doing?’ There was wonder in his voice.

I swayed on my feet. ‘I’ll tell you after I’ve seen a doctor.’

He caught me as I fell.

II

I woke up in the nick. It was the prison hospital, to be sure, but still inside thick walls, and they build walls thicker in Malta than anywhere else. But I had a private room and came to the conclusion that the local coppers didn’t want the simple, uncomplicated Maltese criminals to be corrupted by contact with such a hard case as myself. This proved to be a wrong assumption.

An uncommunicative doctor performed a simple operation on my shoulder under local anaesthetic and then I lay waiting for the arrival of Brunskill and his inevitable questions. I spent the time thinking out ingenious lies to tell him; there are certain aspects of HM Government it is better for the ordinary copper not to know.

But it was a stranger and not Brunskill who was ushered into the room. He was a tall, middle-aged man with a smooth, unlined face and an air of quiet authority who introduced himself as Armitage. His credentials were impressive; I read a letter of introduction from the Prime Minister and pushed back the rest of the bumf unread.

He pulled up a chair to the bedside and sat down. ‘Well, Mr Stannard; how are you feeling?’

I said, ‘If you know my name is Stannard then you know most of the story. Did Alec Mackintosh send you?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ he said regretfully. ‘Mackintosh is dead.’

I felt a cold lump settle in my stomach. ‘So he never came out of hospital.’

‘He died without recovering consciousness,’ said Armitage.

I thought of Alison and wondered how she’d take it. The love-hate relationship she had with her father made it difficult to estimate her reaction. I said, ‘Has Mrs Smith been told?’

Armitage nodded. ‘She took it quite well.’

How would you know? I thought.

‘This is all going to be difficult,’ said Armitage. ‘Your activities — particularly in the Irish Republic — could put the Government into an awkward position.’ He paused. ‘Should they be fully disclosed.’

I could imagine that they could. Relations were already strained over what was happening in Ulster and the Press would have a field day with garbled stories of a British agent on the rampage in the sovereign State of Ireland.

I said ironically, ‘Not to mention my own awkward position.’

‘Just so,’ said Armitage.

We stared at each other. ‘All right,’ I said at last. ‘Who blew the gaff? This operation had the tightest security of any I’ve been on. How did it fall apart?’

Armitage sighed. ‘It fell apart because of the tight security. It fell apart because Mackintosh was constitutionally unable to trust anyone.’ He held me with his eye. ‘He didn’t even trust you.’

I nodded, and Armitage snorted. ‘He didn’t even trust the Prime Minister. All through he played a lone hand and deceived everyone regarding his motives.’

I said quietly, ‘I have a big stake in this. I think you’d better tell me the story.’

It all started with the spate of prison escapes which worried the people at the top. Mountbatten investigated the prison service and security was tightened, but the vague rumours of the Scarperers’ organization kept the worries on the boil and Mackintosh was put in charge of doing something about it.

‘I didn’t like that,’ said Armitage disapprovingly. ‘And I said so at the time. It ought to have been left to the Special Branch.’

‘Mackintosh told me they’d tried and failed,’ I said.

Armitage nodded impatiently. ‘I know — but they could have tried again. Mackintosh was too much the lone wolf — too secretive.’

I could see what stuck in Armitage’s craw. He was a top-level civil servant — a Whitehall mandarin — and he liked things to go through channels in an orderly way. In particular, he didn’t like the idea of the Prime Minister having a private hatchet man. It offended his sense of what was fitting.

He leaned forward. ‘Unknown to anybody Mackintosh already had his eye on Wheeler but he kept his suspicions to himself. He didn’t even tell the PM. We’ll never know what went through his mind, but perhaps he thought he wouldn’t be believed. Wheeler was coming up fast in popularity and influence; in fact, the Prime Minister was on the point of making him a Junior Minister in the Government.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I can see Alec’s problem. How did he get on to Wheeler?’

Armitage shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I believe the Prime Minister reposed full confidence in Mackintosh regarding certain measures of top-level security.’ He sounded even more disapproving.

So Mackintosh was running security checks on the elite. That was one answer to the question: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? I could imagine the Prime Minister might expect Mackintosh to turn up some member of the radical Left or Right as a potential risk, but who would suspect a bourgeois capitalist who firmly trod the middle road of being a Maoist? The idea was laughable.

‘So Mackintosh had unprovable suspicions,’ I said. ‘He didn’t want them getting back to Wheeler so he kept his mouth shut until he could catch Wheeler in the act.’

‘That must have been the size of it,’ conceded Armitage. ‘He brought you in and put you next to Slade by means of the diamond robbery.’ A slight smile mitigated his severe expression. ‘Most ingenious. But he didn’t tell you about Wheeler.’

‘I wouldn’t expect him to,’ I said flatly. ‘At that stage I didn’t need to know.’ I rubbed my chin. ‘But I’d expect him to tell Mrs Smith.’

‘He didn’t — but I’ll come to that later.’ Armitage leaned forward. ‘When you and Slade escaped Mackintosh went to see Wheeler. We have established that he saw Wheeler at his club. They had a conversation in the course of which Mackintosh disclosed who you were. That’s how... er... the gaff was blown.’

I blinked, then closed my eyes and lay back on the pillow. ‘He did it deliberately?’ I asked softly.

‘Oh, yes. He wanted to stampede Wheeler into ill-advised action. He wanted to catch him in flagrante delicto. Apparently you were expendable.’

I opened my eyes and looked at Armitage. ‘I always was. It’s an occupational hazard.’ All the same I thought that Alec Mackintosh was a ruthless son of a bitch.

‘Wheeler was stampeded, all right, but I’m not sure that Wheeler’s action was ill-advised,’ said Armitage reflectively. ‘Mackintosh was run down by a car the same day. We’ve impounded all Wheeler’s cars for forensic examination and I’m pretty sure we’ll turn up some evidence even at this late date. I think the job was done by his Irish chauffeur.’

‘Or his Chinese cook.’

Armitage shrugged. ‘So Mackintosh was unconscious in hospital. He was run down on his way to his office where Mrs Smith was awaiting him. Whether he was going to tell her what he’d done we’ll never know. At all events, at this time no one in the Government knew about Wheeler. Do you see what I mean about the security of the operation being too tight?’

I said, ‘A top-rank Whitehall man, such as yourself, doesn’t turn up in Malta out of the blue so opportunely. Something must have come up.’

‘It did. Mackintosh died. He’d taken out insurance. He wrote out a full account of his actions and posted them to his lawyer just before he saw Wheeler. The snag about that was that the sealed envelope was inscribed, “Only to be opened in the event of my death.”‘

Armitage stared at me. ‘And Mackintosh was in the hands of the doctors. He wasn’t dead, but you’d hardly call him alive although in the legal sense he was. He was a vegetable maintained by modern medical techniques and the doctors’ duty by the Hippocratic Oath, and that was something he hadn’t calculated for. That damned envelope was in the lawyer’s hands for two weeks before Mackintosh died and by then it was nearly too late. It would have been too late were it not for your actions.’

‘That’s all very well,’ I said. ‘But how did that lead you to me? Mackintosh didn’t know where I was.’

‘We went straight for Wheeler,’ said Armitage. ‘We were just wondering how to tackle him when you took the problem out of our hands.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Your methods are direct, to say the least. It was thought that you might be around, so we brought along people who could recognize you.’

‘Brunskill and company,’ I said. ‘So you’ve got Wheeler.’

He shook his head. ‘No; Wheeler is dead, and so is Slade. You saw to that very effectively, if I may say so. The Special Branch is working on the ramifications of Wheeler’s organizations — those that are legal and those that are not. I think it will be a lengthy task, but that is none of your concern.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘However, you do present a problem to the Government, which is why I am here.’

I couldn’t suppress the smile. ‘I bet I am.’

‘It’s no laughing matter, Mr Stannard,’ said Armitage severely. ‘Already the Press has become alerted to the fact that there is something in the wind.’ He stood up and wandered over to the window. ‘Fortunately, the worst of your... er... crimes were committed outside the United Kingdom and to those we can turn a blind eye. But there is the matter of a diamond robbery which may well prove awkward to handle.’

I said, ‘Were the diamond merchants paid out by their insurance company?’

Armitage turned and nodded. ‘I should think so.’

‘Well, why not leave it at that.’

He was affronted. ‘Her Majesty’s Government cannot connive in the cheating of an insurance company.’

‘Why not?’ I asked reasonably. ‘Her Majesty’s Government is conniving in the murder of Wheeler and Slade. What the hell’s so sacred about a few thousand quid?’

That didn’t sit well with him. Property rights come before human rights in British law. He harrumphed embarrassedly, and said, ‘What is your suggestion?’

‘Wheeler is dead and Slade is dead. Why shouldn’t Rearden be dead, too? He can be killed while evading arrest — it shouldn’t be too difficult to stage manage. But you’ll have to gag Brunskill, Forbes and Jervis, and you can do that under the Official Secrets Act. Or you can throw the fear of God into them; I don’t think any of that gang would relish being transferred to the Orkneys for the rest of his days.’

‘And Mr Stannard comes to life again?’ he queried.

‘Precisely.’

‘I suppose it could be arranged. And how do we explain the spectacular death of Wheeler?’

‘It must have been those rockets they were shooting over the harbour,’ I said. ‘One of them must have gone out of whack and hit the ship. It was being repaired at the time — I’ll bet there was some fuel open on deck. I think the Maltese Government ought to be ticked off for not keeping proper control.’

‘Very ingenious,’ said Armitage, and took out a notebook. ‘I’ll suggest that the Navy offer a ship and a diver to help lift the wreck. We’ll choose the diver, of course.’ He made a note with a silver pen.

‘You’d better,’ I said, thinking of that ram which was probably still embedded in Artina’s side. ‘A sad end to a popular MP. Most regrettable.’

Armitage’s lips twitched and he put away the notebook. ‘The organization for which you worked before Mackintosh pulled you out of South Africa apparently thinks highly of you. I am asked to inform you that someone called Lucy will be getting in touch.’

I nodded. How Mackintosh would have sneered at that.

‘And the Prime Minister has asked me to pass on his sincere thanks for the part you have played in the affair and for the way you have brought it to a conclusion. He regrets that thanks are all he has to offer under the circumstances.’

‘Oh, well; you can’t eat medals,’ I said philosophically.

III

I sat in the lounge of the Hotel Phoenicia waiting for Alison. She had been whisked to England by the powers-that-be in order to attend Alec’s funeral. I would have liked to have paid my respects, too, but my face had been splashed in the pages of the British newspapers with the name of Rearden underneath and it was considered unwise for me to put in an appearance until Rearden had been forgotten in the short-lived public memory. Meanwhile I was growing a beard.

I was deriving much amusement from an intensive reading of an air mail edition of The Times. There was an obituary of Wheeler which should put him well on the road to canonization; his public-spiritedness was praised, his financial acumen lauded and his well-known charitableness eulogized. The first leader said that in view of Wheeler’s work for the prisons his death was a blow to enlightened penology unequalled since the Mountbatten Report. I choked over that one.

The Prime Minister, in a speech to the Commons, said that British politics would be so much the worse for the loss of such a valued colleague. The Commons rose and stood in silence for two minutes. That man ought to have had his mouth washed out with soap.

Only the Financial Editor of The Times caught a whiff of something rotten. Commenting on the fall of share prices in the companies of Wheeler’s empire he worried at the question of why it was thought necessary for the auditors to move in before Wheeler’s body was cold. Apart from that quibble Wheeler had a rousing send-off on his journey to hell.

Rearden came off worse. Condemned as a vicious desperado, his death in a gun battle was hailed as a salutary lesson to others of his kidney. Brunskill was commended for his perseverance on the trail of the villainous Rearden and for his fortitude in the face of almost certain death. ‘It was nothing,’ said Brunskill modestly. ‘I was only doing my duty as a police officer.’

It was hoped that Slade would soon be caught. There were full security wraps on Slade’s death and I had no doubt that in another ten or twenty years any number of criminologically inclined writers would make a fair living churning out books about the Slade Mystery.

I looked up to see Alison coming into the lounge. She looked pale and tired but she smiled when she saw me. I rose to my feet as she approached and she stopped for a moment to survey me, taking in the cast on my arm and the unshaven stubble on my cheeks. ‘You look awful,’ she said.

‘I’m not feeling too bad; I can still bend my left elbow. What will you have?’

‘A Campari.’ She sat down and I whistled up a waiter. ‘I see you’ve been reading all about it.’

I grinned. ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.’

She leaned back in the chair. ‘Well, Owen; it’s over. It’s all over.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about Alec.’

‘Are you?’ she asked in a flat voice. ‘He nearly got you killed.’

I shrugged. ‘He miscalculated the speed and direction of Wheeler’s reaction. But for that it was a good ploy.’

‘Even though he was selling you out?’ Her tone was incredulous.

‘God damn it!’ I said. ‘We weren’t playing pat-a-cake. The stakes were too great. Wheeler had to be nailed down and if the way to do it was to sacrifice a man in the field then there was no choice. Wheeler was striking at the heart of the State. The Prime Minister was considering him for a ministerial position, and God knows where he could have gone on from there.’

‘If all statesmen are like Alec then God help Britain,’ said Alison in a low voice.

‘Don’t be bitter,’ I said. ‘He’s dead. He killed himself, not me. Never forget that.’

The waiter came with the drinks and we were silent until he had gone, then Alison said, ‘What are you going to do now?’

I said, ‘I had a visit from Lucy. Of course I can’t do much until the shoulder heals — say a month to six weeks.’

‘Are you going back to South Africa?’

I shook my head. ‘I think I’m being considered for the active list.’ I sipped my drink. ‘What about you?’

‘I haven’t had time to think yet. There was a lot to do in London apart from the funeral. Alec’s personal affairs had to be wound up; I spent a lot of time with his solicitor.’

I leaned forward. ‘Alison, will you marry me?’

Her hand jerked so that she spilled a few drops of red Campari on to the table. She looked at me a little oddly, as though I were a stranger, then said, ‘Oh, no, Owen.’

I said, ‘I love you very much.’

‘And I think I love you.’ Her lower lip trembled.

‘Then what’s the matter? We’re very well suited.’

‘I’ll tell you,’ she said. ‘You’re another Alec. In twenty years — if you survive — you’ll be sitting in a little, obscure office pulling strings and making men jump around, just like Alec. You won’t be doing it because you like it but because you think it’s your duty. And you’ll hate the job and you’ll hate yourself — just as Alec did. But you’ll go on doing it.’

I said, ‘Someone has to do it.’

‘But not the man I marry,’ said Alison. ‘I told you once that I was like a Venus Fly Trap. I want to be a cabbage of a housewife, living, perhaps on the green outskirts of an English country town, all tweedy and Country Life.’

‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have that, too,’ I said.

‘And stay behind and be alone when you went on a job?’ She shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t work, Owen.’

I felt a sudden resentment, and said abruptly, ‘Then why did you come back here — to Malta?’

A look of consternation crossed her face. ‘Oh, Owen; I’m sorry. You thought... ’

‘You didn’t say goodbye and Armitage told me you’d be coming back after the funeral. What was I supposed to think?’

‘I was flown to England in an RAF transport,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve come back to pick up my plane... and to say goodbye.’

‘To say goodbye — just like that?’

‘No,’ she flared. ‘Not just like that.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Owen, it’s all going wrong.’

I took her hand in mine. ‘Have you ever been to Morocco?’

She looked at me warily, taken wrong-footed by the sudden change of subject. ‘Yes; I know it quite well.’

‘Could that aircraft of yours fly to Tangier from here?’

‘It could,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But... ’

‘I need a holiday,’ I said. ‘And I have a year and a half of back pay which I need help in spending. I’m sure you’d make an efficient guide to Morocco. I need one — I’ve never been there.’

‘You’re trying the blarney again,’ she said, and there was laughter in her voice. ‘Maeve O’Sullivan warned me about that.’

Maeve had also told me that I wasn’t the man for Alison Smith. She could be right, but I had to try.

‘No strings and no promises,’ said Alison.

I smiled. Six weeks together was all the promise I needed. A lot could happen in six weeks.