The Sea Break (12 page)

McFadden was silent for a moment. “And the women?”

“Until we’re clear of the harbour, we’ll lock them in the Captain’s sleeping cabin. After that they can come out, but they mustn’t leave midships. They’re welcome to the run of that.”

There was a long thoughtful silence, broken by Widmark. “Quite happy about starting those engines, Chiefy?”

“Don’t worry about that, laddie. A marine diesel’s a marine diesel whatever its nationality. Hans and I’ll have things moving in no time. We know they turn the main engines twice a week. The air bottles must be topped up for that. Don’t be fashin’ yourself about the
engines
.”

It was the typical you-keep-off-my-pitch-and-I’ll-keep-
off-yours
that had always existed between the engine-room and the upper deck, and in the dark Widmark smiled.

Hans had a question: “What about the fishing boat, sir? Once we’ve got on board the
Hagenfels
?”

“Last man out pulls the sea-plug. She’ll sink alongside. Poor old Domingos’ll assume she sank in the bay and that David and Johan have drowned. Very sad!”

There were one or two more questions, then Widmark said: “Well. That’s the lot. Good luck to you all. I’ve never felt more confident.” He hesitated. “And I’ve never had a better bunch of chaps with me.”

Johan had the last word: “Don’t forget that big bastard Schäffer’s mine,” and they went back to their cars and drove off into the darkness.

Sleep was not easy for Widmark that night. Perhaps it was because he knew how important it was that he
should
sleep that he failed and lay there struggling with his thoughts, trying
hopelessly
to shake them off. An endless succession of faces paraded across his mind: von Falkenhausen, the scars on his cheek sinister, the brown eyes menacing; the Commodore, red-bearded, tall and angular, saying: ‘My dear chap, we can’t stage a naval operation in a neutral port!’; Kemathi, oily, bland and anonymous behind his sunglasses; Andrew McFadden, hair tousled, loyal and dependable; Rohrbach, dark, clever, alert, and compassionate; Mike Kent, ardent and serious, and then—as if to disturb these pleasant thoughts —Olympia Stavropoulus, thrusting and purposeful, her eyes flashing contempt, scornful and unforgiving….

It was no use. He couldn’t sleep. Getting out of bed, he switched on the light and looked at his watch. It was just after eleven. He pulled on flannels and a shirt, slipped his feet into canvas beach shoes, locked the door, pocketed the key and went downstairs, leaving the hotel by a side door near the billiard room. There were still people about; he could hear the rise and fall of voices and occasional laughter.

Outside the hotel gates he set off down the pavement, keeping to the dark shadows of the trees, enjoying the breeze
from the sea and the solitude of the night. An occasional car passed and sometimes a lone African, but for the most part there was nothing but the slanting street lights and the long shadows of the flamboyants.

More than an hour later, refreshed, his mind at rest, he got back to the Polana, went in through the same door and up the stairs.

He let himself into his room, switched on the light, drank a glass of water, and was about to undress when he heard what sounded like a muffled sneeze on the balcony outside the french windows to his room. There was no access to it except from the room, and yet beyond all doubt somebody was there. He sensed danger and his mind, cold and alert, quickly took over from his tensed body. He had no weapons, the automatic pistol and sheath-knife were in the bathing bag locked in the wardrobe—it would be foolhardy to attempt to get at them; the intruder might well be armed, indeed, probably was. In the brief moment between hearing the sound and registering these thoughts, he decided to behave as if he had heard nothing. His best defence would be to secure the advantage of surprise. Keyed up, he went on undressing. For the second time that night he cleaned his teeth with quiet deliberation, put on his pyjamas, brushed his hair—and while doing that picked up the pocket knife lying with some coins on the dressing-table. The moment was approaching now. He went to the door and turned off the ceiling light, then to the wall near the french windows where he switched off the wall lights. After that he crossed over to his bed, pulled back the sheets, got in and put off the bedside light—in the same movement he slipped out of bed on the far side, reached the wall in two cat-like strides and with his back to it edged along as far as the open french windows. He was now within a few feet of the intruder on the balcony. He thought he could hear breathing.

In one hand he held the open pocket knife, the other was on the switch of the wall lights, and his head was turned towards the french windows. Tensed, he waited. Five, ten minutes
went by and nothing happened. Then there came from the balcony what sounded like a stifled sigh. Soon after that there was the faintest sound of movement and to his left a dark form, just discernible, came through the french window, Widmark held his breath, his eyes straining to make something of the slowly moving shape. It passed and was fractionally ahead of him as he snapped on the wall lights to see, not three feet away, the back of Kemathi’s bald head. From it there came a muffled cry as Widmark’s arm closed round the thick neck and bent Kemathi over backwards with a choking headlock. Widmark frisked the hot limp body with the back of his left hand in which he still held the pocket knife. But there was no gun and then, with the headlock still tightly applied, he hissed: “I’m going to let you go, Kemathi, but if you make a sound I’ll kick your teeth into the back of your head.”

This threat was unnecessary for Kemathi was shaking with fright, the perspiration gathering and running down his face. When Widmark let him go, Kemathi staggered to the small settee and slumped down, gasping, his dark eyes—it was the first time Widmark had seen them—wide with fright, his hands feeling his throat.

Widmark stood over him, suspicious and angry. “Well,” he said icily. “What are you doing in my room?”

Kemathi looked up in misery. He lifted his shoulders and dropped them, his middle eastern voice husky: “Sorry, sir. It’s a bad mistake.”

“So you unlocked the door by mistake, did you?”
Widmark’s
sarcasm made Kemathi’s shoulders lift again and he held out his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

Widmark brought the pocket knife closer to Kemathi’s throat. “You’d better speak up, my friend, and make it snappy. This little knife is sufficient for my purpose. Now out with it. You’ve been following me. I’m not a complete bloody fool. What’s your game? And incidentally, how did you get a key to this room?”

Kemathi, who had been looking at the floor, breathing
heavily, now looked at Widmark and then away as if the whole thing pained him beyond words,

“From wax.” It was almost a whisper.

“What d’you mean?”

“A wax impression. I got the key from the board when the porter was out of the office for a couple of minutes. Then I made a wax impression. For the locksmith.” He looked up to see how Widmark was taking this, but was evidently not encouraged for he soon turned away again.

“Bloody cheek, I must say,” breathed Widmark. “But what’s the idea? Come on. What’s it all about?”

Kemathi’s arms went out again in a tired gesture. “It’s her fault.”

“Whose fault?”

“Mrs. Stavropoulus.”

“Wha-a-at? Mrs. Stavropoulus? What d’you mean?”

“I’m her bodyguard. Her husband employs me to look after her and her jewels. Very rich man, Mr. Stavropoulus.”

Widmark relaxed. All the tenseness went. He wanted to laugh but couldn’t. He felt better disposed towards Kemathi now. A great weight had been lifted from his mind. “But what the devil’s that got to do with me?”

“You went into her room the other night.” Kemathi looked at him reproachfully. “She saw you.”

“So what?” exploded Widmark. “I made a mistake. It’s in the same position as this room, but on the floor below. Liftman’s fault. That’s no reason for you to trail me round the town and break into my room.”

There was a long pause, Kemathi breathing heavily and fingering his neck. “You got her worried. She reckons you’re after her jewels.”

“Her jewels‚” said Widmark incredulously. “What on earth for?”

“More than a hundred thousand pounds’ worth.” Kemathi shook his head sadly. “Dat’s big money.” He cleared his throat. “Another thing. She doesn’t like you. She says to
me: ‘Jules, I hate that man. He’s a crook. Never let him out of your sight. Follow him everywhere. Make his life a damn’ misery for him. Look in his room one night. Perhaps you’ll find clues there. Perhaps——’” he stopped and looked at Widmark apologetically. “‘Perhaps, Jules‚’ she says, ‘perhaps you’ll find him in bed with a woman. And that’s good, too. You tell me whatever you see, Jules. But worry him plenty, he’s crook.’ That’s what she says to me.”

Whether it was relief, or the bizarre nature of Olympia’s revenge, Widmark did not know but he began to laugh, a low rumble which worked itself up in to a high cackle, and he was still at it when Kemathi slid out of the room.

Wednesday the twenty-fourth of November broke fine and clear, and Widmark, who’d had a bad night, was up early to inspect the sea and sky and to check once again the times of moonrise and moonset and of high and low water. After a bath and shave, he slipped on shorts and a beach shirt, locked the canvas bathing bag with its equipment in his B-4 bag, locked that in the cupboard and pocketed the key.

It was seven o’clock. Early yet for breakfast and he was too restless to stay in the room. Downstairs he got into the Buick and drove out through the hotel gates along the road to Peter’s. But for a few Africans cleaning the verandas the roadhouse was deserted. Parking the car, he went through a strip of bush to the beach and then north along it towards Costa do Sol.

The tide was low and small wavelets slopped over his bare feet as he walked along the wet sand. It was a narrow beach with clean white sand, and shells and driftwood and leaves and pieces of cork and seed-pods from the islands offshore marked the line of high tide. In front of him scurried seven little ring-plovers, heads down, stopping every now and then to look back and then, when he got too close, flying low over the sea and alighting on the beach ahead of him. There were seven in his party and he wondered if the ring-plovers were a good omen.

Throughout a restless night he had worried about the way things were going. There had always been a high probability that he would meet people he knew in L.M. but he had certainly not expected them to include “Swiss Fritz” of the Montelémar—now von Falkenhausen, a self-confessed German
spy. That confrontation in The Polana? What was behind it? Curiosity about Widmark’s presence in L.M. Or was it more sinister. Lesser worries were the presence of Olympia
Stavropoulus
and Di Brett, but even they had assumed formidable proportions in the middle of that hot and sleepless night.

Later, accepting that he could do nothing about these things but be on his guard, he had transferred his thoughts to the operation itself—not only had he worried about the detail and how the operation would go once they’d embarked upon it, but he’d had a last minute attack of conscience about all that he’d done: the faked letters, the involvement of the men of his own party and, to a lesser extent, of Captain McRobert. And what would the Chief of Staff’s attitude be once they’d got the
Hagenfels
safely to Durban? Would the success of the operation itself condone disobedience of the Commander-in-Chief’s unequivocal instructions? Widmark sighed. It was too late to raise these issues now. He worried, too, about the women who would be on board, and the possibility that they might come to some harm. This had caused him little concern at first, but now it was different because of Cleo. When he thought of her, and it was often, he became confused. It had all happened so suddenly. In one moment of his life there had been no one and in the next there was Cleo. Twice he’d been on the point of telephoning her but, realising that it could do no good, he’d checked himself. That night they would see each other; travel together in the same ship; he, prepared for the journey; she, taken unawares. What would her family think when she didn’t return? What would Cleo herself think? He gave it up. There was a war on. They were going to cut out an enemy ship. One couldn’t tie up all the ends—think out everything to its logical conclusion. Strange,
unexpected
, unpleasant things were happening to men and women all over the world. There was no reason why people in Lourenço Marques should be exceptions. It was just one of those things. He drove back to the Polana, breakfasted well, picked up the Johannesburg
Star
of the day before, and made
his way to his room which an African servant had just finished cleaning.

It was after 10 a.m. when the telephone next to his bed rang. It was the Newt with an urgent request to see him. Since Di Brett had introduced them officially, it was no longer necessary to behave as strangers, so Widmark told him to come down.

A few minutes later he came in, smoking a cigarette, as unruffled as ever.

Widmark sat on the bed, the Newt straddling the chair next to the writing-table.

“What’s the trouble, Newt?”

The Englishman blew a smoke-ring. “Di Brett’s asked me to a party to-night.”

“So what! You know you can’t go.”

“I’m not so sure. The party’s on board the
Hagenfels
.” He watched curiously to see the effect this had on Widmark.

“Good God! Another ruddy woman on board. How can
she
ask
you
to a party there?”

“She knows Lindemann. Says he used to come here often in the evenings for a drink. It’s quite a gathering place for Germans, you know. Apparently he had some sort of row with the management and has stopped coming. She says he’s a charming man. Definitely not a Nazi, though he’s pro-German, of course.”

“They all say they’re not Nazis if the occasion warrants. Doesn’t mean a thing, Newt. They’re all tarred with the same brush. But why did she ask you?”

“Lindemann bumped into her in town last night, said he was having a party on board and asked her to come and bring a boy friend. Told her there’d be a couple of Portuguese girls. She knows I speak the lingo so she asked me.”

Chin in hand, Widmark eyed the Newt, thinking about this new development. After a bit he said: “What did you say?”

“I told her I’d love to come, but that I had a date. Said that if I could duck it, I might make it. What d’you think I
should do? If I go, it gets three of us on board before you chaps arrive which is quite a point.”

“It is, Newt. Only snag is we counted on having you in the fishing boat to reply in Portuguese if we’re challenged at any stage of our journey up-river.”

For some time they discussed the pros and cons of this, and finally agreed that on balance the Newt should accept the invitation. It was too good a chance to miss.

The change in plans would not involve anything much; the fishing boat party would be reduced from five to four, but that was about all there was to it.

Widmark stubbed out his cigarette. “We’ll tell the others when we meet at the fish dock this evening. You know, a point I forgot to mention at the briefing last night was this: if you people in the Captain’s cabin hear firing on deck, you’ll have to get cracking. Nobody must get out of that cabin. Pity you won’t have your coshes with you, but it can’t be helped. You’ll have your automatics.”

The Newt went off to tell Di Brett that he’d be delighted to join her for the party on board the
Hagenfels
.

Much as he disapproved of mixed parties on board while the Third Reich was locked in mortal combat, while German blood flowed in Russia, in North Africa and on the high seas, Günther Moewe had nevertheless succumbed to Lindemann’s suggestion that he should invite his girl friend to the party on Wednesday night. On only one other occasion had she been on board—to a lunch party—but thereafter Moewe had resolved that he would entertain her ashore. This had not been so much a matter of principle as of expedience. Heinrich Schäffer had been so importunate on that occasion, and Hester with her sparkling humour and roguish eyes so
amenable
to his advances, that Moewe had fancied he saw his treasure slipping through his fingers; and since Hester
provided
him with many comforts and was excellent company, dispelling the gloom which so often lay heavily upon him, he
was not anxious to tempt fate. On this occasion, however, it would be different: for one thing it was to be the last party on board; the no-moon period had begun; the ship was at twenty-four hours’ notice; at any moment the signal from the Wilhelmstrasse would come, so that this was really a
farewell
party to Hester. It was for these reasons he had asked her and she had readily accepted.

But on this Wednesday morning there had been a
development
which worried Moewe: Lindemann had called him into his cabin to give him the extraordinary news that the three men coming on board as guests that night were in fact British naval officers, and that they were almost certainly looking for confirmation of the
Hagenfels
’s impending flight; that it was the duty of the ship’s officers to give no inkling that they knew their guests’ identity, but to entertain them right royally and to leave them under no doubt that even if the ship wished to sail, for one reason and another she could not.

When Lindemann added that though it was unlikely, there
might
be trouble, and that revolvers … out of sight but handy … would be in the cabin, Günther Moewe had felt a thrill of excitement, mixed with some apprehension, at the prospect of what the night might hold. Later his thoughts, becoming more sober, had turned to Hester of whom he was genuinely fond.

That morning he had to go ashore with documents for Herr Stauch and he took the opportunity when he had delivered them to the office—much to his regret, because Stauch was a good Party man and Moewe had looked forward to a
confidential
chat, Stauch was not there—to call at the
department
store in the Avenida da Republica where Hester worked on the glove and handbag counter. When he got there she was busy with a customer, so he sought out Cleo Melanides who worked as a learner buyer in the store which was owned by her father. She was a good friend of Hester’s, and Moewe had met her on a number of occasions when she had been on board the
Hagenfels
with Mariotta. He found her in low spirits,
which was strange for she was normally a cheerful girl. Soon, however, Hester was free and she was, he found, in excellent form and obviously pleased to see him.

Günther Moewe believed that he was Hester’s
steady
, and she had cultivated this impression; but she was a gay girl who found men irresistible, and she had other suitors on some of the five nights a week when Günther did not come ashore. Her good humour was infectious and though she could not speak German—they had to use English in which he was proficient—he knew that she was Afrikaans and from her manner and conversation he had concluded that she was pro-German. The truth of the matter was that Hester, still only twenty-two, young and attractive, had not really sorted herself out about the war. She was too busy enjoying life to worry overmuch about the rights and wrongs of what seemed a remote struggle, notwithstanding the survivors she met from time to time; she was equally kind to those of either side although her loyalties—had she been obliged to acknowledge them—probably lay with the Allies, for she had a brother in the Western Desert who was an anti-tank gunner with the South African Sixth Division —something she had never mentioned to Günther.

She greeted him with bright eyes. “Hallo, sweetie! What are you doing here?”

Frowning, he took her aside where they could not be
overheard
. “It’s about to-night’s party,” he said.

“What’s wrong? Is it off?”

He shook his head, his dark eyes grim. “No. But it might be a funny sort of party.”

“Not indecent, I hope, Günther?” She said it so cheerfully, he wondered if she wished it might be.

“No! No! But first I must swear you to secrecy. You must not tell Mariotta or Cleo.” He hesitated and then dropped his voice. “It might damage the Third Reich.”

She noted the air of portentous gloom and realised that he had something important to tell her, so she said: “Of course I’ll treat it as secret. But why are you telling
me
?”

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt.” Moewe felt a tickle of gallantry as he said that and saw her eyes soften.

“Tell me all about it.” She patted her hair and fiddled with her frock in the irrelevant way women do in moments of crisis. She was an attractive girl: tall with regular features and smiling eyes.

Guardedly, Moewe told her all he knew and when he finished she clapped her hands, looking quite entranced. “But how thrilling. British naval officers in disguise. Spies. Guns!” She became serious. “But Cleo and Mariotta will be terribly upset. I’ve not met these boys, David and Johan, but they are always talking about them. They say they are
marvellous
. The one is a German, the other an Afrikaner. Are you sure you’re right?”

“Absolutely,” said Moewe, adding darkly, “We have our sources of information.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing, Hester. Keep your eyes and ears open and if trouble starts in the cabin—the Captain says it’s most unlikely—fall down flat on the floor. That’s the safest place in a fight.”

“Ooh! Sounds terrible.” Hester’s eyes shone.

“Anyway,
liebling
, I’ll be there to protect you.”

Rather tactlessly, she said: “Will Heinrich Schäffer be there. He’s so strong.”

“And stupid,” said Moewe ungraciously.” Beware of him, Hester. He’s a womaniser. Even native women, they say.”

“But of course, darling. I wasn’t thinking of
that
! It’s just that he’s so big and strong.”

Irritated that Schäffer had been brought into the conversation, Günther Moewe got ready to go. “The launch will be waiting for you in the fishing harbour at eight-thirty. Cleo and Mariotta will be there with their
friends
, and Di Brett and her
friend
.”

“Who is Di, Günther?”

Only that morning Kapitän Lindemann had told him who she was, but this was not information he could pass on to Hester. “She is an Englishwoman who lives at the Polana,” he said briefly.

Had some omniscient being that Wednesday been able to see into the minds of those connected in one way or another with “Operation Break Out,” what a strange miscellany of thought he would have observed: for example, Otto Stauch working in his office off the Rua Araújo, hot and perspiring as usual, wondering what the night would yield, inevitably his thoughts wandering into his particular dream world: the
Berghof
at Berchtesgaden, the great room he had never seen, its wall of windows overlooking the valley, rich with the art treasures the Führer had pilfered as his legions drove across Europe. The Führer himself standing in God-like solitude looking out over the Bavarian mountains to the Tyrol, then turning, his mesmeric eyes burning into Stauch, the outstretched hand, the rare but engaging smile, and the magic voice: “Ah, Herr Stauch. I congratulate you in the name of the Third Reich for your services to Germany …”