Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) (36 page)

A simple idea, like the X-Craft which had crippled the mighty
Tirpitz
deep inside her boomed and guarded fjord. Or the Italian ‘chariots’ which mined the battleships in Alexandria, and had penetrated the anchorage at Gibraltar itself. Brave, lonely men, not unlike those who pitted their wits against the mines being dropped over here; hardly a week passed without hearing of a mine or unexploded bomb claiming another such hero.

He had often wondered in the past what made such men and women act as they did. Courage, a total disregard for personal risk, pride, or a need to take
revenge? All or none of these? He thought suddenly of David Masters, what he knew of him, what he had seen of him. There was guilt, too. A debt to pay.

He had done that well enough.

There were voices on the stairway, coming up here, where proud parents had once stood and watched their offspring win events for the old school. Or being bullied as backward swimmers, he thought.

Like some of our own people.
Agents dropped by plane, or put ashore from fishing boat or submarine, with a mission, or merely to contact a source of information. A tiny piece of the wider pattern. Wykes had met a few of them, but not many. There were others, better qualified, and hardened to that side of operations. Success was rare and priceless. Its cost did not bear thinking about. The torment and suffering of those who had been betrayed or captured, and the risk taken by every single agent was well known. He sighed and turned to greet his visitors. And yet there were those who readily volunteered.

They were an unlikely pair. The small, stooping man with thick spectacles who had difficulty standing or sitting still was called Beamish, and he was one of the top brains in the world of explosives and fuses, a leading boffin whom Wykes had met many times. Beamish would explain every device in detail, step by step, in the manner of a rather bored schoolmaster. It was a wonder he was still alive.

The other visitor, tall and powerfully built, and wearing the uniform of a
Capitaine de Vaisseau
in the Free French navy, was Michel Lalonde. An expert in matters
relating to German bases and supply lines, especially in his own occupied country, he was a strong, aggressive character with, Wykes suspected, little love for his British ally.

He spoke and understood English perfectly. When he chose.

Wykes spread his hands. ‘Well, gentlemen, it seems it is a time for action.’

They were both staring down into the pool, each viewing the midget submarine differently. No doubt the small, stooping Beamish saw it as another solved puzzle, no longer his responsibility. His straight-backed companion saw it as a means to an end.

Wykes said, ‘It has been confirmed that the Germans are preparing to transport their supply of the new mines from the Channel Islands to the mainland. After that, it will be a much greater task to pinpoint their locations. They will be scattered. The exact timing of this operation is still unknown.’

Lalonde said bluntly, ‘Our agents found the storage and assembly points months ago. They should have been bombed there and then.’

‘The P.M. was unwilling to condone air attacks on the only part of Britain occupied by the enemy. It was considered bad for morale. The people there are suffering enough.’

Lalonde smiled humourlessly. ‘He is less squeamish about bombing my country, which is also
suffering enough
!’

Wykes relaxed. This was the Lalonde he knew and, for some reason, respected.

‘The mines are small, as you know, and in large numbers could compromise any invasion’s main weapon, surprise. The Channel Islands were a good choice for the training and experimental stage as far as the enemy were concerned. Now they are ready to move on.’

He recalled the photographs which had been taken at great risk, and had arrived eventually on his desk. Ragged Russian prisoners of war, hands tied behind them, being driven across the experimental mines. As slaves they had no other value, and any islander showing sympathy or protest was severely punished.

The Channel Islands had been a sound choice for another reason. Commando raids or any attempt to land sabotage parties would be forestalled before they had begun. Only the few could have any hope of success.

He said, ‘It will be soon, of that we are certain.’

Beamish removed his glasses and polished them briskly in a piece of tissue. Without them, his eyes looked tiny and ineffectual. He said abruptly, ‘My department is satisfied, James. It is a good machine, and we have made it better!’ He was not boasting. It was simply another statistic.

Lalonde stared at the green, flickering water. One of the frogmen was sitting on the craft’s whaleback, his hood removed, smoking a cigarette.

As he turned to call something to his companion the little submarine rocked steeply. Even with the added weight of the explosives, it seemed too small and vulnerable for its hazardous work.

Lalonde returned his attention to Wykes.

‘Have you heard anything? About Mademoiselle de Courcy?’

It was pointless to try and fob him off with the usual security sermon. Lalonde knew all about it. He had even been over there on a couple of secret missions, and had almost been captured after a woman recognized him and reported his presence to the military police.

A French woman, too! A friend of my mother’s!
The danger of capture and what would have followed seemed to take second place to such treachery.

Wykes said, ‘I have received no further news. When I do, I shall call you.’

Lalonde shook his head. ‘She should never have gone, never been sent.’

‘I know. She volunteered. After that . . .’ He shrugged. ‘We were running out of alternatives.’

Lalonde strode to the safety-rail again, as if he could not restrain his agitation.

‘And who will “volunteer” for this escapade, eh?’

Wykes took out his cigarette case and opened it deliberately.

‘I think I know just the man.’

‘Then I pity him.’ He eyed him gravely. ‘And you also!’

Wykes tapped a cigarette on the silver case. It helped. Gave him time.

‘We cannot all be squeamish,
Capitaine
!’

David Masters walked unhurriedly along the jetty, giving himself time to think, and taking care not to trip over any loose piece of gear. It was evening, with a stiff, cold wind off the bay and layers of dark cloud moving swiftly overhead. But there was a full moon in the offing, so that the jetty and its moored charges were occasionally lit up, like a stage set. A bomber’s moon, they called it, and even with fighter protection and anti-aircraft batteries this was still a target worth risking. If the enemy knew or cared enough about it, when there were so many bigger objectives.

There was always mention of security, and ‘careless talk’ in the same breath. It had become more pointed recently when a local woman whose husband was away in the army had been discovered in bed with one of the Italian prisoners of war. To all intents and purposes Italy was out of the war now, unless you were an Italian unfortunate enough to be in the German-occupied area
of the country. The prisoners of war, who worked so willingly on the farms and market gardens, had become part of the local scenery. But all the same, there was the fear of careless talk.

He had spent most of the day near Weymouth, at the one-time boarding school with Captain Wykes and some of his experts. He paused and looked at the nearest motor launch, Foley’s command until today. How did he feel, he wondered. Something so familiar and so personal. On the drive back from Weymouth Margot Lovatt had been very quiet, even downcast. She knew about Foley’s new command, and what it might mean to them. It happened often enough in wartime. Separation, and the fear of losing something only just discovered.

And there was Wykes and his new toy, the midget submarine. The chain-smoking captain had seemed surprised that he had known so much about the ‘catch’, even though he had had plenty of time to examine it, and check the details, on that first visit to
Osprey
. And later, when he had offered her a chair. And his coat.

Wykes had somehow reminded him of Bumper Fawcett.
Were a submariner.
And they had talked about the mines, the very real threat they posed, and what steps might be necessary.

And all the while the midget submarine had been lying there in the old school swimming bath, almost familiar.

He realized he was touching the scar on his cheek. It had all seemed unimportant when set against the news that Elaine was missing. As he had known in his heart. Feared.

Wykes had been unusually open and frank. He had told him a little of her background. Born in the Channel Islands; her mother was English, and her father, who had once had some business connection with the dead Critchley, a Channel Islander, although he had stronger inclinations towards France. She had come to England to complete her studies and to take up journalism, mostly connected with holidays and travel, for those who could afford it. Then the war, and the German occupation. She had been evacuated just before the first invaders landed, and her father had continued to work for the new masters.

Elaine de Courcy was fluent in French and German, and when her father’s good friend John Critchley had introduced her to his naval connections she had found herself working, as a civilian, in the Admiralty Intelligence department.

Wykes had said, ‘At no time was it even suggested that she should become an active agent!’

Masters was not sure he believed him. All that mattered was that she had gone, that night, after they had been here together.

She might be dead. He could not contemplate the alternatives.

‘Evenin’, sir!’

He turned and saw a tall figure, dark against the boat’s pale hull. It was Bass, 366’s coxswain. He could smell smoke, and guessed that Bass had a cigarette carefully secreted in the cupped palm of his hand, in the way of sailors.

‘Work going well?’

Bass shuffled his feet. ‘The usual, sir. You knows ’ow it is.’ He added quickly, ‘My rate came through, sir. I’m actin’ petty officer as of today. ’E said he’d fix it. Course, that was before ’e knew about the promotion, an’ ’is new command.’ He flicked ash discreetly into the darkness. ‘But ’e said ’e’d fix it. Never lets anyone down, does Mister Foley!’

‘You’ll miss him?’

Bass said without hesitation, ‘I’ve stuck in for a transfer, sir. They was askin’ for volunteers.’ He grinned, his teeth very white in the darkness. ‘As if they cares about that!’

There was the sound of marching feet; a patrol was approaching.
Security.
Bass straightened up and stood firmly at the foot of the brow.

Masters said, ‘I’ll put in a word.’ He walked into a moving carpet of moonlight.

He had spoken to Rear-Admiral Fawcett on the telephone about it. Bumper had been evasive, not very forthcoming. Perhaps he already had someone else in mind for this appointment? Someone who could plan and delegate, and who could watch with detachment as men went off to be killed, because the enemy had schemed up another new trick.

‘There’ll be more centralisation, and soon too. D.T.M. at Admiralty has become top-level stuff nowadays, and the Director will be needing a new sidekick to speed things along. It would mean promotion, y’know, a brass-hat, not to be sneezed at, what?’

The Department of Torpedoes and Mines. Masters could imagine it. Still more remote, with the war at
an even greater distance. At least you wouldn’t see the people you were sending off to their last incidents.

He stood on a slipway, the weed slippery under his shoes.
Never walk to the end of a jetty
, his father had once said. Somehow, the superstition had remained with him.

Wykes had said, ‘It will have to be planned to the last detail. No foul-ups, no chances.’ He had gazed at him steadily. ‘I don’t have to explain the risk. I wouldn’t know where to begin. But I don’t think there is any other way.’ Unexpectedly, he had gripped his arm. ‘If anyone can do it, you can.’

And when had he said anything that made sense? When had he agreed?

All he could remember was the French officer shaking his hand, the one he had seen in the restaurant en route to a cabaret with Elaine de Courcy. The boat cloak, and the same glittering brooch which was now in Brayshaw’s safe. When he had thought that she and Lalonde had been lovers. And the small man with the bottle-top glasses, bobbing and smiling; he, too, had shaken his hand . . .

He had glanced once more into the green water.

It was as if the little submarine had been waiting for him.

Masters ducked beneath a crane and turned back towards the top of the yard. Another visit to Operations, and then back to his quarters. He could not face the wardroom and the curious stares. Ops would ring him if anything new turned up.

He saw the car parked in its usual place and went over to it.

‘Don’t get out.’ He put his hand on the door and peered in at her. ‘I’ll not be needing you again today.’ He paused. ‘By the way, I’m seeing your quarters officer about getting a few days’ leave for you. You’ve been overdoing it since you came back.’ He gripped her wrist against the open window. ‘Please, don’t waste it.’ He noticed that she did not flinch; they had both come a long way since that first day.

He could smell her perfume, very faintly. But he was thinking of somebody else.

A siren had started up somewhere, and he turned away from the car, towards the Operations section. It was suddenly bathed in eerie light, until the next cloud bank. A bomber’s moon.

He heard the car drive away and was suddenly glad of what he had said.

Now, it seemed more important than ever.

Michael Lincoln shook his head and waved aside another drink. He had already lost count, and he needed to be careful. Anyway, he thought, it was strange to be offered a glass by someone you didn’t know, in the house where you had grown up and lived for most of your life. The same house, and yet so changed. Packed from wall to wall with people, drinking and eating the many snacks which were laid out on various tables. There was certainly no shortage of anything. Quite the reverse.