Dust On the Sea (15 page)

Carson tossed him a duffle coat. ‘Come up for some air?'

Blackwood was glad it was the same schooner, with the one-time archaeologist still in command. Everything
else seemed unfamiliar. Some of the crew had been replaced; even the motor mechanic from the Mile End Road had gone. Perhaps Special Operations insisted on change to keep the men on their toes, or to prevent them from becoming too close to one another.

He joined Carson by the bulwark, feeling the hull shake to the beat of the ancient diesel. His mouth felt stale with oil, dirt, sweat.

The schooner seemed heavier in the water, but he thought that was probably imagination. They were carrying two hundred Mannlicher-Carcano rifles, clean and ready to use, as well as ammunition and explosives. Not enough to start a war, St John had said, but in the right hands they would prove deadly. And in the wrong ones? Intimidation and crime, settling old scores for personal gain: it had happened elsewhere.

He knew Carson was uneasy about it. Bitter. ‘Of course it will tie down more German troops who could be fighting where they're most needed. It sounds so simple on paper. Does nobody ever consider the aftermath of some ambush or botched raid? People shot, innocent or otherwise, interrogated and tortured when they know nothing. Not that it makes any difference. It's the “example” that always counts!'

He reminded Blackwood of Falconer, after the raid and the destruction of the lighters.

‘If Intelligence was so certain, why didn't we hit the bastards before they reached the anchorage? We could have nailed them easily. As it is, we've lost a boat and some good men, just to prove that some bloody French admiral isn't playing by the rules!'

Blackwood said, ‘This man we're meeting, do you know him?'

Carson answered sharply, ‘No. Just a name. Achileas. I wonder what joker thought that one up!'

He reached out and touched Blackwood's arm. ‘Sorry. It's not your fault. I have to let off steam sometimes. This business gets you on edge.' He grinned. ‘Past it, probably!'

Blackwood considered it. In the Corps you were trained to deal with a situation in a recognised fashion. If things went wrong, you used that same training to hit back, and fight your way out of it. No wonder men like Carson and Falconer were pushed to the limit. In hours this schooner would enter a tiny harbour on the appointed island. They would actually tie up alongside a jetty or some other clapped-out schooner or fishing vessel, and get on with the unloading.

Maybe the enemy already knew of this rendezvous. There were always collaborators and traitors only too eager to win favour from the occupying forces.

Carson was only a vague shadow in the darkness. What made men like him take such risks?

He thought of the other passengers, both soldiers, introduced as members of the Long Range Desert Group, but looking more like brigands than officers. The L.R.D.G. had become legendary in the cloak and dagger war; they often worked many miles behind enemy lines, blowing up supply dumps and transport before vanishing like nomads into the desert. One was a major named Savill, the other a captain whose name had not been mentioned. They kept to themselves, but, as Carson had remarked, ‘It's their show. We're just the dressing!'

He wondered what Despard thought of the situation. He had seemed pleased that his name had been put forward for this mission, and, possibly, surprised that
another such had been considered. Blackwood had seen him examining one of the Italian rifles. It had looked almost small in his hands.

‘Good enough, when properly used,' was his only comment.

Out of the darkness, Carson said abruptly, ‘You're not married, are you?'

Blackwood watched the last streak of colour sink out of sight.

‘No.' An ordinary enough question, for men unwilling to speak of the hours which lay ahead. But it had touched him, perhaps unreasonably.

Love me. It's what you want, isn't it?

Carson twisted round to study the helmsman and said, ‘I was, once. But she got bored.' He laughed softly. ‘Can't say I blame her!'

Blackwood stared up at the faint stars. ‘I'm glad
you
know where you're going, Terry!'

Carson pointed over the side. ‘There's an island out there. I went there once. I found a lighthouse, six, maybe seven hundred years old. Can you imagine? When Henry III was king of England, maybe before that.'

Blackwood looked away. Angry, bitter and aware of all the risks, and yet Carson loved this sea, its secrets and its past.

Carson said with the same uncompromising directness, ‘Do you like what you do?' Then he stood up sharply and walked to the engine hatch, neither waiting for nor expecting an answer.

It was better to be like St John.
Just another job
. It was stupid and dangerous to see beyond that.

He allowed his mind to explore the memories again.
She was the only one in his life who had shared and understood his doubts.

He heard Despard climbing on deck, and was suddenly glad he was here.

Achileas
. It was simply something that had to be done.

And it was today.

After the final, nerve-wrenching approach to the island, and the seemingly endless delays before their masked signals were acknowledged, the coming of daylight was almost an anticlimax, revealing only a tiny village huddled around an inlet, dwelling leaning upon dwelling, with schooners and caiques as scruffy and scarred as their own.

Although they were in a sea patrolled and guarded by the enemy there was no sense of menace or danger, and the local people, if not overtly enthusiastic, were not unfriendly. Theirs was a hard life, and their only means of survival lay in their own resources and in their boats. The enemy would be well aware of this. Unable to spare enough patrol vessels or men to cover this sector of the Aegean and the approaches to occupied Greece, they relied on an occasional show of strength, and the ruthless destruction of any vessel found out of its permitted area. Carson had spoken of the deadly Stuka dive-bombers which were often in evidence amongst the islands. Boats had been bombed and sunk regardless of what or whom they were carrying. As an example, as he had put it.

Blackwood stood now in the broad entrance of a long, much-repaired hut and observed the harbour and the unhurried movements in and around the village, goats roaming the narrow streets, the smoke of charcoal braziers teasing his nostrils. It was like being invisible.
People passed and glanced at him, only to avert their eyes without apparent surprise or curiosity.

Despard crossed the worn floor, where the piles of Italian rifles and ammunition were being arranged by Carson's sailors. Two Royal Marines in the middle of nowhere, here to lend the occasion an air of authority. Unshaven and crumpled, but in their battledress and webbing belts, with the familiar Globe and Laurel badge on their berets, they stood out like a military band. Even Carson had unearthed his uniform cap in the same spirit, the badge so tarnished that the gold wire was almost green.

Despard was chewing on a piece of cold lamb, wedged with a sliced onion in a chunk of unleavened bread. Even he was finding it hard going.

He said between bites, ‘A few crates of bully-beef would do them more good than this! No wonder they all look so mangy!'

But he persisted, perhaps because he knew what it had cost these islanders to share their food with strangers.

There had been wine, too, plenty of it, in great earthenware jugs. It had taken all of Carson's threats to prevent his men from overdoing it. It was rough and raw, and, Blackwood guessed, heavy on after-effects. But it was doing the trick, and he saw several of the seamen grinning and waving to a group of grave-faced children on the jetty.

Despard said softly, ‘Here they come.' He straightened automatically. Major Savill and his companion from the Long Range Desert Group walked into the feeble sunlight, and waited for Blackwood to join them.

The man codenamed ‘Achileas' ran searching eyes over the two marines. Not what Blackwood had been
expecting, for a partisan, a leader of the Resistance, or even a terrorist, he was a slightly built man in a scuffed leather coat, very composed and self-contained. Between thirty and forty, it was difficult to say. His eyes were memorable, very steady, and utterly devoid of emotion.

Beside him, Savill seemed large and ungainly. He was wearing an outsized jerkin over his other clothing, and Despard had already remarked on the deadly-looking German machine-pistol it concealed. He had a soldier's face, like Brigadier Naismith, with clear blue eyes like chips of glass.

Achileas handed a cup to Blackwood and watched while one of his men passed more wine to the others.

‘This is a great day.' He spoke to all of them, but his eyes were on Blackwood. He even smiled briefly as he lifted his cup. ‘
Gia sou!
'

Savill grinned, but Blackwood thought he was on edge, eager to get on with it. Beyond the hut he could see some of the villagers, fishermen for the most part, by their clothing. What were they thinking? There would be some pride in what they had become a part of; there would be fear, too, for their families, for one another, if the worst should happen.

Achileas was extending his hand. ‘For the
record
, Captain Blackwood!'

Despard muttered, ‘God Almighty!' But nobody heard him.

It was a man with a camera, self-conscious in his ragged clothing, but very aware of the importance of this moment.

Who would ever see the end result? Would anyone care?

They shook hands, while one of Achileas's men held up two rifles as a background.

Then they faced one another and saluted, Blackwood in the only manner he had ever known, Achileas with a clenched fist.

Then someone shouted from the jetty, and Savill snapped, ‘Tell those men to take cover!' He was fumbling for his binoculars, also concealed beneath the flapping jerkin.

Carson had joined them again, eyes narrowed against the strengthening sun as he found and tracked the small, solitary aircraft.

He said, ‘Fiesler 156, a Storch. First I've seen in this neck of the woods.' He could have been remarking on the weather.

The monoplane dipped slightly towards the inlet before turning in a leisurely arc.

A communications and reconnaissance aircraft which the Germans made use of in almost every theatre of war, and vulnerable to flak and ground fire, it was nevertheless invaluable for spotting. Blackwood licked his dry lips.
Like now.

Savill commented, ‘Short-range job, less than three hundred miles.' No one answered. ‘But when that “stork” comes back, it won't be carrying a newborn baby!' He looked at his companion. ‘Changes things, that's all. We'll leave at dusk.' He glanced at his watch. ‘Hurry them up a bit!'

Carson said quietly, ‘They should be safe enough. They'll lose themselves among the islands.' He gazed at his small schooner. ‘We won't have that privilege, I'm afraid.'

Blackwood listened to the gentle drone of the solitary
engine, and tried to imagine the scene from their cockpit. A village and a few boats. Nothing unusual. Could it be that simple?

Savill was saying, ‘This is where we part, Captain Blackwood. You did well. We shall take it from here. Trust is a great incentive to these people, you know.'

Blackwood watched him walk down to the jetty, where the last of the rifles were being stowed.

‘How far can we get, Terry?'

Carson seemed unwilling to look away, as if he were discovering something.

‘There's a fair breeze at the moment. With that and the old banger, we should log a hundred miles before the balloon goes up.' He paused. ‘But we're not waiting until dusk, right?'

Blackwood heard a child laugh, and turned to see one of Carson's seamen handing some chocolate,
nutty
, to one of the onlookers. Good old Jack; underneath it all, he at least never changed.

One hundred miles, Carson had estimated. He recalled Savill's casual parting.

When they left this place, trust was about all they would have.

Despard said, ‘Shan't be sorry to get back to some proper soldiering, sir.'

Trust . . .

Major-General Ralph Vaughan could barely contain his anger until the door to his outer office was closed, and then he exploded.

‘How long have we been in Scotland? Two, three days? Then I get back here to London and find this bloody cock-up waiting for me!'

His quietly spoken aide, Major Claud Porter, watched him striding around the office, his shadow leaning from wall to wall in the hard light like some wild animal trapped in a cage. He had seen Vaughan in all kinds of moods and felt the edge of his tongue in moments of anger from time to time, but rarely like this. On the face of it, it seemed a minor matter when viewed against the quickening pace of the war, although he knew well enough that it was not. Not to the Deputy Chief of Special Operations.

‘I want an
immediate
signal made to Commander St John at Alex, requiring a full explanation. . . .' He broke off and glared. ‘Well, Claud, don't you agree?'

Porter thought about the dossier marked
Top Secret
which was lying on Vaughan's desk. The Prime Minister and Chiefs of Staff had gone to Casablanca, where, in due course, they would be meeting President Roosevelt and
his senior advisers. It should prove an eventful conference, and would demonstrate to friends and enemies alike that the Allies were ready to plan the next vital moves both in the Mediterranean and, perhaps, into Europe. It would be a security nightmare, and he was thankful they had been in Scotland to inspect two new companies of Royal Marine Commandos, which would be joining the first company in Alexandria. It was a fine achievement, a fully trained battalion, ready for anything.

One small moment stood out. Vaughan had been inspecting a platoon of young marines who had just completed a gruelling assault course, knee-deep in snow and slush.