A Dawn Like Thunder (31 page)

He walked to the table and leaned on it with both hands, his face just six inches from hers. ‘Oh yes, my little teaser, there's a lot you can do for me.' He reached out and touched her shoulder, his hand hot through her shirt. She could smell the gin, just as she could feel the sudden presence of danger. Of fear.

‘Not shy, are you?' The fingers gripped her shoulder, harder, until she wanted to tear herself away. And yet somehow she knew it was what he wanted. Expected.

‘Please don't, sir.'

He smiled, and his hand began to move again. ‘You know you like it. Whose word would they take? Come on, don't play hard to get with me.'

Something rattled against the window and he turned his head, his hand gripping her arm now, so that she could feel her own wild pulse beating against his wrist. She saw his expression change, the wildness replaced by disbelief, shock, so that for a second she believed he was losing his mind.

He was staring at Second Officer Blandford's hat, the badge very bright in the overhead lights.

‘
What? – What?
' He seemed to be choking. ‘Is this some bloody joke?
Is that it?
' But his anger was without menace now, and she made herself sit quite motionless until the fingers released her arm, and he straightened his back as if he had been carrying some invisible burden.

She heard herself say coolly, ‘Second Officer Blandford,
sir. You didn't know? She's the new officer here.' It was like listening to somebody else. A small, quiet voice, her only defence against the sudden terror and understanding. She could almost hear the redcap, Guest, describing the scene, talking about the missing badge from Jane Clarke's hat. A
souvenir, a trophy.

The door opened, and Second Officer Blandford stared in. ‘I thought I heard voices.'

Victoria touched her arm. Surely there would be bruises? Otherwise she could have put it down to imagination and strain. She had not even seen him leave. She said quietly, ‘Major Sinclair, ma'am. Looking for Captain Pryce.'
Was that all?
Could she just leave it and walk away?

The lips flickered again in a smile. ‘You should have called me. I've yet to meet him. He's another hero, isn't he?'

But the taunt failed to move her, to mean anything.

They had said it was impossible. She recalled his words – how long ago? Minutes, no more than minutes.
Whose word would they take?

She thought of Ross, trying to shield her from the girl's naked body and the stares of the M.P.s while the rain had battered down.

He touched me.
Her hand was on her arm again, loathing it, wanting to scour it away.
The grip of a murderer.

Blandford said, ‘Well, if you've nothing to add . . .' She snatched up a telephone before it had rung more than twice.

Then she said, ‘Captain Pryce wants you.' The girl did not move, and she added abruptly, ‘That means now!'

Victoria did not remember walking the length of the corridor, or even if she passed anyone. She was suddenly in Pryce's office, knuckles pressed hard against her thighs as if she was on parade. Her control was all she had; she knew only that she must not give way.

Sinclair was here, very relaxed in a cane chair, a glass in his hand. He smiled at her, almost indifferently, as he might greet a stranger in his mess. She realized that Commander Crookshank was present also. He too was drinking, and very flushed, as if he had run all the miles from the main base. She shook her head and felt her hair clinging damply to her skin. That was silly. The base was too far away.

Pryce was watching her as though unsure, like that other time in this same office when James Ross had held her and pretended to stab her for Guest's benefit. He frowned as Crookshank gestured with his glass. ‘You've been overdoing it, my dear. I think we can bend the rules. You should have a drink.'

She tried to shake her head, but it was too painful. ‘What is it, sir?' Perhaps Sinclair had made some allegation against her, then she was certain he had not. He was not even the same man.

Pryce said coolly, ‘You know Commander Crookshank's mistrust of the teleprinter, or even of science's latest triumph, the telephone?' But even he could not prolong it. He said, ‘Signal from
Tybalt: Operation terminated. Both passengers recovered safely. Returning to base with all despatch.
'

She knew she was falling, just as she knew Pryce had been expecting it. He half carried her to a chair, and somebody held a glass of water to her lips.

She wanted to say something. To hear the signal again. He was safe. He was coming back. But nothing came.

She vaguely heard Major Sinclair say, ‘I'll escort her to her quarters, if you like?'

No. No.
But again, nothing came.

Then there was another voice. The woman with the quick, nervous smile. ‘That will not be necessary, Major Sinclair. I'll attend to Petty Officer Mackenzie.'

Victoria reached out and grasped her hand. ‘Thank you.' She almost called her Jane. Her hand was cold, as Jane's had been that night.
Or is it mine?

Then she did faint.

JAMES ROSS COVERED
his mouth with his hand to stifle a yawn, and fought back the desire to look at his watch. By his elbow his favourite pipe lay, filled with tobacco but as yet unlit. Each time he had considered lighting it either Captain Pryce or Commander Crookshank had fired another question at him. It was unreal and oppressive, the surrounding darkness and the bright lights of the operations room making him feel as if he was on trial.

When he had come ashore from the submarine depot-ship, he had hoped she might be there on some pretext or another. But it was Pryce's car with its usual Royal Marine driver that had been waiting, and had brought him at a hair-raising speed to this debriefing.

There were two other officers of his own rank present but they had not been introduced or, if they had, it must have slipped his mind.

After the rendezvous with the submarine
Tybalt
, the apparent ease with which the tug
Success
had been able to contact and transfer them to safety had amazed them both. Perhaps neither of them had really expected still to be alive. Even then, things had almost gone against them. The submarine had been about to surface so that her skipper could
make a signal reporting that the operation was over when they had been attacked by two Japanese patrol vessels. Luck, some hazy information as to their presence, they would never know; but it had been a close thing. Ross had served in submarines, and the suspense and fear of a determined attack by surface vessels had not changed. One pattern of depth-charges had been so close that they had heard the firing-pins click before the world exploded about them. Lights had shattered and paint chips had fallen like snow on the dazed and deafened watchkeepers. There had been one enormous crack, as if the pressure-hull had been crushed in a giant vice; then they had heard the sounds of engines fading, moving away, then going altogether. The hydrophone operator had reported all clear, and the young commanding officer had called each sealed compartment himself to make certain that all of his men were safe. Apart from a few nose-bleeds and a broken finger, they had got off lightly.

Tarrant was probably an officer one would never really know, but although it was his first command he had handled the submarine like a true veteran. He must have had some good skippers along the way. Ross had shaken hands with him when they had left to board the depot-ship. The conning tower had been savagely buckled like a tin can, and part of the deck-casing had vanished altogether. It had been as close as that.

Perhaps at any other time it might not have happened. It was a well-known fact that many submarines were lost when returning from patrol, and not at the height of some attack. Never relax, never take anything for granted.

Tarrant had smiled. ‘At least it will mean a proper refit. You'll have to take a different taxi for the next stunt, sir.' He had gazed at the damage, probably recalling the typical submariner's comment.
The most expensive coffin in the world.

A hand reached out for another note-pad, and Ross saw the Wren look at him for several seconds. The new second officer, the replacement. She made him feel awkward, uneasy. It seemed wrong to be discussing so openly what he and Charles Villiers had seen and done together. There was another Wren present, too, a Leading Writer from Crookshank's department, a small, dark girl with freckles, whose pencil was flying now across her pad as she noted every comment, question and answer.

If Victoria was here . . . He rubbed his eyes, angry that he was so tired. When he had stepped ashore, he had felt more alive than he could remember for some while.

Then Pryce had told him about Napier and, of course, about Mike Tucker. Peter Napier had apparently sailed in the hospital ship.
I must write to him.
In the same instant he knew he would not. If or when they met, it might be different. He thought of Tucker, the warmth he had felt when Pryce had told him of his part in the operation. When Rice had been beheaded. It was still hard to stomach.

Crookshank fiddled with his reading-glasses, and Ross had time to notice Pryce's annoyance.

‘And you really believe this Richard Tsao chap is straight up?'

Pryce snapped, ‘For God's sake, John, Commander Ross is not under oath at a bloody court martial!'

The little leading Wren lowered her head to hide a smile. Second Officer Blandford glared at her.

‘I
do
believe that, sir. He is taking a lot of chances, but he knows that, and so are his people. The U-Boats are there, and have been on and off for months.' He saw Pryce staring at the little cockade on his shirt: he had not even found time to change into clean clothing. ‘The group called
Monsun
intends to take vital materials through our blockade. Not in any vast quantity, of course, but it will mount up.'

Crookshank rubbed his chin. ‘In the Great War the Jerries had a big cargo submarine named the
Deutschesland.
She ran the Atlantic blockade to the U.S.A., but of course she was built for the job, not for fighting.'

Ross said, ‘I take your point, sir. These U-Boats are long-range IX D-class. They carry all that they can, raw rubber, wolfram, zinc, ballbearings, but they're still able to hunt well enough. As I've put in my report, with Lieutenant Villiers' help, the Germans also have two Arado seaplanes at their disposal. Their headquarters is at Penang and under the command of
Fregattenkapitän
Dommes.' He recalled Richard Tsao's rare display of amusement when he had explained that the overall Japanese commander was a Vice-Admiral Uozumi, the vast difference in rank being another chasm between the unlikely allies.

Pryce said, ‘This list Tsao made out. Weapons, transmitters?'

Ross attempted to focus his thoughts, already drifting towards images of a bath and a long drink. Villiers was probably in bed by now, dreaming of his unreachable girl in England, or recalling that small moment of peace in the ruined garden where he had once played as a boy.

‘He wants to fight, sir.'

Pryce grunted. ‘Don't know what Whitehall will have to say about that.' Then he was his old brisk self again, all doubts dispelled. ‘That's their problem. As soon as I get clearance from D.N.I., the admiral can make the right noises to South-East Asia Command itself. Go right to the top.'

Crookshank looked worried. ‘Lord Mountbatten?'

Pryce gave a thin smile. ‘Of course. He usually gets what he wants.'

Ross said, ‘The new depot-ship will arrive any day, sir. A Japanese merchantman, but now properly converted with
the right machine-shops for servicing U-Boats. That was another stumbling-block between them, apparently.'

Pryce said sharply, ‘Would be. I wouldn't want to entrust my old sub to a bunch of bloody coolies.'

He walked to a shuttered window and back again. ‘I think this is exactly what we want.' He almost reached out to touch Ross's shoulder, but changed his mind. Perhaps the gesture seemed too intimate to him. ‘You did damn well, Jamie. I'll see that it all goes in my report.'

Ross looked away. Like poor Peter Napier and his promotion; a medal too, Pryce had said. Mike Tucker would pull no punches. He would tell him what really happened.

As if reading his mind, Crookshank said helpfully, ‘Your Petty Officer Tucker insists it was a submarine that put paid to
Turquoise
.'

Pryce stared at the wall-maps. ‘I shall enjoy having a word with Brigadier Davis. So much for his chain of secret agents!'

Crookshank said, ‘But some of his information . . .' He got no further. Pryce was leafing angrily through his private file, to prove or disprove something.

Ross turned as the second officer spoke to him for the first time. ‘It must have been a fearful risk.'

Ross smiled. ‘Not so bad once we got started.' He saw the doubt in her eyes. ‘The only time I was really worried was when the
Tybalt
was attacked. I suppose I've grown used to being on my own, being free to act in my own way.'

She smiled briefly. ‘If you say so.'

Pryce glanced at them, frowning. ‘By the way, Jamie, I'll want you to keep your head down for a while. The admiral's got that damned war correspondent Howard Costain back again.' The same irritation, as if he did not
approve of someone else holding the apron-strings, not even the admiral.

Ross picked up his pipe, but found that he no longer wanted a smoke. ‘Whatever you say, sir.'

Pryce glanced through his papers again. ‘And this Tsao has promised recognition signals, boat-markings, everything?'

Ross saw Tsao's composed features, the inner steel of the man and the knowledge he carried with him. While they had been lying at Penang, surrounded by the enemy, and had watched the submarines at their moorings, Tsao had come and gone with the cool confidence of a professional agent, not the junior clerk Villiers had once known. And yet at any hour, day or night, the door could burst open and he would be dragged away to endure the Kempetai's hideous tortures, or forced to watch his family and friends die at their hands.