The Lonely Sea (17 page)

I wrenched myself back into the present. I knew then what I would have to do. I also knew what it would mean for me—court martial. Just then I didn't care.

Swiftly I turned to Ravallo.

‘Do you know where she went, Nicky?' I demanded.

‘Sure I do.' He had divined my intentions immediately and was into the boat before me.

Hillyard rowed us ashore. We jumped out on the pebbly shore and raced up the beach. Halfway up I stopped short and called softly.

‘Nicky!'

He turned round.

‘Dammit, Scotty, there's no time—'

He broke off short. His eyes didn't have to be very good to see the dull gleam of the .45 in my hand.

He remained motionless.

‘What is this?' he asked slowly.

‘This,' I said, ‘is as far as I go. Incidentally, that was a marvellous piece of acting. Congratulations.'

He was a trier, I had to admit. The anger, the impatience, the puzzlement—they were perfectly done.

‘Stay where you are!' I said sharply. He had taken a step forward.

‘The only explanation you are entitled to is why you are still alive. I'll tell you.

‘Renegades, Ravallo, aren't always monsters. I liked you, Ravallo—in your own idiom, I thought you were one helluva good guy. Secondly, war is no reason for inhumanity. You know that. And I think it inhuman to ask a man to spy on his own country.'

‘What are you trying to tell me?' His voice was almost a whisper.

‘Save it, Ravallo. I could have had you taken back to Naples,' I went on. ‘You know what that
means. Court martial—and the firing squad. Or you could have been dropped over the side. I drew the line at that also. So,' I added, ‘you're getting what you never gave Stella, Ravallo—a chance. Among your own people,' I finished bitterly.

‘You betrayed yourself a year ago, Ravallo. I didn't get it till yesterday. Remember Passero? Remember the rowing boats the Germans used that night to try to board us? Remember the visit you paid to the empty radio room? Remember the fast launches that Stella said the Germans had in Passero? Remember, Ravallo, remember?'

I flung the words at him, hammered them at him. They had no effect. He seemed dazed, showed no reaction at all. The man was a superb actor.

‘How were the Germans tipped off, Ravallo?' I went on relentlessly. ‘Why didn't they send their fast launches after us? I'll tell you, Ravallo. Because they knew they hadn't a hope in hell of catching us. They knew that a sneak attack was their only hope. They knew that because
you
told them, Ravallo. And
only
you could have told them. Only
you
of all suspects fulfilled the four essential conditions—you knew the speed of the 149, you knew our destination that night, you knew how to use and had access to a transmitter—the I49's.'

There was no answer to this and Ravallo knew it. There could be no defence—only denial. He
said nothing for a long time. His head was bent. The moon, almost full, had broken through the cloud, and I was in a hurry to be gone.

He lifted his head slowly and looked at me.

‘Got it all buttoned up, haven't you, Mac?'

‘I have indeed. I wish to God I hadn't. You gave yourself away again today.

‘Starr had it narrowed down to you two—you and Stella. He guessed it was you—rather, I did. He had fixed it so as to give you a chance to sell Stella down the river. You thought her usefulness was over. So you sold her down the river. You didn't know that base weren't briefed on this mission, Ravallo, did you? Only you, Stella, Starr and I knew. And once, Ravallo, I could have sworn you loved that girl.' I looked at him, trying hard to hate him. ‘You know,' I said, ‘I couldn't have done that to a dog.'

His face was expressionless.

‘So you threw her to the wolves? Is that it, Mac?'

Why hadn't the Partisans looked after her, I thought to myself. They had plenty of warning. Illogically, I felt guilty as hell and knew for the first time the salt taste of self-loathing. But I didn't show it—I knew that.

‘I had my orders. Besides, Nicky,' I added ironically, ‘we should never have succeeded without your invaluable cooperation. Goodbye.'

He called after me. ‘Mac!'

I turned round.

‘Don't forget, Mac, I'll be looking you up one of these days.'

One of these days. Well, that was it.

I had arrived in London at 6.00 a.m. and gone straight to bed. For hours I had lain awake, trying to figure the whole thing out.

It was a mess and it was fantastic. Why hadn't the Allied authorities seized him after the war? He was obviously a prosperous man now. He had much to lose—I marvelled at his nerve in seeking me out.

What did he want, I wondered. Just to gloat? No, whatever he was, Ravallo had never been small-minded. Revenge—it could only be that. But how? A fusillade of shots in the lounge of the Savoy? Ridiculous—just too fantastic. Besides, Nicky was a smart boy. About midday I gave the whole thing up and fell into a troubled sleep.

7.00 p.m. The lounge at the Savoy was full, but I saw him almost at once. It wasn't difficult. He was the only man in the place wearing a lounge suit. He was over by the far wall and, characteristically, had managed to obtain—and retain—a table for himself.

There was no change in Ravallo that I could see. Still the same vital, dark haired, laughing d'Artagnan—and he was laughing now. Laughing—the smile on the face of the tiger.

He leapt from his table and came swiftly towards me, hand outstretched, his white teeth shining in a great grin of welcome.

‘Mac, you old son of a gun!' he shouted cheerfully. ‘Man, oh man, but it's good to see you again!'

‘Meaning you'd lost all hope of ever catching up with me?' I asked quietly. I made no move to take his hand and he let it drop slowly to his side. I was dimly aware that dozens of curious people were looking at us.

Ravallo still smiled—albeit a trifle ruefully now. It was the perfect picture of the unjustly slighted friend, still good humoured and tolerant. You're good, Ravallo, I thought, you're damned good.

‘My address,' I said harshly. ‘How did you get it?'

‘Easy. The Admiralty—you're still on the Reserved List.' The smile was a trifle uncertain now.

I should have thought of that.

‘Well, I'm here now. What's on the cards, Ravallo? A cosy little Italian knifing session? Maybe one of your pals in the Mafia? What do you want, Ravallo?'

‘Civility, Scotty, civility.' The smile was quite gone now. ‘And five minutes of your time—if you can stop being completely daft for that length of time. Here's my table. How about a drink?'

‘The lapse of nine years and the fact that the war is over doesn't make treason any less heinous a crime.' I didn't bother to lower my voice. ‘As for the drink, not with you, Ravallo. I'll get my own.'

Something was badly out of focus—I needed time to think. I turned to push my way to the bar through the knot of people crowding round.

Ravallo caught my arm. He was immensely strong.

‘Same as Civitavecchia, eh, Mac?' he asked softly. ‘Still the same jury, judge and executioner. Is that it?'

‘Yes,' I said evenly. ‘That's it.'

‘And I'm the condemned man?'

‘You're the condemned man.'

‘A last favour, then.' His voice was very low. ‘It's my privilege.'

Something about him, about his voice, his eyes, his desperate sincerity caught me. Not even Spencer Tracy was that good. For the first time I knew doubt.

I followed him slowly back to his table and sat down. The curious crowd gradually melted away.

‘Well, I'm listening.'

‘You don't even have to do that, Mac,' he said smilingly. ‘Just read these.'

Carefully he placed two documents on the table and smoothed them out. After some hesitation, I picked one up.

It was a transcript from the US Navy Records Office. It had been made in the Pentagon and ran as follows:

Leading Signalman Georges Passière, Official
No P/JX 282131.

A body, dressed in Royal Naval tropical kit, was found on the beach, fourteen miles South of Civitavecchia. 16 May, 1944.

Identified as above rating by identity disc.

Secret lining discovered in flap of belt pouch. Oilskin envelope. List of thirty transmitting and receiving station wavelengths: VHF (very high frequency): mainly short-range. Six positively identified as German: remainder unknown.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I laid the document on the table. I was dimly aware of a waiter by my side, and a tray of glasses. Automatically, unseeingly almost, I picked up a glass with one hand, the remaining document with the other.

Deutscher Geheimdienst.

German Counter-Intelligence Records captured Turin.

Decoded Naples, October 1944.

Luigi Metastasio: Born Rome 1919.

(Then followed an account of Metastasio's school life, civilian employment, Fascist indoctrination, army service, counter-intelligence training.) Speaks French, German and English fluently: smuggled into France April 1940, German-occupied France August 1940, thence to Fecamp: fishing boat to England. Accepted Portsmouth barracks May, 1941: qualified telegraphist.

The rest was unimportant—and I knew the last line before I read it.

Assumed name—Georges Passière.

I placed this report on the other and gazed at it as though hypnotized. I said nothing—I couldn't say anything. Neither thoughts nor words would come. My mind seemed to have stopped. I felt beaten, empty, sick—and hopelessly confused.

Nicky was merciful, infinitely so. I hardly heard his voice at first.

‘It was a sweet racket, Mac. The beauty of the short-range receiver.' He laughed shortly. ‘Sure the Germans couldn't monitor our agents' radio messages. By the same paradigm we couldn't monitor Passière's short-range reports, probably relayed back immediately afterwards to German and Italian listening posts. The massacred Partisans, the butchery of the Rangers and the Commandos, the capture of our agents, the tip-off at Passero—all friend Passière's work.'

‘And—and Stella?' With a great effort I forced the words out. My mind was working again and the realization, stark and unforgiving, of what I had done these long years ago now smashed home like a hammer blow.

I answered my own question, my voice an unbelieving whisper.

‘Passière! That's how Stella went, Nicky. It must have been. Passière! I,
I
took Passière into my confidence. Nicky—
I told him everything
!'

‘Yeah,' murmured Nicky quietly. I thought it had to be something like that. If he knew she was finished, no more use to him, he would try to tip them off, wouldn't he?'

Maybe Nicky didn't stop there. Maybe he went on talking. I don't know. All I know is that his voice, quiet and level and kind, died away in my ear. I couldn't hear Nicky any longer. I couldn't even look at him. I knew I should be apologizing, saying something about never forgiving myself—but I knew that this lay outwith the reach of words.

‘
I
sold her down the river. I threw her to the wolves,' I said dully. ‘
I
did that. Nobody else, Nicky, only me. Just me.' I buried my head in my hands.

I knew a hundred pairs of eyes were on me and I didn't care. The lounge had gone very quiet. The seconds—each one an eternity of self-loathing, of bitterness, of despair—ticked slowly by. Slowly, terribly slowly.

Suddenly, petrifyingly, a pair of soft hands clasped gently over my eyes and a well-remem-bered voice, husky with emotion, whispered com-passionately:

‘Enough is enough, Nicky. Hullo, Mac, darling.'

For four or five dazed, reeling, unbelieving seconds I sat motionless. Then I leapt to my feet,
swung round, knocked several glasses crashing to the floor—the ritzy clientele of the Savoy were certainly getting their money's worth tonight—and faced Stella.

Stella! For a moment I could say nothing. I could only stand and look—and look. She stood there, dark and lovely and smiling, the old Stella of the Malta days—only, there were tears in her eyes now.

Then I grabbed her. I hugged her till she cried for mercy. Finally, I kissed her.

The gallery hadn't missed a thing. They were right on the ball and this was their cue. We sat down to a storm of hand-clapping.

‘And they didn't get you after all?' I asked stupidly.

‘Why should they have?' she smiled.

‘Passière faked her message,' Nicky explained. ‘There was no
MMR,
no armoured car. When he jumped up, he must have knocked off the receiving switch. He'd hoped we would go after her and then he'd contact his pals and they'd get the lot of us. Only, it didn't quite work out that way. You came back and his own pals—the guy in the Heinkel—contacted him first.'

‘Nicky picked me up that night,' Stella went on. ‘He told me what had happened—about the sinking of the 149. I cried. Didn't I, Nicky? I cried all night. I'm a fearful crybaby, really. Very secondrate spy material.' She dabbed her eyes with a tiny square of lace.

I smiled and turned to Nicky.

‘So you looked Stella up after the war? Is that it?'

He grinned. ‘Well, in a way.'

I looked at the rings on her left hand.

‘So then,' I continued morosely, ‘I suppose you got married?'

Stella smiled. ‘Well, no, not exactly. You see, we always were—1938, to be precise!'

My nervous system couldn't take much more. I'd just about used up all my reactions. I just sat there half-stunned, conscious that my face was turning a bright and glowing crimson.

‘Sorry, Mac.' Nicky was apologetic. ‘Couldn't even tell you. Had anyone known—our side, their side—our usefulness would have been at an end. We would have been a menace to our own people. I told you, Mac, often. You can't give hostages to fortune.'