Devane had had a light breakfast which had been brought to his bedside by a naval steward. The latter was obviously used to the tide of officers who came and went through the little block of flats.
It was strange how it could relax him. He had vaguely heard two air-raid warnings during the night, but nothing
serious enough to drag him to a shelter.
Devane had re-read his folder of intelligence reports during breakfast, and the coffee had tasted just like pre-war.
He was going to the Black Sea, to a war he had only seen on the newsreels. To Devane the enemy was sea and sky, U-boats and aircraft, the Atlantic or the Med. He had learned to recognize fear in himself and in others near him. From it he had gathered the necessary hatred to hit back, and to hit hard.
The intelligence pack explained the technical side; about the five boats, all of which were new. They were of the latest British Power Boat design with certain extras. Power-operated guns, twin torpedo tubes, four thousand and fifty horsepower and a top speed of thirty-nine knots. Impressive.
Devane hoped there would be accommodation arranged ashore for the crews when they were in harbour. He smiled.
In Russia
. A seventy-one-foot long MTB, with all the additional gear and ammunition for her extended patrol area, had barely room enough for her seventeen-man complement. Now there would be twenty-two! He could hear the moans already.
But this type of craft was the biggest, according to Kinross’s precise notes, which could safely stand the ride overland without first being dismantled from bridge to keel, or without falling apart on the journey. He should know.
Devane re-examined the details of his own command, the leader. His first lieutenant was named Dundas, with a high recommendation. Ex-merchant service, he had come straight from the Royal Naval Reserve. He was twenty-six. The additional officer, the third hand, was a RNVR lieutenant called Seymour. He was twenty-two, with two years in coastal forces. All it said of his earlier existence was the title of journalist. At that tender age it probably meant his local church magazine.
The boat’s coxswain he did know. Petty Officer Tom Pellegrine, DSM and bar, who had been Richie’s coxswain since the beginning. He was a regular, which was fairly rare in coastal forces. They usually retained regulars for ships and equipment more valuable than wooden MTBs.
But a good coxswain was vital. The bridge between officers and ratings. And packed in that little hull, he would have his work cut out as a peacemaker.
It would be strange to take over a new boat, a fresh flotilla. They must have got used to each other while regrouping and working up. He would have to start as he meant to go on.
There was not much in the pack about German naval forces in the area, except that they were a mixed collection of small craft and, like his own, had been carried across country, then floated down the Danube to their new killing ground.
Information about the Russians was even scarcer. The whole of their naval squadron, listed in the pack as the Azov Flotilla, was commanded by a distinguished officer called Sergey Gorshkov, but the man described as the real link with the British was shown as Nikolai Sorokin, a full captain, who had already made his mark against the Germans in the Baltic.
The liaison part would rest with Ralph Beresford. Devane had spent many hours with him in the Eastern Mediterranean and working on special missions amidst the Greek islands, Most people’s idea of the peacetime regular officer. Good-looking, dashing would be a better word, Beresford was an unexpected choice for the new job.
But Devane had seen the other side of the man. Tough, almost fanatical about each operation. He liked Beresford, or what he knew of him, and had tried to tell himself to leave it at that. One thing was certain, Beresford was not just brave, he actually enjoyed the danger and the risks, and pushed his luck to the limit.
Devane studied himself in a mirror, as he would a rating at divisions or behind the defaulters’ table.
There were lines at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes seemed steady enough. He pushed a comb through his dark brown hair and sighed. It was no use. He would never make another Kinross.
The thought made him chuckle, and he saw the tiredness and strain fade from his face like a curtain. Was that all it took?
The telephone jangled and he swung round like a fighter. In that split second it was all there. The alarm in the night, the frantic scramble to action stations, the brain taking over, ordering. Demanding.
Devane sat down and silenced the telephone. He must try to get over it. Otherwise his new command would imagine they had some bomb-happy nut to decide on their futures, which were precarious enough anyway.
‘Yes?’
‘RPO ’ere, sir.’
One of the guardians of the lobby which had probably sported a hall porter in safer days.
‘What’s wrong, PO?’
He could hear the man’s breathing. So it was not Whitcombe yet. Perhaps it was off. It happened in the Navy. You arrived with tropical gear only to discover you were going to Iceland, or the appointment had been cancelled altogether.
‘I’ve got a lady ’ere, sir. To see you.’ It sounded like an accusation.
Devane sat bolt upright on the edge of the bed. ‘Can you put her on?’
He heard mumblings, then the man said, ‘Well –, sir, it’s not really proper, I – I mean, this is all ’ush ’ush.’ He faltered, his voice less confident. ‘But if you say so, sir.’
Devane waited. Somehow he was not surprised. He should have guessed it might happen.
‘John? This is Claudia.’
He could see her as if she were right here with him. Dark, vivacious, lovely. She had always seemed so poised and confident, and he was shocked by the thought that she did not know how her husband had died. And he did.
‘Hello. I’ll come down. I – I heard you were in London.’ Half a lie was better than a whole one. ‘I’m terribly sorry about Don. Really.’
‘Yes. I see.’ She sounded as if she had turned away from the telephone or was looking to see if the regulating petty officer was listening.
‘I must talk, John. You’re the only one I can –’ The line went dead.
Devane felt very calm, and without any possible reason. He dialled the special number to Whitcombe’s HQ and was immediately told by a crisp female that he was not required to report again until 1500.
Then he pulled on his jacket and jammed his cap on to his head. He patted his pockets to make sure he had all he needed.
He glanced at himself once more in the mirror. Aloud he said deliberately, ‘You are being a bloody fool, and you know it! Stop right here.’
Devane strode to the door and ran quickly down the stairs to the lobby.
Claudia Richie was sitting on a padded bench by the doorway, her legs crossed, a cigarette in one hand.
She turned and watched him. Even the movement of her head, her lovely pale neck seemed to make him clumsy, obvious.
Devane took her arm. ‘How did you find this place?’ He cursed himself as the words came out.
She dropped her cigarette into a large brass shell case which did duty as ashtray or umbrella stand as the occasion demanded.
‘Long time ago. With Don.’ She looked at him steadily. ‘Can we go somewhere?’
They walked into the warm sunlight and down towards Sloane Street. At any other time Devane would have been studying his surroundings, the people who lived or worked here despite the daily bombings, the frugal rations and the endless queues for everything from cheese to dog food.
But he was conscious only of her and the way other men looked at her as they passed. She had not changed, and he could never imagine her giving way to austerity. Even to grief.
She asked, ‘You heard I was at the Admiralty?’
‘Yes. I feel rotten about it. You don’t deserve it.’
She had slipped her hand through his arm, as if to exclude the passers-by, the watchers.
‘Don’t I?’
Devane said, ‘Of course not.’ He was getting confused.
Her hand on his arm did not help. ‘Where are you living, Claudia? Still at the farm?’
She nodded. ‘Still at the farm.’ She did not hide the bitterness. ‘It’s being run by conscientious objectors and Italian prisoners of war. Can you beat that?’
She turned her head and looked at him, and Devane could see the pain in her brown eyes. Eyes so dark they seemed to fill her face.
She added, ‘But the farm really runs itself. They need all the food we can grow nowadays.’
Devane thought about it. She was the same age as himself. Don Richie had been about two years older. Devane had always thought of him as a typical gentleman farmer. They had quite a lot of them in Dorset too.
She seemed to read his mind. ‘Don never took much of an interest in it.’
He shook his head, bewildered. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘No. Your Don and mine were different people, I expect. He wanted to be a winner, he
needed
it. Racing, sailing, everything. To him the MTBs were just an extension of his previous victories.’
Devane glanced at her anxiously. She was wearing a thin blue dress, and her shoes were hardly made for walking for miles. She looked restless and lost, and in some odd way he felt responsible for her.
He asked, ‘Where are you staying in London?’
She stopped dead and disengaged her hand. ‘Why? Why did you ask that?’
Devane lowered his voice. ‘I’m sorry, Claudia. I just thought I’d take you there. I can guess what you’re going through.’
Her lip quivered very slightly. ‘I doubt that, John.’ She put out her hand impetuously. ‘I’m being stupid. I don’t want to embarrass you.’ She put her fingers to her mouth. ‘Be a darling. See if you can get a taxi. Quickly.’
Devane looked round, searching for a cruising taxi. She was cracking up right in front of his eyes, and for some reason she wanted to be with him and nobody else.
A taxi idled to the kerb and the driver, a very old man
with a walrus moustache, grinned at them. ‘Spot of leave, eh, Skipper? Just th’ job!’
His casual acceptance seemed to bring the girl to her senses. She said calmly, ‘The Richmond Hotel, Chelsea, please.’
Devane opened the door and made to follow her into the taxi.
She turned, her face almost brushing his as she said, ‘No. I’m sorry I dragged you out like this. It was stupid of me. I’m certain you’ve got plenty to do.’ She was pulling the door as if to sever their brief contact immediately.
Devane said, ‘Don’t go. I’d like to talk. It’s two years since we last met.’ The words seemed to tumble from his lips, but he was conscious only of the fact she was leaving, had changed her mind about something important.
The old taxi-driver was whistling, but not too loudly for him to follow the drama behind his back.
Devane added desperately, ‘Can I call you?’
Her glance settled on him and her mouth lifted for the first time in a small smile.
‘If you want to. But what’s the point? It’s over.’ She leant forward and rapped the glass.
‘All right, driver!’
Devane stood back and watched the taxi edge into the traffic, oblivious to curious stares of two saluting seamen who had just passed him.
She had wanted to tell him something and had changed her mind. Or lost her nerve at the last minute. But why? The question rang in his mind like a bell.
It was true what he had said. He had not seen her for nearly two years. At some naval party or other in Ipswich. And before that he had known Don as the popular farmer-cum-sportsman in the West Country. His farm, the one now run by Italian POWs and conscientious objectors, was close to Dartmoor. They had often met on their naval reserve training or while competing in some sailing race or other.
Devane glanced at his watch, the moment spoiled. What had he expected, for God’s sake? She was probably wondering why a man like Don was dead and he was still in one piece.
He tried to laugh it off. Hurt pride, the fact that he was lonely.
He had always had an eye for Claudia, of course, but who hadn’t? She was that kind of girl.
Devane looked round for a pub. A drink, lost in pre-lunch chatter, might help. One thing was certain, he would take it no further.
Even as he thought about it he knew he was deceiving himself. He would ring the Richmond Hotel. After he had seen Whitcombe. Just a quick telephone call to settle the dust.
He pushed at the door of a small pub but it only opened an inch. A sour-looking man peered out at him and took in his visitor from head to toe in one second.
‘We don’t open for ’nother hour. Don’t you know there’s a bloody war on?’
Devane finished buttoning a clean shirt and then stared round the room, feeling lost. The blackout curtains were closed for, although it was still light enough to see the outline of the small square, there was plenty of cloud about. The petty officer in the lobby had said meaningly, ‘They’ll be over tonight, sir. Good cloud cover for the buggers.’
Devane looked at the telephone. How many times had he done that since he had returned from the Admiralty, he wondered. Perhaps if Whitcombe had something urgent to tell him things might have been different.
But Whitcombe had merely filled him in on a few details about engineering staff for the boats’ maintenance once they were delivered to the Black Sea, some titbits too about air cover which the Russians were hoping to put into action when their advance was under way, but nothing very exciting.
Whitcombe had looked as if he had been there all night. Maybe he never went home.
Then he had said abruptly, ‘I understand you saw Richie’s widow this morning. What did she want?’
Devane had been both startled and angry to discover his moves were being recorded. Even when Whitcombe had added, ‘Just routine security, John. All phone calls, in, out and internal, are registered. You should be honoured. A German secret agent used your room a few months back. We thought he was a Polish naval officer,’ Devane had still felt resentful.
‘Well, I’m not Polish
or
German, sir!’
Whitcombe had changed tack. ‘See it this way. The war is a vast gamble, but it depends on little Caesars like me to keep things running without unnecessary losses. You are
taking command of a new operational flotilla. It is no secret that all pendant numbers have been removed from the boats and the flotilla will be known to us only by the code name “
Parthian
”. Very appropriate, under the circumstances. Your responsibility you already know, and have proved your ability beyond doubt. You have five boats and some hundred and ten officers and ratings, to say nothing of Beresford’s shore party and equipment, in your hands alone. A rash act, or some unexpected enemy move, might smash
Parthian
to bits within days of your arrival.