Rosa Calleja started sobbing.
Marija Calleja opened her mouth to speak but initially, no words passed her lips.
“I do not understand?” She admitted eventually, subconsciously stroking her sister-in-law’s hand. Not waiting for a reply she turned and very gently, put her arms around her ‘sister’
“Red Dawn terrorist cells like the one led by your brother were responsible for the outrages committed after the October War. Those outrages were calculated to force the British to crack down and imprison so many of your men folk,” Clara explained patiently. “Arkady and I believe that your brother and other members of his cell may have been responsible for the sinking of HMS Torquay; and that other members of Red Dawn on the island may have taken ‘punitive’ action against them for disobeying orders.”
“Extreme ‘punitive’ action,” the man concurred. “Because of the recent relaxation of martial law the last thing these people want is to force the British to re-instate rigorous security measures across the archipelago.”
“I don’t see how Rosa or I can help you, Mr Rykov?” Marija Calleja declared quietly after bending her lips down to her ‘sister’s’ ear and murmuring words of comfort.
“It is very simple,” the Russian informed her, “we need to know everything about your brother’s life. Everything.”
If Arkady Rykov hadn’t already known most of the answers what he had just told Marija would have made perfect sense. Logically, somewhere in Samuel Calleja’s past there would be clues to how and why he had died and who was, allegedly, hunting down — most likely — the other members of his cell. At his behest Denzil William’s people were, albeit sulkily, interrogating the families and friends of the other cell members; that was a complete waste of time. Stumbling across Marija Calleja at Bighi had been his first piece of real good fortune since he and Clara had arrived on Malta.
There were tears in Marija’s eyes.
“I loved Sam as any sister would love her brother,” she said hesitantly, “but we were not close. I was always closer to my little brother, Joe. Joe is my good friend as well as my brother. He and I, well, we understand each other but Sam,” she shrugged guiltily, “we stopped talking to each other a long time ago. We would argue, fight over anything. With Joe I never fight. I tell him off sometimes, but we never fight. I am the wrong person in my family to talk to. You must talk to my father. I think he knew Sam better than any of us.”
Chapter 20
They had almost missed the fun, such as it was. Fifty miles south of Sardinia Captain David Penberthy had ordered the old destroyer’s second Admiralty 3-drum boiler to be ‘lit up’ and HMS Talavera had raced to join the coming battle at better that thirty knots. Her two shadows, always hovering out on the edge of her radar horizon, had made no attempt to maintain contact. It was as if they had known the Battle class destroyer was no longer in transit but readying herself for the fight.
Lieutenant-Commander Peter Christopher braced himself against the bridge rail and focused his binoculars on the island emerging out of the haze as the rising sun burned coolly on that January morning forty-five minutes after the dawn. HMS Talavera was idling along at eleven knots, the middle ship in an ad hoc gun line of five destroyers and frigates of varying vintages.
At the head of the line was HMS Whitby, the ten year old name ship of her class of anti-submarine frigates. Astern of her and three hundred yards ahead of Talavera was the Defender, a Daring class old-fashioned post-World War II fleet destroyer bristling with guns, astern of Talavera, the new Tribal class destroyer Nubian, and the Puma, a Type 41 anti-aircraft frigate brought up the rear. On joining the gun line David Penberthy, as senior officer present, had taken command. For all that the ‘gun line’ was a hotchpotch of ships of varying sizes, characteristics and sensor suites, the vessels shared common 4.5 inch calibre main batteries.
Five minutes after dawn the gun line had fired a single ‘long’ ranging salvo of eighteen rounds. The shells had whistled over the island and crashed harmlessly into the sea between eight hundred and a thousand yards beyond the island. Within minutes a dozen helicopters had lifted off the deck of HMS Ocean and now Royal Marines of 42 Commando were fanning out across the rocky terrain of the former Italian territory in the Central Mediterranean.
If everything had gone to plan similar scenes would be playing out on Lampedusa and tiny Linosa some miles to the east and south, where the fleet carrier HMS Victorious was flag ship of a much larger all arms battle group.
The gun line was slowly moving inshore, soon the five ships would be clearly visible to the naked eye to anybody brave enough to stand on the sea wall protecting Porto Pantelleria, the main settlement on the most level, and most easterly part of the thirty-two square mile volcanic rock which sat sixty-two miles south of Sicily and thirty-seven miles north of the nearest outcrop of the Tunisian coast to the east.
“When we invaded Sicily in the Second War,” HMS Talavera’s commanding officer remarked cheerfully, “we had to plaster the whole island for days before we winkled out the garrison. Fingers crossed, it is looking a bit more straightforward this morning.”
His Executive Officer took one hand off his binoculars and held up his right hand with his first two fingers as crossed as he could get them.
“Touch wood, sir,” Peter Christopher agreed.
Westland Wessex’s were relaying troops onto the island, racing to and from HMS Ocean above the gun line at masthead height. If there had been any serious resistance the destroyers and frigates under David Penberthy’s command had been ordered to stand off and shell the island’s single airfield and Porto Pantelleria until the locals saw sense. Everybody was a little relieved that this wasn’t going to be necessary.
“The Flagship says for the gun line to move close inshore, sir!”
“Number One!” David Penberthy chuckled. “Put us at the head of the line if you please. We’ll lay the old girl off the entrance to the port. The rest of the squadron can demonstrate due east of the sea wall.”
“Aye, sir!” Peter Christopher started calling orders.
“Guns fore and aft!”
The line of grey warships followed in Talavera’s broad wake.
Confirmation that the local dictator on Pantelleria had surrendered unconditionally was received as the destroyer came abreast of the entrance to Porto Pantelleria. The harbour and town looked quiet, empty but then it was still very early in the day. Fishing boats bobbed, moored haphazardly in clumps behind the sea wall.
Two small motor launches approached.
“Small arms parties to the port side!”
HMS Talavera’s eight man Royal Marine detachment quickly took position, fingering their FN L1A1 rifles and Sterling submachine guns. Two squads of seaman hastily mounted heavy machine guns on the aft deck house rail.
It was a profoundly anti-climactic moment when a rotund, bald, sweating man in an ill-fitting lounge suite and two unarmed youths in creased and grubby Italian Army uniforms struggled up onto the deck and after much bowing and scraping, and with a cringing show of self-abasement, obsequiously requested in halting English, ‘the honour to place our humble island in the safe hands of the Royal Navy.’