"He's a naval officer," said Sebastian, looking at the German with interest. "He's got an anchor on his cap bridge."
"Do me a favour, Bassie," pleaded Flynn.
"Of Course." Sebastian was ever anxious to please.
"Shut up!" said Flynn, without looking up from the contents of the officer's wallet which he had piled on the ground in front of him. In his dealings with Flynn, Sebastian had built up a thick layer of scar tissue around his sensitivity.
He went on without a change of tone or expression.
"I wonder what on earth a naval officer is doing in the middle of the bush, pushing these funny contraptions around. "Sebastian examined the wheel with interest, before addressing himself to the German. "Bitte, was it clos?" He pointed at the wheel. The young officer did not even glance at him. He was watching Rosa with almost hypnotic concentration.
Sebastian repeated his question and when he found that he was again ignored he shrugged slightly, and leaned across to lift a sheet of paper from the small pile in front of Flynn.
"Leave it," Flynn slapped his hand away. "I'm reading."
"Can I look at this, then?" He touched a photograph.
"Don't lose it," cautioned Flynn, and Sebastian held it in his lap and examined it. It showed three young men in white overalls and naval peaked caps. They were smiling broadly into the camera with their arms linked together.
In the background loomed the superstructure of a warship, the gun-turrets showed clearly. One of the men in the photograph was their prisoner who now sat against the wheel.
Sebastian reversed the square of heavy cardboard and read the inscription on the back of it.
"Bremerhaven. 6 Aug. 1911 Both Flynn and Sebastian were absorbed in their studies, and Rosa and the German were alone. Completely alone, isolated by an intimate relationship.
Gunther Raube was fascinated. Staring into the girl's face, he had never known this sensation of mingled dread and elation which she invoked within him. Though her expression was flat and neutral, he could sense in her a hunger and a promise. He knew that they were bound together by something he did not understand, between them there was something very important to happen. It excited him, he felt it crawling like a living thing in his loins, ghost-walking along his spine, and his breathing was cramped and painful. Yet there was fear with it, fear that was as cloying as warm olive oil in his belly.
"What is it?" he whispered huskily as a lover. "I do not understand. Tell me." And he sensed that she could not understand his language, but his tone made something move in her eyes.
They darkened like cloud shadow on a green sea, and he saw she was beautiful. With a pang he thought how close he had been to firing the Luger she now held in her hand.
I might have killed her, and he wanted to reach out and touch her. Slowly he leaned forward, and Rosa shot him in the centre of his chest.
The impact of the bullet threw him back against the metal frame of the wheel. He lay there looking at her.
Deliberately, each shot spaced, she emptied the magazine of the pistol. The Luger jumped and steadied and jumped again in her hand. Each blurt of gun-fire shockingly loud, and the wounds appeared like magic on the white front of his shirt, beginning to weep blood as he slumped sideways, and he lay with his eyes still fastened on her face as he died.
The pistol clicked empty and she let it drop from her hand.
Sir Percy held the square of cardboard at arm's length to read the inscription on the back of it.
"Bremerhaven. 6 Aug. 1911"" he said. Across the desk from him his flag-captain sat uncomfortably on the edge of the hard-backed chair. His right hand reached for his pocket, checked, then withdrew guiltily.
"For God's sake, Henry. Smoke that damned thing if you must, grunted Sir Percy.
"Thank You, sir." Gratefully Captain Henry Green completed the reach for his pocket, brought out a gnarled briar and began stuffing it with tobacco.
Laying aside the photograph, Sir Percy took up the bedraggled sheet of paper and studied the crude hand-drawn circles upon it, reading the descriptions that were linked by arrows to the circles. This sample of primitive art had been laboriously drawn by Flynn Patrick O'Flynn as an addendum to his report.
"You say this lot came in the diplomatic bag from the Embassy in Lourenco Marques?"
"That's right, sir."
"Who is this fellow Sir Percy checked the name, "Flynn Patrick O'Flynn?"
"It seems that he is a major in the Portuguese army, sir.) "With a name like that?"
"You find these Irishmen everywhere, sir." The captain smiled. "The commands a group of scouts who raid across the border into German territory. They have built up something of a reputation for derring-do." Sir Percy grunted again, dropped the paper, clasped his hands behind his head and stared across the room at the portrait of Lord Nelson.
"All right, Henry. Let's hear what YOU make of it." The captain held a flaring match to the bowl of his pipe and sucked noisily, waved the match to extinguish it, and spoke through wreaths of smoke.
"The photograph first. It shows three German engineering officers on the foredeck of a cruiser. The one in the centre was the man killed by the scouts." He puffed again.
"Intelligence reports that the cruiser is a "B" class. Nineinch guns in raked turrets."
""B" class?" asked Sir Percy. "They only launched two vessels of that class."
"Battenberg and Blikher, sir." "Blucher!"said Sir Percy softly.
"Blucher!" agreed Henry Green. "Presumed destroyed in a surface action with His Majesty's ships Bloodhound and Orion off the east coast of Africa between 16 and 20 September."
"Go on."
"Well, this officer could have been a survivor from Blitcher who was lucky enough to come ashore in German East Africa and is now serving with von Vorbeck's army.) "Still dressed in full naval uniform, trundling strange round objects about the continent?" asked Sir Percy sceptic ally
"An unusual duty, I agree, sir."
"Now what do you make of these things? "With one finger Sir Percy prodded Flynn's diagram in front of him.
"Wheels," said Green.
"For what?"
"Transporting material."
"What material?"
"Steel plate."
"Now who would want steel plate on the east coast of Africa?"mused Sir Percy.
"Perhaps the captain of a damaged battle cruiser."
"Let's go down into the plotting room." Sir Percy heaved his bulk out of the chair, and headed for the door.
His shoulders hunched, massive jaw jutting, Admiral Howe brooded over the plot of the Indian Ocean.
"Where was this column intercepted?" he asked.
"Here, sir." Green touched the vast map with the pointer.