Mallory turned away, ducked under the billowing lug-sail, walked slowly aft. What a set-up, he thought, what a bloody mess. Three days to go, engine u. s. and a first-class storm building up. He thought briefly, hopefully, of Squadron Leader Torrance's low opinion of the backroom boys of the Met. Office, but the hope was never really born. It couldn't be, not unless he was blind. The steep-piled buttresses of the thunderheads towered up darkly terrifying, now almost directly above.
Looks pretty bad, huh? The slow nasal drawl came from immediately behind him. There was something oddly reassuring about that measured voice, about the steadiness of the washed-out blue of the eyes enmeshed in a spider's web of fine wrinkles.
It's not so good, Mallory admitted.
What's all this force eight business, boss?
A wind scale, Mallory explained. If you're in a boat this size and you're good and tired of life, you can't beat a force eight wind.
Miller nodded dolefully.
I knew it. I might have known. And me swearing they'd never get me on a gawddamned boat again. He brooded a while, sighed, slid his legs over the engineroom hatchway, jerked his thumb in the direction of the nearest island, now less than three miles away. That doesn't look so hot, either.
Not from here, Mallory agreed. But the chart shows a creek with a right-angle bend. It'll break the sea and the wind.
Inhabited?
Probably.
Germans?
Probably.
Miller shook his head in despair and descended to help Brown. Forty minutes later, in the semi-darkness of the overcast evening and in torrential rain, lance-straight and strangely chill, the anchor of the caique rattled down between the green walls of the forest, a dank and dripping forest, hostile in its silent indifference.
CHAPTER 4
Brilliant! said Mallory bitterly. Ruddy well brilliant! 'Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly. He swore in chagrin and exasperated disgust, eased aside the edge of the tarpaulin that covered the for'ard hatchway, peered out through the slackening curtain of rain and took a second and longer look at the rocky bluff that elbowed out into the bend of the creek, shutting them off from the sea. There was no difficulty in seeing now, none at alclass="underline" the drenching cloudburst had yielded to a gentle drizzle, and grey and white cloud Streamers, shredding in the lifting wind, had already pursued the blackly towering cuniulonimbus over the far horizon. In a clear band of sky far to the west, the sinking, flame-red sun was balanced on the rim of the sea. From the shadowed waters of the creek it was invisible, but its presence unmistakable from the gold-shot gauze of the falling rain, high above their heads.
The same golden rays highlighted the crumbling old watchtower on the very point of the cliff, a hundred feet above the river. They burnished its fine-grained white Parian marble, mellowed it to a delicate rose: they gleamed on the glittering steel, the evil mouths of the Spandau machine-guns reaching out from the slotted embrasures in the massive walls, illumined the hooked cross of the swastika on the flag that streamed out stiffly from the staff above the parapet. Solid even in its decay, impregnable in its position, commanding in its lofty outlook, the tower completely dominated both waterborne approaches, from the sea and, upriver, down the narrow, winding channel that lay between the moored caique and the foot of the cliff.
Slowly, reluctantly almost, Mallory turned away and gently lowered the tarpaulin. His face was grim as he turned round to Andrea and Stevens, in-defined shadows in the twilit gloom of the cabin.
Brilliant! he repeated. Sheer genius. Mastermind Mallory. Probably the only bloody creek within a hundred miles and in a hundred islands with a German guard post on it. And of course I had to go and pick it. Let's have another look at that chart, will you, Stevens?
Stevens passed it across, watched Mallory study it in the pale light filtering in under the tarpaulin, leaned back against the bulkhead and drew heavily on his cigarette. It tasted foul, stale and acrid, but the tobacco was fresh enough, he knew. The old, sick fear was back again, as strongly as ever. He looked at the great bulk of Andrea across from him, felt an illogical resentment towards him for having spotted the emplacement a few minutes ago. They'll have cannon up there, he thought dully, they're bound to have cannon couldn't control the creek otherwise. He gripped his thigh fiercely, just above the knee, but the tremor lay too deep to be controlled: he blessed the merciful darkness of the tiny cabin. But his voice was casual enough as he spoke.
You're wasting your time, sir, looking at that chart and blaming yourself. This is the only possible anchorage within hours of sailing time from here. With that wind there was nowhere else we could have gone.
Exactly. That's just it. Mallory folded the chart, handed it back. There was nowhere else we could have gone. There was nowhere else anyone could have gone. Must be a very popular port in a storm, this a fact which must have become apparent to the Germans a long, long time ago. That's why I should have known they were almost bound to have a post here. However, spilt milk, as you say. He raised his voice. Chief!
Halo! Brown's muffled voice carried faintly from the depths of the engine-room.
How's it going?
Not too bad, sir. Assembling it now.
Mallory nodded in relief.
How long? he called. An hour?
Aye, easy, sir.
An hour. Again Mallory glanced through the tarpaulin, looked back at Andrea and Stevens. Just about right. We'll leave in an hour. Dark enough to give us some protection from our friends up top, but enough light left to navigate our way out of this damned corkscrew of a channel.
Do you think they'll try to stop us, sir? Stevens's voice was just too casual, too matter of fact. He was pretty sure Mallory would notice.
It's unlikely they'll line the banks and give us three hearty cheers, Mallory said dryly. How many men do you reckon they'll have up there, Andrea?
I've seen two moving around, Andrea said thoughtfully. Maybe three or four altogether, Captain. A small post. The Germans don't waste men on these.
I think you're about right, Mallory agreed. Most of them'll be in the garrison in the village about seven miles from here, according to the chart, and due west. It's not likely
He broke off sharply, stiffened in rigid attention. Again the call came, louder this time, imperative in its tone. Cursing himself for his negligence in not posting a guard such carelessness would have cost him his life in Crete Mallory pulled the tarpaulin aside, clambered slowly on to the deck. He carried no arms, but a halfempty bottle of Moselle dangled from his left hand: as part of a plan prepared before they had left Alexandria, he'd snatched it from a locker at the foot of the tiny companionway.
He lurched convincingly across the deck, grabbed at a stay in time to save himself from falling overboard. Insolently he stared down at the figure on the bank, less than ten yards away it hadn't mattered about a guard, Mallory realised, for the soldier carried his automatic carbine slung over his shoulder insolently he tilted the wine to his mouth and swallowed deeply before condescending to talk to him.
He could see the mounting anger in the lean, tanned face of the young German below him. Mallory ignored it. Slowly, an inherent contempt in the gesture, he dragged the frayed sleeve of his black jacket across his lips, looked the soldier even more slowly up and down in a minutely provocative inspection as disdainful as it was prolonged.
Well? he asked truculently in the slow speech of the islands. What the hell do you want?