Shadde stood in a small circle with the Ambassador, a Danish admiral and the local Anglican curate, looking around the room discreetly and saying as little as possible. He saw Keely—with a pretty girl, of course—moving over to join the noisy mob around Gallagher. At the far end of the room by the bar table, Symington and the doctor were laughing together. Also about Korsor?
He was wondering where Cavan had got to, when he saw him come into the room with the Ambassador's wife. Trust him, thought Shadde; been looking at some art treasure or other and saying exactly the right thing, and leading up somehow to the fact that he had served in the Royal yacht. Then they would start swapping names and being astonished at how many distinguished people they both knew. The thought nauseated Shadde.
Then he saw Rhys Evans and beckoned him over. He felt better when the Welshman joined them, but his eyes continued to search the room. He saw Symington and the doctor exchange their empty glasses for full ones. He couldn't be sure but he thought they'd done that two or three times in the last half hour. It irritated him that they were not moving about talking to people. He supposed Symington felt it was all too much of a bore. He would have him on the carpet next morning.
Then the First Secretary came up with a good-looking young woman who turned out to be his Danish secretary and whose name was Margrethe. She had attractive, friendly eyes and a wonderfully infectious laugh, and Shadde liked her at once. She was easy to talk to, and in five minutes he had that strange feeling of elation and all his bad humor had gone. In these moods there was so much to say, the words simply came tumbling out.
Rhys Evans saw the change come over the captain, and blessed the Danish secretary. Soon he left them together, talking so animatedly that they didn't even notice his going.
Over at the bar table Symington nudged the doctor. "Do my eyes deceive me, Patrick?"
"You mean the skipper and the piece of crumpet? Excellent!"
At that moment Shadde asked Margrethe to have dinner with him after the party.
"I'd love to," she said. "But I can't tonight."
A surge of disappointment swept through him. "Boyfriend?"
She laughed, a delicious tinkling laugh. "No. Old friend." She gave him an enchanting smile. "But do ask me again. You're my favorite submarine captain." Then she waved to him gaily and was gone.
Shadde looked at his watch. He couldn't leave yet, but now that she'd left the fun had gone too. He liked everything about her: the gay laugh; the attractive accent and the eager compelling friendliness, as if she knew you would like her and as if she were tremendously interested in everything about you. He wondered when he would see her again, if ever.
His thoughts were interrupted by a crash at the far end of the room. He saw a waiter on his knees and above him Symington and the doctor. They were struggling not to laugh, and they seemed to be apologizing. Shadde was sure that they were somehow responsible for the accident. He burned with humiliation and anger. What a performance for officers of his to put on at an Embassy party. He beckoned to Cavan. "Tell those two," Shadde hissed, pointing at them with his chin, "to return on board at once. I'll see them in the morning."
"Do you mean Symington and the doctor, sir?"
Shadde's eyes froze. "Yes. Who the hell else, d'you think?"
When the captain and Rhys Evans got back on board after dinner, Shadde insisted on a nightcap. Before he poured the drinks, however, Shadde went to the desk and took out the letter from the Flag Officer Submarines. He tossed it over to the engineer officer. "What d'you think of that?" he said.
Everybody had heard of the transfer but Evans wasn't supposed to know officially, so he went to some trouble to look surprised. "I'm sorry you're going, sir. But indeed it's understandable. They'd not leave a man with your experience afloat much longer." Shadde's eyes narrowed and he looked at the Welshman intently. "Notice FOS doesn't say why he's bringing me ashore earlier than he intended? D'you see how he skates around that?" "He'll tell you, sir. No doubt there's a good reason." "No," Shadde said emphatically. "He's bringing me ashore earlier because of recent events. What does he mean by that?" "Changes in the construction program, perhaps, sir." Shadde gave a dark, knowing look. "I've a shrewd idea it's something quite different."
"You'll be glad to be ashore for a while, sir, won't you?" Shadde came bolt upright in his chair. "Glad?" he said incredulously. "I hate the bloody idea, Chief. D'you realize it means the end of my sea time? The nearest I'll get to the boats will be chatting to their COs when they come to see the gilded staff. Why couldn't they leave me where I belong?"
Shadde poured stiff tots into two glasses and passed one to Evans. "Cheers," he said, and looked at his companion challengingly. "Rejoicing on board . . . about my departure?" It was more a statement of fact than a question. "Not true that, sir," said Rhys Evans.
"Oh, yes it is," said Shadde. "Didn't you notice Number One's embarrassment when I asked him to join us for dinner tonight? I'll wager he hadn't got another date. The whole thing is, he can't stand me."
Evans sighed. "He's not a man I'm liking much myself," he said. "But I've never heard him say a word against you."
"He's too careful to make that mistake," said Shadde. "The fact remains that I'm not liked by my officers, am I?"
The Welshman looked at him unhappily. "That's not true, sir," he protested, but he knew he didn't sound convincing.
"No! You can't bluff me, Chiefy. Nice of you to try. They hate my guts." Shadde leaned forward. "And d'you know what's at the bottom of it all?" Rhys Evans, pained that he couldn't help him, shook his head. "Symington!" said Shadde triumphantly. "When he joined the trouble started—and, of course, I know why. That bloody business in Sabre." "Sabre, sir?"
"You know. When his father was captain and I was Third Hand." The engineer officer was puzzled. "I don't know, sir." Shadde gave a dry laugh. "Nice of you to put on that act, Chiefy. But you do know. The night in the Lombok Strait."
"You're talking Greek, sir. I know nothing about the Lombok Strait."
Shadde looked up quickly. "Then you're the only officer in the wardroom who doesn't." He frowned. "Just possible they wouldn't tell you. They know you're pretty close to me."
"What is it you're talking of, sir?"
Shadde poured himself another whisky. "I think I'd better tell you. Perhaps you'd understand." In a disjointed, moving way he told the story. "It was a bloody awful thing to do," he ended hoarsely. "A cowardly thing. But I couldn't help it. I just couldn't help it, you know."
There was a long silence. Shadde sat hunched in the chair, head buried in his hands. "I'm sure Symington's not spoiled the story in the telling. And that's why my officers hate my guts."
Rhys Evans shook his head. "Never heard that story before, sir. Indeed, I doubt if anybody here has. Anyway, there's not a man would hold it against you. Every submariner knows it's easy to lose your nerve when you're young and inexperienced. It's happened to many fine men, too." There was sincerity in the Welshman's voice.
Shadde shrugged the remark away. "No good, Chiefy. I'll tell you something else. I wouldn't be surprised if FOS's putting me ashore hasn't something to do with Symington."
"With Symington?"
"His father's rich, influential. Knows the First Sea Lord. You can do these things if you know the top brass. How do I know what Symington's been writing to his father?" Shadde's eyes clouded with suspicion.
The engineer officer stood up and put his hand on the captain's shoulder. All the little Welshman's concern and affection showed in his face. "It's sleep you're needing, sir. You're a tired man and it's playing funny trucks with you."