To Risks Unknown Read online

Crespin nodded. The island arose from the sea in a dark blue hump, the top of which seemed to shine with a faint luminous glow. Soon the sun would make its appearance, and once again the little schooner would be pinned down in the glare like a moth on a sheet of silk.

  Coutts added quietly, ‘It’ll take about nine hours to reach the narrows and pass through the Strait.’

  They had discussed that moment many times in the last few days. Any sort of bravado at this stage was asking for trouble, and to attempt a night passage, even with its higher chance of success, would kill their hopes completely if a patrol boat discovered them slinking past the coast alone and with no good explanation. It would be far better to be obvious. To sail close inshore and join the other traffic of schooners and caiques, rusty freighters and all the hotchpotch of vessels which plied back and forth along the Dalmatian shoreline.

  With the roads and railways of their occupied territories under constant attack by roaming bands of partisans and bandits, the Germans made full use of every sort of sea transport available. It was easier to watch and protect. It was also easier to use if you wanted to avoid arousing too much interest.

  Crespin said, ‘We shall pass right by Valona Bay this afternoon.’ He was speaking his thoughts aloud. The port in question was on the Albanian coast east of the heel of Italy, the guardian of the gate. It was known to be used as a German naval base from where many of their patrols sailed to police the narrows and the mass of islands which screened the Adriatic coastline almost from end to end.

  Coutts yawned and spread his arms. ‘It’ll be September in a day or so. We’ll have been at war for four years.’ He grinned. ‘I never thought I’d end up in a situation like this.’

  Crespin studied him in the pale light. Coutts was wearing his smelly goatskin again, and in five days he had withdrawn to his old character, unshaven and long-haired, the picture of neglect and poverty.

  He made Crespin feel like a complete interloper, as did the rest of the schooner’s villainous-looking crew. They had insisted he should keep as smart as he could even at the expense of the scanty supply of fresh water. When he had protested Coutts had said coolly, ‘You must look the part, old chap. It won’t do for all of us to go ashore like a pack of bloody heathen.’ Crespin had to be content with this explanation for Coutts did not elaborate on it.

  Petty Officer Ross was standing straddle-legged at the wheel, his pipe jutting through his beard, his eyes switching between the compass and the sails. Crespin had hardly heard him speak more than a few words, and he noticed that the rest of the crew respected his self-imposed isolation.

  That was the strange thing about all of them, he thought. There was no outward discipline or any sort of routine, yet each seemed to know what to do and exactly when to do it.

  There was an able seaman called Preston, for instance. Crespin had spoken to him several times and marvelled at his tremendous range of knowledge, from politics to preparing explosive booby traps. He had a laconic, modulated drawl, and had in fact been to Eton. Unlike many Crespin had met he had not failed to obtain a commission or blotted his copybook to such a degree that his application had been turned down. He was one of the Navy’s happy misfits, and had refused to accept the chance of being an officer so many times that he had at last been allowed to sink into his own particular way of life.

  He was certainly a misfit. But Crespin knew others like him who had ridden astride two-man torpedoes deep into enemy harbours, or had been frogmen landed on defended beaches to clear obstacles and mark the way for a raid or an invasion. Their work was too secret and too dangerous to receive any publicity. They just got on with the job in their own way, as Preston was doing right now.

  Coutts remarked suddenly, ‘You know, it’s not going to be easy. Your Captain Scarlett doesn’t have much idea of these people we’re going to see.’

  When Crespin did not speak he added, ‘When the Germans first overran Yugoslavia their methods were so brutal that many of the people turned against them out of sheer necessity. They went to the hills and hit back as best they could. Blowing up bridges, sniping at despatch riders, all that sort of thing. The Huns, true to form, responded with even crueller measures. They killed hostages, even wiped out whole villages to show the Yugoslavs they meant business.’ He shook his head. ‘But they misjudged these people very badly. They’re tough and used to hard-living. They gave no quarter, and got none. The Germans have had to tie down whole divisions just to keep the roads open for supplies and communications.’

  Crespin filled his pipe and lit it carefully below the edge of the bulwark. ‘Well, what went wrong?’

  Coutts shrugged. ‘The usual thing. As the guerillas obtained more weapons and grew more successful there was growing unrest between their own groups. On the one hand you’ve got the partisans under Tito, and they’re mostly Communists like those chaps were in Sicily. And the others are the Chetniks. Royalists, for the want of a better description. When I was last in Yugoslavia, over a year back, it didn’t matter so much. But now it’s a different picture. Some say that the Royalists have actually been fighting Tito’s chaps, and that a large proportion of them have even been helping the Germans. So the question is, which side do we help?’ He stared intently through the smoke from Crespin’s pipe. ‘When I say we, I don’t mean some silly old clots in Whitehall, I mean you and I!’

  Crespin looked at the water sloshing against the hull. ‘It will all depend on which lot we meet first, I suppose.’

  Coutts smiled. ‘Of course, if we run into the Jerries we don’t have to bother. Things will all be decided for us!’

  Ross snapped, ‘Boat engines to the nor’-east!’ He was craning his shaggy head, one hand cupped to his ear. ‘Coming out from the land by the sound of it.’

  Coutts moved like a cat. He whipped out his Lüger and placed it carefully beneath a coil of rope by the bulwark. Hidden but within easy reach.

  ‘Roust out the lads, Skipper. I’ll take the wheel.’ To Crespin he said, ‘You go to your little nest under the cargo. I’ll give you a call if the patrol boat wants us to go aboard for cocktails!’

  Crespin hesitated, feeling the instant tension of alarm and danger. He could hear the crew tumbling from their bunks, the snap of metal as a Sten gun was loaded and jammed into some hiding place where it could be found and fired within seconds.

  Coutts said, ‘Go on. There’s nothing for you to do yet.’ His tone was different. Clipped and final.

  In the cabin he saw Preston taking a last look round to make sure there was nothing which might betray a casual inspection.

  He said, ‘I’ll shut you in, sir.’

  Crespin lowered himself down another ladder and through a coffin-like lid cut into the bilges amidst the piles of mixed cargo which covered the hidden boxes of ammunition and guns in a solid, entangled jumble. There were crates of dubious-looking wine and piles of dried fish. There were even rolls of barbed wire addressed to the garrison at Split, complete with an authentic German army despatch note.

  Preston watched Crespin lie down in the cramped, airless space and grinned. ‘One thing, sir. If we get blown up, you’ll not need to move. You’ve got your coffin on already!’ He was still chuckling as he jammed the boards into place and heaved something heavy over the top.

  Crespin lay in the stinking darkness feeling a sudden sense of panic. He thought of his new sub-lieutenant, Defries, and wondered how he would react under these circumstances. Suffering the claustrophobic nightmare of a submarine in total darkness and under a barrage of depth-charges had almost broken his nerve completely. This would surely drive him mad.

  Curiously, the thought seemed to steady him, and after a few minutes he was able to relax his body and ignore the pounding of his heart while he tried to listen to what was happening beyond his tiny prison.

  It was more of a vibration than a sound at first, and again he felt the sweat pouring over his chest and soaking across his groin. It was like those old dreams, reliving the horror of that other pa
trol boat, so that his body began to contract, as if waiting for the rattle of gunfire, the smashing impact of bullets.

  He heard muffled shouts and the clatter of rigging. Ross must be dropping his sails. Then the engines roared out, very loud, it seemed right against the side of his hiding place, and the whole hull shuddered and groaned, while the water between the two vessels was churned into a great maelstrom until with a final lurch they came tight together. The engines died, and in the sudden silence Crespin could hear the harsh bark of commands, the thump of booted feet on the schooner’s deck.

  It was impossible to know what was going on or how long it was taking. The sides of the hiding place were so low that Crespin could not move his wrist up to his eyes to see his luminous watch. The feet pounded up and down, with sharp, guttural voices intermingling with quieter, confused murmurings. But whatever was happening the patrol seemed to be carrying out an inspection. If nothing else it meant that the enemy was on a routine patrol. If they had been forewarned in any way of the schooner’s real mission they would have taken stronger action by now. Crespin wondered if the false documents and carefully aged permits would stand a close scrutiny, or if they had been changed since the Navy’s forgers had done their work.

  He stiffened as another hatch banged open and feet clattered down a ladder almost directly above him. He could see the yellow glare of lamps through a slit in the planking just by his face, and felt dust and sand falling across his mouth as boots grated right over his hiding place.

  A voice rapped out something in German, and he heard Coutts muttering a reply in a hoarse, wheedling tone which he hardly recognized. The German shouted an order and there were more scrapes and bangs as some of the cargo was moved.

  Crespin held his breath and waited for the planks to move and the first surprise give way to the flash of gun-fire. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to hold on to a picture of the girl as he had last seen her. Like the dream, soft and naked in his arms, shutting out the rest of the world in the fierceness of their love.

  Someone laughed and the feet halted again right above his face. He could even hear the leather creaking as the German swayed with the slow roll of the schooner’s deck.

  The lamplight dimmed, and seconds later the hatch was closed again. Another age passed, and then with a roar of power the patrol boat cast off and thrashed clear of the schooner’s side.

  The planks moved and Preston peered down at him. ‘Gone, sir. I hope you are feeling all right?’

  When Crespin reached the deck Coutts was standing beside the wheel, a cheroot drooping from one corner of his mouth. He held out his hand. ‘Keep down. The bastards might still be looking at us!’

  Crespin lifted his head slowly above the bulwark, conscious of the sunlight on the milky water, the fresh smells of freedom and escape.

  The patrol boat was already well away, her screws throwing up a mass of white foam beneath her counter, the bow wave creaming across to make the schooner rock uncomfortably in her wake.

  Coutts said slowly, ‘They took some of the wine, the greedy swine! But they were taking too long to check the papers. I had to do something.’

  Crespin turned towards the land. It looked very beautiful, and shrouded in pale sea mist, unreal and unreachable.

  He said, ‘That was close.’

  Coutts’ eyes were still on the distant boat. They were cold and filled with hatred. ‘He stood so near I could feel his bloody stomach rumbling. He’ll never know how near he came to getting a knife in his fat guts!’ Then he seemed to shake himself from his thoughts. He held up the papers and grinned. ‘And now we’ve got a nice new rubber stamp on these. In this war there’s nothing like a rubber stamp for oiling the wheels of diplomacy!’

  Crespin met his eyes and smiled. ‘No matter which side you’re on,’ he replied.

  Nine hours later, with her tan sails flapping in a gentle breeze and the old engine pouring out a cloud of rank fumes, the schooner edged past the fringe of Valona Bay. Here there were plenty of other such craft, and Crespin found himself wondering if some of them carried people like Coutts, on missions which were so vague and treacherous that there was neither yardstick nor guidance to ease their way.

  By nightfall they were well into the Adriatic, with the coast of Yugoslavia reaching out towards the starboard bow like a black shadow. If there had ever been thought of turning back it had gone now. Crespin sat on the hatch-cover and watched the phosphorescence dancing away from the bows, and listened to Ross humming a strange, lilting little tune. They were all committed, and when he thought of the many miles which had rolled away astern he wondered if they would ever be able to return. Here, time and distance meant nothing. Survival just a word.

  Yet as he listened to Ross and watched the stars on the dark, heaving water he knew he was glad to be here, even if he did not know the reason.

  Six days after the German patrol had stopped and searched the schooner she dropped her anchor in the lee of a small island called Gradz. The chart showed a tiny village on the southern side, but as Crespin clung to a foremast stay and strained his eyes through the darkness he found it hard to believe that anyone still lived there. That anybody could live on such a place. The island was barely four miles long, and surrounded by tall, sheer-sided cliffs. Below them the sea rumbled and hissed, daring any craft to move closer inshore and face the necklace of reefs which showed in the darkness in a broken line of breakers. The cliffs seemed unending, yet he knew they were in fact filled with steep inlets and coves, and he could hear the sea booming across the nearest one like water in a cave.

  The dawn could not be far away, but he was too tired even to look at his watch. During the past days there had been so many false alarms and disappointments that he no longer felt any room for hope.

  Around him the schooner swayed uneasily as she snubbed at her cable, and he could hear two of the seamen in the bows murmuring to each other as they peered into the choppy water watching for the first sign that the little vessel was dragging her anchor. For the sea was very deep here and the anchorage totally unsuitable for any craft, let alone one hiding from an enemy.

  And that was how it had been all along. Groping amidst the islands by night and hiding by day. Time and time again Coutts had gone ashore with Preston in the small dory to visit some village or to call on a tiny clump of fishermen’s huts huddled in a bleak inlet, and each time he had returned with little more than a curt shake of the head. Nobody it seemed would talk, at least not to him. Perhaps they were too frightened of reprisals, or maybe they were so long weighed down by occupation and war they had forgotten the meaning of resistance. They were neither hostile nor suspicious. They just shrugged and then waited for the schooner to leave. But it could not go on like this. They were courting disaster, and sooner or later they would be betrayed, or would stumble across another, more vigilant patrol boat.

  It was hard to tell what the schooner’s crew thought about it, but Coutts had withdrawn completely and hardly spoke to anyone but Preston. He was restless and moody, and once when Crespin had tried to draw him out he had snapped, ‘You can do your job when I’ve found these bastards. Until then for God’s sake leave me in peace!’

  And now they were here. It seemed like the end of the line. Beyond this rocky island lay the larger one of Korcula, and beyond that the unknown strength of the German occupation forces.

  He shivered and banged his hands together. It was damp and extremely cold, and unless Coutts returned very soon the ship would have to stay where she lay, exposed and obvious to anyone who cared to come and inspect her.

  Crespin walked slowly aft to where Ross leaned against the wheel, his unlit pipe clamped in his jaw.

  ‘How long has he been gone, Skipper?’

  Ross took the pipe from his mouth and tapped it on the spokes. ‘Three hours. Maybe more.’

  Crespin eyed him in the darkness. Ross sounded so untroubled by their predicament, even though Coutts might be lying dead, shot by some unexpected patrol or
drowned in a capsized dory.

  He said, ‘It looks a pretty inhospitable place.’

  ‘Aye.’ Ross seemed to consider it. ‘But there is a very fair anchorage beyond yon bluff. Deep water and good shelter on both sides. A place a ship could well make use of, I’m thinking.’

  Crespin thought of the Thistle lying at her moorings at Malta. It was hard to picture her here, hiding amidst bare cliffs with the enemy almost within gunshot. He found himself wondering if the admiral at Portsmouth or the commander in Gibraltar, or even Scarlett for that matter, had any idea of the dangers and complications involved when they devised this mission.

  Ross said suddenly, ‘The Germans cannot be too happy about their work here. Can you imagine the difficulties of patrolling such an area?’ He shook his head. ‘It must be like putting one English policeman to patrol the Irish frontier, except that here there is also a problem of language.’

  Crespin smiled. ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

  Ross shrugged. ‘You have to feel your way in this sort of warfare. You must be right for it. Now take that poor fellow Trotter for instance. He was a sad one to be sure.’

  Crespin stared at him. ‘You knew him?’

  ‘A passing acquaintance. In North Africa it was. Last year sometime, I forget exactly. He was working with the Special Service even then, but he was doing the work for the wrong reasons. He had made a failure of his previous life and thought this work would be more of an escape from his worries.’ He sighed. ‘I thought he might be killed, but not in the manner in which he has died.’

  Crespin looked past him towards the heaving water. The wind was breaking the surface into short, angry crests, and he could feel the spray soaking against his legs like rain. But he was thinking of Trotter. It was strange how he kept cropping up.

  He asked, ‘That was the last you saw of him then?’

  Ross nodded. ‘As I remember. I never really knew him though.’ He turned towards Crespin, his beard blowing out in the wind. ‘But surely Captain Scarlett will have told you about him?’