30

Marshal Pétain, the greatest hero of France, had established his capital at a small city named Vichy. The victorious German army had drawn a demarcation line across the country, and the aging Marshal reigned supreme in the southern part. The line stretched to the Spanish frontier. He had been serving with the British Expeditionary Force that was rescued from the beaches of Dunkirk. The Royal Navy had destroyed the French fleet at Oran in North Africa, which had not endeared them to many Frenchmen. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor had fled to Spain, and then to Portugal. On the continent, General de Gaulle was regarded as a traitor.

The complications of these events on the French empire were profound, and were reflected in its possessions in the Near East, Africa, and as far away as Vietnam. Even the small islands of Saint Pierre et Miquelon, a few miles south of Newfoundland, were affected. They remained loyal to the marshal, much to the consternation of the authorities in Ottawa and Washington. Their major trump card was the largest submarine in the world, named Surcouf. It mounted a twin waterproof turret of two eight-inch guns and carried thirty torpedoes. The loyalty of its crew wavered between the general and the marshal, seeming to coincide with whatever harbour it visited on the east coast. The French island of Martinique in the West Indies was also loyal to the marshal. The submarine was a huge political embarrassment and a potential threat to the shipping lanes. The Royal Navy put a naval liaison party on board during one of its visits to Bermuda. Socially, the crew were popular in all of the ports.

During the Lady Hawkins’ brief stopover in Boston, Captain Griffith was visited by a stern man in a tweed suit and a hat that looked like it should belong to Sherlock Holmes. He was from the British Consulate in Boston, and carried top secret information regarding the disposition of the enemy in the north Atlantic. This information was staggeringly imprecise, but had to be hand delivered because of radio silence at sea. The captain was alarmed, but not much wiser. The German High Seas Fleet, including four battleships, was loose on the high seas, and no one knew where they were. The known presence of the Surcouf somewhere off Boston merely added spice to that dangerous brew. The U-boats would come later.

Captain Griffith placed his whisky and soda on the table and bent over a chart of the northwest Atlantic covering the sea-lanes from St. John’s to Charleston and out to Bermuda. He traced an imaginary line directly south from Halifax with his finger.

“We are within the Pan-American Neutrality Zone,” he said quietly. “Surely they wouldn’t venture within that with their big ships?”

His guest shifted in his seat and looked out of place in these nautical surroundings. His hair was grey and neatly parted; his face was craggy with parenthesis lines enclosing a narrow, down-turned mouth. His collar was too big for his sinewy neck.

“Who knows what the German High Command has in mind?” he asked. “They have the entire coasts of France and Norway to operate from now, and everything is heating up. Winston won’t buy any of their peace plans, so it’s a standoff. They have Russia on their side and we have the Yanks. The immediate problem is the Froggies, and specifically Surcouf.” He drained his glass.

“Maybe she’s headed for Martinique?” queried the captain. “She can’t be up to much trouble with a British liaison officer on board?”

“That only complicates matters,” replied the man from the consulate. “We don’t want to sink our own people but that sub is no earthly use to us. The French hold it in enormous esteem, however, and both sides are trying to capture the crew’s loyalty. That business at Oran probably scuttled our hopes for good, and de Gaulle has been furious ever since. It’s an untouchable menace.”

“I see,” said Captain Griffith as the other rose to his feet. “A sticky wicket, eh? Would you like one for the road?”

“Thank you, no,” answered the man from the consulate. “I must be getting along. You sail at dusk. Good luck—and I hope we haven’t upset you. It’s probably all just a flap, but there are too many coincidences for us not to take it seriously.”

“I understand,” said the captain. “I’ll see you to the gangway. Terrors of the deep existed even for Columbus. We’ll manage one way or the other.”

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” said the man sitting on the bunk with his legs crossed. His eyes were closed and he flexed the muscles of his neck in a ripple that caused MacQueen to look again in disbelief. He tossed his jacket onto the other bunk and went into the toilet. When he emerged, his companion was standing on tiptoe on the deck and stretching towards the ceiling. He was a very compact five-foot-six, with enormous biceps.

“Have to keep the old bod in shape,” he said, stretching one hand towards MacQueen. He spoke with a Harvard accent that was overlaid on an unfamiliar twang. His smile was totally humourless and his dynamism ricocheted back from the walls. “The name’s O’Dwyer,” he said. “And you’re MacQueen, right? Got shot in the army? Better learn how to duck.”

MacQueen shook the proffered hand and marvelled that it was dry. Not a drop of sweat showed on the man anywhere. He noticed the butt of a pistol protruding from under the pile of pillows.

“Are you planning a gunfight somewhere?” asked MacQueen.

“Naw,” said his cabinmate. “It’s just habit.” He withdrew the gun, flicked the magazine onto the bed, and ejected a round from the breech. “Colt .45,” he said, balancing it with admiration. “Best person-stopper on earth.” He handed it to MacQueen.

“What were you just doing?” asked MacQueen. He hefted the heavy automatic and aimed it at his reflection in the mirror. He pressed the trigger…click.

“Charles Atlas stuff,” said his new acquaintance. “Dynamic tension—great for confined spaces.” He placed his right fist into his left hand in front of his chest and pushed hard. His muscles swelled and the cords of his neck stood out. “Pit one muscle against the other,” he explained. “You can’t lose.”

MacQueen laid the gun carefully on the glass top of the bureau. “Can’t lose what?” he asked. Suspicion flickered in O’Dwyer’s narrow blue eyes. Is this kid making fun of me, he wondered? MacQueen’s face was expressionless.

“You’ll have to start exercising that arm,” said O’Dwyer cautiously. “Why don’t you try it?”

“I like to swim,” said MacQueen. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Everybody smokes,” replied O’Dwyer. “Go ahead, I can’t stop you. I’m used to it, as long as it isn’t cigars. How tall are you?”

“About six-foot,” said MacQueen.

“Shit,” exclaimed O’Dwyer. “Even in those goddamn Cuban heels I can’t get over five-eight.”

MacQueen sat on his bunk, and O’Dwyer reloaded his automatic. He shoved a round into the breech and locked it with the safety catch.

“It’s no personal achievement,” said MacQueen. “I guess it’s in the genes.”

“Yeah,” agreed O’Dwyer. “Napoleon was shorter than me.” He started to chin himself on the doorframe. “Great for the fingers” he said gasping. “Only a half inch to grip.”

MacQueen watched the performance with incredulity. Charles Atlas always had an advertisement in the magazine Operator 13, but he had always thought it a joke. Apparently it wasn’t in some circles, he mused. Someone must pay for those ads.