Gibraltar lay like a crouching lion across the sea, a vast lump of limestone on the southern tip of Spain, dominating the narrow stretch of water that was a cross-roads for ships hurrying east and west, to and from the Mediterranean, and north and south on the North African trade route.
It was never entirely foreign. The beer had a different label, sherry was a novelty and the brandy sometimes produced disastrous results, but the pubs and cafés were much the same as in Portsmouth, dispensing egg and chips for the sailors and providing pianos so they could thrash the keys in a sing-song when they felt like it.
Since the Ayala-Jeb el Aioun incident, the war had grown. In the early days it hadn’t been a real war at all, just a comic opera with an occasional death, run by the grandees of the Right against the dozens of parties of the Left, all known by a different set of initials – POUM, PSUC, FAI, CNT, UGT – who couldn’t even agree among themselves. The whole thing had been ruled by ‘mañana’ – tomorrow – that single word that seemed to regulate the whole of Spanish life, while the artillery shells that were fired were said to be so old and useless the belligerents just fired them back; there was even said to be one which had been going backwards and forwards for months.
It was different now. Russian support for the government had increased, and international brigades had been formed from volunteers from every country in Europe – many of them young men of wealthy families out to show their disgust at their parents’ indifference to the poverty and misery of the Depression by fighting for the wrong side. The reaction, of course, had been strong German and Italian support for the fascist revolutionaries which had brought their soldiers, aeroplanes and ships into the conflict. A policy of non-intervention was still being followed by the French and British Governments but with international meddling had come increased bitterness, and in a savage war of ideologies, it was now far from abnormal for women teachers to be stripped, marched about with shaven heads or even shot, and for priests to fight against priests and not hesitate to kill. To the Fascists the Republicans were ‘anti-Christ Marxist canaille,’ while to the Republicans, Franco’s men were ‘anti-Marxist priests’ bastards.’ It was hard to tell which were the most virulent in their hatred, with prisoners taken in arms shot out of hand and officers shot whatever the situation.
In February, the Nationalists had eliminated the Republican pocket round Malaga, with the Italians helping on land and the new German pocket battleship, Graf Spee, standing by in support. In April, the Kondor Legion of the German Luftwaffe had wiped out Guernica, the Basque market town. In May the destroyer, Hunter, had struck an Italian-made Nationalist mine off Almeria, with eight killed and nine wounded – and a fortnight later, Graf Spee’s sister ship, Deutschland, had been bombed by government aircraft off Ibiza, and after landing her wounded at Gib, had bombarded Almeria in revenge.
By this time, General Franco’s forces controlled the west and south coasts of Spain with part of the north, while the government held the east coast with the great ports of Barcelona and Valencia. Though a fascist blockade had been declared and considerable efforts had been made to enforce it, it had not been recognised by the British government and, attracted by enormous profits, British shipowners were now operating whole lines of small steamers to break it. Like Jeb el Aioun, they were constantly in trouble, and merchant ships of all nationalities continued to be sent to the bottom, while one British destroyer, narrowly missed by a torpedo, had not hesitated to call up her flotilla mates so that the Italian submarine which had fired the torpedo had only just escaped, damaged and unnerved. Nobody in the Navy was kidding themselves any more that the Spanish Civil War wasn’t the prelude to a major conflict. The gathering storm was just off the quarterdeck.
Walking home to his flat in Main Street under the Rock, Kelly stared round him at the towering fortress, wondering if it could be held. If war came would there be another great siege? Those whose job was the strategy of the British Empire had probably already abandoned it in their plans because a siege would be a useless piece of heroics.
It was clear the Germans were treating the Spanish war as a rehearsal for a more serious conflagration and, with the powers constantly trying to draw military lessons from it, Kelly himself had been involved in drawing up reports on the influence of the air on land and sea warfare. It had not been difficult to notice that, in air attacks on warships, though no ships had been sunk, many had been damaged and every endeavour was now being made to improve anti-aircraft armament.
Stopping by his door, he wasn’t looking forward to spending another evening alone. Yet he’d spent too many dining with people who had wives to feel he could impose any more. Even Rumbelo had gone now, his time in the Navy finished, and was back at Thakeham, near Esher, where his wife, Biddy, looked after the vast empty house Kelly owned. He’d gone with no regrets because, contrary to the romantic legends about the pull of the sea, there weren’t many long-serving sailors who didn’t happily give it up.
His hand in his pocket feeling for his key, Kelly wondered what he’d do when his own time came to retire. It couldn’t be far off because, unless something happened soon, he could see himself being passed over for captain’s rank in favour of the experts who’d built such a reputation in capital ships. Would he marry? He didn’t think so. Not again, though judging by the people who kept pushing their daughters at him, he supposed he must still be a good catch.
You, Kelly Maguire, he thought as he took out the key, are a bloody fool.
It was a thought that often came to him these days. Ten years before he would have believed that his life had been laid out for him: a steady climb up the ladder and a happy home provided by Charley Upfold, the one woman he’d loved all his life. But he’d been too involved with the Navy, and she’d escaped him to marry his term-mate, Kimister, and on Kimister’s death, had vanished to America – so he understood, to marry an American. He’d never heard from her since, while his own wife, Christina had left him for another naval officer, James Verschoyle.
He was just pushing the key into the lock when he was surprised to hear a voice calling inside the flat.
‘It’s open!’
Throwing the door back, he was confronted by a young man in grey flannels and tweed jacket.
‘Hugh! When did you arrive?’
‘This afternoon.’ The boy smiled. ‘The caretaker let me in.’
Kelly’s face was pink with pleasure. Out of the whole sorry business of his broken marriage, the only worthwhile thing that had come to him had been his stepson, Christina’s son by her first marriage. Twenty now, and on indifferent terms with his mother, he had spent all his time away from school or university with Kelly, visiting his ships with an enthusiasm that led Kelly to hope he might eventually join the Navy himself.
‘How long are you here for?’
‘I pick up a ship tomorrow for Naples. I’m doing some research at the university there.’
Kelly grinned and the boy mixed a pink gin for him. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘You’re old enough now. How’d you get here?’
‘James Verschoyle brought me. We came by car.’
Kelly made no comment. Though he and Verschoyle had spent all their youth at loggerheads, the dislike had disappeared in the muddled years of the thirties and had not returned even after Christina’s remarriage. It was curious, but Verschoyle was Verschoyle and nothing could change him.
‘What’s Verschoyle doing here?’ he asked.
‘Appointment to the admiral’s staff, I understand.’
‘Good for him. He might relieve me.’ Kelly finished his drink briskly. ‘Been to Thakeham lately?’
‘Yes,’ Hugh said. ‘Everybody sent their regards.’ He passed across a photograph. ‘That’s the house. I thought you’d like to have it.’
‘Who’s the sailor in the background?’
The boy laughed. ‘Your godson. Kelly Rumbelo.’
‘In uniform already? God that makes me feel old!’ Kelly paused. ‘How about you, Hugh? Have you ever thought what you’re going to do for a living?’
‘Not really. In fact, it seems funny to be thinking of work with a war coming.’
‘You think one is?’
‘Don’t you?’
Kelly paused. It was certainly rapidly becoming clear that, despite Russian help, the Nationalist superiority on land was growing decisive, and when it finally did, doubtless the Germans and the Italians would persuade Franco to raise the old cry of ‘Gibraltar for the Spanish!’ as a trigger to start another war in which they could legitimately take part.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I do. In which case you could always join the Navy.’
Hugh looked faintly guilty. ‘Isn’t the navy a bit out of date?’
Kelly’s face grew red. But then he hesitated. The politicians had always seemed more concerned with the expediency of party political ends than with long-term national interests and their subservience to the Treasury made them spoil every ship they touched for the necessary extra ha’p’orth of tar.
He took refuge in indignation. ‘Just let those buggers, Hitler and Mussolini, start something,’ he growled, ‘and you’ll soon see if we’re out of date.’
Hugh grinned at his expression. ‘I meant, hasn’t the Air Force become more important?’
The boy had a point, Kelly thought. If a war came, then certainly the Air Force would count for a great deal. Air power was going to be a decisive factor in the next bunfight, and that was something that had never been understood by the clots in Parliament or by the War Office and the Admiralty, probably not even by the bloody Air Ministry, come to that!
He pushed the thought aside.
‘Never mind the Navy for tonight,’ he said. ‘We’ll find somewhere good to eat. How about your mother? Seen her lately?’
Hugh shrugged. ‘Yes. But I don’t think she’s desperately interested in me – even now.’
‘How is she?’
Hugh looked up, puzzled. ‘She seems content enough.’ He clearly couldn’t understand how any woman who’d married her first husband out of pure selfishness and been the cause of the break-up of her marriage to the second, could possibly be content with her third. He hadn’t yet learned that things didn’t fit into neat patterns.
‘How about James Verschoyle? How do you get on with him?’
‘Surprisingly well really.’ Hugh frowned. ‘Do you hate him, Kelly?’
Kelly thought about it. Whatever else ‘Cruiser’ Verschoyle was – and, God knew, he had a soul that was still a dark tinge of grey at times! – he was always his own man, shrewd, clever, cynical, well aware of what was going on and determined to manoeuvre it to his own advantage.
‘No,’ he said equably. ‘Occasionally we even bump into each other professionally. We just don’t talk about our private lives and, as a naval officer, he’s among the best.’
Hugh looked puzzled and Kelly tried to explain. ‘As you grow older,’ he said, ‘you realise everything isn’t just black and white. There must have been something wrong with your mother and me because we never did anything but quarrel.’
Hugh frowned. ‘She never does anything but quarrel with James Verschoyle.’
‘But she’s stayed married to him, old son,’ Kelly said gently. ‘That’s something she didn’t do with me.’
They ate at the Rock Hotel. The place was full, and Kelly noticed more than one woman with her eyes on him. It didn’t bother him, because he often found people watching him, perhaps to see if a man with his country’s highest decoration for courage ate from his knife or was rude to waiters. They all knew him. Quite a few of them didn’t like him even, because it had always been his habit to say what he thought – especially about big ships. Forthrightness, he liked to think it was, though he knew that at times it bordered on downright rudeness. But at least people knew where they were; he’d never sought popularity, and he was far too old now to change.
‘Ever thought of marrying again, Kelly?’ Hugh asked.
Kelly’s head jerked up, as he realised his thoughts had been far away. ‘Once,’ he said. ‘No, twice. Once with Charlotte Kimister. You’ll remember I once took you to her house for tea when you were a boy.’
‘And the second time?’
‘A Spanish girl.’ Kelly’s smile was faintly embarrassed. ‘Bit younger than me but not so young as to be improper.’
‘What happened?’
Kelly took a sip of his wine. He’d noticed the girl several times when he’d visited Algeciras, just over the border in Spain. He’d thought at first she was one of the growing army of German and Italian agents watching the Rock, but then it had dawned on him that it wasn’t the Rock she was interested in but himself. She’d been introduced to him as Teresa Axuriaguerrera but it had turned out that she was the widow of the Conde de Fayon, who had been murdered in Madrid by Fascist troublemakers in 1936. It had been a warm, satisfying relationship, but after her disappearance there had been only one brief letter indicating that she’d thrown in her lot with the Basques in their fight for autonomy, and he’d been forced to suppose that her political beliefs were stronger than her need for a husband.
‘What happened?’ he said. ‘The war got in the way.’
He realised that the boy was watching him closely and had been all evening. ‘You’ve got something on your mind, old son,’ he said abruptly. ‘Don’t you think you’d better spit it out?’
Hugh frowned, ill at ease and uncertain. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I really broke my journey here to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘Well–’ Hugh met his gaze ‘–Paddy and I–’ ‘Who?’
‘Paddy. Pat Rumbelo. The Rumbelos’ daughter.’
‘Is that what you call her?’
Hugh affected surprise. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Not really. Mostly it was “Wally”. After Wally Hammond, the cricketer. She never failed to clout my leg-breaks over the fence.’
‘She’s decided to be a nurse. As soon as she’s old enough.’
‘Has she now?’ Kelly hadn’t missed the change of tone in the boy’s voice.
Hugh raised his head and stared him in the face. By God, Kelly thought, that’s his mother, because whatever else Christina was, she was no coward. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Paddy and I were wondering–’
‘–if I thought you should get married.’
Hugh grinned. ‘How did you know?’
Kelly smiled. Hugh had spent far more time at Thakeham than with his mother, sailing with the Rumbelo children, playing cricket, teaching Pat Rumbelo the finer arts of rugby football, cricket and wrestling. Kelly had been cutting the lawn the first time it had dawned on them that they were adult and he’d seen them untwine their young bodies from the half-nelson they’d been demonstrating and stare at each other, a lanky fair-haired boy and a petite dark-haired girl, both suddenly a little startled at their discovery.
‘Stuck out a mile,’ he said.
‘She suggested I should ask your opinion.’
‘Shows her good sense. It’s an indication of the Rumbelos’ intelligence that they have such clever children.’
‘Well, should we?’
Kelly smiled. ‘She’s a bit young still. Come to that, so are you.’
Hugh made a gesture that was faintly irritated. ‘A man’s got to think ahead a bit, ain’t he?’
Kelly smiled, pleased. And there, he thought, is me. Often he heard little inflections, small phrases he knew had been picked up from himself, and it was flattering, because it indicated the boy wished to emulate him.
‘I don’t mean now,’ Hugh went on. ‘I mean when we’re old enough.’
‘Which, I imagine, will be soon.’
‘Yes.’
Kelly paused. Charley Upfold had been only thirteen when she’d decided to marry him and she’d never once changed her mind until his own thoughtlessness had finished it all.
‘Age don’t really make much difference,’ he said slowly. ‘And females know their own minds much better than men. I’d certainly say marry her. But not until you can afford it.’
Hugh was smiling. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d see it my way.’
Kelly smiled back. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Every time. If only for the fact that when I was your age I didn’t.’
The following morning, Kelly drove Hugh to the quay for the steamer to Naples, then headed slowly back to his flat to pick up his briefcase. As he entered, the telephone was ringing and he snatched it up fiercely.
‘Admiral’s secretary, sir. I’ve been trying to get you for some time. The admiral would like to see you.’
‘What about?’
‘There’s a job he wants doing, sir.’
Kelly put the telephone down slowly. He’d grown used to being Corbett’s hatchet man. His languages dispensed with interpreters, which was no bad thing, and, he suspected, he’d become known for his cool cheek. He’d been sent into Bilbao in April because the British Government had been dodging its responsibilities to eager British shipping with the claim that the approaches were mined and the coastal guns insufficient to deter Nationalist warships. He’d found that the mines were 1914–18 types, all useless and all swept, anyway, while the approaches were controlled by batteries of modern guns crewed by men trained by one of the finest artillerists in Spain, and Westminster had had to climb down. With Hood waiting outside the place with her fifteen-inch rifles, the supply ships that had slipped in had kept the town’s resistance going until June, when he’d gone in a second time to bring out what was left of the British residents.
It was Verschoyle who met him as he appeared in Corbett’s office. He hadn’t changed much and was as languid and good-looking as ever.
‘Hello, Cruiser,’ Kelly said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Being groomed to take over your job, I suspect.’ Verschoyle smiled. ‘You’re away so often fixing things, the admiral thought he needed another assistant.’
‘How’s Christina?’
Verschoyle looked faintly sheepish. It was an odd expression for one who was normally so arrogant. ‘All right. She gives me hell a lot of the time but I’m no angel either and somehow it works.’
Kelly felt no resentment. There had been a time when he’d hated his former wife but he’d long since recognised that his marriage had been a disaster and as much his own fault as hers. He glanced pointedly at Verschoyle’s thickening middle. ‘You’re getting fatter,’ he said. ‘More of a battle cruiser than a light cruiser these days.’
Verschoyle smiled. ‘Fleshpots are too easy to come by with a wife like Christina,’ he said. ‘She has too much money.’
‘What am I wanted for?’
‘Seems Santander’s about to fall to the Nationalists and there are a bunch of nuns there whose lives are in danger. They’re being held as hostages, but it appears there’s an unidentified local authority up there who’s willing to exchange them for two “loyal” generals who’ve been held in custody in Mallorca. The British vice-consul’s sorted out the details with the aid of a Roman Catholic priest called Father Eufemio. It seems we have the generals in Gib now, and we have the name of a woman who knows where to find him.’
Admiral Corbett was perusing a report as Kelly opened his door and he waved wordlessly at a chair. For the Navy, there was plenty to worry about just then because the Germans and Italians were parading in the Spanish waters big new ships that made the British vessels look as outdated as the dodo.
He put the report down at last. ‘Sorry to drag you out, Kelly,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard what it’s about?’
‘Is Santander in our diocese, sir?’
‘As much as Bilbao was,’ Corbett said. ‘Home Fleet’s asked us to help and you’ve become a sort of naval Scarlet Pimpernel. There doesn’t seem to be any other choice.’
Kelly drew a deep breath. ‘Sir, I don’t think Intelligence is my strong point.’
Corbett looked up. He’d had a high opinion of Kelly ever since the trouble in Rebuke at Invergordon. ‘You’re pretty good at it all the same,’ he pointed out.
‘I’m best at sea, sir, and that’s where I think I ought to be.’
Corbett stared at his fingers for a moment, deep in thought. ‘Intelligence,’ he insisted, ‘is finding out what you don’t know from what you do. It’s what the Duke of Wellington called guessing what’s at the other side of the hill, and if the Germans and Italians remain as awkward as they are at the moment and a war comes out of it, then we’ll need a few good guessers.’
He paused, as if he’d said his last word on the subject, then went on quickly. ‘You’ll know about the nuns,’ he said. ‘And there are also a few other odds and ends to be collected. Fortunately, there’s a woman called Jenner-Neate who runs the Child Relief Fund and she knows them all. It’ll take you three or four days, I imagine, so fetch ’em out, Kelly, and I’ll see you go back to sea.’
Kelly grinned. ‘How do I get there, sir?’ he asked.
‘We have the hostages in Badger. She’s up there waiting for you.’
‘And me, sir?’
‘You’re a pilot, aren’t you? You’d better fly. There’s a woman at the Presidencia who has all the details, but just be a bit diplomatic how you ask for her because it seems she’s already being watched, and the police chief’s a fanatic called Neila who used to be leader of the Santander Socialists, and takes his victims for what he calls a “paseo” at night or in the early morning. “Paseo’s” a euphemism for a ride á la Al Capone. So, make sure you keep your nose clean. We don’t want to have to use diplomatic pressure to make sure it doesn’t happen to you. You were asked for by name, by the way. The woman seems to know you. Teresa Axuriaguerrera. Know her?’
Kelly’s heart gave an unexpected thump. Did he know her? Not half he didn’t! It was like something coming out of the past, what had been a pleasant dream suddenly becoming flesh and blood in front of him.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said briskly. ‘I know her.’
‘Then–’ Corbett knew Kelly well and he shot him a sidelong glance ‘–you’d better get on with it, hadn’t you?’