Medusa

‘All right, tell him to report anything he finds out. And keep an eye on them. Let me know if their numbers noticeably increase.’ He switched off, had a quick look through the other porthole, then returned to the table, muttering to himself. ‘I don’t like it.’

He didn’t talk much after that. The main course was roast lamb and he ate it quickly, jumping up every few minutes to glance out of the porthole. Coffee came and we both stood at the window to drink it. The numbers had grown. It looked as though there were at least forty or fifty men down there lounging in the shadows. ‘What the hell are they waiting for?’ He turned at a knock on the entrance bulkhead. ‘Well, what’s the form?’

His First Lieutenant was a thin gangling man with what I suspected was a permanently worried expression. He had to duck his sharp-nosed halberd of a head to enter. He looked forty-fiveish, but perhaps he was less. His name was Randolph Mault, and his rank was the same as Gareth’s. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. ‘Looks like they’re waiting for something to happen.’

‘Trouble?’

‘Could be a demonstration.’

‘Against us?’

The executive officer hesitated. ‘We know there’s an anti-British — anti-West at any rate — element in Malta. We’ve been briefed on that. And it’s supposed to be quite deliberately fostered and well organised.’

Gareth Lloyd Jones turned back to the porthole. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s probably why our people advised us to anchor out in the middle of the harbour. I thought at first it was because we’d be more conspicuous there, something to counteract the presence of that Russian cruiser, but it did cross my mind, when the Maltese authorities insisted on our lying alongside in this God-forsaken spot, that besides making us as inconspicuous as possible, it also made us more vulnerable to some shore-based whipped-up anti-Western feeling. Pity we didn’t rig the lights right round the ship.’ He stood for a moment, gazing out at the darkened quay and the figures grouped in the shadows.

The First Lieutenant had moved nearer so that he could also see down on to the quay. ‘What time is the shore party due back, do you know?’ he asked.

Gareth shook his head. ‘No time was specified on the invite.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Soon, I would think. And I told them to be sure they remained sober. Do you think they’ll be sober when they return?’

‘It’s not just a wine company, you know. It’s also a distillery. They produce a local brandy, also a sort of gin. I found one of their brochures in the wardroom bar. Apparently we’ve shipped some cases of their wine, or maybe it was a present — I’m not sure.’

Gareth turned abruptly from the window. ‘Very well.’ His voice was suddenly different, sharp and incisive. ‘Have young Kent go over to the company’s office — my apologies to the Director, but something has cropped up and the shore party is to return to the ship immediately.’ He produced a key from his pocket and passed it across. ‘Tell him to take the car we hired yesterday. It’s parked behind the shed there. And he’d better take somebody with him.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘And tell him to get a hustle on. I have a feeling all they’re waiting for now is someone to give them a lead.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The First Lieutenant turned and ducked quickly out.

‘I’d better leave,’ I said, but Gareth didn’t seem to hear me, standing very still at the porthole, watching. ‘If you’d be good enough to have one of your people signal to Thunderflash …’

He turned then. ‘No, no. You wait here till we get an answer from Menorca. Shouldn’t be long now.’ And he added, ‘I’m going up to the bridge — care to join me?’

We went up a flight of steps just outside his cabin. The bridge was dark and empty, only the glow of various instruments and a solitary figure, a senior petty officer, who came in from the head of the ladder leading down to the sidedeck. ‘Lieutenant Kent’s just leaving now, sir.’

‘Who’s he taking with him?’

‘’Fraid I don’t know, sir.’

‘Hastings.’ It was the First Lieutenant. He had just come on to the bridge. I recognised the rather high voice.

‘Good choice.’ Gareth Lloyd Jones nodded and turned to me with a quick smile. ‘He’s our PT instructor. Keeps us on our toes and the flab under control. That’s the theory of it, anyway.’

He went out through the bridge wing door on the port side and I followed him. From the head of the ladder we watched as the officer who had met me on arrival went quickly down the gangway, followed by a broad-shouldered, powerful-looking seaman. As they reached the quay there was movement among the shadows, voices sounding in the night, Maltese voices plainly audible above the continuous thrum of the ship. Suddenly a solitary voice was raised above the rest and the movement became purposeful, the shadowy figures coalescing into two groups and moving to block the way round the end of the storage shed.

‘Have the ten-inch signal lamp manned and put out a call for the photographer.’