Redfalcon E-Book

Robert J. Harris

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Richard Hannay Returns
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 365

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Richard Hannay Returns. JULY, 1942. Once again veteran adventurer Richard Hannay is called into action on a mission that will test him as never before. At stake is the fate of the beleaguered island of Malta where Hannay's son is stationed as a fighter pilot. The German master spy Ravenstein has stumbled upon a centuries old secret which will give the Nazis the key to conquering Malta and so take control of the entire Mediterranean. To stop them, Hannay and his allies the Gorbals Diehards must track down the mysterious Karrie Adriatis, who alone knows the nature of the ancient secret. The quest takes them on a perilous journey from Gibraltar, to Casablanca, to the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, and finally on to Malta itself. Here Hannay and Ravenstein come face to face in a battle that will determine the future of the war. Before James Bond, before Indiana Jones, fiction's greatest action hero was Richard Hannay, who first appeared in John Buchan's classic thriller The Thirty- Nine Steps. Robert J. Harris has now revived Richard Hannay in a thrilling adventure series in the tradition of John Buchan and Alistair Maclean.

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR THE RICHARD HANNAY RETURNS SERIES

‘Riveting . . . The can-do spirit of Mr Harris’s book evokes a time when it seemed the fate of the world might hinge on the acts of a handful of brave souls. The Thirty-One Kings is old-fashioned in many ways – which is what makes it such a reassuring pleasure to read’Wall Street Journal

‘The plot whips along, embellished by dogfights, perilous car journeys, personal vendettas and plenty of derring-do – plus a whiff of enjoyable parody’Daily Mail

‘A loving tribute to Buchan . . . and thoroughly good fun’The Scotsman

‘This fast-moving tale will delight Buchan fans . . . gripping and fun’Country Life

‘Harris revives the lost art of the atmospheric, erudite, page-turning adventure story’Anthony O’Neill

A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

Robert J. Harris was born in Dundee and studied at the University of St Andrews, graduating with a first-class honours degree in Latin. He is the designer of the best-selling fantasy board game Talisman and has written numerous children’s books including the Artie Conan Doyle Mysteries, a series featuring the youthful adventures of the creator of Sherlock Holmes. His Richard Hannay series has been acclaimed by critics and readers alike. The Thirty-One Kings was listed by The Scotsman as one of the fifty best books of 2017. The second book in the series, Castle Macnab, was published two years later. Robert lives in St Andrews with his wife Debby.

ROBERT J. HARRIS

REDFALCON

Richard Hannay Returns

First published in Great Britain in 2024 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.

Birlinn Ltd

West Newington House

10 Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.polygonbooks.co.uk

Copyright © Robert J. Harris 2024

The right of Robert J. Harris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978 1 84697 485 4

eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 661 4

Typeset by 3btype.com, Edinburgh

To Fiona, the Great Woman

CONTENTS

Preface

PART ONE: THE MISSION

1 A Meeting with Lazarus

2 A Surprising Invitation

3 The Red Hawk

4 Footsteps in the Dark

5 A Rogue for Hire

6 A Close Pursuit

7 The Jacobite Rising

8 Glasgow Belongs to Me

9 A Devil’s Bargain

10 The Knights’ Secret

PART TWO: THE ROCK

11 HMS Gibraltar

12 An Encounter with Artemis

13 A Thief in the Night

14 The Warriors of God

15 The Fourth Knave

16 The Cross of Lorraine

PART THREE: THE REFUGE

17 The Shores of Barbary

18 Casablanca

19 The Blue Paradise

20 Antiques and Curios

21 The Game Players

22 The Plagues of Egypt

23 ‘You Are a Gazelle’

24 The Pillars of Heaven

25 The Way to Kedesh

26 Holy Ground

27 The Message

PART FOUR: THE FORTRESS

28 The Lifeline

29 The Adversary

30 The Turn of the Cards

31 Knights of the Air

32 The Besieged

33 The Spark of Hope

34 The Path of Salvation

35 The Face of the Enemy

36 Safe Harbour

Author’s Note

PREFACE

This novel was inspired by the immortal characters and classic stories of John Buchan, particularly the adventures of Richard Hannay and the Gorbals Die-Hards. It was also inspired by the real-life courage of the defenders of Malta, both in 1565 and in 1942.

PART ONE

THE MISSION

1

A MEETING WITH LAZARUS

I suppose every man at some point in his life wonders what he has got left in him. With a wealth of experience behind him and a shortening future to the fore, he must make certain decisions, whether past achievements have given him the right to leisure and contentment or he is honour-bound to strive against the odds up to his very last breath. There had been a period in my life when I had found peace and fulfilment in running my small country estate while enjoying the love of my wife Mary and the occasional company of good friends, but outside events had broken in on my idyll.

First there was the affair of the three hostages, in which Mary played a crucial role, then the business in the Norlands, where our son Peter John, though still in his teens, found himself at the centre of the action. Finally, with the coming of the war, all thoughts of peace and comfort had to be set aside as I was summoned to action once more.

I had returned home wounded from my mission to Paris in 1940, barely escaping the advancing German army. More grievous than any personal injury was the loss of my friend Sandy Clanroyden on that mission, but I knew that his was just one of the many sacrifices our country would have to make if we were to overcome a foe who appeared at that stage to be all but invincible.

Stiffened by the resolve of Prime Minister Churchill, the country stood firm and the threat of invasion was turned aside by our brave pilots, who drove the Luftwaffe from the skies. Peter John, now a grown man, was one of those fliers, his boyhood love of falconry evolving into an obsession with flight that had led him to join the RAF at the first opportunity.

For me, my contribution to the war effort now took the form of a desk job as a special intelligence consultant. It was a high-sounding title, but it meant being shut in my Whitehall office day after day, studying intelligence reports gathered from agents overseas as well as from the government’s secret decoding station, the location of which was known only to a few. I was to review this bewildering array of information and pass on my assessment of enemy intentions, possible infiltration and potential targets.

It didn’t sit well with me to be occupied in safety and comfort while other men were out there taking all the risks. Granted that my speed and physical stamina were somewhat diminished, I still felt that my ability to endure hardship and battle my way out of the most hazardous corner was as strong as ever. I consoled myself with the thought that over the years I had seen more than my fair share of action, and if this was how Richard Hannay could best serve his country, then I would carry out these desk-bound duties with all the determination of a soldier fighting to hold the front line.

All that was about to change when I entered my office on a particularly overcast July morning. It was now 1942 and I had in my pocket a letter from Peter John which had arrived the previous day. In February he and his squadron had been sent to Malta to defend that beleaguered outpost. He was forbidden, of course, to touch directly upon military matters in his correspondence, but even reading between the lines it was clear that things were very rough out there.

The dull weather had cast the office into such a deep gloom that I was forced to switch on the overhead light in order to find my way around. I saw at once a fresh pile of folders heaped high on my desk, a sight which drew a sigh of resignation. I sat down in my chair and glanced at the photograph of Mary which sat off to my left.

She too was now in uniform, heading up the newly formed Royal Nursing Auxiliary. I was one of the few who knew that as well as its genuine medical duties, that organisation also acted as a cover for certain activities of the Special Operations Executive. Churchill had ordered the SOE to ‘set Europe ablaze’, hitting the Germans hard with acts of sabotage and local resistance until such time as we could turn the tide of battle by more direct means.

Mary’s role became especially crucial when the bold and controversial decision was made to train women as agents who would be dropped into occupied France to organise and encourage resistance there. With her back-ground in military intelligence during the last war, she was the ideal person to supervise the training of these new female operatives. She was based now at the SOE’s heavily protected centre at Foxton Castle in Norfolk, and it had been weeks since we had been together. How I longed for the day when all three of us could be reunited once more.

Setting such thoughts aside, I turned my attention to work, massaging a crick in my neck while I reached for the topmost folder. During the night my sleep had been disturbed by the noise of planes passing overhead and one or two distant detonations. My dreams thereafter had been the sort that leave a man tense and unrefreshed in the morning.

I had barely scanned the first page of the file when one of my aides, young Corporal Howell, entered my office and saluted smartly.

‘A message has come in for you, sir.’ He added meaningfully, ‘On the blue phone.’

I was well aware that particular telephone number was known to only a select few. ‘A message from whom?’

‘The caller didn’t say, but he was very insistent that you go at once to this address.’

He handed me a piece of paper and I recognised the location at once. I pushed aside the stack of reports and stood up. ‘Fetch a car, please, Howell, and drive me there.’

Howell saluted again and hurried to obey the order.

Minutes later we were headed directly to Traill’s bookshop in Mayfair, which was owned by my American friend John Scantlebury Blenkiron, who used it as a front for his secret intelligence activities. I had seen little of him since my return from France, and even at Sandy’s funeral he had stayed well in the background, emerging only to offer comfort to Sandy’s widow Barbara, who was also Blenkiron’s niece. I was well aware that in the eyes of our enemies he was a marked man and so had to be circumspect in all his movements.

As soon as we pulled up, I leapt from the car and felt my stomach lurch in shock at the horrifying sight. The bookshop had been utterly destroyed by a German bomb and in its place was a pile of shattered rubble. Somewhere under that heap would be the collapsed remains of the secret inner room where I had more than once met with my old friend to plot and plan. The breeze kicked up handfuls of charred pages from the burnt books and sent them twirling through the air like dead leaves. The area had been roped off and through a haze of dust I saw the rescue workers picking their way through the mound of bricks and mortar. It was clear from their weary movements and gloomy expressions that they held out no hope of finding anyone alive.

People passing in the street had witnessed so much destruction, and some of it much worse, that they scarcely spared a glance for this latest evidence of the ongoing enemy assault. One thin figure, however, stood alone on the other side of the road, his hands buried in his pockets, his eyes fixed upon the desolate scene. I recognised him at once as the austere clerk who looked after the shop and served as Blenkiron’s first line of security.

I dismissed Howell, telling him I would make my own way back to Whitehall. Then I approached the grim watcher. He recognised me at once and shook his head in glum resignation to the unkindness of fate.

‘Henry, isn’t it?’ I said by way of greeting.

He nodded. ‘A sad day, sir, a very sad day.’

I glanced over at the ruined bookshop and scarcely dared give voice to my fears. ‘Mr Blenkiron?’

‘He was working late last night, sir, at his confidential business. He would surely have been in his inner office when the bomb fell. I have been to his apartment to check, and he never returned home.’

Contemplating the shattered building, I clenched an angry fist. It seemed impossible that the enemy could be so precise in their bombing, and yet Blenkiron had long been a prime target for them. There was something not right about this, I felt, some sense of a deeper plot at work that made me uneasy.

I was stirred from my suspicions when Henry directed my attention to a café at the end of the street. ‘Might I suggest, sir, that we share a coffee, a sort of toast to Mr Blenkiron’s memory?’

This invitation from so austere a man was as welcome as it was unexpected and I readily agreed. The thought of going back to my office to work my way through an endless stream of complex reports did not appeal. In my present state of grief and frustration, my judgement was likely to be seriously impaired.

There were only a few customers in the café and none of them paid us any attention as we entered. The clatter of plates, the low murmur of conversation and the sharp hiss of a heated urn brought a comforting sensation of domesticity into this most solemn of mornings.

Henry directed me to be seated at a small wooden table while he fetched our beverages. He returned with two cups of hot black coffee which he set down as deftly as a waiter at the Ritz. Straightening, he appeared strangely hesitant to be seated when I waved him to the empty chair. ‘Perhaps we can share a few reminiscences,’ I suggested.

Henry answered with a strange expression on his hollow-cheeked face. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary, sir.’

I was quite baffled by this response, and then I heard a familiar sound behind me. It was the riffling of a thumb being drawn over the edge of a deck of cards and it immediately jogged an image in my memory.

The recognition prompted me to turn about sharply towards an adjacent table. Here I saw a large, stout man in an overcoat toying with a well-worn pack of playing cards. His features were initially concealed beneath the brim of his fedora, but now he looked up to reveal a face that, despite the lines of age, still retained that cherubic quality I knew so well.

‘Blenkiron!’ I gasped under my breath.

I was so relieved and delighted to see my old comrade alive, it was all I could do not to leap up and embrace him. I realised that his apparent death must be part of one of those devious schemes he was so fond of devising, and that the last thing I should do was draw attention to him.

With a mischievous twinkle in his lazy eyes, John Scantlebury Blenkiron hoisted up his substantial bulk and transferred it to the seat opposite me, bringing his coffee with him. Henry had already vanished without a sound.

My old friend laid the playing cards to one side. ‘I got through five games of solitaire waiting for you to show up,’ he drawled. ‘Here, let me sweeten that a bit.’

He pulled a hip flask from his pocket and added a dash of brandy to each of our cups. ‘I know it’s still early enough for the birds to be wiping the sleep out of their eyes, but this is in the nature of a farewell toast.’

‘I’m just relieved it’s not a wake,’ I said as we clinked cups and took a swallow. The bitter taste of the coffee was indeed much improved by the added ingredient. ‘So the bomb . . .’

‘. . . was an explosive I set myself before sneaking out the back way. Let’s face it, it’s pretty much how my detractors would have wanted me to go, blasted to smithereens by one of their five-hundred-pounders.’

‘I suppose it was you who made the phone call that brought me here,’ I guessed. ‘I must say it was a bit of a filthy trick, giving me a turn like that.’

‘It was,’ Blenkiron acknowledged, ‘but it guaranteed that anybody keeping watch on the shop to make sure I was dead would have taken your reaction as confirmation that I was a stone goner. I flattered myself that my friendship rides high enough in your estimation for my decease to hit you pretty hard.’

‘I should say so,’ I agreed ruefully.

‘So you’ll appreciate that I’ve kept your period of mourning to a bare minimum. Though I do need you to keep up a glum show for everybody else’s benefit. The fewer souls who know I’m walking around like Lazarus, the better.’

2

A SURPRISING INVITATION

‘But Henry was in on the trick all along,’ I surmised.

Blenkiron indulged in a low chortle. ‘Sure, but that stony face of his never gives anything away. Take my advice and never play poker with that gent.’

I tapped the side of my cup. ‘You said this was in the nature of a farewell toast.’

He took a swallow and smacked his lips. ‘You know better than anyone, Dick, that over the years I’ve done our enemies more than a few bad turns. Now that the gloves are off they’ve been itching to pay me back in spades, so it seemed like a smart move to make them think I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil.’

‘And where exactly are you shuffling off to?’

‘Well, not to Buffalo,’ he joked. ‘I’ll be on a flight to Washington tonight. Mr Roosevelt wants to pick my brains about how things stand here in Europe. He’s also mighty interested in any notions I have about stiffening up the security of our own country.’

‘You’re going to be a very busy man,’ I predicted.

‘Just like you, Dick. I hear they’ve loaded you with a job as a heavy thinker too.’

‘That just goes to show how fallible the military mind can be.’ I laughed.

Blenkiron scrutinised me through narrowed eyes. ‘It suits a fellow of my bulk well enough to just settle into an easy chair and put his brain through its paces, but I know it doesn’t sit well with a man like you.’

I gave a grunt of resignation. ‘You know what those sheafs of reports are like. It takes the patience of a saint and the eye of an eagle to pick out whatever’s worthwhile in them.’

‘Well, if you’re getting restless, I may have something for you.’ He slid an envelope across the table to me. On it was typed my name: Major-General Sir Richard Hannay.

As I laid a finger upon it, I felt a tingle of excitement, as though whatever was inside carried a perceptible electrical charge.

‘Is this another job?’ I enquired.

‘It’s an invitation,’ Blenkiron replied. ‘What you choose to do with it is up to you. I’m sorry I won’t be here myself to see it through, but I do have a parting gift.’

He picked up his deck of cards and laid it down in front of me beside the mysterious envelope. The pack was frayed and worn and held together with a rubber band, and yet I was touched by the gesture.

‘Are you sure you can get by without them?’

‘It’s time I picked up a fresh pack. After all, I need to look my best when I meet the President.’

I scooped up the cards and turned them over in my hand, recalling how calmly my friend had played out a hand of solitaire as he explained to the German spymaster von Schwabing how he had exposed and overturned his whole network.

‘I appreciate this, John, I really do. I’m sure they’ll bring me luck.’

‘There is that,’ said Blenkiron. ‘But even more important is this: whenever I find myself stymied, I play out a few hands. It relaxes the mind, so that any inspiration lurking about down there will rise to the surface. It’s a trick that’s served me well.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ I assured him. If Blenkiron was sending me off on another mad jaunt, I was quite sure I would need all the inspiration I could muster after being out of action for so long.

He swallowed the last of his coffee and dabbed his lips with a folded kerchief. ‘Maybe now and then you’ll play out a hand or two just to remember your old friend John S by.’

‘I’m sure I shall. And I fully expect us to meet again. In this world,’ I added emphatically.

Blenkiron rose to his feet with a sigh. ‘I’d better get moving. I’ve got a few last pieces of business to put to bed before my flight.’

He leaned over and we shook hands, wishing each other the best of luck.

‘It’ll be safer if we leave separately,’ he advised. ‘Henry will be on watch outside to make sure neither of us is followed.’

As he walked out of the door, I was conscious of the sincere hope that this would not be my last meeting with my wise and cunning friend. After a long pause I picked up the envelope and slit it open with my pocket knife. Inside was an embossed card which read as follows:

You are cordially invited to tonight’s meeting of the National Antiquities Council. 9.00 p.m. British Museum.

It was signed by hand C. Stannix.

It was a very unusual invitation, to be sure, and on the face of it suggested little to do with the sort of intrigue I associated with Blenkiron. However, I had heard of the National Antiquities Council some time back under interesting circumstances. I knew it provided cover for a number of activities that had little to do with historical artefacts. Moreover, though I had met Christopher Stannix only once, that name was enough to persuade me that this meeting would have little to do with the museum’s usual line of business.

I had been wondering for some time if I had one last adventure in me. It looked as though I was going to find out.

My old friend Charles Lamancha had pointed Stannix out to me during the drinks that followed Sandy’s funeral two years ago. Lamancha himself was a member of the War Cabinet, with special responsibility for the supply of munitions to our forces.

‘That chap Christopher Stannix is an intriguing fellow,’ he had told me, indicating a modestly dressed figure who was currently declining a refill of his whisky glass. ‘Whatever official post he holds is hidden behind a thick hedge of code words and cover names, but he pops up from time to time to coordinate operations between the intelligence services and the military.’

‘He looks ordinary enough,’ I observed.

‘Even so, a lot of important people reckon he’s got one of the sharpest minds in the country,’ Lamancha assured me.

Whether or not Stannix had been aware that he was the object of our hushed conversation, we had somehow caught his eye and he had made his way directly towards us. He was a tall man whose broad brow suggested a large brain behind it. The dark grizzled hair, worn longer than was fashionable in these circles, further enhanced his sage-like appearance.

‘Lamancha,’ he greeted my friend. ‘I hear you have your hands full keeping the steel supply moving.’

‘There’s never as much as we need, Stannix,’ Lamancha responded. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Richard Hannay.’

‘No,’ said Stannix, offering me his hand. ‘But I believe all of us owe him rather a lot.’

I gave him my left hand, as my right arm was in a sling from the bullet I had taken in France. When we shook, his grip was firm and friendly, but part of him seemed to remain withdrawn, as though being kept in reserve for another day. After a few minutes of inconsequential talk, he had made his apologies, saying he was being called away to an urgent meeting.

‘I am very pleased to have met you, Hannay,’ he said on departing. ‘One day I may have need of your services.’

I reflected on that brief conversation as I arrived at the site of our appointment. The British Museum was certainly one of the last places I would have expected to meet Christopher Stannix again. I climbed the stone steps and crossed the shadowy portico to the front entrance. The building had the imposing, almost sacrosanct appearance of an ancient Greek temple, an effect I was sure was quite deliberate.

I rang the doorbell and after a few moments was admitted by an elderly, grey-whiskered attendant with the stiff bearing of a former army sergeant. He examined my invitation then touched it to the peak of his cap by way of a salute. ‘You’ll be Mr Hannay then. If you’ll follow me this way, sir.’

The great halls he led me through were always impressive, but now, with no visiting crowd and only the barest selection of items on display, it felt as though we were walking through a series of echoing subterranean caverns. The scaffolding erected to repair bomb damage added to the rather derelict look of the place. The few stone carvings and modest display of flints and coins were set against framed reproductions of more impressive exhibits and photographs of major archaeological excavations, like the recent find at Sutton Hoo.

‘I’m surprised there’s anything left behind here at all,’ I commented. ‘I thought everything had been shipped out to safer locations.’

‘It’s true that all the really valuable stuff is packed away in underground quarries in the middle of God knows where,’ my guide affirmed, ‘but when they tried to close the place down in thirty-nine there was such an uproar they decided it would be better for public morale to keep her open – as a reminder of our heritage, so to speak. I suppose it’s part of what we’re fighting for really.’

‘When your back’s to the wall, it’s a good thing to remember the history you have behind you,’ I agreed.

‘Not that there’s much to be inspired by among this lot,’ said the attendant, casting a disdainful eye about the vast room we were passing through. ‘Mostly it’s duplicates of better quality stuff that’s in storage. Some of it’s even fakes.’ He suppressed a low chuckle. ‘The fact is, a lot of folk around here have taken to referring to all this as the Suicide Exhibition. Because it’s expendable, you see.’

‘Yes, I understand.’

‘Personally,’ he added, ‘after all the hits she took in the Blitz, I’m just glad the old lady’s still standing.’

Presently we entered a dimly lit back passage where he led me to a door that bore the plainly printed words The National Antiquities Council. ‘I’ll leave you here, sir,’ said the attendant. ‘I believe you’re expected.’

The door opened easily and I found myself in a large, brightly lit office. It was furnished very simply with only a few photographs of the temple at Hathor and the Pyramid of Giza by way of decoration. The walls were lined with filing cabinets and at the far end of the room Christopher Stannix rose from behind his neatly organised desk to greet me.

‘Glad to see you’ve got the use of your arm back,’ he commented as we shook hands.

‘I won’t be doing any fast bowling,’ I said, ‘but it’s working well enough.’

I accepted his offer of Scotch and soda and we sat facing each other across the desk in mutual scrutiny. In the two years since I had last seen him, Stannix had taken on the round shoulders of a man perpetually hunched over documents and plans, and the wrinkles around his eyes were evidence of long nights of anxious concentration.

‘I hope you’re not planning to send me off to dig for tombs around Cairo,’ I joked. ‘I hear things are pretty hot down that way at present.’

Stannix smiled thinly. ‘Archaeological expeditions and the transportation of antiquities provide an excellent cover for a variety of intelligence activities. I suppose you’ve already guessed that.’

‘I assumed as much.’

He leaned forward across the desk, both hands cupped around his glass. ‘Then you won’t be surprised that I haven’t invited you here to talk about historical relics. The fact is, I believe we have a strong mutual interest in the fate of the island of Malta.’

3

THE RED HAWK

I could tell that Stannix was waiting for my reaction. Though my heart had skipped a beat at the mention of that island, I was determined to remain impassive.

‘My son is stationed on Malta,’ I responded evenly. ‘I’m sure you’re aware of that.’

‘So, I take it you will be personally invested in the fate of the island.’

‘You put it very mildly. I’ve hardly thought of anything else for months. I know the place is taking a terrible pounding with no sign of relief.’

Stannix nodded soberly. ‘It’s the most heavily bombed patch of earth on the entire planet, which demonstrates how much store the Axis forces set by capturing it.’

‘I understand the situation.’ I raised my glass and waved it from left to right. ‘We have Gibraltar at the far west of the Mediterranean and Alexandria at the opposite end, with Malta in the centre holding it all together.’

‘As you implied yourself, Hannay, Rommel’s been making things pretty hot for us in North Africa, and we’ve only been able to hold out because of our planes and ships operating out of Malta. They’ve wrecked enough of his supply lines to keep the fight even, at least. But if Malta should fall, the Med will become Hitler’s private lake, surrounded by the Germans and their allies.’

‘Is an invasion imminent, then?’ I hunched forward in concern, thinking of Peter John caught in the middle of a Nazi assault.

‘After the heavy losses he suffered during his conquest of Crete, Hitler’s not keen to repeat the experience with a direct assault on Malta. Instead, the island has been subjected to a ruthless and protracted siege with the object of starving it into submission.’

‘I assume we’ve been making every effort to get supplies through.’

‘Of course. But the Germans have been regularly bombing Malta’s airfields to make them unusable, and destroy planes on the ground, so we can’t provide adequate air cover for incoming convoys. The few ships that do make it through with food and fuel are as often as not bombed in the harbour before they can even unload.’

I took a deep swallow of my drink. ‘You paint a very bleak picture, Stannix.’

‘Without spare parts and fuel the aircraft will be grounded. Without food the people will starve.’ He set aside his glass and rubbed his face with both hands. It was clear to me that he was getting by on very little sleep. ‘Unless we can engineer a miracle, by the end of September Malta will have no option but to surrender.’

The prospect was so personally horrifying to me that finally my emotions boiled over. I shot to my feet and slammed a hand down on the desk. ‘Look, if there’s anything I can do, anything at all, then send me right now. I’ll do whatever you want if it will help bring my son home safely.’

The words tumbled from my lips unbidden, and I was aware that the most primitive of moral instincts – to protect one’s kin at any cost – had completely possessed me, overriding all other considerations.

Stannix was momentarily taken aback by my impassioned outburst but quickly regained his composure. He gestured to me to be seated again and spoke in a slow, measured voice, intended to assuage my heated feelings.

‘As it happens, we are working on a miracle. The sort of miracle that consists more of ships and aircraft than of prayer. Not that I’d say no to the Almighty if he feels like lending a hand.’

Taking a calming breath, I lowered myself back into the chair and fixed my gaze upon him. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘We’re putting together an operation code-named Pedestal, which, with a bit of grit and a huge helping of luck, will allow us to supply the island long enough to turn this thing around. But it’s taking time, and meanwhile we’re playing a pretty weak hand. It is absolutely vital that Malta holds out until the convoy arrives.’

‘No doubt the Germans are just as aware as we are that things are at a crisis point.’

‘You’re absolutely correct. Whether they’ve got wind of our plans or they’ve just anticipated them as an obvious move, they’ve started acting with some urgency to find a way to crack Malta before our Pedestal convoy gets there.’

‘You said they were reluctant to launch an invasion. What else can they do?’

‘I can only think they mean to exploit some weakness we haven’t guessed at, and strike a sufficiently damaging blow to our defences to enable an assault by sea and air. We’ve been picking up enemy messages which, as far as we can decode them, mention two specific things in relation to Malta. One is the phrase der rote Falke. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘The red hawk?’ I translated. ‘It could be a code word for almost anything – an aircraft, a weapon, or even a person.’

‘Yes, that’s as far as we’ve got with it. The other is something more solid – the name Dr Armand Lasalle.’

‘I can’t say I’ve heard of him.’

‘He’s French, of course, and was a pretty big noise in the field of archaeology, particularly as concerns the Mediterranean.’

‘An archaeologist? I have heard rumours about Hitler sending off expeditions in search of historical artefacts.’

‘Yes, usually something that will back up his claims for the historical superiority of the Aryan races. Sometimes it’s a search for some ludicrous symbol of power, like a magic spear. Crazy nonsense, of course, but what else can you expect from a madman?’

‘Given that most of that is rot, what makes this business with Lasalle something different?’

‘It seems the Germans are trying to find Lasalle in the belief that he personally has the key to taking down Malta.’

‘That sounds unlikely.’

‘I agree, but if the Germans are taking it seriously, so must we. The last thing we want is to be caught napping. As far as we’re aware Lasalle has pretty much fallen off the face of the earth; disappeared while following up some obsessive quest of his own. Fortunately we do have a lead we can follow.’

‘What would that be exactly?’

‘For a couple of years in the thirties Lasalle was teaching at Oxford. While there he formed a close friendship with a fellow academic, Professor Lucius Owen. We believe they have stayed in touch and Owen may be able to offer a clue to Lasalle’s current whereabouts.’

‘I hope it’s not too forward of me to ask how I fit into all this.’

That brought a smile to Stannix’s tired features. ‘We want you to go and see Owen, find out what he knows, and if there is a trail, to follow it until you find Lasalle.’

I felt a familiar tingle of excitement at the prospect of leaving my stuffy office behind and being once more on the forefront of the action.

‘I’ll go, of course, Stannix, but I do have to ask why me? Surely you have younger operatives you could send on a job like this.’

‘Not as many as you might think, and none with your experience. There’s a thick file on you in Whitehall. Half of it reads like some wild adventure story, with you as the dashing hero.’

‘I think if you read closely you’ll see that any success I’ve achieved has been the result of sheer stubbornness and an excess of good luck.’

‘However it was achieved, you’ve got the results where others have fallen short. We both know that this might turn out to be a wild-goose chase and that the Germans are grasping at straws, but if it isn’t, if they really are on the track of some weapon or other that can smash Malta, then we need a man who will see the search through to the very end – a man who’s as personally invested as you.’

‘It strikes me that if the Germans stumble upon this connection between Owen and Lasalle, they may get on the trail themselves.’

‘They do still have their sympathisers in this country, it’s true – the ones who were prudent enough not to display their affiliation openly when we were locking up those who were being a mite too gleeful about the prospect of an invasion.’

‘Yes, I ran into some of that sort on my last assignment.’

‘Well, they still represent a real danger. And worse – we have reason to believe that one of Germany’s most accomplished agents is on the loose here in England. He goes by the rather dramatic name of Ravenstein, and under a number of ingenious disguises has engineered kidnappings, assassinations and acts of sabotage in several countries before the war. Now he’s in our back garden, like a viper lurking in the undergrowth.’

I couldn’t help being intrigued by this description of my potential opponent. ‘Do you have any more information on this Ravenstein other than the fact that he is clearly very capable?’

Stannix paused before answering. ‘We believe he was one of the original Black Stone gang that you had such a big hand in breaking up just before the last war. Somehow he slipped through the net, only to reappear a few years ago.’

‘The Black Stone,’ I murmured, recalling how it was their activities that had first propelled me from a life of discontented boredom into a career of intrigue and danger. ‘I thought we’d seen off the last of them.’

‘You might say,’ Stannix suggested, ‘that this assignment gives you the chance to finally mop them up for good.’

I sat back and drummed my fingers on the arm of my chair, all too aware of the heavy responsibility I was taking on. ‘Look, all that stuff you’ve read about me makes me sound a lot more capable than I am. I had allies back in those days: Peter Pienaar, Sandy Clanroyden, Blenkiron – all of them gone now.’

‘Of course I don’t expect you to take on all this by yourself. I’ve already activated your team.’

I gave him a quizzical stare, wondering who on earth he could be talking about. ‘My team? I’m afraid I don’t follow you. What team is that?’

‘Why, those Scottish chaps, of course.’

‘You mean the Gorbals Die-Hards?’

‘If that’s what they call themselves, yes. Two of them are already on Malta ready to support you when you get there. The other two will catch up with you as soon as they can.’

Those four young men had their origins in the rougher parts of Glasgow, but they had been adopted by a retired grocer named McCunn who had financed their education and set them on course for a future that would otherwise have been denied them. They had done courageous service during the affair of the thirty-one kings and had actually saved me from a watery grave. I felt faintly encouraged to know that I would have them by my side, though it was news to me that those in Stannix’s circle regarded them as my team.

‘Until they show up,’ I said, ‘I had better get on the trail right away. You say that this Professor Owen is a don at Oxford. Is that where I’ll find him?’

‘Not any more. He retired some years ago to pursue his own private research. He’s been in a wheelchair for the past three years following a dreadful fall while climbing in the Alps. He has a cottage in the village of Chaffly Fields in Devon where he lives with his housekeeper. Here’s the address.’

He slid a slip of paper towards me. I gave it a quick glance and placed it in my pocket. ‘I’ll take a train first thing in the morning.’

Rather than hail a cab or take the Tube, I decided that a long walk home would give me time to absorb all the information I had received from Stannix and contemplate what lay ahead. In a world where anyone’s days might be numbered, the fact that this mission might take me to Malta and give me the chance to embrace my son once more was all the encouragement I needed to see the matter through.

I remembered how my heart had lurched when we were informed that Peter John’s Spitfire had been brought down over Kent by a Messerschmitt 109. Crash-landing in a ploughed field, he had mercifully survived with only a broken leg and a fractured wrist.

When I visited him in hospital he gave me a crooked grin and brandished a tattered copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress. It had been bequeathed to me by my old South African friend Peter Pienar, who was also a pilot, and after whom we had named our son. The book had brought me luck during my dangerous journey through France, and I had passed it on to Peter John in the hope that it would bring him the same good fortune.

‘I’m pretty sure you’re right about the luck, Dad,’ he said. ‘The fact that I had this little volume stuffed inside my flying jacket kept my ribs from snapping. All praise to good old John Bunyan!’

‘It’s a fine book,’ I said, sitting on the bedside and clapping him affectionately on the shoulder.

‘To be perfectly honest, I haven’t read a word of it,’ he confessed. ‘I just like to have it with me because it makes me feel as if you and old Peter are right at my side when I’m up there.’

As soon as he had recovered from his injuries, Peter John was back in the air, helping to complete the task of thwarting Hitler’s plans for invasion. Now he and his comrades were in Malta, defending that island with the same dedication and courage they had displayed in the skies over England.

Such were my reflections as I walked down the blacked-out streets, thick clouds shrouding the stars as though they were playing their own part in concealing the great city against aerial attack. I had left behind those areas where clubs, cinemas and public houses drew people in to well-lit interiors where they could dance and revel and forget for a while the ghastliness and austerity of the war. The streets I now found myself on were lined with shuttered businesses and banks, so there was little reason for anyone to be abroad in these parts.

There was a low hum of traffic in the distance and the occasional car rumbled past me, its headlights hooded in accordance with the blackout regulations. Yet I had gradually become aware of steady, cautious footsteps some distance behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I could detect no movement in the all-pervading gloom, but whenever I paused in my stride, those far-off footfalls also came to a halt, waiting for me to resume. I was left in no doubt whatsoever that someone was following me.

4

FOOTSTEPS IN THE DARK