Swanson was looking towards the shore, night glasses raised to his eyes. Lomax extinguished his cigarette and moved beside him. “How’s it going?”
“So far without a hitch,” Swanson said.
They were moving through a scattering of jagged rocks and tiny islands and Lomax whistled softly. “Looks pretty dicey to me.”
“We didn’t have a great deal of choice,” Swanson told him. “After all, you did want to be on this side of the island and at least this gives us some sort of cover against their radar. They tell me the harbour here is usually crammed with E-boats. Care to take a look?”
Lomax took the night glasses and immediately the cliffs jumped out of the darkness at him, white surf pounding in across the rocks.
Swanson was speaking into the voice-pipe and when he turned his teeth gleamed in the darkness. “Not long now. How do you feel?”
“Fine,” Lomax told him. “You don’t need to worry about us.”
“Of course you’ve done this sort of thing rather a lot, haven’t you? I must say I like the look of your sergeant.”
“We’ve been together two years now,” Lomax said. “Crete, Rhodes, all over the Aegean. He knows more about explosives than any man I ever knew. Used to be a shotfirer in a Yorkshire pit before the war. They tried to defer him, but he wasn’t having any of that.”
“How does he handle the language problem?”
“He’s picked up enough Greek and German to get by, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m fluent in both languages.”
“That’s interesting,” Swanson said. “What were you doing before this lot blew up?”
“University, journalism. A little writing.” Lomax shrugged. “I hadn’t really got started on anything properly.”
“The war, the war, the bloody war,” Swanson quoted. “I know what you mean. I was a third-year medic and look at me now.”
They were close inshore and he glanced up at the’ single peak of the island, black against the night sky. “Don’t the locals believe Achilles is buried on top of the mountain?”
Lomax nodded. “So they say. The Monastery of St. Anthony is up there too.”
“You seem to know your way around.”
“Not really. That’s where Alexias comes in. He was born and raised here. We couldn’t do this job without him.”
“He’s a rough looking customer,” Swanson said. “Has he been with you long?”
Lomax shook his head. “He’s been working with a group in Southern Crete. Intelligence brought him out specially for this particular show.”
“How are you getting out when the job’s done?”
“The Special Boat Service are handling that end. Using a Greek caicque and pretending to be fishermen. A bloke called Soames is in charge.
“I know him well,” Swanson shuddered. “You’d be better off with the Jerries.”
“We’ll survive,” Lomax said.
“I was talking to a chap in one of the bars at Shep-heard’s last week,” Swanson said, “and he told me that Oliver Van Horn was still living here. That the Germans have left him alone. Is that true?”
“So I understand,” Lomax said. “He came here just before the war because of his tuberculosis. I don’t suppose he can do them much harm and allowing him to continue to live on the island makes for good publicity. Have you read any of his books?”
Swanson nodded. “One or two. Rather Maughamish with wonderful characterisation.”
“I wish I had half his talent,” Lomax said feelingly.
Swanson had been watching the shoreline carefully through the night glasses and now he leaned down and spoke briefly into the voice pipe.
The submarine started to slow and he turned to Lomax and said crisply, “This is as far as we go, I’m afraid. They’re bringing your dinghy and gear out through the forward hatch. You’ll find your sergeant and the Greek down there waiting for you.”
“Thanks for the ride,” Lomax said.
They shook hands briefly and he went over the side and descended the ladder to the circular hull. The dinghy was already in the water and as he arrived, Boyd dropped down into it followed by Alexias.
There was quite a swell running and the three ratings holding the lines cursed and one of them slipped and lost his footing on the slimy steel plates of the hull.