AH Novel: Funny Money

[simon darkshade]

Oct 1, 2023 14:34:30 GMT horton229 said:

Oct 1, 2023 2:24:25 GMT simon darkshade said:

I've read the other chapters over on AH.com.

A solid little spy piece that takes a while to get going. In such a case, I'd recommend being a bit freer with both development and little set pieces of tech/gear and action. There should be no sense at all of budget cuts when the Nazis still exist and have Europe; similarly, the supine acceptance of Iraq breaking free of British influence tacks a bit too close to the @ 1950s in a radically different power environment.

As a general rule, the action ratio of a story is proportional (in some respects) to how much you change AND how you throw in tidbits about gear/changes/AH/hat tips to your readers.

An example of this is A Kill in the Morning by Graeme Shimmin, first published on AH.com about 14 years ago, then cleaned up and professionally published. It had a Nazi Empire in the 1960s in a Cold War with Britain, along with a certain sci-fi central object that lead to all manner of timeline shifting. As it had a rollicking plot (literally James Bond without saying the name), it could get away with throwing a few buckets of chum to the audience now and then, such as the Royal Israeli Air Force flying Lightnings, neverwere Vulcans and supersonic airliners.

With less of that at play here, you might consider upping the incidence of action or throw in some more chum.

Thanks for the comment and feedback.
The chapters on AH.com (and here) are only a selection. In the first book I included some German tech and Berlin Nazi-dream architecture, plus a British atomic bomb. This one has the ITTL 'Malta' class equivalent, and RN jets, plus there is some Kriegsmarine, possibly not shared.
However, I'm a bit reticent to go too far with the tech/gear stuff for fear of putting readers off with too much 'technobabble'.

You're quite welcome.

Consider who your audience is. If it is being aimed at Caroline and Cletus (ie the imaginary 'average reader off the street') then there would be a point to minimising the technobabble, as it were. If it is aimed at AH readers, both online and hopefully offline, to generalise, they are a niche enough group as to not only understand a certain degree of technical stuff, but relish it to a very great degree. It also gives them grounds to engage with the work on in the online communities. Playing to the tastes of an audience can be successful, depending on which audience you are after, of course. Your style channels a bit of Fleming in certain scenes and he was very successful in his day, but the nature of the world has moved on a fair bit from that time; being able to hit enough of the 'audience triggers' can be a successful course of action.

As the Americans say, 'you do you', but don't have any inordinate fears about too much technobabble, within reason.

[horton229]

4: HMS Glorious, Atlantic Ocean

Note: This is an ATL HMS Glorious.

Captain Cyril Pender stood at the edge of the flight deck, a pipe clenched between his teeth, watching the final preparations before the launch. The crack of the bow catapult echoed across the deck, throwing the De Havilland Sea Vampire forward. From his vantagepoint, Pender watched the aircraft accelerate rapidly as they approached the end of the deck. For a fraction of a second, it dipped towards the water, then the wings began to generate enough lift, and the aircraft rose into the grey skies. Pender exhaled, a puff of purple-grey smoke rising from the pipe, waiting for the second launch. The vast ship rode the sea well, but the weather was marginal – if the wind increased, they might have to stop flight operations. Glancing aft, deckhands were preparing to recover returning aircraft under the guidance of the red capped Director of the Flight Deck.

The captain was a short, squat man, with thinning hair, glasses, and the slightly bowed legs of a former athlete. He swayed with the ship naturally after thirty years in the Royal Navy. Even a year in, he still thrilled at his biggest command, HMS Glorious, and gazing around the busy flight deck, his face creased into a smile. The first of a new class of large-decked aircraft carriers, conceived as the Luftwaffe pounded British ports and industry, she survived budget cuts and inter-service squabbles – the RAF demanded money to protect the motherland, the Admiralty stoked fears of German expansion into North Africa and East of Suez. Even when the Anglo-German War ended, after the debacle of appeasement, no government dare stint on defence as Germany moved east.

Built and launched in record time, Glorious survived her trials, a tough shakedown cruise and returned to Govan for the usual fine tuning and a new radar before setting sail on this, her first full deployment. They were almost five-hundred miles from Portsmouth, the Bay of Biscay off the port side, heading south towards the Mediterranean and beyond. She was an engineering marvel. Admiralty boilers delivered two hundred thousand horsepower, allowing the nine-hundred-foot, fifty-thousand-ton ship to exceed thirty knots. An air group of just shy of a hundred aircraft could attack targets over two hundred miles away, protect her from the skies and hunt submarines under the sea.

The bow slammed into another wave, spray reaching as far back as the island where Pender stood. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and removed his spectacles. Rubbing the lens, he looked skyward, then started for the weather office, but the ship tannoy blared a warning of incoming aircraft and Pender paused, replacing the spectacles and handkerchief.

The returning aircraft slammed onto the deck, wrenched to a sudden stop by one of the arrestor wires crossing the width of the landing area. The aircraft was efficiently moved out of the way and another landed moments later. With both safely down, the crash barriers, backup in case the pilot missed all sixteen steel wires, were lowered. The pilots climbed down, bulky with G-suits under flight suits, and bright yellow Mae Wests, and walked behind the aircraft as they were towed to the elevators and disappeared below to the hangar deck for servicing. Pender reached for the door, glancing to his left. A mile away, two of the escorts bobbed more violently, HMS Imogen and one of the corvettes.

Stopping at the door, Pender tapped the bowl of the pipe against the metal until the used tobacco fell to the deck. The wind snatched the flecks away towards the sea, and he tucked the pipe into his pocket. With a final deep breath of the salty, damp air, Pender stepped inside and walked down the endless corridors so easy to get lost in until he reached the correct compartment.

“Attention,” a sailor barked, and he waved a disarming hand.

“At ease,” Pender said, stopping next to the weather table. “How’s it looking Bob?”

“Not too promising, sir,” the meteorologist, Lieutenant Robert Jones answered. He pointed to the map. “Storm coming, probably eight tonight. It’ll be bumpy, even on this, sir.”

“How long until we have to stop flying?” It was the Air Group Commander’s decision, but Pender wanted to know.

“Probably about now, sir. Within the hour at the latest.”

“Thank Bob,” Pender said. “I’ll talk to Andy.” He gave him a pat on the shoulder. “As you were,” he said as he left, the door swinging shut behind him.

After climbing a few flights of stairs, Pender reached the aircrew wardroom and tapped on the polished mahogany door, held open by an airman with a navigator patch on his arm and the insignia of one of the Spearfish squadrons. He started, snapping to attention, the door held by his outstretched foot. Inside, Commander Andrew Sullivan, the Air Group Commander, or AGC, stood chatting to the Spearfish pilot. They turned, also snapping to attention to attention when they recognised the visitor.

“Come on in, sir,” Sullivan said with a wave of his hand. He bobbed his head sideways and the aircrew saluted and disappeared.

“Afternoon Andy.”

“Sir,” Sullivan answered.

“Just been with the met man. Weather’s turning.”

“Yes, sir,” Sullivan agreed. “I was about to go talk to him myself, see how long we’ve got.”

“He said an hour at most, but probably best to stop now.” Pender leant against the table. “Told him I was coming up anyway and would let you know.” Although Pender was the ultimate master of the ship, the air group, in particular the pilots, were Sullivan’s responsibility and it was Pender’s policy not to interfere.

“If you give me a moment, sir I’ll get a call to stop flying now. Call back the latest CAP. Not likely there’s much out there anyway,” Sullivan said. Pender nodded and waited for the AGC to make a quick call.

“Better flying weather in the Med and Indian Ocean I suspect,” Pender said, leveraging himself upright. “Assume you’re happy with the fly-off plans and stuff for the canal?”

“Yes, let’s hope so, sir,” Sullivan said with a grin. “Hoping to get a few hours myself. And yes, I think we’ve got it all agreed as much as we can. Depends how the base at Alex is set up, but we should be fine. Be glad to get back aboard once we’re through though, sir. Don’t like leaving the old girl defenceless.”

“Old!” Pender said with a laugh. “I know what you mean though. I’m not looking forward to turning her over to some Canal Company Pilot control, I can tell you. Still, it’ll be worth it. Can’t wait for a few months of sun and ops in the Indian Ocean. And a few days in Bombay!”

“Yes, sir. I’d best go check on those recalled aircraft, sir.”

“Good man.” Pender nodded and returned to the bridge. He sat in the captain’s chair, the view ahead worsening, and accepted a steaming cup of tea from a steward. The all-hands announcement, warning of the coming storm echoed from the speakers on the bridge as it did throughout the ship. Brook gave an encouraging smile to one of the new rates who eyed the sky nervously, and the youngster managed a grin in return. Below decks equipment was packed away, aircraft tied down, and new recruits sent on pointless errands, increasing their anxiety. Pender ordered signals for the escorts to spread out, wished everyone luck and stood by the vast windows to watch the final two aircraft land in the spitting rain. He could imagine their frustration, but it was the correct decision. Within a couple of hours, the task force would be fighting thirty-foot seas and torrential rain.

[lordroel]

Oct 3, 2023 9:45:14 GMT horton229 said:

4: HMS Glorious, Atlantic Ocean

Note: This is an ATL HMS Glorious.

Captain Cyril Pender stood at the edge of the flight deck, a pipe clenched between his teeth, watching the final preparations before the launch. The crack of the bow catapult echoed across the deck, throwing the De Havilland Sea Vampire forward. From his vantagepoint, Pender watched the aircraft accelerate rapidly as they approached the end of the deck. For a fraction of a second, it dipped towards the water, then the wings began to generate enough lift, and the aircraft rose into the grey skies. Pender exhaled, a puff of purple-grey smoke rising from the pipe, waiting for the second launch. The vast ship rode the sea well, but the weather was marginal – if the wind increased, they might have to stop flight operations. Glancing aft, deckhands were preparing to recover returning aircraft under the guidance of the red capped Director of the Flight Deck.

The captain was a short, squat man, with thinning hair, glasses, and the slightly bowed legs of a former athlete. He swayed with the ship naturally after thirty years in the Royal Navy. Even a year in, he still thrilled at his biggest command, HMS Glorious, and gazing around the busy flight deck, his face creased into a smile. The first of a new class of large-decked aircraft carriers, conceived as the Luftwaffe pounded British ports and industry, she survived budget cuts and inter-service squabbles – the RAF demanded money to protect the motherland, the Admiralty stoked fears of German expansion into North Africa and East of Suez. Even when the Anglo-German War ended, after the debacle of appeasement, no government dare stint on defence as Germany moved east.

Built and launched in record time, Glorious survived her trials, a tough shakedown cruise and returned to Govan for the usual fine tuning and a new radar before setting sail on this, her first full deployment. They were almost five-hundred miles from Portsmouth, the Bay of Biscay off the port side, heading south towards the Mediterranean and beyond. She was an engineering marvel. Admiralty boilers delivered two hundred thousand horsepower, allowing the nine-hundred-foot, fifty-thousand-ton ship to exceed thirty knots. An air group of just shy of a hundred aircraft could attack targets over two hundred miles away, protect her from the skies and hunt submarines under the sea.

The bow slammed into another wave, spray reaching as far back as the island where Pender stood. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and removed his spectacles. Rubbing the lens, he looked skyward, then started for the weather office, but the ship tannoy blared a warning of incoming aircraft and Pender paused, replacing the spectacles and handkerchief.

The returning aircraft slammed onto the deck, wrenched to a sudden stop by one of the arrestor wires crossing the width of the landing area. The aircraft was efficiently moved out of the way and another landed moments later. With both safely down, the crash barriers, backup in case the pilot missed all sixteen steel wires, were lowered. The pilots climbed down, bulky with G-suits under flight suits, and bright yellow Mae Wests, and walked behind the aircraft as they were towed to the elevators and disappeared below to the hangar deck for servicing. Pender reached for the door, glancing to his left. A mile away, two of the escorts bobbed more violently, HMS Imogen and one of the corvettes.

Stopping at the door, Pender tapped the bowl of the pipe against the metal until the used tobacco fell to the deck. The wind snatched the flecks away towards the sea, and he tucked the pipe into his pocket. With a final deep breath of the salty, damp air, Pender stepped inside and walked down the endless corridors so easy to get lost in until he reached the correct compartment.

“Attention,” a sailor barked, and he waved a disarming hand.

“At ease,” Pender said, stopping next to the weather table. “How’s it looking Bob?”

“Not too promising, sir,” the meteorologist, Lieutenant Robert Jones answered. He pointed to the map. “Storm coming, probably eight tonight. It’ll be bumpy, even on this, sir.”

“How long until we have to stop flying?” It was the Air Group Commander’s decision, but Pender wanted to know.

“Probably about now, sir. Within the hour at the latest.”

“Thank Bob,” Pender said. “I’ll talk to Andy.” He gave him a pat on the shoulder. “As you were,” he said as he left, the door swinging shut behind him.

After climbing a few flights of stairs, Pender reached the aircrew wardroom and tapped on the polished mahogany door, held open by an airman with a navigator patch on his arm and the insignia of one of the Spearfish squadrons. He started, snapping to attention, the door held by his outstretched foot. Inside, Commander Andrew Sullivan, the Air Group Commander, or AGC, stood chatting to the Spearfish pilot. They turned, also snapping to attention to attention when they recognised the visitor.

“Come on in, sir,” Sullivan said with a wave of his hand. He bobbed his head sideways and the aircrew saluted and disappeared.

“Afternoon Andy.”

“Sir,” Sullivan answered.

“Just been with the met man. Weather’s turning.”

“Yes, sir,” Sullivan agreed. “I was about to go talk to him myself, see how long we’ve got.”

“He said an hour at most, but probably best to stop now.” Pender leant against the table. “Told him I was coming up anyway and would let you know.” Although Pender was the ultimate master of the ship, the air group, in particular the pilots, were Sullivan’s responsibility and it was Pender’s policy not to interfere.

“If you give me a moment, sir I’ll get a call to stop flying now. Call back the latest CAP. Not likely there’s much out there anyway,” Sullivan said. Pender nodded and waited for the AGC to make a quick call.

“Better flying weather in the Med and Indian Ocean I suspect,” Pender said, leveraging himself upright. “Assume you’re happy with the fly-off plans and stuff for the canal?”

“Yes, let’s hope so, sir,” Sullivan said with a grin. “Hoping to get a few hours myself. And yes, I think we’ve got it all agreed as much as we can. Depends how the base at Alex is set up, but we should be fine. Be glad to get back aboard once we’re through though, sir. Don’t like leaving the old girl defenceless.”

“Old!” Pender said with a laugh. “I know what you mean though. I’m not looking forward to turning her over to some Canal Company Pilot control, I can tell you. Still, it’ll be worth it. Can’t wait for a few months of sun and ops in the Indian Ocean. And a few days in Bombay!”

“Yes, sir. I’d best go check on those recalled aircraft, sir.”

“Good man.” Pender nodded and returned to the bridge. He sat in the captain’s chair, the view ahead worsening, and accepted a steaming cup of tea from a steward. The all-hands announcement, warning of the coming storm echoed from the speakers on the bridge as it did throughout the ship. Brook gave an encouraging smile to one of the new rates who eyed the sky nervously, and the youngster managed a grin in return. Below decks equipment was packed away, aircraft tied down, and new recruits sent on pointless errands, increasing their anxiety. Pender ordered signals for the escorts to spread out, wished everyone luck and stood by the vast windows to watch the final two aircraft land in the spitting rain. He could imagine their frustration, but it was the correct decision. Within a couple of hours, the task force would be fighting thirty-foot seas and torrential rain.

Good preview.

[simon darkshade]

As a matter of nomenclature, Glorious has been used once, whereas the more traditional version of HMS Glory has been used ten times. If looking for 'carrier names' with the best lineage for the RN, the top contenders are Eagle (16 until OTL WW2), Hermes (9), Invincible (6), Audacious (5) and Ark Royal (only 5, but going back to the Armada has a certain cachet).

[horton229]

simon darkshade , I'll have a think about the name. Ark Royal sounds good, but not sure if the previous/existing might survive TTL.

[horton229]

7. Alexandria

Brook sipped a martini and watched Grace Rigby talking to a group of people he did not know. She caught his eye, smiled, and nodded her head softly to indicate he should join them.

"Hello David, nice to see you again," she said with a glint in her eye. She leant forward to offer a cheek, which Brook dutifully pecked with caution.

"Nice to see you too, Grace," Brook said, deciding it prudent to allow her to lead the conversation.

“This is David Brook. He’s from the Bank of England," Grace said to the group, with a hint more sarcasm than Brook would have liked. Perhaps he was being paranoid as no one else batted an eyelid as she rattled off the names of three men and two women. Brook nodded a hello. "We met at the party a couple of weeks ago, but I’ve hardly seen him since. Good dancer. Anyway, better mingle. Come on David, why don't you tell me what you've been doing with yourself."

Brook allowed himself to be led away from the group, a quick glance back revealing they were being watched. "Was that entirely necessary?" He whispered once they were out of earshot.

"Probably not," Grace responded with a smile. She glanced at her empty glass. "But bad things happen on Friday the thirteenth! Buy me a drink?"

"It's the fifteenth. And a free bar," Brook said, shaking his head with amusement. "What would madam like?"

"A martini, please."

"One martini coming up. You look lovely."

She beamed, twirled, causing the lightweight pale blue material of her dress to float slightly, and wandered to an empty table as Brook edged towards the bar.

"David, how are you?"

Dammit. Brook turned slowly to face the Telegraph's Middle East correspondent, Charlie Samson. Around fifty, Samson was dressed in a well-cut lightweight tropic suit, his grey hair short and tidy. Samson was a rather dour man, but that was not the problem. When they met in Israel the previous year Brook was posing as a businessman for an assignment. His career change might provoke interest – Samson was a journalist after all. He offered a dull smile, but it did not reach his intelligent probing eyes. In Israel, Brook got the feeling Samson suspected there was more to his presence in than business but knew better than to ask.

"Hello Charlie," he said with a note of surprise as he accepted the offered hand, the fingernails nibbled to the quick. "Splendid thanks. Lucky to escape the rain in London. Didn't know you’d moved to Alex."

"No, Tel Aviv's still my beat. Been over for a few weeks to help a new chap settle in. Not ideal timing. Israel and Palestine are busy. Although things seem to be heating up over here as well." Samson sipped his drink while Brook placed his order. “Here on business? Still with the same mob?”

“Yes and no. I’m in banking now.”

“Ah splendid,” Samson said, surprise on his face. He started to say something but thought better of it. “Whatever pays the bills.”

“Hmmm. Are you in Alex for long?" Brook asked. “I’d love to chat, but I promised the young lady a drink.” He pointed towards the table as the martini’s arrived. Samson glanced over his shoulder and was rewarded with a dazzling smile. He bowed his head and turned back to Brook, grinning.

"Ah, Miss Rigby. Interesting young lady. Admiral Rigby's niece of course."

"Indeed so," Brook answered. It was no surprise Samson knew who she was, even if he were only passing through. "Sorry Charlie, can I get you something?"

"No, no, you've got your hands full David." He smiled lasciviously, then his face turned serious. “Ever hear of the Freedom Party of Egypt?"

"Er, yes,” Brook said, taken aback. “Why do you ask?"

“Look Brook, I’m not prying, but we both know you weren’t buying oranges in Haifa.” He held up his hands and shrugged. “I’m just saying. I’m here and you’re here. It might be worth a chat. Where are you staying?"

Brook pursed his lips. As suspected, Samson was no fool, and he could probably be trusted. Brook was already in an awkward position, but the reporter might know something. "The Shepheard."

"Let's have lunch. Monday, about one?” Brook nodded. “I'll leave you to her."

He accepted the outstretched hand, curious Samson was so emphatic about meeting for lunch. Was it a coincidence he was in Alexandria? His mentioning the Freedom Party was designed to pique his interest, and it had worked. Given the situation in Tel Aviv and Gaza, Samson would be keen to be back in the thick of things, notwithstanding his apparent need to settle in a new correspondent. Brook pondered what the wily reporter might be up to – perhaps it was just a story. He shrugged, assuming answers would be forthcoming on Monday.

Picking up the drinks, he started to move towards the table. Grace was watching with interest, pretending to engage in conversation with two young women who had joined her at the table. He turned back to the barman, asked he send a waiter to the table, and walked over.

“Sorry ladies,” Brook said, handing over Grace’s drink. “A waiter is on his way, I promise.”

“Who’s that?” Grace asked, watching Samson disappear into the crowd.

“Oh, just someone from the past,” Brook answered vaguely. The waiter arrived to save him from further questions, and a bottle of champagne was ordered. The conversation turned to the situation in Egypt, and a consensus formed – the nationalists might provoke disdain, even dislike, for the British, but little would change in the short term. The fringe parties were more dangerous – they had less to lose. However, Suez was too valuable for Britain to allow anything to change the status quo. The violence advocated by some of these fringe groups worried the women.

"The locals must know how awful the Nazi's are," one of Grace's friends said.

"The grass is always greener," was the sharp response from the other. "People are gullible." Brook supressed a smile and emptied the bottle. The conversation turned to Germany, and once again Brook recalled the evening at Dillon’s.

The Greater German Reich’s attacks on Britain continued at the League of Nations, either directly or through their allies – some said puppets – in the press throughout Europe and in the occasional fascist leaning publications further afield. Most in Britain believed it was an attempt to direct attention away from the sorry state of the German economy, just as the American had suggested. They were discussing Germany’s intentions when Admiral Albert Rigby approached the table and sat down next to his niece. Introductions were made, and the Admiral held Brook’s gaze as he shook hands.

A few minutes later, the table emptied as the band announced their last set. "Seems I’ve scared everyone off," the Admiral said. "Except you, Brook. Care to join me for a scotch?"

"Yes please, sir," Brook said, unable to shake the sense the Admiral wanted to have a quiet chat. He wondered what Grace might have told him. A scotch might calm his nerves. Why the hell was he nervous? It was not as though he had done anything, he thought, as he glanced to his left at Grace.

"Gracey, could you be a dear and ask Ahmed for my special bottle please?"

"Can’t we call a waiter?"

"I don't want the waiter knowing where Ahmed keeps my good stuff." He patted her knee, encouraging her to stand. "Three glasses and a jug of water."

"Oh, fine." Grace grumped. She stood, puzzled, trying to recall if she had been offered any of the Admiral’s favourite scotch before. By the time she reached the bar, she concluded not, even though she had been in Alexandria for months. Suddenly she was suspicious, and she watched the table with narrowed eyes. The Admiral was hunched over the table, close to Brook.

"The Bank of England, eh?" The Admiral said. Brook nodded, wondering why the Admiral had so obviously dismissed his niece for what would have to be a short conversation. "Hear you met Grace at the party a few weeks ago. Decent show I thought. Don't think we’ve met."

"No sir."

"Thought not. I’m usually pretty good with faces,” the Admiral said, his shrewd grey eyes smiling slightly. “It’s all a bit hectic here, with all the talk. And the fleet moves to the Gulf. Closing Suez is always an event." He paused, sizing Brook up. "Don't worry Brook. We're not going to have an awkward conversation. I know my niece. She’s headstrong," he said, still smiling. "Truth be told, bloody glad she got rid of that banker chap. Arrogant little bugger. It’s not my business, just don't mess her about." Brook took a cautious breath. The conversation was bordering on uncomfortable but seemed to be moving in the right direction.

Rigby paused, took a seemingly furtive look around, and scrunched up his face. “Be cautious.” The look of confusion on Brook’s face was unmistakable, and Rigby looked embarrassed. “Let me try to explain without sounding like an idiot. I asked Grace who she left with, and she made some crack about a banker with a terrible cover.” Brook’s eyes narrowed and the Admiral looked towards the bar fondly. "She's a bloody smart girl. Put two and two together and got twenty.” Brook started to speak, but the admiral raised a hand. "She's bored, nosy, smart and is used to getting her own way. Just thought I’d let you know."

"Of course, sir," Brook responded reasonably, trying to hide his surprise. She mentioned Bletchley, so at least she was trustworthy. But it also meant she should know better. The discomfort was back, but for a different reason. “She’s got the wrong end of the stick.” He was thinking furiously. There was no reason to think he was anything but a bank official. Was there a leak? If so, what was the damage? “What does she do here, sir?”

“She’s in signals,” Rigby said, and gestured towards the bar. “Ah, he’s found it.” Brook glanced round as he digested the information. Signals. Bloody hell! She might have access to his official communications, or those coming from London in preparation for his visit. It explained her insinuations. They would have to have a serious conversation, something she would not appreciate, based on her uncle’s comment. His thoughts were interrupted by the Admiral's cheerful voice.

"Gracey, good girl." He took the tray, placed it on the table and lifted the bottle, examining it carefully. "Lagavulin, 35 years old. Made before the Great War. Managed to snag a few bottles when I got posted here. Good stuff." He poured a generous measure into each glass. "Water?"

"A splash," Brook said, staring at Grace, who nodded her agreement whilst attempting to look innocent.

The Admiral added water and handed out the glasses. "Pleasure to meet you David," he said raising the glass.

Brook took a sniff. "Boy that's good," he said appreciatively, before sipping. "Mmmmm."

"Isn't it," Grace added. "What was so important you got the waiter to pretend to have lost your scotch Uncle Bertie?"

"I was warning David here you’re very smart, and you get your own way all the time," Admiral Rigby said.

Grace’s eyes widened as she stared at him, then looked at Brook who could not help but smile at the truthfulness of the statement. Her cheeks coloured, then she laughed. "Uncle Bertie! Really. What will David think? I can't leave you alone for a second."

"My thoughts exactly," Rigby muttered. "Right, I'd better go." He rose and offered his hand. "Very nice to have met you." Brook rose and took the hand, the grip strong, the eyes sincere.

"You too, sir," he said with a nod. He appreciated the warning.

Rigby turned to his niece. "I assume you'll make your own way. Don't forget lunch on Sunday." He leant over to kiss her.

"Love to Auntie Jane," Grace said. Rigby waved a hand as he walked towards some of the local dignitaries and Brook watched with interest as he made the rounds, sipping whisky.

"Hope he wasn't too bad," Grace said tentatively.

"He was charming," Brook said, staring at Grace.

"What?"

"Nothing." Brook looked at his watch. "I'd better get moving, it's gone midnight." She nodded but said nothing, and he realised she was nervous. "Busy?"

"Not particularly," she said.

"Care for a walk?"

"Yes. I’ll say goodnight to a few friends. Downstairs in ten minutes."

"Perfect. I'd better take this bottle back," he said, draining the glass. Grace skipped away and Brook returned the bottle to Ahmed and left the room inconspicuously.

At the bottom of the steps to the hotel he lit a cigarette and drifted down the driveway towards the road. The inky blackness of the water reflected the stars and the soft moonlight. A few small boats bobbed in the water across the road, oil lamps providing light for crews preparing for an early departure to get to the best fishing grounds before dawn. The crunch of the gravel gave Grace away, and he turned to see a light scarf around her neck, despite the warm evening.

"All set?" He asked offering a cigarette which she accepted. He snapped the lighter and lit both. She linked herself into his offered arm and they walked in silence along the coast road, water lapping gently against the wooden piers where small fishing boats and charters were tied. There were lamps along the road, the occasional motor vehicle, and a few horse draw carriages, but it was approach one in the morning and there were few people about. He flicked the cigarette end into the gutter.

"Grace, I’ve got to ask what you said to the Admiral about me?" He felt her arm stiffen. "He made some cryptic comments."

"Bloody hell," she snapped. “It was just a joke. Besides he’s an admiral.”

"God almighty,” Brook snapped. “You know better than that!” They walked in silence as Brook fumed.

"I'm sorry."

"You can’t talk about your work,” Brook snapped. “To anyone.”

“I know,” Grace said. “But he asked who you were, and then…” She paused and he stopped. “I had a nice time with you. The best time I’ve had in a long time. And I was embarrassed he saw through me, so I made a joke. And it was stupid and I’m still sorry!”

Brook stood and stared. It was the last thing he expected. He assumed she was just a flirt, a bit lonely and looking for some fun, but her embarrassment suggested otherwise.

“Are you sending my reports?” She nodded meekly. “Not another word. Not a hint. No smart comments to your friends. Or I’ll report a security breech. And I bloody mean it. Christ, you should know better,” he repeated.

“I know,” Grace answered softly, her voice relieved. "I should. I do. I’m sorry. Not another word. I promise.”

“You bloody better,” Brook said, relenting slightly. He shook his head with a smile. “A promise! Hardly the byword of national security is it.”

“I'll make another one. The evening’s not over yet!”

[stevep]

   So Grace knows his identity, or at least he's a lot more than a banker, and fortunately he knows. She's going to be trouble if she's not careful.

  That last bit suggests she has further plans for the evening. 

[Max Sinister]

"Grace Rigby was outgoing, beautiful, and smart" - that's a typical sentence that tells, but doesn't show anything.

[horton229]

10. Alexandria

The Gabes tied up early in the morning after a two day wait, much to Captain Travert frustration. The late arrival meant the plans for meeting with his contact in the port were ruined, and he had no way of contacting anyone in Alexandria, nor a way to contact Schultz back in France. He and the First Mate stood on the deck and puffed cigarettes, bemoaning their late arrival, watching the local stevedores fumbled with the gangplank.

“Merde,” Pascal Sergeant cursed and angrily flicked his butt into the oily waters below. “We’ll be here forever. I hope they’re going to unload us too.”

“Calm down Pascal,” Travert said mildly. “We’ve got no way to find the contact, so it’s a waiting game anyway. I suppose they’ll come tonight. Anyway, there’s no rush. Send someone to the market for some fresh vegetables. And some meat.” The sun was warm, and the captain squinted to the east. “We’ve at least a day to kill, and expenses to claim.”

“Hmm.” The anticipation of the bonus mollified the miserable Sergeant – things were not all bad. He watched through narrow eyes as a car drove along the dockside road and stopped at the end of the pier where the Gabes bobbed in the light swell. He flicked his chin in the direction of the car, and Travert turned.

“Or perhaps earlier,” he muttered. “Get going Pascal. Those idiots have finally got the gangway settled.”

The captain watched as a man clambered out of the car, recognising Hugo, their passenger from the summer. How could he have got here so quickly? They only received the radio message to dock an hour ago. Travert shrugged. No matter. Best to arrange the handover tonight – he expected complaints from the man, but there was nothing he could do about the ineptitude of the Alexandria port authorities. He ambled down to meet the man.



Across the road, Rashad Ahmad stood at the window of his office and pulled on the cord of the blinds to let in more light. The sun would necessitate closing them later in the day, but for now it was pleasant to allow a little natural light into the office. His desk was a bit of a mess, covered in papers and he feared a busy day.

The tricolour flew off the ship opposite, and Ahmad saw the small man exit the car and walk confidently towards the French ship. He did not wait to be invited aboard but marched across the gangplank towards a man who Ahmad assumed was the captain of the ship. Although Ahmad could not hear the conversation, it was obvious the newcomer was shouting at the captain, which caught the Egyptians attention. It was not done to be rude to the captain aboard his ship, but this man seemed uninterested in protocol. Curiously Ahmad glanced at the ship’s bow. Gabes. He frowned. He recognised the name, which suggested it must have visited recently, certainly within the last few months ago. Ahmad watched the argument as he mused on whether he might be able to turn the ships visit into something worth mentioning to Mr. Brook.

Eventually, the captain calmed the man down and Ahmad watched as the newcomer pointed to the fence a few hundred yards away. The captain nodded and the two men wandered down the gangplank, towards the fence. It was topped with barbed wire, and across a small, unkept patch of grass, the main road towards the navy base was busy with construction traffic. The men talked for a few minutes before walking towards the car that the visitor had arrived in. He stood at the door, still talking – the demeanour of the captain was one of hostile acceptance as he nodded along. With a final finger waggle, the unknown man climbed into the back and the car, which started immediately and drove towards the exit. Once it was out of sight, the captain gave a rude gesture, lit a cigarette, and returned to his ship.

Ahmad pursed his lips at the unusual scene, and on a whim scribbled down a description of the man and the car. The ship must have just arrived because it had not been there the previous evening when he left the office. He sat at his desk and riffled through the latest sheaf of arrival notifications. The Gabes… there it was. Due to dock two days previously – it might explain the man’s frustration, but he must know the captain has no control over berth allocation. The port was chaotically busy due to the imminent canal closure, and ships with transit slots were being prioritised, for a fee! This vessel was almost certainly not heading south, otherwise the captain – if he had any sense – would have found the correct palm to grease.

The telephone rang, and Ahmad’s interest in the French ship waned as his boss barked orders, demanding the impossible. He sighed and slumped back into his chair. At least when the canal closed, the port might be quiet for a few days. Reluctantly he lifted the receiver to cancel his assignation at the flat – he was far too busy to spare the time. It was dusk by the time Ahmad escaped his office, and the thought of an evening in his busy house depressed him. Perhaps a few hours in the flat, even alone, then a late-night return. He could blame work.



A few hours later, Travert, lying on his bunk checked his watch. Almost midnight. It would not do to upset the surly Monsieur Hugo again. Travert was still furious at his treatment earlier in the day, but there was nothing he could do about it. Better to just get rid of the cargo and hope he would not have to deal with the horrible man again. He took a last drag of his Gitanes, ran a thumb over the end to extinguish it, and dragged himself upright, straightened his shirt and slipped on his jacket and hat before leaving the confines of the cabin and walking down to the gangplank and off towards the darkness of the fence.

The road was now quiet, the only sign of traffic a small van parked, and up on a jack. A spare tire lay on the grass, and a man was crouched next to the front wheel, attacking the nuts with a wrench. Travert glanced at his watch in panic – was he late? No, still ten minutes until the agreed rendezvous time.

“Mon Captain,” a voice whispered from the darkness, and Travert jumped. A flash of light revealed the man he knew as Hugo. “Good, you are on time.” He snapped his fingers, and two men appeared from the rear of the van, one wielding large set of bolt cutters. They trotted to the fence and whilst one of the men held the wire, the other quickly cut a line down the wire fencing, then along the top, creating a hole a man could easily get through, if he crouched down.

“Lead on,” Hugo said with a wave of the hand. Travert nodded and gestured towards the ship. The docks were quiet and dark – no late-night shifts for the stevedores, whose union bosses were still to receive the requisite bribes to justify triple shifts and nightwork to clear the backlog. It was only a matter of time! Bastards! The light from the docked ships was enough, and he led the men towards the Gabes, and straight to the crates.

The men reached for the crates and grunted in surprise. They were heavy. “One at a time, captain. You will help.” It was an order rather than a request, and although Travert wanted to refuse, his desire to be rid of the man won out and he reluctantly picked up one of the crates. It was indeed heavier than expected, and he risked a glance towards the Frenchman. What on earth was inside? Hugo’s eyes were dark, inviting no questioning, and Travert focused on carrying the crate. They were certainly not filled with paper money this time. Could it be weapons? Travert shivered – had he accidentally become a gunrunner? He quickly dismissed the thought, and anyway, it was none of his business.

The trip to the van was longer with the heavy crates and the fake mechanic was called to hold the wire. The wheel was still beside the vehicle, and it appeared no progress had been made. The crates were deposited in the back of the vehicle, and a second trip was made.

“You are departing tomorrow?” Hugo asked when the last of the crates was safely in the back of the truck and the burly men were out of earshot.

“Who knows? The dockworkers are a law unto themselves. We’ve not unloaded yet. The crane next to the ship is not working. A repairman is expected tomorrow.”

“I’ll see to it,” Hugo said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “From Herr Schultz. He appreciates your efforts.”

“Merci,” Travert said cautiously. He slipped the envelope into an inside pocket without opening it and started back to his ship, then paused in surprise when the Frenchman and his two men followed. He looked at them quizzically.

“The fence will be discovered. We will take some items of value, items that will be missed from the ships near you. Perhaps you were robbed as well.” He raised his eyebrows.

“No, I don’t think so,” Travert said slowly. “I’d rather not deal with the port police. We’ll say there was a man patrolling the decks. We got lucky.”

“How did he not notice the theft?”

“He was patrolling,” Travert said with a shrug. “The police will not expect help from sailors. Especially foreign sailors!”

“As you wish.” The Frenchman handed a sheet of paper to each of the men and pointed at the vessels nearest the Gabes, turned back to Travert and extended a hand. The captain accepted it with reluctance, forced a smile and nodded.

“Merci monsieur. Bon chance.” Hugo smiled and marched away. Travert walked along the gangplank, found a bottle of cognac, and drank a third of it before he remembered the envelope. Another two thousand francs, and a note:

Mon Capitaine,

Thank you once again. I look forward to working with you in the future.

It was unsigned. Travert screwed up the envelope, threw it in the bin and downed another measure of cognac before he clicked off his light and went to sleep, wondering when the promised inconvenience to the British would materialise.



When Rashad Ahmad arrived later than planned the next morning, he was perturbed to see his boss prowling outside the office. Fortunately, he was not noticed, so he straightened his tie and walked towards him, hoping to give the impression he was returning from an inspection. The pretence failed – Yaser El-Hashem, the port manager had already checked and been informed Ahmad had not yet arrived.

“Morning Rashad,” he said. “Running late?” Ahmad muttered an apology, but it was waved away. “There was another break in last night. Those two ships reported some items missing.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the quay. “The port police are on their way. In their own time I might add. I’ve been here since eight. Anyway, the fence was cut. Sort out repairs. Today! And find out if we can add a fence and some patrol dogs in the gap. It’s the second time.”

“Yes, sir,” Ahmad said. Over El-Hashem’s shoulder he saw the crane unloading large crates from the Gabes. Strange. The crane was broken when he left, and although it was on his long list of tasks for the previous day, he was surprised someone else had resolved the issue so quickly.

“Get on with it then,” El-Hashem snapped. Ahmad nodded and scurried away. Aboard the Gabes the captain and mate chatted as they watched another crate swing onto the quay, closely following by a thick net full of sacks.

Ahmad stumbled into the office, ignored the other man who had clearly informed his boss he was late and quickly picked up the telephone to book a repair. “No, two days isn’t good enough. Today. Or I’ll find someone else,” he snapped at the man on the other end of the telephone. “I’m sure you realise how important this contract is, especially with the expansion plans.” The abused as ever kicked down, but in this case, Ahmad held the whip. A repair crew would be there before noon. He slammed the telephone down, stood and walked to the window to adjust the blinds. The smart corner office belonged to El-Hashem, but he rarely used it. Most work was palmed off on others whilst he attempted to impress his own bosses, with apparent success given how rapidly he had risen to his current position. Rumour said he was being considered for another promotion, and El-Hashem dropped hints he would have an influence on this replacement. Ahmad could not help but imagine sitting in the office, giving orders, and doing little, but he knew in his heart it would never happen. El-Hashem’s job would either go either to a relative, or someone who could afford to bribe him.

He pulled his eyes away from the door to El-Hashem’s office and watched the unloading of the Gabes gather pace. There were far more men working on the ship than expected, and dozens of large crates were already sitting on the quayside. Although he had lots to do, curiosity got the better of him, and he flicked through the manifests until he found the French ship. Car parts. He wasted an hour trying to find a record of the ship’s last stop in Alexandria but was eventually rewarded. Several months ago, the cargo was French wine, champagne, and cigarettes. He glanced at the date, looked sharply at the ship, then at the date again. What a coincidence! The last time the ship was docked here in Alexandria, it was in the same berth, close to the fence, and the very same piece of fence had been damaged. It had not been discovered until a day after the Gabes left – El-Hashem had lectured him for twenty minutes on his lack of attention to detail when it was noticed by someone on the road rather than the inspectors Ahmad was supposed to manage.

He looked back out of the window at the ship, then scrambled around at his desk until he found the notes from the previous day. The man, the car and now this unlikely coincidence. This was certainly something to mention to Mr. Brook. He debated whether it was an emergency but decided after last time it was not. It was probably nothing, but then again, the Englishmen seemed to be interested in the strangest things.

Ahmad suddenly remembered Brook’s interest in the Italian ship. He was still to provide the information. He would do it now, although it meant another hour not working on his assigned tasks. Lunchtime arrived, and Ahmad was yet to start any of his actual work, and he briefly considered skipping lunch, but his stomach rumbled in protest. It was not as if Mr. El-Hashem deserved his extra efforts. He glared at his colleague and stalked out of the stuffy office to find some food and drop of the envelopes at the little apartment.

[horton229]

17. Alexandria

Rashad Ahmad woke with a start and realised he had slept longer than planned. He eased himself upright on the couch and stretched his back. The lumpy three-seater was not the best place to sleep, but his mother’s constant nagging had driven him from his own home – he needed a night away, so had planned to doze for an hour or so, telephone home from the office, then sneak off to the flat for a night of peace. It was unfortunate his lady friend would be unable to join him, but at least he would escape additional chores.

The company arranged telephone at home was a perk of the job, something few of his neighbours could boast. Although it was mainly so he could be summoned to the office whenever required, it also suited him as it allowed him to call his wife at the last minute when he wanted to be late. She believed he was being forced to work late after listening to tales of tyrannical bosses threatening people, and even dismissing them without cause, so she rarely complained. He was in the untidy room dubbed an office for the three foremen, and the others had been only too happy to leave early when he offered to close out the last of the paperwork. He glanced at his watch. Almost midnight. He cursed again.

His back cracked in protest as he stood, and he edged towards the desk and reached for the light. As he was about to flick the switch, he paused. It was dreadfully noisy, given the time. He withdrew his hand, eyes narrowing. The port should be quiet this late, given the union had refused to allow a night shift, despite the imminent canal closure. Occasionally maintenance would be completed at night, but Ahmad could not recall seeing any planned work. Given they always ran over, the foremen were informed so they could plan accordingly. Could it be a clumsy robbery?

Ahmad moved to the window and taking care not to disturb the aging blinds, bent low to look between the blades, blinking hard and rubbing sleep from his eyes. Two powerful electric lights illuminated the Italian ship Doria tied at the quay. A pair of large trucks and a car were parked nearby. The man standing next to the car was Yaser El-Hashem, his boss, and he was flicking through a sheaf of papers as a uniformed policeman talked to him, tapping his watch impatiently. The crane swung away from the ship, and a crate was lowered to the ground.

Two men moved in the shadows of the light and Ahmad, curious to know what would drag his boss from his bed at such an hour, pulled a chair towards the window and sat. One of the men moved forward, briefly in the light. He was tall, dressed in a uniform. An officer from the ship, Ahmad surmised. The man snapped his fingers and four men appeared from behind the trucks.

The officer marched past the policemen towards El-Hashem, closely followed by the other man who also emerged from the shadows. The ship’s officer gesticulated wildly and appeared to be shouting in turn at El-Hashem and the other man, whilst El-Hashem frantically consulted the papers he held. When the officer finally stopped talking, El-Hashem looked up at the other man, who looked vaguely familiar. Although Ahmad did not think it was the man he had seen with the French ship, there was a resemblance. El-Hashem and the captain were silent, both watching this third man, and Ahmad understood – a translator. It was an Italian ship, so it stood to reason the crew were Italian. The policeman waved a hand at the ship, then at the clock, and stalked off, shaking his head as the officer moved closer to Ahmad’s hapless boss, his shouting now accompanied by finger wagging. Suddenly El-Hashem found the answer required, and he raised his hand and turned to the translator. The message was relayed, the Italian nodded and calm was restored as orders were given to the men who scurried away.

Ahmad rose from his seat and in the semi-darkness felt his way to the filing cabinets, eased open the correct drawer and flicked through the sections, looking for the documentation relating to the Italian ship. It was too dark. He reached for a packet of matches, struck one and tried with one hand to hide the flame as he worked through the papers with the other. It burnt quickly, and he almost dropped it, which might have caused a fire, and he realised how foolish it was to use a match, but he had no other choice. With more caution another flame flickered to life.

Eventually he found the correct papers, shook out the match and returned to the window. The light from outside allowed him to read the document, and he glanced up, then froze. El-Hashem was looking at the window, shaking his head at the tall ship’s officer, who was insistently pointing at the office building. To Ahmad’s horror El-Hashem threw up his hands in despair and the pair were suddenly striding towards the office, the translator in their wake. They paused for a moment as the officer barked an order, and a bag was retrieved from the truck and handed to El-Hashem.

Frantically Ahmad looked for somewhere to hide. He had no desire to explain why he was still in the office, nor what he had seen. El-Hashem’s office was an option, but eventually he settled on the small storeroom in the corner. He could lock himself inside and curl up behind the junk. El-Hashem would not want to risk getting dirty, but Ahmad was more worried about being found. He was about the shut the door when he realised the office door was still unlocked. He ran to grab his keys, locked the door and was just about inside the storeroom when the handle rattled.

“As I told you, it’s locked,” El-Hashem snapped. There was a pause as something was said in a language Ahmad did not understand, then more words.

“Open.” It was one word, but it was clearly not a native Arabic speaker. The keys rattled and the door opened. Ahmad squeezed himself even tighter. A white line appeared at the bottom of the door as they lights were turned on. El-Hashem spoke again, and the words were translated, then another door opened and shortly after was slammed shut. Ahmad’s chest pounded, blood pumping in his ears. What if he were discovered. It would look even worse. He should have pretended to have fallen asleep at his desk, overworked as he was. Too late! The storeroom door rattled, and he held his breath.

“Again, locked! There is no one here.” The back and forth, then El-Hashem spoke again. “I don’t have a key. There’s no one here.”

The long pause, then awful Arabic – the translator Ahmad assumed. “The captain saw lights. Through blind. And blind move.”

“Maybe it was ghosts,” El-Hashem said sarcastically. “Or rats. No, don’t translate.” Despite the plea the translator spoke, and there was a roar from the officer. Ahmad had never heard Italian, but he knew it was a curse. He remained frozen for a few minutes as the men shuffled around in the office, then to his relief, they left. He waited for the rattle of the door being locked, the footsteps to fade and then for a while longer to be sure no one would return.

When he eventually emerged, the papers were crumpled and damp from the grip of his tight, sweaty fist, and his clothes were covered with dust and God only knew what else. He was shaking, but he knew something was going on. Despite his fear he edged towards the window. The crane arm settled over the deck, ropes swinging lower as everyone’s eyes followed them. Ahmad held the papers at arm’s length and read the scribbled notes. The ship was originally cleared to leave Alexandria at five in the afternoon, but El-Hashem had altered the orders. The ship would now depart at seven the following morning. There was no indication of why the ship had been delayed. Why would El-Hashem take the trouble to personally amend the orders? Ahmad had never known his boss to do anything he could delegate. Why did he not get one of the three foremen to do it?

There was a signal and one of the lights was twisted towards the deck of the ship. For once the Italian officer looked uncomfortable as for twenty minutes the crane and the men worked aboard the ship. It was clear the men on deck knew what they were doing, and Ahmad assumed it must be the ship’s crew. More than a dozen crates of various sizes were removed from the ship and stacked on the quayside. They ranged from boxes perhaps two feet square to four or five feet long, and many had a battered, well-used look and in some cases lettering from one panel did not align with the next panel. A few were obviously newer, and Ahmad read Bandini Armi SpA on the side of one of the newer crates.

On deck the ship’s cargo was resecured, whilst on the quay the crates were placed in the back of the trucks. Ahmad noticed the newer crates were separated and loaded into one truck, whilst the others were loaded on the back of the other. El-Hashem spoke to the tall man, and all was apparently forgiven as warm handshakes were exchanged between the translations and nods of approval. El-Hashem moved towards the car, opened the door, and climbed inside, whilst the tall Italian reboarded the ship and stood watching as the operation was bought to a close.

The lights were extinguished and loaded onto the truck with the new crates. The crane now sat idle, the hook swinging softly as the operator clambered down the ladder and into the back of the truck with the lights. The engines of the trucks burst into life, shattering the silence, then El-Hashem’s car started, and he followed them towards the exit, stopped outside the gates and clicked the padlock into place before driving in the opposite direction to the trucks.

The yard was now quiet, save for the lapping of the water against the hulls of the ships, the occasional scratch of steel rubbing against steel or the creaking of the old wooden docks. The only light was from the moon and stars in the clear sky. The officer watched the trucks and car disappear, then focused on the men under his command. A few minutes later, he was alone on deck, and he took a last look around before strolling towards the bridge, into the shadows. As he disappeared, he looked back, and Ahmad involuntarily flinched. Was he looking at the window again? A light flickered on the ship, and the shadow of the man flashed in the window as he removed his hat, then a different light flickered, and it was dark again.

Scrambling for a piece of paper, Ahmad made a note of everything he could remember. Satisfied, he copied the details from the manifests, attempted to rub off the grime from his hands, then replaced them in the drawer. He slipped the folded paper into his pocket and sat down to wait in case the captain emerged from the ship. Ten minutes later he stood, cursing as his back cracked. It was one in the morning, and he was shattered. He glanced around and his eyes settled on the door to El-Hashem’s office. He stood, walked over, put his hand on the door handle and turned carefully. It was unlocked.

With a shrug he stepped into the office. It was pleasant, not especially extravagant, but much better furnished than the office he and the others shared. The chair looked comfortable, the desk empty of papers. A thick rug covered the floor near the window, in front of a sofa – no stuffing sticking out of the arms here. It was obvious the office was for show, rarely used, and it was this that drew attention to the fact one of the cupboard doors in the corner was slightly ajar. The carpet was disturbed where someone had knelt.

Ahmad walked over and opened the cupboard. There was a bag inside. The bag from the truck? It appeared to be. Ahmad picked it up, undid the buckles and pulled open the top. Money! A lot of money – crisp, brand-new notes, tied into neat bundles. What to do? If he took it, would anyone know? El-Hashem would certainly find out soon enough, but could he link the theft to Ahmad? Perhaps not, but he made no secret of the fact he did not like him, so he might be an obvious early suspect.

“Don’t be greedy,” Ahmad muttered softly as he rooted through the bag. There was a mix of fifty-piastre, and one- and five-pound notes, with a single bundle of tens. Ahmad threw the bundles back into the bag, keeping just a couple of the one-pound bundles. Anything more would be noticed. He stared at the money – it was a more than he made in months, but barely made a dent in the bag. Ahmad buckled the bag and replaced it. I might regret this. Perhaps a few more? NO! He checked the room quickly and left, anxious to avoid further temptation.

Back in his own office, he returned to his chair. The adrenalin meant nodding off was now impossible, and he watched the ship as he turned over in his mind what to do with the money. First off, he needed to keep it a secret otherwise his mother and wife would ask lots of questions whilst spending it even more quickly than he had taken it.

After thirty minutes Ahmad had seen nothing but a few feral dogs wandering along the quayside, sniffing for a free meal. It was almost two, and he needed some sleep before returning to work. If it was not safe now, it never would be. He replaced the chair at his colleague’s desk, checked once again to ensure nothing was out of place, and opened the door carefully. All clear. He stepped out, eased the door closed, locked it, and scrambled down the steps. His mind was elsewhere, but even if he were looking, it was unlikely he would have noticed the tall, elegant Italian watching from the darkened bridge of Doria as he walked briskly away in the cool evening air, through the gate.

As he walked towards the flat, Ahmad pondered the best course of action. Despite his administrative job, he started out as a longshoreman on school holidays, courtesy of his father who worked at the docks all his life. It came as no surprise there was illicit activity centred on the dockyard, with ships from all over the world calling. He knew where he could buy papers to allow him to get passage to almost anywhere, for a price. Even his boss’s involvement was not a surprise, although his presence was. Yaser El-Hashem was not a man who liked to get his hands dirty. He would happily take a bribe to turn his back, but to be involved personally meant two things. Money, as evidenced by the bag, and power. Ahmad wondered about the second as he arrived at the flat. Confident he was alone, he entered. He would count his money, figure out where to leave it for now and try to sleep for at least a few hours.

[horton229]

21. Alexandria

Rashad Ahmad was frantic. When he returned home the previous evening his mother was subdued over dinner, then disappeared to bed after kissing her son on the forehead and muttering he was a good boy. When Zaahira told him about El-Hashem’s visit, he struggled to hide his fear. He quizzed his wife intently, but she knew little about what his mother had told the man – apparently, he had asked where Rashad was, and she would only admit to letting slip she thought her son worked too hard.

Ahmad considered confronting his mother but realised it would be pointless. She was stubborn and would never admit to being in the wrong – it was a trait his father abhorred. Why would El-Hashem have come to the house when he knew Ahmad was in the office. He was obviously snooping, hoping to catch him in a lie, and given how quickly he left when Zaahira appeared, it was likely he had whatever he wanted.

His mother had not appeared for breakfast, so before he left for work, he tapped on her door, and when she refused to answer he walked in. As expected, she would admit nothing other than saying he worked too hard. Did El-Hashem ask anything specific? She had shaken her head, then mentioned his failure to return Sunday evening. Ahmad stalked out of the house and made his way to work.

Now at his desk, he sat with his head in his hands as he tried to figure out what he should do. He desperately wanted to talk to Mr. Brook, but he was nowhere to be found. It was obvious El-Hashem had correctly identified him as being responsible for the missing money, but more importantly as having witnessed the events of that night. Ahmad recalled the captain’s insistence they check the office. Clearly no one was meant to see the ship unloading its illicit cargo.

Taking a deep breath, Ahmad decided he would check the flat to determine if Mr. Brook had received his message, and if not leave another one. He looked up and checked the clock. It was almost ten, and he was still alone. Strange. Where were his colleagues? Before he had time to worry further, the door opened and El-Hashem, today wearing more traditional clothes, loomed in the shadows.

“Good morning, Rashad,” he said amiably. Ahmad managed a response. “I have a job for you. We’ve been notified of a delay and need to deliver urgent messages to a couple of customers. Important customers. We can’t wait for a messenger, so I need you to take them. Can you manage that?” It was said with a slight sneer, as though delivering message was beyond Ahmad.

“Er, yes of course, sir.” Ahmad was surprised. El-Hashem usually asked one of the others to run such errands, but if his boss did not want to talk about the money, it was fine by him.

“Good. Come into the office for a moment.” He half-turned, waiting for Ahmad to rise, and marched into his office. It took just a few minutes to explain what was needed and Ahmad left the office with a satchel packed with large envelopes. As Ahmad passed his desk, he glanced back. El-Hashem was watching, eyes narrowed, his lips curled in an unpleasant half-smile. Ahmad swallowed hard, nodded, and left the office, walking down the stairs towards the tram stop. He considered going to the flat, but decided it might take too long, and he did not want his boss to have something more to be unhappy about. Perhaps this was a test to determine if he could be trusted. Unbeknown to him, the errands would stop him revealing the location of Brook’s flat, and hence the information he had written about the Italian ship.

Beauchene’s men were already at the tram stop and followed him across the city to the first delivery and onwards with Ahmad oblivious to the danger. And hour later, he left the penultimate address and walked towards the tram confident El-Hashem could have no complaints. Realising he was close to the Shepheard Hotel he checked the time then abruptly doubled back and jumped onto a tram which pulled away before the men following him could react. Two stops later he was off the tram, and briefly without his pursuers. He trotted up the driveway and despite the questioning look from the doorman, marched confidently to the front desk.

“Mr. Brook please.”

“I’m sorry,” the man behind the counter said, although he did not appear to be. “Mr. Brook is away, in Cairo. He will be back tonight.”

“Tonight? Do you know what time?”

“Around eight, I believe. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Yes,” Ahmad said quickly. “Do you have paper and an envelope?” Reluctantly the man reached into his desk and handed over the items. “And a pen?” The frown was ignored, and he offered a pen. Ahmad marched away, scribbled a note asking Brook to come to the flat that evening. Ahmad would remain there until they spoke. He sealed the envelope carefully and scratched his name over the seal, then walked back to the man behind the counter. “Please ensure he gets it the moment he arrives. It’s important.”

“Of course.”

Ahmad turned and left the hotel, walking down the long driveway, slightly happier. He would see Mr. Brook tonight and they would talk and decide what to do. Mr Brook would know what to do. He boarded the tram to the final address and handed over the envelope. As he was about to walk out of the building a man approached as though in a hurry.

“Mr Ahmad? Rashad Ahmad?”

“Yes.”

The man puffed his cheeks as though relieved to have caught him. “A message from Mr. El-Hashem. Some documents to collect.” Ahmad looked surprised but nodded. “Please, this way.” He gestured to a door and held it open for Ahmad to pass first, then waved down the corridor. Ahmad took a couple of tentative steps, paused, and turned to the unknown man. The smile had disappeared, the face now etched with a hard edge, and he waved him on, pushing with one hand to encourage him to move.

“What’s going on?” Ahmad asked, annoyed.

“Stop,” the man said, and banged on a door with his palm. It opened quickly and Ahmad was nudged into a shabby room, once perhaps an office but long disused. Ahmad glanced around, confusion on his face, the heard the door slam shut, and a bolt slide into place.

“What’s going on?” Ahmad asked repeated. His annoyance was replaced with fear. There were others already in the room, waiting for him. Why? Immediately it dawned on him. He took a step towards the door. “I’m leaving,” he muttered, although his voice lacked conviction.

“No, no,” the man said, propelling Ahmad towards the desk. “Sit.” When Ahmad did not obey, he pushed him on the shoulder, squeezing hard. “I said, sit!”. Perhaps something on Ahmad’s face gave him away, but as he was about to shout for help, one of the other men stepped closer, leaning down, their faces inches apart.

“Any noise and you die,” the man said with menace, the stale smell of tobacco and garlic washing over Ahmad. A small knife appeared, waving menacingly close to Ahmad’s face. A smaller man approached, and Ahmad swallowed hard as, impossibly, things took a turn for the worse. The translator from Sunday night! He was small, a dirty white jalabiya enveloping him without shape. His thinning, greasy black hair and twitchy eyes gave him an air of untrustworthiness. He stared at Ahmad for a moment, then spoke to the man who had forced him through the door.

“Where is Ansar?” The man shrugged, and a flicker of anger crossed Laurentin Beauchene’s face. “Find him.” A curt nod and the man left the room, leaving the door unbolted. An involuntary glance from Ahmad was greeted with a nasty, tight smile. “Not be a good idea,” Beauchene said. “I just want to ask some questions. If you run, I’ll think you have something to hide.” He contemplated Ahmad for a few minutes, staring, but saying nothing, eventually settling into the chair on the other side of the desk. A tap on the door broke his concentration, and he looked up sharply and barked an order.

The door opened and Beauchene looked up as a young man walked in. “Ansar, what are you doing here?” He asked in Arabic.

“Following…” the new arrival’s voice trailed off as he noticed the man sitting in the chair, and his face creased with fear. “I, er…”

“Lost him!” Beauchene finished. “I asked what you were doing here?”

“I’m so sorry, monsieur,” Ansar whined. “He jumped on a moving tram. I couldn’t get on.”

“I asked why you are here,” Beauchene snapped quietly. “You lost him,” he repeated.

Ansar was about to defend himself, but a raised hand stopped him from speaking, and he shuffled nervously as Beauchene approached and he looked down, trying to meet Beauchene’s eyes.

“That is very disappointing,” Beauchene muttered ominously.

“There was nothing I could do,” Ansar answered, mustering as much confidence as he could manage.

“You allowed yourself to be seen!” Beauchene said contemptuously. “You let this… amateur lose you.”

“No, no, he didn’t see us. He just er, … changed his mind.” Ansar’s head bowed, and Ahmad felt fear. This man Ansar was terrified of what the greasy haired man might do, and he worked for him. Should he claim he had seen the man? No, it would not help. If he knew he was being followed, he would want to know why. An innocent man would be confused. Trying to lose the man would indicate guilt – something to hide. Besides, he almost certainly would not have made this final stop. No, silence was the best policy for now.

“Get out,” Beauchene snapped. Ansar was only too happy to comply. Beauchene returned to his seat, sat, and resumed staring at Ahmad. The seconds ticked by in silence. It was unnervingly, and Ahmad managed to retain eye contact only for a moment or two. Beauchene waved the other two men away, out of earshot.

“Why did you steal from Mr. El-Hashem?” No preamble, no attempt to ease into the questioning with an easy question, but just a straight accusation.

“I don’t understand,” Ahmad stuttered. The man spoke Arabic, but he was not Egyptian. “Who are you?”

“That does not matter. What matters is you stole from my friend,” Beauchene said menacingly.

“I didn’t steal anything.”

Beauchene leant forward and slapped Ahmad across the face. “Don’t lie to me,” he almost whispered. It was not hard, but it was so shocking that Ahmad was unable to respond immediately. “I know you were in your office on Sunday. I know you lied about when you left. I know you did not go to the mosque, and you did not return home. It is important you tell the truth.”

“I didn’t,” Ahmad began, but got no further.

“My men were following you.”

It was a lie, and for a moment it fooled Ahmad, whose eyes widened in surprise, then he realised they could not have been following him Sunday evening. If so, they would not have waited to question him. They would have found him in El-Hashem office. He thought carefully. He had not been back to the flat, so they did not know about that either.

“Why do you think you were sent on these errands today?” Beauchene asked rhetorically. “It was so we could check your desk. You appear to have papers you do not need, but the money is missing. Let’s start with some easier questions. Where have you been going to lunch?”

Ahmad looked questioningly, and Beauchene made to stand again. Ahmad flinched. “I was meeting someone.” He paused, and his captor – he could think of no other way to describe him because he was certain if he tried to leave, he would not be allowed to do so. “A friend. A lady.”

Beauchene smirked lasciviously but shook his head “I doubt that! But let’s assume for a moment you it’s true. Why were you in the office on Sunday night? Don’t deny it, or you’ll get more than a slap.”

“I….” Ahmad’s denial trailed off before it started. The man knew too much – a denial made no sense, but how much did he really know? Beauchene had made a mistake speaking to Ansar in front of him. Losing Ahmad meant they missed the visit to the hotel and sending him on these pointless errands stopped him visiting the flat.

Did they know about Mr. Brook? Ahmad wiped perspiration from his forehead. It was luck they had not followed him to the hotel, which would have led them to him. The man at the hotel would have told them about his note for a pittance. He decided they did not know, and he would not betray him. Surely keeping their secret would be worth something when they met later.

“I fell asleep,” Ahmad admitted, as though resigned. “I was working late, finishing some paperwork. I sat on the sofa for a break and fell asleep. When I woke up it was late, I heard a noise and looked outside. Something was going on, but I didn’t want to get involved. When I saw Mr El-Hashem coming to the office, I was, er, I don’t know. I didn’t want him to think I was snooping. I hid.” Ahmad shrugged.

“And the money?”

He desperately wanted to deny it, but it was pointless. His shoulders slumped. “I heard you in Mr El-Hashem’s office. When everyone was gone, I peeked into the office and saw the cupboard open. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t take much.”

“I know,” Beauchene said soothingly. “Where is it?” Ahmad hesitated, and Beauchene waved a hand. “We’ll get to that. Why were you interested in the Doria?”

“The Doria?” Ahmad’s attempt to feign ignorance failed and Beauchene’s face hardened.

“I know you looked at the manifest. You made it dirty.”

“Oh, the ship? The Doria.” Beauchene nodded. “I was just curious,” Ahmad admitted. “Why Mr El-Hashem had to come at night?”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing. It was just car parts,” Ahmad said. “I was surprised because there aren’t many Italian cars in Egypt.” He shook his head ruefully. “Stupid. If Mr El-Hashem was supervising, it wasn’t something on the manifest.”

“What do you think it was?”

“I don’t know what comes from Italy. I just know they invaded and support the Germans.” He did not attempt to hide his distaste when he mentioned the invasion.

Beauchene pursed his lips and nodded. “Yes, I don’t suppose Italians are very popular here,” he said with a smile. Ahmad shrugged again, unsure if he was expected to respond. He decided not, and outwaited Beauchene.

“The problem is, I don’t believe you. You don’t strike me as the curious type. You do as you’re told. So, why? Why were you interested?”

“I wasn’t,” Ahmad whined. “I just fell asleep. I don’t know anything. I don’t want to know anything. Mr El-Hashem doesn’t trust me, so how could I?” Beauchene mouth creased in a smile.

“Finally, you’ve said something truthful,” he said. “Mr El-Hashem doesn’t trust you, but you’re not alone.” He leant forward conspiratorially. “I don’t trust him!”

Ahmad’s eyes widened at the comment. “I’m sorry I took the money. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Ah, the money. Where is it? We searched your office.”

“I’ll return it.”

“Hmm, it’s of no consequence,” Beauchene said dismissively, waving his hand. He pursed his lips. “I still don’t believe you. You’re taking an unusual interest in foreign ships. I mean non-British foreign ships. We found several manifests in your drawer you have no reason to keep. Your colleagues mentioned your interest in French ships. Why?”

“I’m just doing my job. Clearing up any mistakes, making sure everything runs smoothly for Mr El-Hashem. There’s lots to do.” He immediately regretted mentioning his boss. The man had just told him he did not trust Mr El-Hashem.

“Yes, your colleagues are very stupid. If Mr El-Hashem chooses to employ idiots, perhaps he is one too.” Ahmad’s eyes widened again at the comment. This man did not care who he insulted, or who heard. “No matter. What’s important is you tell the truth.”

“I am,” Ahmad responded desperately.

“I’m going to speak to Mr El-Hashem. You’ll stay here until I decide what happens next. Perhaps there is a way for you to make amends.”

“You can’t keep me here,” Ahmad protested, starting to rise. A glance from Beauchene gave him pause, and he slowly sank back onto the chair, confusion on his face. Why was Mr El-Hashem so worried? It was hardly a secret he took bribes – everyone did. In fact, if he had offered Ahmad just a few pounds, he would have been the one at the docks at midnight.

“I can do whatever I want,” Beauchene said ominously. “Remember that!” He stood and walked to one of the other men, neither of whom had taken part in the interrogation. They spoke briefly, Beauchene glancing at Ahmad, then he left. The man with the knife glared at Ahmad, bolted the door, and sat down across the room from him waiting for a wrong move.

Ahmad shifted in his chair but made no attempt to move. He was suddenly very afraid. This was about more than a few pounds. He was sure the Englishman would not be interested in a bit of smuggling, but now Ahmad thought about it, the small man was right – Mr. Brook was only interested in foreign ships. The French one, and this Italian one, the Doria. No, this was nothing to do with Mr El-Hashem getting his money back, the much bigger problem was this unknown man. Ahmad had a decision to make. Would disclosing his association with a British government employee help or hinder his case? He feared the latter, which meant he would have nothing to offer when the small man with shifty eyes returned.

[stevep]

   This sounds very grim for Ahmad. Hopefully he will pull through but looks doubtful.

  Good insight as to how ordinary people can get caught up in matters beyond their control.