Microbes of Power (Wallace of the Secret Service Series) (9 page)

‘Who will remove the stitches?’ he demanded.

‘Oh, I’ll find a doctor in Naples,’ returned Shannon carelessly. ‘The consul there will see to that.’

‘Don’t forget,’ urged the Chief of the Medical Service; ‘and for goodness’ sake don’t do anything to break open those wounds again. It is all very well your calling them scratches. I don’t.’

Shannon’s report to Sir Leonard Wallace was despatched, but the young man decided, not only for the sake of appearances
but because of his own inclinations, to remain in Nicosia for Barbara Havelock’s funeral, which took place early the following morning. He calculated that by driving to Famagusta by car directly afterwards – instructions having been given for the flying boat to be ready to start on its journey immediately when he arrived – he could still reach Naples a considerable time before the
Ile-de-France
was due there. A suggestion, emanating from the school, that Madame Malampos and Barbara Havelock should be accorded a joint funeral, was promptly vetoed by the governor, who did not consider it necessary to give Miss Pritchard his reasons for interfering. The poor girl, known in Secret Service records as Number Thirty-Three, was followed to her grave by practically the whole British population of Nicosia, all the girls of her school, and a great concourse of other Nicosians. The governor himself attended, walking directly behind the hearse with Major Hastings on one side of him and Captain Shannon on the other, his commissioners and members of the Legislative Council following directly behind him. Shannon’s last tribute, a beautiful wreath composed entirely of violets, had on it the simple inscription: ‘To Barbara from Helen and Hugh’. He was almost the last to leave the graveside, but, as he stood there erect without movement, it is unlikely that any of the others, except the governor, the Chief Commandant of Police, Major Hastings and perhaps the chief medical officer, realised that he was paying the silent tribute of respect, as representative of his department, to a member who had given her life in its service.

On returning to Government House, he bade farewell to Sir Gordon and Major Hastings, and left at once in an air force car for Famagusta. Every precaution had been taken to ensure his leaving the capital unobserved, and, in addition, a devious route chosen to throw off any attempt on the part of interested people to trail
him. Shannon was able to assure himself fairly confidently, before he had gone far, that he was not being followed. His thoughts were too deep to allow him to take much interest in the scenery, though, probably at any other time, he would have been absorbed in the tract of treeless plain, known as the Messaoria, through which the car passed. It is here that a large portion of the cultivated area of the island is situated. In summer and winter it presents an appearance of barren desolation, but now was at its best. Fields of barley gloriously green gave a perfect background to others rich in irises, poppies, narcissi, anemones, marguerites, ranunculi, and gladioli. To the north was the imposing skyline of the Kyrenia mountains, relieving the flat monotony of the plain. Cyprus has been described by people who have only travelled from Famagusta to Nicosia in the winter, or the latter part of the summer, as barren and desolate, but, like many another country, it presents an entirely different aspect in spring and early summer.

Famagusta appeared to Shannon to be a town of ruins, which indeed it is. Inside its Venetian walls are the remains of nearly a dozen churches dating back to the Lusignan period and even further. The mosque of St Sophia, once the cathedral of St Nicholas, towers over all and, with its beautiful architectural style, of one period only, is most impressive. The car passed slowly through the town, as though the driver thought his passenger would not wish to be hurried through a place with such a chequered history, which had during the fourteenth century, in fact, been of such importance as to merit the title of ‘Emporium of the East’. Shannon, however, was eager to be in flight for Naples. He urged the mechanic driving him to go faster. There was an extraordinary contrast between the calm, lazy silence typical of the sabbath in the Christian part of the town and the noisy bustle of the Muslim districts. It was almost as
though the one was deliberately doing its utmost to defy the other. The car stopped in the centre of the town near the ruins of Palazzo del Provveditore, and a young flight lieutenant saluted Shannon and entered.

‘There is a party of ladies and gentlemen at the Savoy,’ he announced, after he had introduced himself, ‘who are anxious to see the boat. We thought that, if you went on board with them, sir, as though you were one of the party, you would not be noticed. When they leave, you can stay there. Your bags will be taken on by the driver when he has dropped us at the hotel.’

‘Good idea,’ approved Shannon. ‘When do you think you’ll be able to get away?’

‘At noon, and I promise to get you to Naples for about seven.’

The car was driven to the Savoy Hotel, where Shannon and the flight lieutenant descended. It then went on to the little dock where the flying boat lay. The Secret Service man was introduced as a visitor touring Cyprus to half a dozen people who had evinced a desire to see the great aeroplane.

‘He’s another person keen to see the inside of a flying boat,’ declared the officer. ‘Well, if you’re ready, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be off. I can’t give you long, as I am due out on a run to Malta at noon. There’s no lie in that,’ he added in a whisper to Shannon; ‘I have orders to go there tonight after dropping you at Naples.’

‘I suppose you can’t take a passenger?’ queried a pretty girl, ‘because I should very much like to come with you.’

‘Passenger!’ He raised his hands in mock horror. ‘Why, my dear Miss Molesworth, I should be court-martialled, shot at dawn, and suffer every other unpleasant penalty to be found in regulations, if I dared do such a thing.’

The party, talking merrily, went along to the harbour, and was
rowed across to the anchorage of the flying boat which, by that time, had been towed from her dock. She looked beautiful, as she lay there gleaming brightly in the sun like some great silver-grey seabird about to spread her wings in flight.

‘There she is,’ exulted her pilot. ‘Isn’t she a beauty? Fifteen tons of Blackburn Perth plane with three Rolls-Royce Buzzard engines, each giving eight hundred and twenty-five horsepower. She can do a hundred and twenty-six miles per hour with ease.’

‘Anyone would think you were proud of her,’ smiled Miss Molesworth.

‘Proud! I’m crazy about her.’

During the inspection Shannon, with the assistance of a smart-looking sergeant wearing a pilot’s wings, contrived to get lost, a difficult operation for a man of his bulk, and was hidden away. The uncomfortable attitude in which he was forced to crouch gave him cramp, and it seemed to him an interminable time before the visitors took their departure. At last they went; he rose to his feet with a sigh of relief and stretched himself. Fifteen or twenty minutes passed before the flying officer in charge returned, accompanied by a junior.

‘Sorry to keep you crouched up in there for so long, sir,’ he grinned, ‘but they seemed to want to see everything twice over.’

‘Don’t apologise!’ returned Shannon. ‘After all, their anxiety to see over the boat enabled me to come aboard as an innocent sightseer and, therefore, without causing any particular interest. Did the rest wonder what had become of me?’

The young airman nodded.

‘They were quite concerned until I told them a message had been sent after you, and you had gone ashore again.’ He sighed with mock sorrow. ‘I have always been fairly truthful, having been
taught at my mother’s knee, as the storybooks have it, but it’s hard not to be a confirmed liar in the RAF. Still it was in a good cause on this occasion. It’s twenty to twelve. We’ll leave now, if you’re ready, sir.’

‘The sooner the better,’ returned Shannon.

‘Right ho! If you’ll keep out of sight until we’re up aloft, I don’t think anybody but a professional nosy parker will know you’re aboard.’

Five minutes later the great flying boat was skimming over the calm surface of the sea to rise presently without any apparent effort, though she carried an extra heavy load of petrol, and soar into the cloudless space above. Not a more glorious day could have been chosen for such a trip. There was a slight following breeze, visibility was excellent, conditions altogether were ideal. At one o’clock a picnic meal was brought to Shannon who enjoyed it immensely. He suddenly realised that he was very hungry, having had breakfast at an early hour before departing from the Palace Hotel and going to Government House. The funeral of Barbara Havelock had taken place at nine o’clock. Less than two hours after leaving Famagusta, the seaplane passed over Rhodes Island at a height of four thousand feet. Thereafter Shannon found a great fascination in gazing down at the Cyclades, the town of Milos, shimmering in the sunshine, presenting a particularly entrancing spectacle. Soon after half past three they passed over Morea, and the officer in charge, having relinquished control to his junior, joined Shannon to tell him in triumphant tones that they were exceeding all expectations. They had tea together, during which they discussed the landing in Naples Bay. It had already been decided that Shannon should pose as a senior officer of the Royal Air Force going on leave, having availed himself of a flying boat, proceeding under orders from Cyprus to
Malta, after obtaining permission from higher authorities for the machine to take the devious route. Wireless communication was established with the authorities in Naples, the matter explained, and permission obtained for the seaplane to alight in the harbour, and disembark its passenger.

The great Blackburn Perth machine maintained its speed, and at half past six, six hours and three-quarters after leaving Famagusta, it was circling over Naples preparatory to alighting. Shannon delighted in the experience of looking down on one of the most charming views to be found in the world. The pleasure of regarding from above Naples and her perfect bay, beautiful Sorrento, lovely Capri in the distance, and Vesuvius is not to be enjoyed by everyone. He, a man not given to rapturous ecstasies over scenery, found the panorama inspiring, and was conscious of a feeling of regret when the flying boat alighted perfectly in the harbour. The port officials were quickly on the scene. Shannon found himself greeted with the utmost courtesy; passport and customs formalities were rapidly conducted, and he was permitted to land. Several Italian flying officers came out in a motor launch to greet the British flying officers, and were greatly disappointed when they learnt that the men in charge of the seaplane could not accept the invitations showered on them, because of the necessity of leaving at once for Malta. Shannon, rather to his dismay, found it incumbent on him, as a supposed senior officer of the RAF, to call on the Italian commandant and accept the very warm invitation to dinner. He thanked the men who had brought him with such speed from Cyprus, and bade them farewell; then went ashore in the motor launch. He spent an exceptionally pleasant evening with the Italian officers, but was rather glad when he was reluctantly permitted to return to the Hotel Vesuve, where he had booked a
room. He possessed a fairly intimate knowledge of aircraft; could fly his own machine, but he knew that, if he had not pretended an ignorance of Italian, he would have been lost. On several occasions the airmen seemed eager to enter into highly technical discussions, which they were forced to abandon on account of his supposed lack of knowledge of their language and their indifferent acquaintance with his.

The
Ile-de-France
was due into arrive at Naples at the early hour of six on the following morning, and depart again at ten. Shannon found awaiting him, on his return to the hotel, a sealed envelope in which was enclosed a ticket for Marseilles with the compliments of the British consul. He had telephoned the latter whilst dressing for dinner, and had been informed then that a note would be left for him at the hotel. He smiled to himself at this further example of the efficiency of the Intelligence Department. Before leaving Nicosia he had asked the governor to send by special cable another communication in code to headquarters, in which he announced his intention of meeting the
Ile-de-France
at Naples and sail on her to Marseilles in company with the people he was after. Headquarters, in order to prevent any hitch due to his late arrival, had promptly communicated with the consul in Naples, and arranged everything for him. All had taken place between the hours of ten in the morning and six in the evening – and on a Sunday!

Monday morning dawned wet and dismal, but Shannon was down at the docks long before the Messageries Maritimes steamer was warped alongside her jetty. He had obtained a picture of Paul Michalis while in Nicosia, and on it he depended to pick out the Cypriot and the other members of his party. He had never met or seen photographs of any of the others. Wrapped up in his raincoat, and holding a borrowed umbrella well down over his head, he
watched the large vessel with its black hull and funnel and white superstructure draw in to her berth. He had taken up his stand behind a railway van, and was confident that even his great bulk would pass unnoticed, while he was in a position to observe all that went on. He had no great expectations of seeing any of the men he was so anxious to watch at that hour of the morning; had met the boat more as a precaution than for any other reason. There was a possibility that, despite the fact that they had booked to Marseilles, they might land at Naples. He had no intention of taking the risk of losing them.

There was a great deal of bustle and clatter round him as cargo and baggage was discharged from the ship. Close by, an optimist with a guitar, scornful of the rain, sang and strummed Neapolitan airs, though the few passengers to be seen were busily preparing to disembark. They were certainly not likely to spare time to listen to and award largesse to a wandering minstrel. A group reached the head of the gangway, and commenced to descend. Shannon’s sharp eyes became fixed on the third person, a short, rotund man with a fat, flabby face in which small piglike eyes were set over a broad nose. It was Michalis – he was certain of it. He had studied the photograph in his possession too often to be mistaken. They were disembarking then. People bent merely on a sightseeing tour did not carry suitcases and impedimenta of that nature. With Michalis were seven men and three women, the identical number Shannon expected. Then he gave a great start, and slipped farther out of sight, his eyes riveted on one of the women.