Redfalcon, page 17
‘See here.’ He tapped his finger against a sign that had been engraved into the rock at eye level. It was an eight-pointed cross, the symbol of the Knights of St John, commonly called the Maltese cross.
‘If this isn’t a knight’s tomb,’ Dougal declared with a grin, ‘then I’m a knock-kneed Morris dancer!’
27
THE MESSAGE
Dougal and Jaikie set their shoulders against the slab and pushed, forcing it gratingly aside to expose the cave mouth beyond. Lasalle took up the lantern and stepped inside, illuminating the interior. The cavity was no more than twenty feet deep and at the far end lay the unmistakable shape of a sarcophagus.
It was fashioned of plain grey stone that had been carefully smoothed. There was no decoration except for the Maltese cross engraved upon the flat lid accompanied by the words MORS JANUA VITAE – Death is the doorway to life.
Lasalle set the lantern down in an alcove and laid a reverent hand upon the tomb. He appeared quite overcome, as though this contact had opened a channel of mystical communication between himself and the knight enclosed within. ‘It was all true,’ he murmured. ‘The shipwreck, the refuge, the whole story. It must be that we will find here the great secret that holds the fate of Malta.’
The rest of us were almost equally affected by being here in the very presence of Redfalcon, the man whose name had drawn us across sea, desert and mountains. Karrie stood beside the Frenchman, her grey eyes wide, a hand pressed to her heart as she shared in his sense of wonder.
Lasalle set both hands against the side of the lid and pushed with all his might. ‘Now we will see,’ he declared. It was a heavy weight, and he had barely shifted it a half-inch before his face contorted in pain and his breath rasped sharply. Dougal stepped past Karrie.
‘Here, sir, you’d best let us do that for you,’ he offered.
‘No!’ Lasalle pushed him away. ‘This is my time – my task to complete!’
We all exchanged anxious glances, but it was clear that Lasalle would not be denied his moment of glory. With a throaty grunt, he continued shoving the stone lid back.
It moved with dreadful slowness, and every inch was costing the historian some fraction of his life. The sight of part of the exposed interior appeared to fire a fresh, frantic energy in him and his entire body strained with the effort. The scraping of stone on stone and Lasalle’s ragged breath filled the small chamber with sibilant echoes. Fearing for his safety, I was about to pull him away by force when the lid passed the tipping point, tilted over, and dropped behind the tomb with a booming crash.
Lasalle gripped the exposed edge with both hands and leaned heavily against it as he sucked in one desperate breath after another. I joined him in staring down at the skeletal remains of the knight. The tattered remains of a shroud were all that covered the bare bones, but what drew our eyes was the object enfolded in his arms.
It was a bronze tablet, the size of a large dinner plate, but dilated into an oval. There appeared to be markings upon it, but it was impossible to make them out in the dim light.
Slowly and delicately Lasalle drew the skeleton’s hands and arms aside, being careful to do them no damage. Once the tablet was exposed, he took it in his hands and lifted it up out of the tomb. The lamplight washed over the bronze treasure as he raised it up, and the Frenchman’s eyes shone with the sheer marvel of it all. He turned to face us, with the tablet pressed to his chest. Then a tremor shook him, his eyes glazed and with a startled cry he collapsed against the sarcophagus and slid to the floor.
‘Oh dear God!’ Karrie exclaimed in shock.
I bent to check the man’s breath and pulse, but his long journey was over. He was dead.
We carried him back down to the valley floor, Karrie following behind with the precious tablet in her arms. Dougal and Jaikie dug the grave and we buried Lasalle outside the little chapel among those other souls who had passed away in this hidden fastness.
When the last scrapings of earth had been laid upon the deceased, we gathered around the grave and Jaikie wiped a hand across his sweating brow.
‘He was a plucky old bird,’ he commented.
‘He was that for sure,’ Dougal agreed. ‘If I’d been half as sick as he was, I doubt I’d have made it as far.’
Since Karrie had known him best, I invited her to say a few words, but she raised a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob and shook her head. It seemed it was up to me then, as the most senior member of the party, to make some sort of parting speech. I wished I had a Bible or a Book of Prayers to read from, but I was cast back upon my own resources.
‘Through two wars,’ I began, ‘I’ve buried more friends and comrades than I like to recall, but never in a spot like this. Here among these mountains it’s like stepping into a fabled land, a place out of myth and legend that has somehow miraculously come alive. It’s a worthy setting for a brave knight to lie at peace and for a wise scholar to find his final rest.
‘A friend once said to me that every man must find his own Jerusalem. Sometimes it’s a place we build for ourselves, sometimes it is only found at the end of a quest. Armand Lasalle has surely found his holy place and the sacrifices he made to get there have not been in vain.’
As I concluded, I heard Karrie softly begin a prayer in the lilting tongue of her native land. ‘Χαίρε, Μαρία, κεχαριτωμένη, ο Κύριος είναι μαζί Σου.’ I recognised enough of the words to understand that this was the Eastern version of the prayer commonly called the Ave Maria in the West. Her eyes moved from the fresh earth of the grave to the pure sky over our heads as she recited that ancient plea. At the conclusion she added in English, ‘Pray for us now and in the hour of our death. Amen.’
We all echoed the amen and turned away from the grave towards our makeshift camp. We lit a fire against the chill of the coming night and ate a few simple rations washed down with water drawn from the stream that flowed into the mountain lake.
Karrie had already spent some time studying the bronze tablet and I had given it some attention of my own.
There were ten symbols etched into the metal, each one about the size of a small coin, each finely detailed and utterly mysterious: a tree, a shepherd’s crook, a boat, a rose, a fish, a lion’s head, a lightning bolt, a sword, a shield and a hand. They were not laid out in any sort of order, not in lines or columns, but placed irregularly with no particular relation between them. If anything, the arrangement appeared frustratingly random. Now we passed it around and offered our thoughts.
‘It looks to me like some sort of puzzle,’ said Dougal.
‘Some of these are religious symbols, surely,’ Jaikie speculated.
‘Correct,’ said Karrie. ‘The fish, for example, is an ancient Christian symbol for Jesus, while a boat is often used to represent the church as an ark riding upon a storm. The shepherd’s crook is like that carried by a bishop; the lion is the symbol of St Mark.’
‘That’s all very interesting,’ I said, ‘but where exactly does it lead us?’
Karrie’s mouth quirked in irritation. ‘I don’t know. I wish Armand were still alive to tell us what he thinks.’
‘I must say the whole thing leaves me feeling like a complete duffer,’ Jaikie admitted. ‘I know it must mean something, but I can’t see what.’
‘Give it time,’ I said. ‘Sometimes these things work themselves out through what psychologists call the unconscious.’
‘Is it maybe some sort of code?’ Dougal wondered.
‘I can’t see the point of putting a message into a code that’s impossible to interpret,’ said Karrie, tugging at a lock of her hair in frustration.
‘The best thing we can do,’ I advised, ‘is to get a good night’s sleep. We need to start out in the morning and it’s a long way back.’
‘I hope that without Armand we can still find the way.’ Karrie sighed.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Jaikie. ‘All the way Dr Lasalle has been letting me study his maps and notes. I can retrace our steps as easily as I could find my way down Sauchiehall Street to the Brewer’s Arms.’
‘I hope you are as sure as you sound.’
‘You can count on Jaikie,’ Dougal assured her. ‘Why, I once saw a homing pigeon stop and ask him for directions.’
‘Ah well, he’d got his head turned round by a very glamorous dove.’ Jaikie laughed. It was hardly a secret that he was alluding to how his friend’s head had been turned in a similar fashion.
The excitement and tragedy of the day had left us weary in body and soul, and we passed a night of deep sleep beneath the stars. We still had so far to go, and all we had to show for our trouble was a conundrum we appeared to have no hope of solving. I could only hope against hope that Malta would hold out and that Peter John would stay safe until we reached that distant island.
PART FOUR
THE FORTRESS
28
THE LIFELINE
Far away in London there was tension in the atmosphere of a spacious office in Whitehall. The office in question belonged to Sir Charles Lamancha, one of the most senior figures in the wartime government. As a soldier, a businessman, a diplomat and a politician, Lamancha had proved his qualities as a leader of men many times over. He might have become the head of a major party, and even Prime Minister, but that was a choice he had declined.
He had witnessed how the constraints and burdens of such a position could weigh a man down, forcing him into hard decisions and cruel compromises that took their toll on the soul. He chose instead to stand to one side and lay his considerable talents at the service of those who dared to hold their ground at the very centre of the storm. He would be their shield against betrayal, and, when necessary, he would be their sword.
He had served the current Prime Minister with unswerving loyalty right from the beginning, lending his full support to the man’s determination that a life or death struggle with the enemy was the only honourable option, even when many in the highest offices advised, indeed all but demanded, that an accommodation be made with the dictator.
The iron nerve of the Prime Minister had steeled the sinews of the nation, and the threatened invasion had been seen off by courage, resolve and, some insisted, a miracle. Now at last the time had come for the turning of the tide, but all depended on one tiny island whose defenders were holding out with dwindling resources against the most brutal and efficient war machine in the history of the world.
A large map spread over the north wall behind Lamancha displayed the whole of the European theatre of war and also showed North Africa. The extent to which it was dotted with small flags bearing the swastika was enough to give pause to even the most stalwart. The Union Jack protruding from Malta looked pitifully isolated.
A few feet away, on the other side of a desk neatly laid out with documents, charts and photographs, Christopher Stannix stood toying with a dying cigarette. ‘I expect the Prime Minister wants an update on the progress of Operation Pedestal.’
‘He will when he returns,’ said Lamancha. ‘Right now he’s in Moscow meeting with Stalin. He insisted on going there in person to break it to the old brute that there will be no second front in Europe this year.’
Stannix rubbed his jaw, as though to soothe away an ache. ‘I don’t imagine Stalin will take that very well. He’s been bashing the table and howling for that second front like a wolf baying for blood.’
‘I think we can count on Winston to smooth things out over vodka and cigars,’ said Lamancha with the barest shadow of a smile.
Stannix came round the desk to join the other man in front of the great strategic map where a long line of swastikas was spread across western Russia. ‘Can’t say as I’d blame him for being upset, considering what the Germans are doing to his country. Still, I agree that our best option is for the Americans to go into North Africa and link up with our forces there. Once we’ve polished off Rommel, we can direct a thrust straight into the soft underbelly of Europe.’
Lamancha’s gaze followed Stannix’s gesture towards the boot shape of Italy. Endless hours of intense labour spent coordinating a range of intelligence activities with larger scale military operations had paled Charles Lamancha’s tanned, aquiline features, but nothing had dimmed those hawk-like eyes, which still glittered with the same bold intelligence that was so obvious to anyone who had watched him as a young officer walking through the gates of Jerusalem at the side of General Allenby.
Picking up a document from the desk, Lamancha slipped on his spectacles and scrutinised the typed list. ‘Let’s see,’ he murmured. ‘More than a dozen merchantmen; four aircraft carriers, Victorious, Indomitable, Eagle and Furious, the battleships Nelson and Rodney; the cruisers Sirius, Charybdis, Nigeria, Manchester, Kenya, Cairo and Phoebe; plus a fleet of destroyers, with oilers and corvettes in support. It’s the biggest convoy we’ve ever sent to Malta.’
‘And the biggest gamble,’ said Stannix. ‘Every convoy we’ve sent out there has taken an absolute hammering, and this is the juiciest target yet that we’ve offered to the Germans.’
‘I suppose they’re bound to have got wind of an operation involving this many ships,’ Lamancha said ruefully.
‘Their friends in Spain have been keeping an eye out for Pedestal, ready to pass on the warning,’ Stannix confirmed. ‘Field Marshal Kesselring has the job of taking Malta and securing the Med, and he’s determined that not a single one of our ships will make it through.’
Lamancha gave a fatalistic nod. ‘I expect he has the resources to make good that threat.’
‘As far as we can determine, he’s put everything he can lay his hands on into smashing Pedestal. By our estimates he has six hundred and fifty-nine front-line aircraft, six cruisers, fifteen destroyers, nineteen fast torpedo boats, sixteen Italian submarines and three German U-boats to throw at us. And the Med isn’t like the open ocean. Out there there’s nowhere to hide.’
Lamancha laid the paper aside and folded his spectacles back into the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘I suppose I can assume that progress has been difficult.’
‘Between bombardment from the Axis navies,’ Stannix reported grimly, ‘relentless bombing from enemy planes and repeated attacks by submarine, our losses are already serious.’
‘You might as well give me the worst. I wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight anyway.’
‘The aircraft carrier Eagle was torpedoed by a German U-boat,’ Stannix related. ‘She went down in eight minutes with a hundred and sixty-three of her crew. We also lost the Hurricanes she was carrying, so that’s a big part of the convoy’s air cover gone.’
‘What about Furious?’
‘Safe so far. She got all her aircraft off and they’ve arrived on Malta to reinforce the squadrons there. The other carriers have by now turned back to Gibraltar, so the convoy is without air cover until they come in range of Malta’s airfields. The cruiser Manchester has been disabled, so to keep her out of German hands the captain has abandoned ship and scuttled her.’
Stannix, who had poured so much of his own energy into organising this operation, looked as though every loss from the convoy had personally diminished him. Lamancha was quite certain that his thick hair was greyer and his heavy features more deeply lined than they had been only a week before.
‘The escort’s taken a battering, then,’ he said after a moment. ‘Pretty much as we expected. What about the supply ships?’
‘So far four of the merchantmen have definitely been sunk: Glenorchy, Wairangi, Almeira Lykes and Santa Elisa. A couple of others we’ve lost track of, the Dorset and the Brisbane Star. With any luck they’ve just become separated from the convoy and will make their own way to Malta.’
‘Yes, with any luck,’ Lamancha repeated under his breath. ‘And what about the Ohio? I think it’s fair to say that the success or failure of the whole operation lies with her.’
The Ohio was a massive oil tanker donated by the Americans and was larger than anything the Royal Navy could muster. Packed from end to end with food, fuel and machine parts, she was the very heart of the rescue mission.
‘We’ve received reports that she’s taken several hits,’ said Stannix, ‘but as far as we know she’s still afloat.’
‘What a bloody mess!’ muttered Lamancha, raking his fingers through his hair. ‘And on top of all this I have reliable intelligence that the Germans have built up a force of airborne troops in Palermo. There’s no doubt that they’re intended for Malta.’
‘Yet they’re being held back,’ said Stannix, ‘as if they’re awaiting some sort of signal.’
‘Presumably a coup being planned by their man Ravenstein. Any news of him since he managed to sneak out of England?’
‘He covers his tracks pretty well,’ said Stannix, ‘but we picked up some chatter that he’s been in contact with a group of Nazi sympathisers in Madrid.’
‘There’s no shortage of those,’ said Lamancha, ‘but what in damnation can he be up to?’
A frustrated silence hung between the two men as off in the distance an air-raid siren commenced its banshee wail. Lamancha decided to calm his nerves by lighting a pipe. After a few soothing puffs he asked, ‘What about Dick Hannay and his party? Do you know if they actually found anything at the end of this mad quest you sent them on?’
Stannix answered with a sombre shake of his head. ‘The last we heard from our American friends is that they made it safely to Fez and were on the train to Tangier.’
Lamancha took the pipe from between his teeth and waved it at the map. ‘All those ships and planes, all that firepower, and the whole thing might come down to a few brave souls on the loose somewhere in North Africa. It almost makes you want to pray.’
Before Stannix could make any further comment, there came a rap at the door and the blushing face of a junior officer appeared.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he apologised sheepishly to Lamancha. ‘I know you gave orders that you weren’t to be disturbed, but I couldn’t stop her.’
