He was watching Rosa with almost hypnotic concentration.
Sebastian repeated his question and when he found that he was again ignored he shrugged slightly, and leaned across to lift a sheet of paper from the small pile in front of Flynn.
'Leave it,' Flynn slapped his hand away. 'I'm reading.'
'Can I look at this, then?' He touched a photograph.
'Don't lose it,' cautioned Flynn, and Sebastian held it in his lap and examined it. It showed three young men in white overalls and naval peaked caps. They were smiling broadly into the camera with their arms linked together.
In the background loomed the superstructure of a warship, the gun-turrets showed clearly. One of the men in the photograph was their prisoner who now sat against the wheel.
Sebastian reversed the square of heavy cardboard and read the inscription on the back of it.
'Bremerhaven. 6 Aug. 1911 Both Flynn and Sebastian were absorbed in their studies, and Rosa and the German were alone. Completely alone, isolated by an intimate relationship.
Gunther Raube was fascinated. Staring into the girl's face, he had never known this sensation of mingled dread and elation which she invoked within him. Though her expression was flat and neutral, he could sense in her a hunger and a promise. He knew that they were bound together by something he did not understand, between them there was something very important to happen. It excited him, he felt it crawling like a living thing in his loins, ghost-walking along his spine, and his breathing was cramped and painful. Yet there was fear with it, fear that was as cloying as warm olive oil in his belly.
'What is it?' he whispered huskily as a lover. 'I do not understand. Tell me.' And he sensed that she could not understand his language, but his tone made something move in her eyes.
They darkened like cloud shadow on a green sea, and he saw she was beautiful. With a pang he thought how close he had been to firing the Luger she now held in her hand.
I might have killed her, and he wanted to reach out and touch her. Slowly he leaned forward, and Rosa shot him in the centre of his chest.
The impact of the bullet threw him back against the metal frame of the wheel. He lay there looking at her.
Deliberately, each shot spaced, she emptied the magazine of the pistol. The Luger jumped and steadied and jumped again in her hand. Each blurt of gun-fire shockingly loud, and the wounds appeared like magic on the white front of his shirt, beginning to weep blood as he slumped sideways, and he lay with his eyes still fastened on her face as he died.
The pistol clicked empty and she let it drop from her hand.
Sir Percy held the square of cardboard at arm's length to read the inscription on the back of it.
'Bremerhaven. 6 Aug. 1911'' he said. Across the desk from him his flag-captain sat uncomfortably on the edge of the hard-backed chair. His right hand reached for his pocket, checked, then withdrew guiltily.
'For God's sake, Henry. Smoke that damned thing if you must, grunted Sir Percy.
'Thank You, sir.' Gratefully Captain Henry Green completed the reach for his pocket, brought out a gnarled briar and began stuffing it with tobacco.
Laying aside the photograph, Sir Percy took up the bedraggled sheet of paper and studied the crude hand-drawn circles upon it, reading the descriptions that were linked by arrows to the circles. This sample of primitive art had been laboriously drawn by Flynn Patrick O'Flynn as an addendum to his report.
'You say this lot came in the diplomatic bag from the Embassy in Lourenco Marques?'
'That's right, sir.'
'Who is this fellow Sir Percy checked the name, 'Flynn Patrick O'Flynn?'
'It seems that he is a major in the Portuguese army, sir.) 'With a name like that?'
'You find these Irishmen everywhere, sir.' The captain smiled. 'The commands a group of scouts who raid across the border into German territory. They have built up something of a reputation for derring-do.' Sir Percy grunted again, dropped the paper, clasped his hands behind his head and stared across the room at the portrait of Lord Nelson.
'All right, Henry. Let's hear what YOU make of it.' The captain held a flaring match to the bowl of his pipe and sucked noisily, waved the match to extinguish it, and spoke through wreaths of smoke.
'The photograph first. It shows three German engineering officers on the foredeck of a cruiser. The one in the centre was the man killed by the scouts.' He puffed again.
'Intelligence reports that the cruiser is a 'B' class. Nineinch guns in raked turrets.'
''B' class?' asked Sir Percy. 'They only launched two vessels of that class.'
'Battenberg and Blikher, sir.' 'Blucher!'said Sir Percy softly.
'Blucher!' agreed Henry Green. 'Presumed destroyed in a surface action with His Majesty's ships Bloodhound and Orion off the east coast of Africa between 16 and 20 September.'
'Go on.'
'Well, this officer could have been a survivor from Blitcher who was lucky enough to come ashore in German East Africa and is now serving with von Vorbeck's army.) 'Still dressed in full naval uniform, trundling strange round objects about the continent?' asked Sir Percy sceptic ally
'An unusual duty, I agree, sir.'
'Now what do you make of these things? 'With one finger Sir Percy prodded Flynn's diagram in front of him.
'Wheels,' said Green.
'For what?'
'Transporting material.'
'What material?'
'Steel plate.'
'Now who would want steel plate on the east coast of Africa?'mused Sir Percy.
'Perhaps the captain of a damaged battle cruiser.'
'Let's go down into the plotting room.' Sir Percy heaved his bulk out of the chair, and headed for the door.
His shoulders hunched, massive jaw jutting, Admiral Howe brooded over the plot of the Indian Ocean.
'Where was this column intercepted?' he asked.
'Here, sir.' Green touched the vast map with the pointer.
'About fifteen miles south-east of Kibiti. It was moving southwards towards...' He did not finish the statement but let the tip of the marker slide down on to the complexity of islands that clustered about the mouth of the long black snake that was the Rufrii river.
'Admiralty plot for East Africa, please.' Sir Percy turned to the lieutenant in charge of the plot, and the lieutenant selected Volume 11 of the blue-jacketed books that lined the shelf on the far wall.
'What are the sailing directions for the Rufiji mouth?' demanded the Admiral, and the lieutenant began to read.
'Ras Pombwe to Kikunya mouth, including into Rufiji and Rufrii delta (Latitude 8' 17S, Longitude 39' 20'E). For fifty miles the coast is a maze of low, swampy, mangrove-covered islands, intersected by creeks comprising the delta of into Rufiji. During the rainy season the whole area of the delta is frequently inundated.
The coast of the delta is broken by ten large mouths, eight of which are connected at all times with into Rufiji.' Sir Percy interrupted peevishly, 'What is all this into business?'
'Arabic word for 'river', sir.'
'Well, why don't they say so? Carry on.'
'With the exception of Simba Uranga mouth and Kikunya mouth, all other entrances are heavily shoaled and navigable only by craft drawing one metre or less.'
'Concentrate on those two then,' grunted Sir Percy, and the lieutenant turned the page.
'Simba Uranga mouth. Used by coasting vessels engaged in the timber trade. There is no defined bar and, in 1911, the channel was reported by the German Admiralty as having a low river level mean of ten fathoms.
'The channel is bifurcated by a wedge-shaped island, Rufiji-ya- wake, and both arms afford secure anchorage to vessels of large burden. However, holding ground is bad and securing to trees on the bank is more satisfactory. Floating islands of grass and weed are common.'
'All right!' Sir Percy halted the recitation, and every person in the plotting room looked expectantly at him. Sir Percy was glowering at the plot, breathing heavily through his nose. 'Where is Blikher's plaque?' he demanded harshly.
The lieutenant went to the locker behind him, and came back with the black wooden disc he had removed from the plot two months previously. Sir Percy took it from him, and rubbed it slowly between thumb and forefinger. There was complete silence in the room.
Slowly Sir Percy leaned forward across the map and placed the disc with a click upon the glass top. They all stared at it. It sat sinister as a black cancer where the green land met the blue ocean.
'Communications!' grunted Sir Percy and the yeoman of signals stepped forward with his pad ready.
'Despatch to Commodore Commanding Indian Ocean.
Captain Joyce. HMS. Renounce. Maximum Priority. Message reads: Intelligence reports indicate high probability. 'You know something, Captain Joyce, this is bloody good gin.'
