I got to my feet then and looked out of the nearest porthole. It was almost dark on the concrete apron, only one small light still showing at the corner of the storage shed opposite. A dozen or so figures stood silent against the corrugated metal sheeting of the shed. It was like a stage set with others drifting in from the wings in ones and twos.
'Have you informed the First Lieutenant? They could be dockers waiting to unload. Is there a ship coming in?'
'Not that I can see, sir, and the First Lieutenant's trying to contact the port authorities to see if they can tell him what it's all about.'
'All right, tell him to report anything he finds out. And keep an eye on them. Let me know if their numbers noticeably increase.' He switched off, had a quick look through the other porthole, then returned to the table, muttering to himself, 'I don't like it.'
He didn't talk much after that. The main course was roast lamb and he ate it quickly, jumping up every few minutes to glance out of the porthole. Coffee came and we both stood at the window to drink it. The numbers had grown. It looked as though there were at least forty or fifty men down there lounging in the shadows. 'What the hell are they waiting for?' He turned at a knock on the entrance bulkhead. 'Well, what's the form?'
His First Lieutenant was a thin gangling man with what I suspected was a permanently worried expression. He had to duck his sharp-nosed halberd of a head to enter. He looked forty-fiveish, but perhaps he was less. His name was Randolph Mault, and his rank was the same as Gareth's. 'I don't know,' he said slowly. 'Looks like they're waiting for something to happen.'
Trouble?'
'Could be a demonstration.'
'Against us?'
The executive officer hesitated. 'We know there's an anti-British — anti-West at any rate — element in Malta. We've been briefed on that. And it's supposed to be quite deliberately fostered and well organised.'
Gareth Lloyd Jones turned back to the porthole. 'Yes,' he said. 'That's probably why our people advised us to anchor out in the middle of the harbour. I thought at first it was because we'd be more conspicuous there, something to counteract the presence of that Russian cruiser, but it did cross my mind, when the Maltese authorities insisted on our lying alongside in this God-forsaken spot, that besides making.us as inconspicuous as possible, it also made us more vulnerable to some shore-based whipped-up anti-Western feeling. Pity we didn't rig the lights right round the ship.' He stood for a moment, gazing out at the darkened quay and the figures grouped in the shadows.
The First Lieutenant had moved nearer so that he could also see down on to the quay. 'What time is the shore party due back, do you know?' he asked.
Gareth shook his head. 'No time was specified on the invite.' He glanced at his watch. 'Soon, I would think. And I told them to be sure they remained sober. Do you think they'll be sober when they return?'
'It's not just a wine company, you know. It's also a distillery. They produce a local brandy, also a sort of gin. I found one of their brochures in the wardroom bar. Apparently we've shipped some cases of their wine, or maybe it was a present — I'm not sure.'
Gareth turned abruptly from the window. 'Very well.' His voice was suddenly different, sharp and incisive. 'Have young Kent go over to the company's office my apologies to the Director, but something has cropped up and the shore party is to return to the ship immediately.' He produced a key from his pocket and passed it across. 'Tell him to take the car we hired yesterday. It's parked behind the shed there. And he'd better take somebody with him.' He glanced out of the window. 'And tell him to get a hustle on. I have a feeling all they're waiting for now is someone to give them a lead.'
'Aye, aye, sir.' The First Lieutenant turned and ducked quickly out.
I'd better leave,' I said, but Gareth didn't seem to hear me, standing very still at the porthole, watching. 'If you'd be good enough to have one of your people signal to Thunderflash…'
He turned then. 'No, no. You wait here till we get an answer from Menorca. Shouldn't be long now.' And he added, 'I'm going up to the bridge — care to join me?'
We went up a flight of steps just outside his cabin. The bridge was dark and empty, only the glow of various instruments and a solitary figure, a senior petty officer, who came in from the head of the ladder leading down to the sidedeck. 'Lieutenant Kent's just leaving now, sir.'
'Who's he taking with him?'
''Fraid I don't know, sir.'
'Hastings.' It was the First Lieutenant. He had just come on to the bridge. I recognised the rather high voice.
'Good choice.' Gareth Lloyd Jones nodded and turned to me with a quick smile. 'He's our PT instructor. Keeps us on our toes and the flab under control. That's the theory of it, anyway.'
He went out through the bridge wing door on the port side and I followed him. From the head of the ladder we watched as the officer who had met me on arrival went quickly down the gangway, followed by a broad-shouldered, powerful-looking seaman. As they reached the quay there was movement among the shadows, voices sounding in the night, Maltese voices plainly audible above the continuous thrum of the ship. Suddenly a solitary voice was raised above the rest and the movement became purposeful, the shadowy figures coalescing into two groups and moving to block the way round the end of the storage shed.
'Have the ten-inch signal lamp manned and put out a call for the photographer.'
'Aye, aye, sir.' But before the petty officer could move Mault had reached for the bridge phone. He had been followed now by several other officers. 'I've closed the duty watch up, sir,' one of them reported.
'Good.' The acknowledgement was barely audible and Gareth didn't turn his head, his hands gripped on the rail, his body leaning intently forward as he watched the two figures advancing in step and without hesitation towards the group that now stood in a huddle blocking the exit at the eastern end of the shed. For a moment everything seemed to go quiet, the Maltese all standing very still, so that the only movement was the two uniformed figures advancing across the quay. I thought I could hear the sound of their marching feet, and then they had reached the group blocking the exit and were forced to stop. The young lieutenant might have made it. He was standing there, talking to them quietly, but whatever it was he was saying could not be heard by the group at the other end of the shed. They were starting to move, a little uncertainly, but their intention was clear. They were headed for the foot of the gangway to cut the two Navy men off.
'Shall I recall them?' It was the First Lieutenant and he had a microphone for the upper-deck broadcast system ready in his hand.
Lloyd Jones's hesitation was only fractional, but then one of the Maltese shouted something and in the instant the whole quay was in an uproar, the figures moving like a shadowy tide to engulf the dark blue uniforms. 'Lieutenant Kent to report back to the ship.' Mault's metallic, magnified voice seemed to fill the night. 'Both of you at the double.'
Lloyd Jones suddenly came to life, seizing the microphone from the First Lieutenant's hand, his voice booming out of it as he countermanded the order for the men to double and called for the signal lamp to be switched on to the quay. Instantly the whole concrete apron was flooded in a harsh light, the figures no longer shadowy, but leaping into focus, a sea of faces. They checked, and while they were held there, like a crowd scene under the glare of a film-set spotlight, Kent and the burly PO marched smartly back to the gangway. 'Where's the photographer?' Lloyd Jones's voice was crisp.
'Here, sir.' A man in a crumpled sweater with his equipment slung round his neck stepped out on to the wing of the bridge.