Eye Of The Needle

Godliman put his hand over the phone. His face was white. "Jesus Christ…" But when he spoke to her, he was brisk. "You must try to hold on a little longer," he began. "There are sailors and coastguards and policemen and all sorts of people on their way to you but they can't land until the storm lets up… Now, there's something I want you to do, and I can't tell you why you must do it because of the people who may be listening to us, but I can tell you that it is absolutely essential… Are you hearing me clearly? Over."

"Yes, go on. Over."

"You must destroy your radio. Over."

"Oh, no, please…"

"Yes," Godliman said, then he realised she was still transmitting. "I don't… I can't…" Then there was a scream.

Godliman said, "Hello, Aberdeen, what's happening?" The young man came on. "The set's still transmitting, sir, but she's not speaking. We can't hear anything."

"She screamed."

"Yes, we got that."

Godliman hesitated a moment. "What's the weather like up there?"

"It's raining, sir." The young man sounded puzzled. "I'm not making conversation," Godliman snapped. "Is there any sign of the storm letting up?"

"It's eased a little in the last few minutes, sir."

"Good. Get back to me the instant that woman comes back on the air."

"Very good, sir."

Godliman said to Terry, "God only knows what that girl's going through up there…" He jiggled the cradle of the phone.

The colonel crossed his legs. "If she would only smash up the radio, then."

"Then we don't care if he kills her?"

"You said it."

Godliman spoke into the phone. "Get me Bloggs at Rosyth."

Bloggs woke up with a start, and listened. Outside it was dawn. Everyone in the scramble hut was listening too. They could hear nothing. That was what they were listening to: the silence. The rain had stopped drumming on the tin roof.

Bloggs went to the window. The sky was grey, with a band of white on the eastern horizon. The wind had dropped suddenly and the rain had become a light drizzle.

The pilots started putting on jackets and helmets, lacing boots, lighting up last cigarettes.

A klaxon sounded, and a voice boomed out over the airfield: "Scramble! Scramble!"

The phone rang. The pilots ignored it and piled out through the door. Bloggs picked it up. "Yes?"

"Percy here, Fred. We just contacted the island. He's killed the two men. The woman's managing to hold him off at the moment but she clearly won't last much longer."

"The rain has stopped. We're taking off now," Bloggs said.

"Make it fast, Fred. Good-bye."

Bloggs hung up and looked around for his pilot. Charles Calder had fallen asleep over War and Peace. Bloggs shook him roughly. "Wake up, you dozy bastard, wake up!" Calder opened his eyes.

Bloggs could have hit him. "Wake up, come on, we're going, the storm's ended!"

The pilot jumped to his feet. "Jolly good show," he said.

He ran out of the door and Bloggs followed, shaking his head.

The lifeboat dropped into the water with a crack like a pistol and a wide V-shaped splash. The sea was far from calm, but here in the partial shelter of the bay there was no risk to a stout boat in the hands of experienced sailors. The captain said, "Carry on, Number One."

The first mate was standing at the rail with three of the ratings. He wore a pistol in a waterproof holster. "Let's go," he told them.

The four men scrambled down the ladders and into the boat. The first mate sat in the stern and the three sailors broke out the oars and began to row.

For a few moments the captain watched their steady progress toward the jetty, then he went back to the bridge and gave orders for the corvette to continue circling the island.

The shrill ringing of a bell broke up the card game on the cutter. Slim said, "I thought something was different. We aren't going up and down so much. Almost motionless, really. Makes me damn seasick." Nobody was listening: the crew were hurrying to their stations, some of them fastening life jackets as they went.

The engines fired with a roar, and the vessel began to tremble faintly. Up on deck Smith stood in the prow, enjoying the fresh air and the spray on his face after a day and a night below. As the cutter left the harbour Slim joined him. "Here we go again," Slim said.

"I knew the bell was going to ring then," Smith said. "You know why?"

"Tell me."

"I was holding ace and a king. Banker's Twenty-one."

Lieutenant Commander Werner Heer looked at his watch. "Thirty minutes."

Major Wohl nodded. "What's the weather like?"

"The storm has ended," Heer said reluctantly. He would have preferred to keep that information to himself.

"Then we should surface."

"If your man were there, he would send us a signal."

"The war is not won by hypothesis, captain," said Wohl. "I firmly suggest that we surface."

There had been a blazing row while the U-boat was in dock between Heer's superior officer and Wohl's; and Wohl's had won. Heer was still captain of the ship, but he had been told in no uncertain terms that he had better have a damned good reason next time he ignored one of Major Wohl's firm suggestions.

"We will surface at six o'clock exactly," he said. Wohl nodded again and looked away.

The sound of breaking glass, then an explosion like an incendiary bomb: Whoomph…

Lucy dropped the microphone. Something was happening downstairs. She picked up a shotgun and ran down.

The living room was ablaze. The fire centred on a broken jar on the floor.

Henry had made some kind of bomb with the petrol from the jeep. The flames were spreading across Tom's threadbare carpet and licking up over the loose covers of his ancient three-piece suite. A feather-filled cushion caught and the fire reached up toward the ceiling.

Lucy picked up the cushion and threw it through the broken window, singeing her hand. She tore her coat off and threw it on the carpet, stamping on it. She picked it up again and draped it over the floral settee. There was another crash of glass. It came from upstairs. Lucy screamed. "Jo!"

She dropped the coat and rushed up the stairs and into the front bedroom. Faber was sitting on the bed with Jo on his lap. The child was awake, sucking his thumb, wearing his wide-eyed morning look. Faber was stroking his tousled hair.

"Throw the gun on the bed, Lucy."

Her shoulders sagged and she did as he said. "You climbed the wall and got through the window," she said dully. Faber dumped Jo off his lap. "Go to Mummy." Jo ran to her and she lifted him up.

He picked up both guns and went to the radio. He was holding his right hand under his left armpit, and there was a great red bloodstain on his jacket. He sat down. "You hurt me," he said. Then he turned his attention to the transmitter.

Suddenly it spoke. "Come in, Storm Island." He picked up the microphone. "Hello?"

"Just a minute."

There was a pause, then another voice came on. Lucy recognised it as the man in London who had told her to destroy the radio. He would be disappointed in her. It said, "Hello, this is Godliman again. Can you hear me? Over." Faber said, "Yes, I can hear you, professor. Seen any good cathedrals lately?"

"What?… is that-"

"Yes." Faber smiled. "How do you do." Then the smile abruptly left his face, as if playtime was over, and he manipulated the frequency dial of the radio. Lucy turned and left the room. It was over. She walked listlessly down the stairs and into the kitchen. There was nothing for her to do but wait for him to kill her. She could not run away; she did not have the energy, and he obviously knew it.

She looked out of the window. The storm had ended. The howling gale had dropped to a stiff breeze, there was no rain, and the eastern sky was bright with the promise of sunshine.