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so easily on to the scrubbed table, but he seemed strangely like someone playing a part. Maybe he was related to the great eighteenth-century actor.
    Even his movements were deliberately light, unconcerned, and Kearton imagined Captain Morgan in his office, heard the Welsh voice: “We were snotties together …”
    Garrick had a strong face and restless eyes; blue or grey it was hard to tell. Norway, Greece, Crete, rearguard actions, but always hitting back, sustaining hope and pride when others had become resigned, even ready to accept defeat.
    “I hear you’ve already settled in? No time to hang about, the way things are beginning to shape up.” He waved toward the bare wall, as if he could see a great map hanging there. “They said Rommel’s super Afrika Korps couldn’t be beaten. Egypt was next, and then on to the gates of India. They were wrong . Like the weepies who said nothing could stop the enemy from crossing the Channel to invade—” He tapped the wall. “—and conquer England! We put a stop to that, too!”
    He looked down, and tugged the triangle of handkerchief into position beneath the medal ribbons. Even that was deliberate.
    “But there are still too many deadbeats left in authority for my liking.” He crossed to the window. “When the first D-Boats were delivered there was one senior officer, who must remain nameless, who looked at one of them and asked, ‘Is that the boat, or the crate it arrived in?’ ” He turned again, outwardly relaxed, but the voice was not. “If they were all like that idiot, the swastika would have been flying over Buckingham Palace after Dunkirk!” He smiled, the point made. “You were there too, I believe?”
    He did not wait for a response, a little touch of Morgan. We were snotties together . But that was all.
    They walked on to the balcony and looked out over the array of shipping. There was even a hospital ship now, red crosses like blood in the misty sunlight.
    Garrick said quietly, “It’s time to turn the tide. Attack the enemy where it hurts, and pin down as many men and machines as we can. They talk about the soft underbelly of Europe, but that’s not what the poor bloody infantry see when the landing craft hits the beach and the ramp goes down.” He waved, although Kearton had seen no one else. Perhaps on another balcony or at another window? “We can soften it for them, eh?” Abruptly, he walked back into the room.
    “You’ll be getting your orders today. Top secret, and you know what that means. I had hoped for a fourth boat, but we must be patient, as their lordships will expect of us. I’m flying to Malta. Now.”
    He picked up his fine cap and turned it over in his sun-browned hands, almost as if he had never seen it before.
    “You’ve got a good command, and probably the best crews we can hope for.” He looked at Kearton again, the restless eyes quite still. “We shall be ‘of one company’, as Our Nel once said.” Then, “You’re not married, or anything, are you?” and nodded curtly. “Good show. One thing at a time.” He pulled on his cap and allowed the moment to hang. “This is going to be very important. Who knows, maybe vital. So let’s be about it.”
    He gripped Kearton’s hand.
    “Safe passage, Bob Kearton.” And smiled the famous smile. “See you in Malta!”
    The room was empty, the harbour throwing up reflections on the glass.
    Garrick was going to board an aircraft, perhaps that same one. He could recall each gesture, each change of mood, but could barely remember his own comments or responses. Maybe Garrick had that effect on everyone.
    He picked up his own cap and brushed the peak with his sleeve without noticing what he was doing. The door was half-open, the room was needed again.
    He walked out into a passage, where someone was hovering to guide him efficiently out of their lives.
    No questions, no doubts. Of one company . The little admiral would have approved of ‘Dick’ Garrick.
    He brushed against