D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

Thorley realized that his mouth was dry, parched from the last fifty miles of their journey. “I’d love some, Colonel.”

“Please, call me Guy.”

“One lump, no milk, please.”

Prendergast nodded to the sergeant, who poured the tea. It tasted surprisingly good, a piquant Darjeeling, if his memory served. The older man began to speak.

“I assume Callum briefed you on the situation?”

Michael nodded. “He told me you wanted me to listen in on Rommel’s radio traffic, try to assess their knowledge of our offensive.”

“Right.” He leaned forward, his face flushing. “We have to know if they’ve caught on to us. Crusader depends partially on surprise. If we lose that we could lose everything. I’ve got a topnotch radioman who will travel with you on patrol. He’ll be operating a special wireless. The problem is you have to be within line of sight of the tanks or you won’t pick up a thing. You see what I’m driving at?”

Thorley said nothing, taking a sip of tea as Prendergast stood and went to the large map. He pointed to an area in Libya with a thick finger. “Our last intelligence put Rommel in the area of Hatiet el Etla, just south of Tobruk. Auchinleck feels that his position gives him a good chance of retaking the city.” He returned to his chair across from Thorley, his expression grave. “Sir Basil told me how good you are. He and I go way back. You get me anything you can from that German bastard, and you may be saving thousands of lives. Rest up for tonight, you and the patrol will be leaving at first light.”

Outside Rest House, Thorley sought out Brady, finding him at a small café that was little more than a hovel with a covered terrace and some battered tables and chairs. He was sipping on something that looked cloudy, almost like watered-down milk.

“It’s something the Bedouins brew up for the infidels. I believe its fermented camel spit, or some such. Whatever it is, it packs a punch. Come, sit down, Mikey, you look parched.”

Thorley took the unoccupied chair across from him, and a moment later a young Arab boy came up to the table, his nut-brown face creased with a cheerful smile. Brady said something to him in Arabic and the boy bowed and ran off.

“Arabic? I’m impressed,” Thorley said.

Brady shrugged it off. “Always had a penchant for languages, enough to get by, anyway.” He took a sip of his drink and grimaced as he swallowed. “I’m going to have to get the recipe for this. I know a few boys back in the pub who would take to this like fish to water.”

He laughed, and Thorley smiled, imagining a bunch of swackered Irishmen swimming in a vat of Brady’s Camel Spit elixir. The Arab boy reappeared and slammed down a tall earthen mug of the same drink and stood smiling from ear to ear.

“He’s waiting for you to try it, Mikey. Better tip it back, or you might offend the local sensibilities, if you be catchin’ my drift.”

Thorley stared at the milky brew, feeling his stomach roiling. The look of it was bad enough, but its odor was far worse, reminding him of the pungent smell of a men’s locker room after a hard game of Rugger. Gritting his teeth, he raised the mug to his lips, careful to hold his breath. Then he knocked it back, feeling the lukewarm liquor burning its way down his throat like liquid phosphorus. He gagged and began coughing. The Arab boy clapped his hands and said something and ran off.

Brady chuckled and took another gulp. “The boy says that Allah blesses your name.”

“Oh, that’s bloody wonderful,” he said, still coughing. After wiping his eyes, he took another experimental sip and found that it tasted far better than it smelled, and it was somehow familiar.

“Dates?”

“Very good, Mikey,” Brady said, raising his glass. “You might just make Honorary Irishman, yet.” He winked then turned serious. “I heard we’re moving out tomorrow.”

Michael nodded. “Prendergast gave me the poop.”

“What are we going to be doing, then, besides catching flies and burning ourselves black?”

Michael detected a note of bitterness in the man’s voice that made him uncomfortable. The question bothered him too, as did his friend’s semi-drunken glare.

“I don’t think—”

“Come on, Mikey, what’s the big secret, here? Tomorrow we’re both going into the mouth of the beast. I’ve a right to know what we’re going to be doing.”

“There’s a briefing tonight. I’m sure all your questions will be answered.”

“Fuck the bloody briefing, I want to hear it from you.”

He was right, of course, he had every right to know. They were on the same team, weren’t they? And unlike when they first met, this was not something under the cloud of secrecy. Nobody had specifically ordered him not to talk.

Thorley took another gulp of the date beer. This time he barely noticed it going down. “All right, it’s like this....” He went on and explained why he’d been sent to Egypt, leaving out his mission to Finland, and how they would be getting closer to Rommel’s Afrika Korps than any patrol had ever done thus far, and why. When he was done, Brady leaned back in the chair and whistled.

“Christ, Mikey, you mean to tell me that it’s just going to be you and this radioman creepin’ up on old Erwin?”

“We can’t risk the rest of the patrol,” Michael said slugging back the rest of his drink. He slammed the empty earthen mug onto the table. “You and everyone else will be about two miles behind us.”

Brady leaned forward, all evidence of intoxication suddenly gone. “It’s madness. You’ve got to have at least