Atlantic Fury by Hammond; Innes Page A

voice shook slightly, so did his hands; his nerves were strung taut by the decision he’d had to make.
    â€˜I didn’t realise you were evacuating the island,’ I said.
    He was staring down at the desk. Behind him on the wall hung a six-inch-to-the-mile map of Laerg and beside it were graphs, presumably of the past season’s shooting; part of the skin of a rocket, a jagged, crumpled piece of light alloy, lay on the floor beside his chair. ‘There’s always somebody wanting to go to Laerg – naturalists, bird-watchers, archaeologists. They’re a darned nuisance.’
    â€˜My father was born in Laerg.’
    I made no impression. He wasn’t interested in the island as such. Later I learned that in the year he’d been in the Hebrides, he’d only visited Laerg once – a quick trip by helicopter on a fine day. ‘You’re an artist, you say. Professional?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    He nodded to the wall behind me. ‘What do you think of that?’
    It was a landscape, the mountains of Harris by the look of it, in sunlight with a glimpse of the sea. The brush-work was technically quite good, but it lacked feeling. I didn’t know what to say for I knew he’d done it himself, and presumably he liked it since he’d hung it in his office.
    â€˜Well?’
    I hesitated; but better to be honest. I told him it was nice but that I didn’t think the artist was at home with his subject. To my surprise he nodded agreement. ‘I hung it there just to remind me that the sun does shine up here sometimes. It was hot when I painted that. But you’re right – I’m not at home with landscapes. If you’re here for a time I’ll show you some others. My wife models for me.’ The phone rang on his desk. ‘Standing here … Thinks he can make it?’ He glanced at the window as the rain beat against it in a gust of wind. ‘Tell Adams it’s an order … Yes. Ferguson, an order, do you hear?’ He was trembling again as he put the phone down. For a moment he just sat there, drumming with his fingers at the desk. Then, as though suddenly conscious of my presence again, he said, ‘All right, Ross, we’ll see what we can do. Are you any good at seascapes, ships, that sort of thing?’
    â€˜Sea and mountains and rock,’ I said; ‘that’s what I like to paint.’
    â€˜Good. A sketch or two of the evacuation – a painting perhaps; the DRA would like that, particularly if there are some birds in it.’ I pointed out that the birds wouldn’t be back for another three months. ‘Well, there’s such a thing as artists’ licence. The General likes birds.’ He hesitated. Finally he nodded. ‘All right. Have a word with Ferguson. He’ll fix it with the Movements Officer and arrange with one of the landing craft skippers to take you out. You’ll have about two days there, maybe three.’
    â€˜It’ll be something just to see the island,’ I said.
    â€˜So long as you don’t get in Captain Pinney’s way. They’re under considerable pressure. Where are you staying?’ And when I told him I was camping at Rodil, he said, ‘We can do better than that. I’ll tell Ferguson to allocate you a room from the night. We’ve always plenty of space in the winter months.’
    I thanked him and followed Cliff Morgan out of the stuffy little office into the cold, driving rain. I was feeling in a daze. First Iain, and now Laerg … Laerg within reach at last. ‘I didn’t think it would be as easy as that,’ I murmured.
    â€˜Well, they’re not worried about security, you see. The place is a write-off and that makes it easier than when they were lobbing missiles into the water beside it. But you wouldn’t have got there if you hadn’t been an artist.’ And he added, ‘You never know where you are with Standing. And now