Sight Unseen

by Brad Latham

  Furious, Lockwood drew back the hammer of the .38 and shot Bingo in the face. The dog toppled over. It writhed on the ground and settled into a puddle.

  “You shot him!” Tibbett shouted. “Hey, you shot my dog.”

  Lockwood had swung his gun over toward Pops, who held a butcher knife in a threatening posture.

  “Yeah, and I’m about to shoot you.”

  “I know you. That insurance guy. What do you want with me?”

  “You know goddamn well what I want.”

  “Mister, I don’t know.” The old man looked down at the dead dog. He looked as he were about to cry. “My dog! My dog! I loved him, and you’ve killed him. What am I going to do?”

  Lockwood faltered. Had he made a mistake? “Listen, you old man. You know what’s going on here. We caught Braunschweiger, and he told us all about your part in this.”

  He saw the tremor shoot through the old man, and the stiffening of Pops’ back. That name had struck a nerve all right.

  “Mister, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looked wary now.

  “I think you do.”

  “I’m just a guy trying to get along in his retirement.” Feigned innocence.

  “Where were you headed, your suitcases packed like this?”

  “Going to see my sister.”

  “Where?”

  “Manhattan.”

  “Plant know about this?”

  “I got the weekend off.”

  “Open them.”

  “My bags? What for?”

  “Because I told you to.”

  The old man didn’t move.

  Lockwood said, “You want me to crack you over the head with this thing? You want your kneecap shot, old man?”

  Pops shook his head. His face was set now, full of anger and fear.

  “Put that knife down, too,” Lockwood said. “Slow and easy. I’d love to drill you one. Love to. Give me a chance, one chance.”

  Pops put the butcher knife down on the counter. Lockwood backed away from the suitcases. Pops opened them both and threw back the lids.

  “Now, take the stuff out and spread it around on the floor.”

  There were a few clothes on the top of the suitcases, but underneath were manila envelopes. Lockwood had the old man take the contents out of one; inside were drawings and photos of machinery and mechanical diagrams.

  “A trip to your sister’s? What’s she—a Marconi?”

  Tibbett looked around at him sullenly.

  “Take all that crap out of there,” Lockwood ordered.

  At the bottom of the smaller case was a pistol which Lockwood made Pops hand over.

  “9mm Luger. This is what killed her, Pops.”

  “Who?”

  “Stop acting so innocent,” Lockwood spat out. “Myra. You killed her.”

  The old man shook his head sullenly. Infuriated, Lockwood grabbed the old man by the overalls and turned him around and dunked his head in the soapy water he had been washing the dog in. He held his head under.

  He pulled him out. “Talk, goddamn it! You killed her.”

  “No.”

  He pushed Tibbett back under and counted to twenty, then pulled him back out.

  “Stop it,” the old man yelled. “You’ll kill me.”

  “That’s the idea. She was killed with a Luger, you’ve got a Luger. She was working on military secrets, you got a suitcase full of secrets. That dumb bombsight was going to go to Germany tonight, and you’re all packed for a long trip somewhere. You aren’t going, Pops. Get it? Get it through your head we got the bombsight. We broke up the rally. We captured Braunschweiger, and he told us everything.”

  “No, I don’t know nothing. I can explain.”

  Lockwood dunked him again, this time holding him down while he counted to forty. At thirty-five, Pops began to squirm more vigorously than ever. At forty, Lockwood pulled him up.

  The old man was red in the face and breathed in deep sobbing gasps.

  “No more,” he said between rasps of air. “No more. I tell. I did. Orders.”

  “You shot her, didn’t you?”

  The old man wouldn’t look at him and nodded. Lockwood bunched up the front of his overalls in his left hand and with his injured hand hit him across the jaw with his right hook. Then he held him with his right hand and cut the other side of his head with his left hook. The old man was out. Lockwood turned him over and dunked him again, and in seconds Tibbett was sputtering and flailing about.

  Lockwood set him up again. “You want to talk and tell me the truth? Or do we keep this up?”

  Tibbett held his hands up. “No more. Please. I’m an old man. This is all too much for me.”

  “Talk.”

  “They told me to.”

  “Who?”

  “Braunschweiger. I couldn’t kill the rest of them.”

  “Who?”

  “Greer. Dr. Dzeloski. For the Fatherland.”

  “You’re going back tonight?”

  “To the Fatherland, yes. There they promised I would not have to work in this menial capacity. I would have retirement with honor.” He looked sadly at the puddle of hair and gore on the floor. “With Bingo. We were to go tonight with the bombsight.”

  “Where were you to meet them?”

  “At the beach.”

  “What beach?”

  Tibbett pointed. “Out there. Where I fish. There’s a private road. The truck would bring the bombsight there, and would load it onto a specially constructed rubber raft.”

  “When tonight?”

  “In the morning. Three o’clock.”

  “Any signals?”

  Pops pointed at the flashlight in the small suitcase. “That. Point it at the sea and flash three longs, then three shorts.”

  “Any danger signal?”

  Pops shook his head, looking baffled. “What?”

  “In case of danger, were you to flash some other signal.”

  “No.”

  “You know what will happen to you if you’re lying?”

  “No.”

  “Back in the water. Till you die. And I might well keep bringing you back and killing you over and over again. I got no mercy for the man who killed Myra, you got that?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m not lying. It’s all over for me.”

  “Yes, it is. Now pack that crap back in those suitcases. We’re going to meet that sub and see what’s what.”

  “Why you?” Manners asked.

  “Because you don’t have any agents here who look remotely German,” Lockwood said.

  “Peters can do it.”

  “Besides, I want revenge. This is my scheme and my revenge.”

  Manners sighed in exasperation. “Do you have any idea what trouble I can get into if you don’t come back?”

  “Sure,” Lockwood answered. “But it’s my hide, isn’t it?”

  “Suppose they check with Yorkville?”

  “How could they?”

  “I don’t know. But they’d have records, wouldn’t they?”

  “It’s a point. Shortwave radio.”

  “We do have a couple guys in the Bund. Undercover agents.”

  “So?”

  “So you could use one of their names.” Manners turned to Peters. “What do you think, Greg? Would a description of Fischer match Mr. Lockwood here?”

  “Close, sir.”

  “I think so, too. Get me Fischer on the wire.”

  Another agent came in. Amazing how they all look the same, Lockwood said to himself, bland and hard.

  “We’ve got the crate ready, sir.”

  “I’ll go take a look at it, Guy,” Lockwood said.

  He followed the agent out to the loading dock. Standing there was the same crate that they had picked up earlier at the Bund rally.

  Lockwood put his hand on the crate, which stood as tall as himself, and gave it a little push to see how much it weighed.

  “Feels heavy enough to fool them,” he said. “How many pounds of
dynamite?”

  “About one hundred, sir.”

  “That ought to do it.”

  “It ought to make quite a hole in a sub.”

  “And it will go off when the air pressure gets above what?”

  “Above twenty pounds per square inch. We put in two triggers to make sure it will work.”

  “Sounds perfect. Load it on the truck.”

  Manners came out. “Well, you’re all set,” he said. “Call yourself Richard Fischer.”

  “What about I.D.?”

  “Can’t give you I.D. and register you at Bund headquarters, too, Lockwood. Play it by ear. Choose your identity on the spot. If you need to be Fischer, you can be.”

  “Give me Peters and this guy”—Lockwood pointed at the agent who had led him out—“to give me a hand.”

  “That’s Brand. You got ‘em. Better get going if you don’t want to be late.”

  “Wish me luck,” Lockwood said.

  “I wish you lots of luck,” Manners said. He held out his hand and smiled warmly.

  Lockwood just looked at it before clasping it. “I haven’t made up my mind about you, Manners.”

  Manners nodded and looked embarrassed. “I know.” He changed the subject. “You get all you wanted to out of Pops?”

  “We went over it another couple of times, just to make sure,” Lockwood said. “Come on, guys. Let’s not be late with our gift here.”

  Following the roads Pops had pointed out on a map, the three in the Chesterfield truck reached the beach in twenty minutes.

  “Now what do you have to do?” Peters asked.

  “At three sharp, stand down there and blink this flashlight.”

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Just give me a hand. Don’t say anything. Let me do the talking. We don’t want anybody hurt.”

  “Is that Luger loaded?” Brand asked. Lockwood had stuck Pops’ Luger in the waistband of his trousers.

  “Yeah. Pops kept it in pretty good shape. Plus I got my .38 under my jacket. This is more for show.”

  Lockwood had to blink the flashlight a dozen times before he got the recognition signal back—four longs and four shorts. He flashed the confirmation signal. A confirmation signal was flashed back, and fifteen minutes later a triple-sized rubber raft containing ten sailors paddled up to the shore.

  Pointing, Lockwood showed the young blond officer the parked truck. The officer raised his arm and nine of the men came with him. With the officer and Lockwood watching, the nine sailors and Peters and Brand picked up the crate and moved it to the raft. Ever so easily, they loaded it.

  “And now, you come with us, ja?” the officer asked in English.

  “Nein,” Lockwood said, and continued in English. “I am to stay here.”

  “Nein, my instructions were to bring a passenger. A dog, too. Where is the dog?”

  “A change of plans. The old man thought he could be of more value to the Fatherland here.”

  The sailors had surrounded the two of them. Several carried automatic weapons at the ready that looked ugly. Lockwood smiled pleasantly.

  Brand and Peters were outside the circle. Lockwood smiled at the German officer and shook his head at the two T-men. The officer reached forward and took the Luger from Lockwood’s waistband.

  “We are to pick up someone,” the officer said. “I will obey my orders. Come with us.”

  “No,” Lockwood answered. “I have work to do here. This is ridiculous.”

  “You come with us. The Captain will decide. You don’t look German. Gefällt es Ihnen hier in Amerika?”

  “I don’t speak German. My parents were second-generation.”

  “This is strange. You will come with us.”

  “No. How will I get back?”

  “Perhaps you won’t. Perhaps you will come to the Fatherland.”

  “My value is here.”

  The officer grinned and pulled back the breeching mechanism of the Luger, checked to make sure there was a shell in the clip, and let it go. The men with the automatic weapons did something to them, too, cocking them.

  “Now,” the officer said, “into the boat.”

  Lockwood shrugged and said okay and walked toward the raft. He thought about making a run for it, but there was too much of a chance of his being cut down with these nasty-looking automatic pistols. Not to speak of what would happen to Brand and Peters. The image of the other two agents, Tom and Drew, dying in their own blood back on the asphalt struck him then, startling him. No, he had got them into this, and he would make sure they got out. He stepped into the raft.

  The officer stepped in, too, and several of the sailors, with some difficulty, pushed the raft off into the water. They waded through the water and all jumped in.

  By the faint light of the stars, Lockwood saw them pick up paddles. They vigorously paddled, and in minutes Lockwood lost sight of Peters, Brand, and the truck. Lockwood felt he had a fix on where the shore was and stiffened his muscles preparatory to a jump well away from the raft when the officer said, “Hold out your hands.” Lockwood looked down and saw the Luger pointed at his stomach. Between him on both sides were sailors paddling. It would be impossible to get a secure enough footing to jump over them without getting shot.

  Lockwood felt the Luger poke him in the stomach. “Hold out the hands!”

  He held out his hands and felt handcuffs tighten and click on his wrists. He had no choice now. He had to take the journey to the submarine.

  And he had to escape.

  Chapter 19

  In fifteen minutes the raft reached the submarine. Amid gutteral shouts, the crate was carefully lifted from the raft and lowered by a crude hoist through a hatch into the hold.

  Lockwood heard vigorous comments he took to be about himself between the captain of the U-boat and the officer who had ordered him along. He understood no German, but sensed that the two were having a disagreement over him. The officer ordered Lockwood to get out of the raft onto the deck of the sub. Still handcuffed, his wound aching, Lockwood found this difficult with the raft and the sub rocking in opposite rhythms from the waves, but he managed it.

  “How about taking the chains off?” Lockwood asked the young officer.

  “Down the ladder,” the officer answered.

  “Hey, I’m on your side,” Lockwood complained. “How come you’re treating me like the enemy?”

  “Neither Captain Mannheim nor I can understand how you work for the Fatherland and do not speak German.”

  “I never had the chance to learn,” Lockwood said. “I am in love with the ideals of Germany. One race over all the world, with the other lesser races subdued.”

  “The master race to rule.”

  “Yeah. That’s it. Us, the master race. That’s what I want, too.”

  “Down the ladder.”

  “I’m placed in this country where I can do the most value.”

  “Down the ladder. We have some checking to do.”

  “Will you take these damn cuffs off?” Lockwood asked. “I can’t make it down the ladder in them.”

  The officer relented, but shouted for a couple of guards to come over. Two sailors with automatic pistols held them on Lockwood as he carefully walked over the slippery steel to the open hatch.

  On the way down, the foul air hit him. It smelled of oil, sweat, sauerkraut, and piss, and of men packed together for weeks in a tin box. How did men live like this? The metal ladder seemed as slippery as the deck above.

  At the bottom of the ladder he found himself face to face with the captain.

  “Mine English is not so good as Klien,” the captain said. “We make radio to our installation here to see if you belong.”

  The captain was a beefy-looking fellow with a paunch and a dirty white uniform. He looked more like the chief petty officer in charge of the boiler room than the captain.

  The sub rocked, and Lockwood reached out for support. The captain grinned at him.

  “You are a sailor not,�
�� he said.

  “Right.”

  Behind him, Lockwood heard the sound of men coming down the ladder, and he saw the officer, Klein, come down with the other men. They pulled the hatch shut and secured it.

  “Hey, I want to go back,” Lockwood said. “I’m not supposed to go to Germany.”

  “I know you think that,” Klein said. “But we have orders, and we are learning the value of following orders.”

  “A great virtue,” Lockwood said. He tried to pace the guy, to figure out what he was thinking and match it.

  “We lost the last war,” Klein said.

  “Yes, we lost it,” Lockwood echoed.

  “We shall not lose this one!”

  “No, we shall win!” Lockwood said, and he strove to put into his voice what Klein was putting into his. He saw the glint of pride and arrogance in Klein’s eye, a look Lockwood imagined a horse would have before he reared up and cut you with his hooves.

  “Hans!” shouted Klein. Then he said something in German that Lockwood couldn’t follow, but he got the gist well enough when a man wearing earphones poked his head out of a cubbyhole to the right of the captain and shouted something back.

  “Your name, Mr. American?” Klein asked.

  “My name?” Lockwood asked.

  “Yes, we are now in touch with the Bund offices here.”

  “I’m registered there as Richard Fischer.”

  He heard Klein tell the radio operator something with the words “Richard Fischer” in the middle of it. He hoped that this guy Fischer wasn’t standing right there now, otherwise he wouldn’t last till the sub plunged below to its end. According to Peters, the bomb in the crate would go off when the sub reached a depth of thirty feet.

  He heard the steady tak-tak-tak of the telegraph key.

  God, it was cramped down here! The captain had picked a spot where he could stand completely straight, but Lockwood was positioned where he was forced to stoop a little because of the pipes and conduits that ran along the iron ceiling. Sweat lathered Lockwood as if he had run for miles. The heat was intense and rising, and he felt under a strain as he kept himself outwardly calm but inwardly alert for he didn’t know what to fly at him. He still had his .38 Special under his waistband next to the small of his back, covered by his jacket, but he wasn’t going to get far using it with these characters holding tommy guns or whatever on him.