by Anders Blixt
I glimpsed an even darker shadow at the horizon. “What’s that far ahead?”
“The Iron Wood,” said Jacob, “and we’re going through it. It’ll take a few hours. Many dirt tracks cross it.”
The shadow grew into a band that turned into a forest that stretched left and right as far as I could see. Victor Szenes drove along the trail into arboreal gloom. Bare trunks rose like ebony pillars for twenty yards and then flared into brushy coniferous umbrellas. I pondered on what kind of herd animals had cleared this trail over long years. Behemoth’s speed fell to eight knots on the rough ground. Grazing spidery animals, the size of big rats, fled from the clamouring steel giant through the bountiful dark undergrowth.
“Food break!” Victor Szenes stopped Behemoth in a glade. I climbed out of the cab. The sky was grey, and the forest seemed to cloud our surroundings with layers of shadow. A cold moist breeze carried a bitter scent, probably from the trees etheric oils.
“Johnny, I’m sick,” said Linda huddled on the seat. “I must lie down.”
“Do so,” I said. “Sleep while Mr Szenes and I prepare the food.”
She got into a bunk in the cab’s rear and vanished under a blanket.
Jacob, holding a hatchet, walked away into the silent shadows to get firewood. Old dry needles crackled under his soles.
Victor Szenes and I unloaded a field stove with accoutrements from a cargo box underneath Behemoth’s body. When everything was ready for cooking a meal, he broke the silence: “Herr Bornewald, before we left Port Francis, Yitzchak Asimoff told me how you and he had met many years ago in Europe.” He made a brief pause. “I can’t understand how man with those qualities walks into the night and kills two drunken youngsters just to prevent them from stealing my halftrack. You don’t seem cold-hearted enough to value property above human lives.”
I gazed at the black trees. I did not want to face Victor Szenes’s weary eyes; I did not want to explain myself. The wind shook the brushy branches. Two spider squirrels watched me with multiple eyes. Jacob’s hatchet chopped wood nearby, but I could not see him among the shadows. “No, I am no icy killer. Something big is at stake, so big that I had to shoot them.”
“What is at stake?” he said.
“Are you sure that you want to learn that? It is a risky matter,” I said.
“Maybe not everything, but I want to understand what I have got entangled in. My son’s life is at stake,” he said.
I acquiesced, because I wanted to act honourably. “I am not the person I claim to be.”
“Herr Asimoff explained that. It is solely his account for what you did for those refugees that has convinced me to continue travelling with you after last night’s events.”
“I am a republican activist. I struggle for world that offers more freedom to all people. I am an aristocrat, but I reject the elites’ despotism.” I interrupted the harangue, because I realized it sounded sentimental.
“The cargo I transport, is it hazardous?” said Victor Szenes.
“Yes and no. No immediate hazard to anyone. But it is Pandora’s box. If it is ever used, the world will not remain the same. People simply must not steal it.”
“Is it something that can end the war with a republican victory?” he said.
“No, it isn’t that easy. The war is like a wildfire, unstoppable, uncontrollable. But whoever knows what Pandora’s box contains, can use that knowledge to his advantage. I want to give that knowledge to the republics.”
“I am a simple man, earning a living for my family by transporting goods in the wilderness. By what right do you involve me in your war?” he said.
“There is not such right. This barrel is so important that I must get it off Alba as fast as I can,” I said.
“You’re not treating us fairly,” he said.
“No, I don’t. War is not fair. Pestilence and famine walk behind the advancing armies. An individual can only try to do what is right,” I said.
“Involving Jacob was wrong. He is too young,” he said.
Those words hurt like a slap to the cheek. “I am sorry. Poor judgment by me.”
Unexpectedly Victor Szenes put his hand on my right shoulder. I turned my head to look into his face. He said: “Young man, in Rome you can see the Titus Arch, raised by an emperor to glorify the destruction of our temple in Jerusalem. The Romans also tortured your master to death. I, a Jew, and you, a Christian, stand here nineteen hundred years later whereas that empire is only rubble. Tyrants may kill individuals that stand up against them, but good ideas sown by such people will nevertheless survive. But if you start to resemble your enemy, Rome has defeated you.”
I did not know what to say. I had gone astray and now I faced it.
Victor smiled grimly: “Go on fighting, sir Percival.” He fetched a smoke lamb leg from a grocery box and started to slice it.
Chapter 18
“Fredriksborg ahoy!” Jacob Szenes stretched an arm past Linda and nudged me. The colourful dreams dissolved without a trace and I noticed that Behemoth still followed the broad gravel roads we had reached when exiting the Iron Wood. The Danish city glittered faintly at an indeterminate distance in the night and dispelled some of the darkness in my mind. I understood why Xenophon’s men had shouted joyfully when glimpsing the Black Sea after their long march through the Anatolian mountains. Soon I would be among friends.
“Less than an hour remaining,” said Victor Szenes.
I switched on the radio and tuned in the city’s Danish-language broadcast. An organ played in the crackling loudspeaker, evening service at Sankt Knud’s Lutheran church. Just after the final hymn had concluded, Behemoth reached the town’s edge. Its headlight illuminated a sturdy boom, striped in white and red, that blocked the road. It was accompanied on both sides by iron hedgehogs wrapped in barbed wire. The Danish army had also built several firing positions around the gate.
A black guardhouse was located next to the boom. Two policemen with cavalry carbines came out and checked Behemoth’s exterior with their torchlights. Victor Szenes opened the cab window and addressed them in German: “Constable Riise, good evening.”
“Herr Szenes, welcome back. What’s your cargo today?” The Danish accent made Riise’s German hard to understand.
“Only two stranded cloudmen returning to their ship.”
“Tell them to come down. I want to talk to them,” said the policeman.
Linda and I climbed down to the ground. A machine gun crew pointed a thick water-cooled barrel at us through the sand bags of their strongpoint.
Riise’s torchlight blinded us as he inspected our faces. “Who are you?” he said in German.
“I am Johnny Bornewald and this is my guide Linda Connor. I am a travelling trade agent from the cloudship Cassiopeia which currently should be in your cloudport,” I explained.
“Yes, I know her. Stranded with engine troubles,” said Riise.
“I have been around looking for goods to take to Magalhana. When we were in Port Francis, the news on the radio mentioned that the risk of war had increased, so I decided to get back to the ship. I chartered Herr Szenes to drive us here,” I said.
“Any goods to declare?” asked the policeman.
“No,” I said.
“Your travel documents, please.”
I handed them over, as did Linda. Riise positioned himself in the cone from Behemoth’s headlight and started to read them. Meanwhile, his colleague headed for the rear of the halftrack. The tarpaulin rustled when he pulled it aside. “There are just fuel barrels here, sergeant,” he called. His native language must have been Icelandic, because his Danish sounded almost like Swedish.
“Just a moment, Herr Bornewald. I have to make a phone call,” said Riise and headed for the guardhouse with our travel documents.
I checked the surroundings while waiting. The soldiers appeared to be alert but not tense. The Icelandic policeman spent more time glancing at Linda’s behind that watching me or Behemoth. So the Danes perceived no i
mminent risk of war.
Five minutes later, Riise returned. “I’ve talked to Willem Laan in the Cassiopeia. He’s happy that you have returned safe and sound. Welcome to Fredriksborg.” He signalled to the nearest soldiers to raise the boom.
We climbed into the cab and Behemoth moved forward. I sighed with relief: back in safety. One problem remained, however: how to get our barrel past the customs officers at the cloudport.
“Where do you want to go?” asked Victor Szenes.
“Would it be possible for you to park Behemoth in a secure place while Linda and I walk to the Cassiopeia to settle the final details with captain Leclerc? He’s the one who decides how we’re going to get that thing to the ship,” I said.
“My cousin has a workshop near the cloudport. We’ll go there,” said Victor Szenes. He navigated the huge halftrack smoothly through the narrow streets of Fredriksborg and after a few minutes we arrived at a steel gate with barbed wire along the top. Beyond it I glimpsed a large yard, containing lorries, cars and aeroplanes in varying states of disrepair, adjoined by a two-story stone building adorned with a sign saying Szenes Mekanik A/S. Electrical lamps gleamed behind three windows on its top floor. Behemoth’s klaxon howled – two short, one long. While we waited, I scanned the surroundings: across the street a carpentry workshop, to the right a painter’s shop. This must be a district for artisans and tradesmen.
The gate swung inwards, opened by a young woman in an overall. I recognized her: she had driven a lorry past the cloudport customs office during my first hour in Fredriksborg. She waved a welcome as Behemoth rolled into the yard and stopped. We dismounted and Victor Szenes hugged the woman. They conversed in an unknown language that I presumed to be Hungarian.
“This is my niece Hannah.” Victor Szenes made the introduction in German. “The family is big. Hannah is our troubadour.”
I shook her hand: “Pleased to meet you. I’m Johnny Bornewald.”
“Welcome.” Hannah Szenes spoke flawless German. “I already know Miss Connor. She has done some jobs for us here in the garage.”
Linda nodded.
I turned to Victor Szenes and handed over the last part of our fare. “Thanks for a safe journey. I’m leaving the Beretta in your gun rack for the time being.”
“All right. That’s all for tonight then,” said Victor Szenes. “Follow the wide street to your right and you’ll soon reach the cloudport’s main gate. See you here tomorrow.”
We walked for two blocks and entered Fredriksborg’s red-light district. All ports – no matter whether they serve the oceans or the sky – attract the same types of seedy establishments. Loud bouncers outside bars and gambling dens competed for attention. Drunkards staggered in side alleys and vomited behind toppled garbage bins.
“Hi, sailor boy!” The woman who called for my attention from a window on the second floor had grotesque make-up in pink and lilac. The lacy dress revealed a disgusting amount of bulging flesh. “I can give you more fun than that little nancy-boy.” She spoke English with a heavy Danish accent.
Linda shouted at her in Russian, a long harangue where I only deciphered one word: prostitutka.
The harlot smirked: “Pažalsta, there is space for you too in my bed. It’s wide, unlike your arse.”
Linda showed her the finger, clenched the jaws and trudged on in silence next to me.
Three blocks later we arrived at the cloudport’s gate. Willem Laan waited in the light from a solitary street lamp next to the guard post. “Wonderful to see you again. Are you well? We feared that you had died up on the ice.”
“We are fine. Let’s talk about the rest on board,” I said.
Willem nodded: “Captain Leclerc is waiting.”
The guard on duty let us in through the gate without further ado.
Four cups of steaming coffee waited for us on Leclerc’s desk. He greeted us in German: “Welcome home, both of you. I thought the war had killed you.” Leclerc rarely showed much emotion, but tonight his voice sounded joyful. He waved at the cups. Some ash fell from the tip of his smouldering cigarillo and sullied the deck. “I tried to use your infernal device, Johnny, but the stuff probably isn’t as bitter as you want it. Get seated, please.”
“Thanks, captain,” I said.
“Something else with the coffee? Cognac? Liqueur?” the captain asked.
Linda shook her head.
“No thanks,” I said. “But I’d like some sandwiches.”
Leclerc looked at Willem: “Fix that, please.” Willem left for the mess.
I took a big sip and felt pleasure of the caffeine entering my system. “A good brew, captain.”
Leclerc nodded. “Thanks. Now, please, give me a summary of your adventures.”
“Miss Connor knows what's going on,” I said and switched to badly accented Dutch: “Kolonel Ter Horst groet u en zegt dat zwarte adelaars naar de Rijn vliegen.” The Inlichtendienst’s current code phrase for “imminent war in Alba”.
Leclerc gazed firmly at my face: “Maurits van Oranje staat altijd klaar om ze in hun vlucht neer te schieten.”
“Twaalf twintig dertien.”
“Begrepen.” Leclerc switched to German: “The writing has been on the wall for some days and now you’ve confirmed it. Well, the colonel knows that I’m ready for action.”
“Do you want the complete story?” I said.
“No. If we get captured after the fighting starts, I might get tortured. So give me a judicious summary,” he said.
However, the summary turned out quite long. When Willem returned with our sandwiches, Leclerc dismissed him for “security reasons”. As I approached the end of my story, I refrained from explaining what Pandora’s Box contained.
When I eventually fell silent, Leclerc said: “You chaps seem to have more lives than a cat.”
His words let loose dark thoughts in my mind: Cats, bloody hell no! We’ve survived by leaving a trail of death behind us. War creates only killers and corpses.
Leclerc leaned back and grabbed a sandwich. “Johnny, you have to find a way of getting that box on board discreetly. The customs people have tightened their checks during the last few days, after the Russians lost to the Japanese on the ice sheet.”
“I know. Let me sleep for a night and I’ll come up with a scheme,” I said.
“All right. I’ll tell Willem to move into the forecastle for the time being. You two need a chance to sleep in peace,” said Leclerc.
“Johnny, are you awake?” Linda whispered from my bunk.
I turned in discomfort in Willem’s bunk. Sleep eluded me. Bloodcurdling scenes from our journey ran in a loop for my inner eyes. The cabin, my only home in a messy world, provided no relief, despite its familiar smells and background sounds. “Mmm, I’m listening.”
“Why do you keep Leclerc in the dark?” said Linda. “That colonel you spoke of is not your true boss.”
“Well, Ter Horst and the Institute work together quite often. It was the colonel who got me aboard this ship. I prefer to appeal to the captain’s foremost loyalties, to his sovereign and his country,” I said.
“So the Netherlands is no republic?” she said.
“Well, half-way a republic, perhaps. But the Institute can’t be too picky about its friends in this war,” I said.
After a long silence Linda said: “What do you think you will say about that in 1945?”
“I don’t know.” The question guided my thoughts in a new direction: No war lasts forever. What will the samurai do when peace arrives? Put his katana on the wall above the fireplace?
Chapter 19
“Willem, have you dealt with the customs office during my absence?” An invigorating aroma permeated the mess as I brewed my morning coffee; what a delight to handle the dark powder once again.
He munched a sandwich while answering: “A few times. They’ve tightened up everything the last few days. They work in teams and appear to fear sabotage. After all, the military airfield is next door.” He turned to Linda who was
eating oatmeal porridge with applesauce. “Miss Connor, if you wait for half an hour after breakfast, I’ll provide you with employment documents. Captain has given green light for signing you on as a cloudman. What Christian name do you want?”
“What?” Linda looked puzzled.
“We can’t have a woman in the crew. No one would believe it. You must be disguised as a lad,” said Willem.
“Leonard’ll be all right,” said Linda. She obviously had not heard of European cloudmen’s prejudices against having women aboard.
One hour later, Linda and I left the Cassiopeia. I wanted to study the routines of the customs officers. Soldiers patrolled the tarmac and manned machine-gun positions here and there. Those guns were mounted to be able to fire at aircraft as well as ground targets. When we walked past the customs office, I saw that there were three officers on duty instead of one.
“I think the best scheme is to hide our object inside Behemoth’s body, not on the flatbed. Then we let Szenes take legitimate cargo to the Cassiopeia. The customs people will check that, but they’ll hardly suspect Victor Szenes for any shenanigans because he ought to be well known to them. What do you think?” I asked.
“It might work, as long as they aren’t very diligent,” said Linda.
“They have no reason to suspect that we are smuggling anything out of Fredriksborg. They and the military are probably more worried about sabotage to the cloudport and airfield,” I said.
A dozen machine guns opened fire behind us. Their hellish racket sent Linda and me tumbling into cover under a nearby truck. I pulled the binocular out of my backpack and scanned the sky. Far above us an aeroplane moved in a wide circle, well beyond the range of the machine guns. The gyro started whirred into action to compensate for my trembling hands when I zoomed in on the aircraft: a monoplane with red wing roundels. “Japanese photo reconnaissance,” I said.