by William Kerr
“If things happen as I expect, you’ll be working closely with his office,” Starla went on.
Ashley stepped forward, leaving Starla’s wandering hand, and extended her own hand to Eric. “And what office is that, Mr…. uh…”
Eric took her hand. “Bruder,” he said. “No mister. Just Eric. Eric Bruder, Chief Underwater Archaeologist for the Florida Bureau of Archaeological Research in Tallahassee. Welcome to AFI.”
Ashley felt Eric’s eyes give her the same up and down appraisal she had received from Starla. He continued, “I look forward to working with you. As with its parent company, AFI has been extremely good to the state of Florida.” With a sly smile, he added, “If you’ve impressed my dear sister, I’m sure you’ll fit in perfectly with what Starla and I are trying to accomplish.”
CHAPTER 21
The room was exactly what Matt expected. The wallpaper had slightly yellowed with the years, but it still offered a comfortable warmth to the tired traveler’s eyes, at least to his eyes carrying the bloodshot hue of jet lag. There was, however, a TV, a phone, and best of all, a private bath—all luxuries compared to the amenities of the places he’d stayed in Europe during his Navy years. Testing the mattress, he found it much softer than he was used to, but he doubted it would make any difference once he had the chance to use it.
Matt decided it was the view from his third-floor balcony that made the room special. Swinging open the French doors to the balcony, he could see and smell the waters of the Rhine and on the far side, already illuminated for the coming evening, the walls of the imposing Ehrenbreitstein fortress, but there was little time to take in the view. Later.
A shower, a quick shave, fresh slacks, a blue blazer with an envelope tucked inside an inner pocket, and he was ready. From what Matt could determine from the map of Koblenz, as well as the directions provided by the hotel’s concierge, it was only a short walk from his hotel to the restaurant where he was to meet Eduard Richter and his wife, Hannah. Better than driving, he thought. He’d probably get lost anyway.
Leaving the hotel, Matt hurried north along the tree-covered promenade that flanked the Rhine, turning west past the entrance to…He paused at what appeared to be a large, weatherworn historical marker. It read, DEUTSCHES ECK. “German Corner,” he mumbled barely audibly. In his mind’s eye, he visualized a V-shaped area outlined in blue on the city map. If his memory served him, the “Corner” was in this general location and of some historical significance. Always intrigued by anything celebrating the past, he promised himself, Later, if there’s time.
It was less than a quarter mile farther when Matt spotted the restaurant Der Zwiebelkuchen. He couldn’t help but laugh. The Onion Cake, and that’s exactly what the building looked like. An off-white, double-layered brick structure, rounded into the shape of a cake, or more accurately, a giant quiche. It was planted on the edge of the paved promenade that continued alongside the dark waters of the city’s second river, the Mosel. A wooden deck built over the water provided a number of tables, but it appeared as though the night chill had chased inside all but a few hearty diners.
He checked his watch, which he’d already set to local time. A few minutes before seven. Should he go inside, or wait on the promenade? Music from a dinner cruise moving along the Mosel toward the swifter waters of the Rhine caught his ear, a small string orchestra playing waltzes from Richard Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier. Caught up in the music, he didn’t hear the footsteps and the sound of wheels on fallen leaves behind him until a man’s voice interrupted the melodies. “Guten Abend, my old friend. I’m glad you’ve come.”
As Matt whirled around, his eyes went wide, his mouth dropped, and his vocal cords turned to useless ligaments, momentarily paralyzed by what he saw.
“Yes, yes, I know. It is a shock, is it not?”
Matt shook his head in dismay. “Shock, hell! That’s not the half of it. What are you doing in a wheelchair, Eddy? Were you in a car wreck or something? I…Hannah, I’m sorry.” He quickly stepped around the wheelchair and put his arms around the dark-haired woman, more plump than the last time he’d seen her. There was a tiredness on her face that he didn’t remember, but she was still attractive. He hugged her. “I was so, uh…”
Hannah Richter laughed softly as she pulled away. “I know,” she said, her laughter turning into a smile. “Those who have not seen us for awhile, they react the same way.”
Richter grabbed Matt’s arm. “Come, come, it’s time to eat, then time to talk.”
“But the wheelchair?”
Raising an eyebrow and sprinkling his words with a faint chuckle, Richter answered, “Even in German, which you never learned to speak very well, it’s called amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. What was the name of the old American baseball player?”
“Old American…? Lou Gehrig? You’ve got Lou Gehrig’s disease? That’s…” Matt caught himself.
“Ja, ja, you can say it. I’m over the denial stage. It’s incurable, I know, but life goes on…for awhile, at least. I can still speak and breathe, walk a few steps, and my brain, sometimes tainted with old-age forgetfulness, still registers the world around me. To do so, however, it requires food and drink. Unfortunately, you, my friend, are standing in the way.”
Richter nodded toward the restaurant. “Shall we go? I’ve reserved a booth where we can speak privately.”
The only vestiges of dinner remaining on the table were a bottle of Riesling Spätlese from the Mosel vineyards, its label handwritten in gold against the dark green of the glass, and three wine glasses. Deciding this was the appropriate moment, Matt reached into his jacket pocket, removed an envelope, and took out several sheets of paper. The first was a fax reproduction of a photograph. He shoved it across the table to Richter and his wife.
“That’s what I think we found,” Matt said, watching Richter pick up and examine the picture. A shiver ran up Matt’s back and into the base of his skull, the same he’d experienced when he’d first greeted Eddy outside the restaurant. The last time they’d seen each other had been seven or eight years ago in Heidelberg. Since then, Richter’s hair had turned gray, his body had grown terribly thin, his face had creased with lines that represented the pain Matt knew he suffered most of the time But it was the wheelchair that brought tears to the rims of Matt’s eyes. He quickly rubbed both eyes to hide the moisture from Hannah, who was watching him as he surveyed her husband.
“Your eyes, they must be very tired, are they not?” Her smile gave her away.
“Right. Very tired,” Matt said, nodding, well aware that she knew his feelings. “Long night and a longer day. I—”
“A Type Twenty-one U-boat,” Richter cut in. “Das Wunderboot. So advanced for its time, the wonder boat it was called. This is what you have found? Off the coast of Florida?”
“I think so. Pretty sure.”
“Impossible. The class was so late in coming, so late in the war, only two went on patrol operations, but not off your coast. No, and they both returned, having accomplished nothing.”
“Then what the hell is it, Eddy?” Matt reached across the table and pointed to the submarine’s sail area. “The top of the conning tower was uncovered. That’s all, but that…” He fingered the raised snorkel. “That’s what I found the first day, the top sticking out of the sand. And after the conning tower was partially cleared, that’s it. The snorkel. And those.” Matt’s finger moved to the rear of the tower and the gun turret. “Antiaircraft guns. Twenty-millimeter, unless I miss my guess.”
“Your guess is correct. Flack guns, they were called, but still impossible.”
“C’mon, Eddy, I was down there. The only difference from the picture you’re holding seemed to be the forward gun turret.”
“Ja?”
“It wasn’t there. From what I could tell, the conning tower appeared to be sloped back, probably to reduce water turbulence.”
“If this is what you say it is,” Richter said, “more likely because the designers decided the guns
were useless against British and American aircraft in the latter days of the war. Or possibly a Type Twenty-one class designed for a special mission.”
Matt thought a moment. “I like both possibilities, but with its location and the time I think it got there, the special mission thing sounds pretty damn plausible.” Placing his finger on the middle of the conning tower, he went on. “About twelve to fifteen feet back…a little over four meters, there was an open bridge for conning the sub on the surface. Room for maybe four people, six max, and a hatch leading below.”
“What U-boat is this?” Richter asked, nodding to the photograph.
“Photo was faxed down from the Naval Historical Center in Washington, D. C. It’s the U-Twenty-five thirteen, one of two Twenty-one class U-boats brought back to the States after the war.”
“Did you go inside, Matthew?” Hannah asked, filling the time while her husband studied the photograph. “The one you say you found, I mean.”
“Yes.” Thumbing another two photographs from the stack, he handed them to Hannah. “That came from a man who I’m sure was the sub’s commanding officer. An Iron Cross, front and back.”
Hannah slid the photograph of the medal’s front view to her husband. “Ummph,” he grunted. “More than just an Iron Cross. Das Ritterkreuz des Eisernen Kreuzes.” Eddy said the words with reverence. “The Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, with oak leaves and crossed swords, no less. Impressive. He must have sunk many British and American ships.”
Quickly pushing the front view away, he settled on the photograph depicting the backside of the medal. “It reads, ‘Gott mit uns.”’ Richter chuckled sourly and shook his head. “With all the savagery and killing, I don’t think God was with us or anyone else.” He pulled the photograph closer to his eyes. “An H and…uhhh an S. The man’s initials? And a date: eleven December, nineteen forty-two. Must have been the date of the award.”
“Can we find out who it belonged to?”
“Possibly. We have much in the Archives, but as I told you on the phone, much U-boat material is still classified secret or higher.”
“Why?”
It was Hannah who answered: “Either forgotten by the government or kept so purposely to hide things Germany does not wish the world to know.”
“And this makes me even more curious. Why was this army officer’s hat and the person wearing it on that submarine? It had the initials J. K.—yot kah—inside the hat band.” Matt pushed the final two photographs across the table.
With the sounds of yot kah formed on her lips, Hannah’s hands suddenly went to her eyes, her face an explosion of red blotches. “Nein!” she cried. “Mein Gott! Dieser Hut!”
“Hannah, Liebchenl” Richter begged, quickly taking her hands in his and pulling her close. “Es ist nur eine Fotographie.”
Mystified, Matt threw his hands out in a what-have-I-done gesture, saying, “I’m sorry, but—”
“You could not have known, my friend,” Richter answered, slowly shaking his head before giving Hannah a kiss on the cheek as she drew away, her eyes closed. Matt knew she was trying to hold back tears for a memory best forgotten.
“The hat,” Richter went on, pushing the photographs back to Matt. “The SS death’s head. It was the mark of the devil. We will speak of it later, you and I.”
“I ah…I apologize,” Hannah murmured in Matt’s direction. “It’s just that—”
“I apologize, also. I didn’t…but I think now I know. Why don’t we call it a night. Eddy and I can get together tomorrow.”
“No,” Richter said, emphatically shaking his head. “Hannah will go home. Unless you want to drive, you and I will take a taxi to the Archives.”
“Now?”
“What you want to see must be seen when all others are gone. Otherwise, it could take you months to receive clearance. If then.”
Matt chuckled softly. “First, taxi. Second, I don’t have months. And third, we finish the wine. It’s the best Riesling I’ve had in years.” Matt poured what was left of the bottle into the three glasses. Holding up his glass, he toasted, “To Eduard and Hannah Richter, two dear friends who I would never want to hurt.”
“And to you, Matthew,” Richter added, “may you succeed in finding the truth.”
CHAPTER 22
They had seen Hannah off in Richter’s Volkswagon Minibus and taken the first taxi they could find, the wheelchair folded and in the taxi’s trunk. They were, however, unaware of the two black sedans that inched into traffic behind them. Matt tried to stay alert as Richter mounted a steady travelogue, sometimes in German, sometimes in English. “There, Jesuitenplatz. One of our famous plazas. Between there and Münzplatz, as you will see, many shops and restaurants and taverns.”
The way his eyes were drooping, Matt wondered if he would see anything much longer, but Richter continued. “And to the left, Dreikönigenhaus, the city library where I used to go for research. And there, Liebfrauenkirche, the Church of our Lady. Hannah and I used to go there for…”
Matt closed his eyes and listened to the drone, the last words he heard before dropping off were “And now we will go on the B-9 until Simmerner Strasse and we’ll almost be there.”
It seemed like only a moment before a nudge in the ribs awoke Matt. “Huh? Wha—”
“We are there,” he heard Richter say. “Das Bundesarchiv, the German Federal Archives.” Pointing, Richter leaned across the back of the front seat and in German, faster than Matt could follow, directed the driver around the huge, gray stone building to an unlighted door on the southwest side. “Hier. Das ist gut,” Richter said. “Wie viel?”
Matt understood the last words. “I’ll get it, Eddy,” he said, reaching into his trouser pocket and pulling a wad of German marks from his pocket as the driver answered, “Fünfundachtzig.”
“Eighty-five marks,” Richter interpreted.
“C’mon, Eddy, at least I remember how to count.” Matt peeled off five twenty-mark notes and handed them to the driver. “Keep the change.” To Richter, “I bet he knows what that means.”
The driver laughed, “Ja, I know. Like you Americans say, music to my ears.” He handed Richter a card. “Here, call this number when you are ready to go, and ask for Gunther. I will come for you.”
After getting out of the taxi and helping Richter into his wheelchair, Matt pushed the wheelchair to a door that had no knob or handle and no place for the insertion of a key. The first step was for Richter to lift the lid on a waterproof metal box mounted on the side of the doorframe. Inside the box were four rows of punch buttons, three buttons per row. Reaching into the box with an index finger, Richter punched three of the buttons. “Step one,” he said.
“Works for me,” Matt answered.
Almost at once, a panel above the metal box slid open revealing a rectangular-shaped, 8-by 10-inch glass plate with a subdued, green glow, the color reminding Matt of a radarscope on the bridge of a ship. “Step to the side at least two meters,” Richter ordered as he leaned forward from his wheelchair and placed his right hand, palm up, against the glass. This action elicited an immediate buzzing sound from above the door and a flash of light. Without further action on Richter’s part, the door slid back into the wall.
“Hurry,” Richter commanded, waving Matt to follow as he turned the wheels of the chair through the doorway into a long hall of gray carpet, gray walls, and gray ceiling.
Barely making it inside before the door slid shut with a loud clunk, Matt said, “What the hell was that outside? The flash?”
Richter answered, “My picture was taken. A precaution each time someone enters after normal business hours. But come, let’s go to the unclassified files first.”
“Here, let me,” Matt said. He grabbed the chair’s rear handles and pushed his way along the corridor. “Which files? U-boats?”
“Nein! Even narrowed to the Twenty-one-class U-boats, those files would tell us nothing at this point. But the Knights Cross files? Ahhh! There were only one hundred and forty-f
our issued to men of the U-boat service. If H. S. are his initials, a review of U-boat commanders with those initials who received the Knight’s Cross would be our best starting point.”
“Hundred and forty-four shouldn’t be too difficult,” Matt said, pulling the wheelchair to a halt at an intersection of hallways.
“Which way?”
“Right, and turn again to the right,” Richter said, nodding in that direction. “Second door on the left.”
Matt pushed the wheelchair to the door indicated and waited while Richter pulled a key ring from his jacket pocket, selected a key, and unlocked the door. “Light switch to the right,” he directed as Matt pushed him into the room.
The room filled with a bright fluorescent glare at the flip of the switch. Like the hallway, everything was gray, including the pictures that broke the emptiness of at least three of the walls—gray seas, gray mountains, gray rivers, gray people. And beneath them, dozens of gray file cabinets, gray tables and chairs, gray computer monitors, scanners, and printers, with matching color computer towers standing like soldiers at attention beneath the tables. In the middle of the room stood a single chair and table.
On the table, a laptop computer with cables leading to what Matt decided was a data/video projector, its lens barrel aimed at the room’s only totally blank wall.
Everything was antiseptically clean. German clean, Matt mused to himself. With the exception of an autopsy room he’d once been forced to visit, this was one of the most depressing rooms he’d ever seen.
After wheeling his way to the table in the middle of the room, Richter watched Matt take in his surroundings. “I know what you are thinking, and I agree. We are sometimes not a very colorful people, especially when our thoughts are of the great wars. But come. That filing cabinet.” He pointed to the drawer marked KRIEGSMARINE 1939-1945 and the words UNTERSEEBOOT BEFEHLSHABER. That’s the one. U-boat commanders. Pull the S files and bring them here. We’ll put them in the computer and project them on the wall.”