“Did the Jews send you?” she hissed.
Ignoring the question, Tommy said, “In order to maintain continued good relations between Germany and the United States, we are prepared to help forestall this prosecution from taking place based on your cooperation with our request to see the logs.”
“The Jews hounded my father into his early grave,” said Madame da Fonseca. “He was falsely accused of these crimes. My father was a hero of the Third Reich.”
Tommy stood up and helped June Corcoran to her feet.
“I gather that your answer is no,” he said calmly. “I will report your answer back to the government in Bonn. You can expect to hear from the prosecutors within the next two weeks.”
They had almost reached the door to the solarium when Marlene Dietrich’s voice brought them up short.
“I will show you the logs,” she said.
As they followed her back through the house, June turned to Tommy and whispered, “Was that all true?”
“What do you think?” he said, his arm encircled in hers.
The room in which Greta da Fonseca kept her father’s logbooks was a windowless shrine to the past glory of Hitler’s Third Reich. A bust of the Führer was spotlighted in a wall cubicle. The walls of the study were covered with photographs of her father in the glory days of the Battle of the North Atlantic. In one of them, he was receiving the Knight’s Cross from Hitler in Berlin. A glass display case held all his medals.
Von Bulow’s daughter unlocked a drawer in the Empire desk in the center of the room. She removed five bound books and laid them on top of the desk.
“You can read them here,” she said. “You will not copy any of the contents. I will stay here until you are finished.”
Tommy brought a second chair over to the desk. He and June sat side by side and began to examine the logs. Von Bulow had used an indelible marking pen to handwrite the year of operations for his U-boats on the canvas-backed covers. There were two of them for 1942. They put the others aside. The first logbook recounted the operations of U-boat 113 from January through March 1942.
“It has to be this one,” said June Corcoran, opening it to the first page. Tommy couldn’t help noticing that the small white hand towel was turning pink from each new dab at her mouth.
There were multiple entries for each day of the month. They included everything from ship sightings to disciplinary actions imposed on crew members. His log listed each radio communication to and from U-boat headquarters in Lorient, France.
They quickly scanned through the entries for January and February that von Bulow had recorded in his cramped German writing style. Some of the pages had been stained with seawater, and the ink had become smeared. As they reached the entries at the end of February, June turned the page. At the top of the next one was the word SIEG.
Victory, he had written in large block letters.
The first line read 28 February 1942. 0427. Sank a freighter approximately seven thousand tons off Nord Eleuthra. Teufels Rückgrat.
“Devil’s Backbone,” said June. “It’s the one.”
Tommy’s eyes were focused on the next line. Ship broke in half and exploded. Closed fifty meters to search wreckage. Secondary explosion schaukelte das boot. Suche uber Bord verloren.
“Lookout lost overboard,” Tommy heard June whisper before her head sagged slowly downward toward the desk until it came to rest on the open page of the log. Tommy gently placed his fingers on her carotid artery above the collar of her blouse.
“What is wrong with her?” demanded Greta da Fonseca.
“She is dead,” said Tommy Somervell.
THIRTY-THREE
30 May
Dunmore Town
North Eleuthera
Bahamas
They had arrived at the deserted fish house an hour before dawn.
After escaping from Brugg’s compound, McGandy had driven straight to his cottage. He helped Carlos and the others inside, and had then run the truck down to the far end of the island and parked it near the landfill. Using a moist towel, he had cleaned the door handles, steering wheel, and dashboard console and left it there with the body of the unknown man inside.
Chris Kimball had been waiting for the others in McGandy’s living room when they arrived at the cottage. He had a splint on his left arm, and it was heavily wrapped in gauze bandages and tape. His face looked as if it had been exposed to a radiation blast and his eyebrows were singed off.
“Feels better than it looks,” said Kimball.
“We don’t have to worry about the Kingfish picking up any local women,” said Macaulay, “unless they have a thing for Boris Karloff.”
“We need to get back to the Trader’s Bluff as quickly as possible,” said Barnaby to Kimball. “I have to reach Dusenberry using secure communications to request our extraction.”
“We can’t go back to Trader’s Bluff,” said Kimball. “The local police made it part of the crime scene. When I got out of the clinic, I tried to get back aboard and they ordered me off at the point of a gun. I’m sure they are still there.”
“Brugg is probably behind it,” said Mike McGandy, arriving back at the cottage after getting rid of the truck. “If any of us are picked up by the police at this point, we’ll be turned over to him. They have also closed the airport. Supposedly, it’s for the duration of the storm. In truth, it’ll be until they find you.”
“How long for the storm?” asked Barnaby.
“It probably won’t reach full strength until tomorrow afternoon,” said McGandy. “Right now the wind is only gusting at about thirty miles an hour. I saw boats going in and out of the harbor on my way back.”
Cora McGandy came down from the spare bedroom where Macaulay had carried Carlos and put him to bed. During the truck ride from the Brugg compound, Lexy had suggested taking him to Cora’s medical clinic, but McGandy said it would be one of the first places they would search.
“He is lucky to be alive,” said Cora, putting down the tray containing her medical instruments. “I’ve dressed his wounds and given him a shot of morphine for the pain. His condition is stable, although he has several broken ribs and will need oral surgery. His feet should heal quickly once the infection from the glue is under control, but I doubt he will ever walk comfortably again without prosthetics.”
“Should we try to contact Dusenberry at the White House by telephone?” asked Barnaby. “He might be able to send an extraction team in here before the storm reaches full strength.”
“You might as well be calling him on a party line,” said Macaulay. “It only increases the risk of our being caught in the meantime.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to wait it out,” said Barnaby.
“Not here,” blurted Mike McGandy, looking at Cora. “Brugg’s men will come here for sure at some point. People will have seen us together in the past few days. This is a small place and they’ll check out every possibility. There shouldn’t be any trace that you were here when they go through our home.”
“Where can we go?” asked Macaulay as the rain hammered down on the cottage’s tin roof like a hundred bass drums. “We don’t want to endanger you any longer than is necessary.”
“What about my father’s fish house?” asked Cora.
“That could work,” agreed McGandy. “It’s down at the commercial wharf. No one goes there at night. It’ll be completely deserted right now. It’ll also give you a good vantage point to see what’s happening in the harbor area tomorrow morning.”
“Would your father have a problem with it?” asked Macaulay.
“We believe he is dead. He disappeared a year ago,” said Cora, “along with his charter boat and a party of Canadians he was taking on a weeklong cruise to the Abacos.”
Macaulay thought about the sunken pleasure boats and bodies he and Carlos had found on their first dive. He de
cided not to mention it to Cora McGandy as the others began their preparations to leave.
Thirty minutes later, they had arrived in McGandy’s Land Rover at the commercial wharf. It was dark and deserted when they pulled up on a side street lined with bougainvillea and coconut palms. The lush vegetation almost masked the back wooden stairs that led up to the second story of the old clapboard structure.
Inside, it was warm and dry. One big low-ceilinged room faced the harbor. The two rooms in back had been used as an office and crew quarters. Macaulay laid the unconscious Carlos down on one of the beds as Chris Kimball walked down the narrow set of stairs that led to the first floor. It was a storage room for boating and fishing equipment with two big doors that led onto the wharf. They were chained tight. The wind-driven surf had coated the concrete floor with seawater. Upstairs, McGandy was ready to leave.
“I’ll be back in a few hours with some food and whatever information I can learn,” he said.
Macaulay went downstairs to the storeroom and found some thick canvas boat curtains. He came back up to nail them over the upstairs windows. Going outside, he checked to make sure no lamplight leaked out.
Carlos suddenly began to moan loudly from the crew quarters. It drew Lexy to the side of his bed. Kneeling down, she slid her right arm under his neck and gently pulled him toward her until his face was resting between her chest and shoulder. His body began to shudder uncontrollably.
“It’s going to be all right,” she said softly.
He seemed to relax as she stroked his ruined face.
“It’s going to be all right,” she repeated, not entirely sure whether to believe it.
“Let’s all try to get some sleep while we can,” said Macaulay.
Barnaby looked at the potential accommodations and grimaced. Between the barrels of gear, piles of canvas, and coils of rope, he finally found a place on the floor and stretched out on his back.
“I’m going to be seventy years old tomorrow,” he grumbled as Macaulay turned off the lights.
“Happy birthday,” said Macaulay. “I hope you get everything you wish for.”
“Right now it’s my lair back at the Long Wharf,” said Barnaby. “And fuck you.”
Dawn brought gray and murky skies still teeming with rain. Macaulay got up and began making coffee in Cora’s father’s old blue enamel pot. Parting the canvas covering on the window, he watched big ocean breakers slam into the beach and roll heavily toward the line of palm trees in a mass of white foam.
• • •
Juwan sat in the aquarium room with the two Chinese and a contingent from his guard unit. His mother came in to join them with a platter of freshly baked apple croissants and two pounds of maple-cured bacon.
“How is Varna?” he whispered to her as he helped himself.
“In your bedroom,” she said quietly. “He has been sobbing most of the night.”
“Where is Colonel Bardot?” demanded Juwan for the fourth time. “I told you to bring him to me.”
Lieutenant Alvarez shrugged and said, “The guards at the gate said he left in the van with the body of the American millionaire and another man who they didn’t recognize. They assumed—”
“They assumed?” shouted Juwan. “Bring those guards here now.”
Black Mamba sidled close to him.
“Do not show your emotion, my son, in front of these people,” she said. “Think of it as an important NBA game. . . . These Chinese are watching for any sign of weakness.”
Juwan hated to be reminded of what he had once been in the NBA. His mind was reeling with images from his last All-Star game when the two guards who had been posted at the gate came into the room. One of them was visibly trembling. Juwan asked him to describe what had happened when the truck had arrived at the front gate.
“It was Colonel Bardot,” he said. “He was in full uniform. He screamed at me in French as he often has done on the parade ground.”
The guard who had opened the rear door of the truck supported him.
“Colonel Bardot was driving the truck,” he said. “It had the body of the man we took at Michaud’s in the back. Another man was lying next to him with his toes missing.”
“I believe that someone may have impersonated your Colonel Bardot,” said Zhou Shen Wui, sampling one of the croissants.
A guard in a soaked white uniform coat entered the room, went to Alvarez, and whispered in his ear.
“We have found the truck,” said Alvarez. “It was left at the landfill. Only one of the bodies was still inside.”
“Which one?” asked Black Mamba.
“The American millionaire.”
“My prisoner needed medical attention,” said Black Mamba. “Have you searched the medical clinics?”
“Yes,” said Alvarez, “and any other place he might have been taken for medical help.”
“Keep searching,” demanded Juwan Brugg. “They have to be here in town. Someone will have heard or seen something.”
“Many of them are close-lipped,” said Black Mamba.
“Post a reward,” said Juwan.
“I have also made sure that all flights are canceled at the airport,” said Alvarez.
Black Mamba’s eyes were drawn to something at the base of the aquarium. Somehow it didn’t seem to belong there. The object was long and pointed and sticking out of the sand. As she got closer, she saw that it was a shoe, a black-and-white two-toned shoe. Attached to it was a shred of white sock. There was something inside the sock that was drawing the attention of the tiny feeder fish.
“I believe it is time we became partners,” said Zhou as he watched the big black woman staring at the hideous sea creatures.
He was certain the time was right to make a deal. Zhou never relied on a hunch or superstition. His actions were always planned and determined in advance, but never rigid in design. Flexibility was one of his brilliant hallmarks, the ability to make needed adjustments in any plan as it unfolded in real time. The huge black man was clearly out of his element, but necessary to fulfilling his mission.
“Complete honesty is the basis for any genuine partnership, Mr. Brugg,” said Zhou. “This is your country. We are your humble guests. In that spirit, I will tell you exactly what we are seeking and why it is important us.”
Juwan smiled and nodded as he finished the platter of bacon. Now they were finally getting down to it.
“We are attempting to recover fossils, ancient bones, that were excavated nearly a hundred years ago in China,” said Zhou. “They are of the Homo erectus, the Peking Man. These bones do not have intrinsic value like gold or diamonds, but they are invaluable.”
He paused for a few seconds to let the importance sink in.
“Homo erectus,” repeated Juwan.
What did the Chinaman take him for to diss him this way, he wondered, with such an obvious lie?
“His bones are actually priceless and even worshipped by certain people in my country,” said Zhou. “He is the first of his kind, the first man to stand erect and use tools. I am prepared to pay you five million dollars, if you will assist us in recovering the Peking Man.”
“What if we don’t find the homo?” asked Juwan, barely containing his derision.
“As a demonstration of good faith, we will pay you two million on top of your finder’s fee regardless of whether we find him or not. You will benefit either way. My son and I have a recovery vessel arriving here in an hour. It will be sufficient to meet our needs as soon as you locate the position of the wreck. We shall dive on it as soon as we know its location and my son’s team can ensure that we have the proper security for our endeavors.”
The first homo with an erection, thought Juwan, maintaining his composure in the face of the man’s monumental bullshit, maintaining eye contact while nodding occasionally as the old Chinaman lied through his little rat’s
teeth. What could the treasure really be? he wondered. The old man had said it wasn’t gold or diamonds, which probably meant it was. Whatever the treasure might be, Juwan and his own men would be there when they found it.
“Who are the others looking for homo man?” asked Juwan.
“A team of American archaeologists,” said Zhou, deciding not to divulge the fact that the American government was behind their efforts. “Do we have an agreement?”
Juwan nodded and extended his hand. Zhou took it in his own, watching his fingers disappear, waiting to see if the giant would try to crush them. There was only ordinary pressure. He was not trying to prove anything.
“I am reminded of the ancient Chinese proverb,” said Zhou. “Ya ba chi jiao zi, xin li you shù. In English, it means when a mute person eats dumplings, he knows how many he has eaten, even though he cannot speak.”
Juwan was trying to maintain eye contact with the old Chinese, at the same time trying to figure out what the fuck he had said. Zhou was smiling at Juwan as if the two had become blood brothers, clearly waiting for him to respond. Juwan remembered the rap slang used by a number of his former teammates in the NBA.
“All balls don’t bounce,” said Juwan. “Some balls hang. Ball don’t lie.”
THIRTY-FOUR
30 May
Casa Grande Brugg
Dunmore Town
North Eleuthera
Bahamas
Li Shen Wui stood atop the wall facing the sea from the Brugg compound and watched as a violent wave of green water smashed into the beach with a savage boom. It almost matched the rage that was consuming him inside.
A few minutes earlier, he had watched from the terrace as a small caravan of Humvees formed up in the turning circle by the main entrance. His father and Brugg had gotten into the second Humvee and the caravan left the compound. They were on their way to meet the two-hundred-foot recovery vessel that had just arrived with Li’s paramilitary team aboard. It was an outrage. They were Li’s men, not his father’s. He does not blink.
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