by Alan Evans
When he emerged from the alley into the main street with its crowded pavements a voice said, “Now then, what have we got here? Where’s your cap, sunshine?”
Hurst saw the shore patrol of four men and a ship’s corporal. The corporal’s gaze shifted down from Hurst’s bare head to his bleeding forearm. “Here, what happened to you?”
“Three of them tried to roll me. I chased them off with this.” Hurst threw the post aside now.
The corporal recalled what he knew of Hurst: said to be a real bright lad, quiet, no particular mate aboard ship, cool and self-contained. That all fitted with the young man in front of him now. He said, “We’ll get that arm seen to and then take you back to the ship.”
Ajax waited — for history.
Chapter Three – “Enough rope to hang them!”
In London, Hannah Fitzsimmons met Smith in the Ritz bar at noon. In her three-inch high heels she stood eye to eye with him. Her hair shone like copper and her silk dress, plain and expensive, was worn with a casual elegance that turned heads. She had dithered twice through her large wardrobe before deciding on that particular dress.
Seated with a Martini, brows wrinkling over green eyes, she said, “One memory keeps bugging me; I can’t figure it out. Just before you blasted that rubble down in front of the car, those escorts of mine all leaned forward as if they were looking for something they expected to show.”
Smith nodded, and she asked, “That doesn’t surprise you?”
“They arranged your transfer two days ahead. I thought that was odd. If they were told to transfer you, then why not just send you? Why arrange a programme forty-eight hours ahead? Unless someone else wanted time to prepare.”
He wore a dark grey suit of good but out-dated cut; ancient. Hannah thought that no wife would allow him to wear that suit. But here and now he was inconspicuous, a quiet man smiling slightly, easily. He was very different from the cold-eyed, harsh-voiced guerrilla who had manhandled her out of Spain. She wondered what it was about him that still excited her. She also thought, but aloud: “You’re suggesting there was skulduggery between the Spanish and the Germans?”
“It’s possible,” said Smith. “It fits. You were an embarrassment to Franco’s men. They’d caught you as a spy but if they executed you they would antagonise Uncle Sam. At the same time they couldn’t back down and let you off. Now, if you were abducted from Spain by persons unknown, then they would be off the hook.”
Hannah said slowly, “OK. But why should that German ship haul me out of there? What was her name?”
“Brandenburg,” Smith answered absently. “A cruiser. She usually sails in company with Graf Spee, one of their pocket battleships, but she was on her own that night. I seem to remember you wrote some articles about the German Condor Legion bombing Guernica. You talked of baby-killing.”
“Damn right, I did.” Hannah’s lips tightened.
“Maybe the idea was for you to surface in Germany and make a retraction of all those statements. You’re a correspondent with an international reputation and it would make an impression. There would still be plenty of damning accounts by others but one retraction would introduce a note of doubt.”
Hannah was shaking her head, “The hell with that. I would not retract. Not a word. So where would that leave them?”
“No worse off. But you—” He paused.
Hannah prompted, “Me?”
“You wouldn’t surface.” That was said quietly, but with certainty. “The people in power there now are capable of that and do it every day. And there is worse to come. You know that.”
Hannah did. She was still a moment then took a breath, “Changing the subject. I wanted to meet you like this, just to say thank you. When I asked the Admiralty to pass on my invitation they tried to pretend they knew nothing about you. Until I said I’d print the whole story. So here we are and you have my thanks.”
Smith grinned and lifted his glass in acknowledgment. Hannah would not settle for that: “Well, we weren’t formally introduced, so for the record, I got into this business as a foreign correspondent, back in the early twenties. I’ve been running around Europe and the rest of the world ever since. Married once but it didn’t take. There were no kids, thank God. What about the life of Smith? Or should I mind my own damn business?” She saw his fingers tighten around the glass and thought, Oh, hell!
But that was only an instinctive reaction. Smith was already telling himself that his life was not unusual and he’d had long enough to become used to it. Just starting was the trouble … He said, “I was married. Now I’m divorced.” He stuck there.
Hannah nodded, “Sure. You’re a naval officer. You can’t tell me what you do or where you’ve been doing it. But it broke up your marriage.”
Smith temporised: “The marriage broke up. We were in the East. My duties took me away a lot and Elizabeth, my wife, was left alone too long. She divorced me around the time you started this job — in the early twenties. She took our daughter with her and later she married a German businessman that she met in the States: Ulrich Bauer. They live in Berlin. I haven’t seen Elizabeth or Sarah since before the divorce, not for sixteen or seventeen years.”
Hannah asked softly, “Can I see a photo of your daughter?”
Smith shook his head, “I don’t have one with me.” He did not explain that in his work you did not carry photographs. Besides, he was ashamed that he did not have one, thought that a father should. But then out of impulse, surprisingly relaxed with this woman, he said, “I’d like to see her.”
“So why don’t you?”
Smith said simply, “She won’t remember me.” And God help him, he could not recall her face. He went on quickly, “When we were divorced I told Elizabeth I wouldn’t keep any hold on the child. I couldn’t offer her anything, the way I lived.” Frequently on the move, sometimes running for his life, always in danger. How could he explain that? So he ploughed on doggedly, “I knew she was happy with Elizabeth and I thought it would be better if she were brought up as if she were Bauer’s daughter. And it’s a bit late to try to claim a share of the affection of some young woman who wouldn’t know me if she walked in here now.” He switched the conversation. “Were you spying?”
Hannah shrugged. “Sure. I heard another Guernica-type raid was planned and sent a tip-off.” Smith grinned.
Over lunch Hannah told him a lot more about herself. He was interesting and sometimes amusing, they laughed a lot, but he told nothing of himself except in answer to a direct question — and sometimes not then. She saw that was not secrecy; he was just a man who did not talk about himself. When they parted afterwards she waited for him to ask but he did not. So she did, “We must do this again.”
Smith found himself apologising to this very attractive woman with genuine regret. “I’m going away for a few weeks.”
Hannah chuckled, “I know — business. So call me when you get back.” And she got his promise.
And later she thought that he was a lone man but not lonely, the most self-sufficient man she had met.
*
Brandenburg berthed in her home port of Wilhelmshaven in the grey light that comes before dawn. A car waited on the quayside for Fritsch and Kurt Larsen, a gleaming black Mercedes 260 with an SS pennon fluttering from the bonnet. A wireless signal had warned them and they were ready. Both wore uniform, Kurt in dark blue, Fritsch in the black with silver piping of the SS with the three silver stars of his rank on the collar patches and the ceremonial dagger swinging against his left hip. He wore gleaming high boots and his cap with the tall front bore the silver death’s head. Each carried a copy of his report on the failed kidnapping. The driver swung the Mercedes out onto the road, put his foot down and drove like fury.
They were in Berlin before noon and the Mercedes slid to a halt outside the Gestapo headquarters in Prinz Albrecht Strasse. Inside they were conducted to the office of a Standartenführer whose boots had a higher gloss even than those of Fritsch. He seated them and then
read the reports carefully. He was a young man to Kurt’s eyes, in his late twenties, though his rank was the equivalent of that of a naval captain. Kurt wondered wryly if he should have joined the SS where the promotion seemed to be quicker. But then he admitted he only wanted to be a naval officer; that was his life.
Kurt had a vague respect for the SS, leaving Fritsch aside. They were the Führer’s bodyguard, an elite. True, you heard some nasty rumours about some of the Gestapo but there were always a few bastards in every organisation. Doubtless they would be weeded out. Kurt had been serving off the coast of Spain for more than three years and before that had spent most of his time at sea.
The Standartenführer laid down the reports and tapped them with a long finger. “What it comes down to is that this other party snapped her out from under your noses.” Fritsch muttered excuses but Kurt nodded agreement: that was the fact. The SS man eyed him across the wide desk and tapped Kurt’s report again: “You suggest that party may have been British, or British-led.”
“The Spanish Guardias in the car said that one of the party spoke to the woman in English. That doesn’t prove anything, but there was a Royal Navy ship in the vicinity. And I saw the man who carried off the woman. He was not Spanish. And the launch that took them was also Royal Navy, I’m sure of it.”
The Standartenführer glanced at his watch and stood up. “Well, you lost her.” He looked down his nose at Fritsch. “We can’t get at her now. Never mind, we’ll keep her on the books. Another time.”
Fritsch looked sulky but he was subject to the SS discipline. Kurt Larsen was unmoved; he was a naval officer and his captain had already exonerated him from any blame.
They took their leave and as they descended the stairs Fritsch shrugged and blustered, “To hell with him. My uncle ranks higher than Standartenführer. I’ll survive.”
They were outside now, Fritsch pulling on his gloves and leading the way to the Mercedes parked at the kerb. Then he halted abruptly and lifted a hand to the peak of his cap in casual salute, inclining his head in a gesture of a bow. “Fräulein Bauer.”
The girl he greeted was small and slight, thin-faced, her blonde hair cut short and waved. Her eyes were wide and deep blue, icy as they met those of Fritsch. She did not speak but returned the bow with a nod.
Kurt Larsen detected that chilliness but did not pause to wonder. He also saluted and Fritsch had perforce to introduce them: “Fräulein Bauer, Oberleutnant zur See Kurt Larsen.” He went on to explain, “The Fräulein and I met in the way of duty, but I trust we are friends now.”
The girl did not answer that. Fritsch was already glancing past her to the waiting Mercedes, the driver standing by its opened door. But Kurt had had enough of Fritsch and the SS. He smiled, “It’s a beautiful day. If the Fräulein does not object I will accompany her for a while.”
The girl shrugged. Fritsch’s lips tightened, as if he thought she needed a lesson in manners when extended an invitation by an officer of the Reich. He summoned Kurt with a jerk of the head as he walked on towards the car. With one foot on its running board he paused to murmur, “She’s a pretty little piece and I wouldn’t kick her out of bed. But be warned: we are interested in the family. The father has been reported as being critical of the Party and the State. We searched the house and questioned every one of them. We found nothing seditious and then we got orders from higher up to back off. I think we’re giving them enough rope to hang themselves.” He poked Kurt in the ribs and winked as he climbed into the car. “So take what offers but don’t get involved.” Then before Kurt could speak the door slammed, the driver slid into his seat and the Mercedes pulled away.
Kurt muttered his opinion of Fritsch then turned to find the girl waiting. She asked stiffly, “I beg your pardon?”
He grinned at her, “I was just using a derogatory naval expression to describe Herr Fritsch. It is obscene and I did not intend to speak it aloud in your hearing.”
The girl’s lips twitched. As they turned and began to walk side by side she inspected him covertly from the corner of her eye. The two uniforms had repelled her. That ominous black and silver creation worn by Fritsch was too familiar, from the time of the search and the fear — and from the man who still came to the house: Werner.
This young man beside her was different. There was an openness in his face and manner that was like a breath of fresh air. She was young and happiness came easily to her. In minutes they were laughing together. When they parted he had arranged to meet her again, and had privately decided he would spend with her any leave he could get from his ship. And he did so all that summer.
But right from that beginning there were times when Sarah said she could not meet him. There were nights when she drove her little MG sports car out of the garage of the house in the Wannsee district of Berlin, after telling her parents she was going to a party with friends and would be very late. They trusted her and she felt guilty but could not tell them the truth.
The nights followed a broad pattern, like the time she drove down to the industrial suburbs. There she was a long way from her comfortable, spacious home in the Wannsee. These were blocks of crowded tenements, the streets still holding the heat and smells of the day. The MG, a present from her stepfather, Ulrich Bauer, was almost new and stood out in that neighbourhood. That was a risk and she knew it. She had put up the hood and closed the side windows, though this was early summer and the night was warm.
Sarah pulled into the kerb halfway along one block. It was late and the streets seemed empty, but then she saw movement and two policemen paced out of the darkness into the circle of light shed by a street-lamp. That had happened before on another night, in another place. So she stayed cool, put the car in gear and drove around the block, halting again a hundred yards short of the end of the street she had just left. She had tucked the little MG into a patch of deep shadow in the lee of a high wall and between two lamps. She switched off the engine and lights, then waited.
After a minute or two Sarah saw the two policemen emerge from the street ahead. If they came towards her she was ready to back into a nearby alley and drive off again, but they turned and walked off in the other direction. When they had gone round another corner she started the car and drove back to where she had first stopped.
There she waited again, but this time with the engine running. As soon as the car had rolled to a halt she had seen the man hiding in the doorway of one of the tenements. He stood in near pitch darkness but Sarah had expected to see him there, looked for him and so picked out the shadow, blacker than the others, that moved. This, too, she had seen before, knew the man was afraid and with good reason. He must have seen the police walk by.
So Sarah gave him a little time to pluck up his courage but then reached across the front seat to open the door on the passenger’s side. She called urgently, softly, “Come! I cannot wait!” He still hesitated for a moment on the threshold, peering up and down the street but then trotted across the pavement with his bundle held tightly under his arm and ducked into the car.
Sarah knew that he was a man in his forties though he looked much older. But then all of them did and it was because of the fear. She could smell it on him in the stuffy confines of the little sports car. By then they were moving; she had eased the MG into gear and let out the clutch before he had shut the door behind him. Sarah drove the car decorously out of the city but then put her foot down. She spoke to him only once: “Just sit quietly.” And he obeyed her.
In the early hours of the morning the MG drew up in a narrow country road a score of yards behind a lorry already parked there without lights. Sarah switched off her own. A man got down from the driving seat of the lorry and walked back to open the passenger’s door of the MG. He was a few years older than Sarah, hollow-cheeked, eyes shifting nervously. He said, “Climb into the back.” And pointed at the lorry.
As Sarah’s passenger worked stiffly out of the cramped seat of the little car she wished him, “Good luck!”
Out in
the road he straightened and paused, clutching the bundle. Then he said huskily, as if his throat was raw with weeping, “Luck? I had a wife and family, owned a house and a store. All I have left is my life. But I thank you for it.”
He walked away and clambered up into the back of the lorry, crawling under its tarpaulin tilt. Its driver, his fingers tapping worriedly on the canvas roof of the MG, watched him and muttered, “Poor bastard. But he’ll be over the border by morning. It is we who need the luck. There are too many people involved in the organisation, too many chances of a mistake. They only have to catch one.” Sarah knew that ‘they’ were the Gestapo.
But he went back to the lorry then and drove it away. Sarah returned to the city and fell into bed as the dawn broke.
*
Jake Tyler woke in that dawn to the hammering of the steam winches outside his cabin aboard the SS Sotheby. He crawled from his bunk, worked sleepily into trousers, sweater and old canvas shoes then went out onto the deck. The Sotheby was anchored off the coast of Brazil, to be exact in the estuary of a river. Jake could just see one bank of the river as a low-lying shore spiked with buildings on the southern horizon. The opposite bank was ten miles away and below the northern horizon.
Jake stared at the distant town and said, “Is that it?”
The young Second Mate leaning on the rail nearby grinned and answered, “It is. About a thousand people ashore there, most of them German immigrants, about two hundred on the other bank where the quarry is.” He cocked a thumb over his shoulder and spoke in a Yorkshire accent. The Sotheby was a British ship that pottered up and down the coasts of the USA and South America. This was one of her regular stops. She had anchored in the night and would be on her way south again before noon.
Jake asked, “Have you seen this town?”
“Two or three times when somebody has had to go ashore, like one of the crew needing a doctor. The lighter takes us in. The ship always anchors out here because there’s only a little harbour and it won’t take a vessel of any size. There’s only a depth of water of about eight or ten feet.” The lighter was closing on the Sotheby now, a steel box of a craft lying low in the water, her diesel engine thumping steadily. There was one man in the little wheelhouse perched right aft. The Mate went on, “The Mary Ellen comes out and we unload the cargo for this place into her. Mike Garrity, that’s the old feller at the helm now, he takes it ashore or across the river to the quarry. He’s her owner and skipper. Makes a living at it, though he admits he only works three or four days a week.”