by Bill Walker
Michael and Erika stepped forward until the glow of the oil lamp fell on them.
The old man’s bushy brow lifted. “Cor blimey. I didn’t think anyone knew that one anymore,” he said in a thick Cockney dialect.
“It was my father’s favorite song...so I’m told.” He paused, giving the boat another glance. “I’m looking to hire a boat.”
The old man grinned. “Bit early for fishing. The smelt don’t run ‘til five o’clock.”
“We need to get across the Channel...to Ostend,” Erika said.
The old sailor studied Erika, his expression sphinx-like. “They have a nice ferry for that, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Michael shot a glance at Erika, whose own expression remained as inscrutable as the old man’s. Michael decided to trust him.
“We can’t exactly avail ourselves of it, at the moment, Mister...”
The old man doffed his cap and bowed. The effect was comical. “Captain Terrence Nye, at your service, Guv’nor.” He squinted again, giving his face the appearance of a wizened bird. “You wouldn’t be runnin’ from the law, would you?”
“In a matter of speaking....”
Nye shook his head, the grin returning to his face. “Never was much for the law.... Bastards always mucking about in me business. I’ll take ya across for two hundred quid cash. In advance.”
“All right. But it’s half now, half when we get there.... Plus, a bonus if we beat the ferry.”
Nye’s grin widened; he was missing all his back teeth.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, mate. ‘Cept this old tub’ll never beat that boat, unless we go to Calais.”
“Will that delay us?” she asked, turning to Michael.
He shook his head. “It’s actually closer.”
“Calais it is.”
“Come aboard then,” Nye said, waving them forward. “We’d best be going.”
Relieved, Michael and Erika clambered onto the boat, while Nye threw off the mooring lines and started the engine. It sputtered and coughed, stalled once, then caught, the pistons smoothing out to a deep throaty roar. Water boiled above the propeller, and oily clouds of noxious exhaust belched out of the rusted pipes jutting from the transom. The deck vibrated under their feet, and Michael wondered if the old tub would even make it out of the harbor, much less to Calais. But his fears eased when the old captain goosed the throttle and the boat glided away from the pier. Out beyond the harbor wall, the sounds of the busy harbor faded, leaving only the sound of the engine and the water slapping against the hull. Moments later the tiny craft faded into the swirling fog.
From his perch on the seawall above the quay, Feliks Danya stood smoking a black Sobrani cigarette and watched while Thorley and the woman negotiated with the old sailor, then climbed aboard and motored away.
It would have been so tempting to take him and the girl then and there. But orders were orders. And orders were not to be countermanded, especially those of Comrade Hedeon. Feliks took a long drag and blew out the smoke, shaking his head.
When the dilapidated old boat had gone, Danya turned to the man standing next to him. “Take the ferry to Ostend and stay with them,” he said. “Report to me as soon as you determine their ultimate destination. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant.” He turned and lumbered back toward the ferry terminal. Danya sighed.
Above him, he had a superior running an operation, making decisions from his emotions; below him, he had men like “Yuri the Cave Man,” whom he had to watch constantly to make sure they did not blunder. It was all too much.
“God help us,” he whispered. And then he laughed. Here he was a good communist asking for help from heaven. Hell would have been a more apt choice, for that was where all good communists were going if their mission failed.
Disgusted, he threw down his cigarette and walked away, his tongue already craving the taste of the vodka waiting in his car.
Werner Mueller stepped from the shadows, his foot crushing out the stub of the Sobrani. The two men with him kept watchful eyes on the area around them, poised for violence. Each looked as if he welcomed the opportunity. A moment later another man glided out of the fog, his step as jaunty as the tune he whistled. Karl’s whistle died when he saw the look in Mueller’s eyes.
“They took the fishing boat?” he asked.
Mueller nodded, staring off into the fog where Molly’s Revenge had disappeared. “Those Slavic bastards have someone on the ferry.” he turned to Karl. “You know what to do....”
Karl smiled, catching the eyes of the other two men.
“Ja, I know,” he said, turning back toward the way he’d come.
Mueller waited until he’d gone. “Now, we take a little drive into the country,” he said, a smile peeling back his lips. In the sickly glow of the streetlamp, he looked exactly like a grinning skull.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Once they cleared the harbor wall, the fog stole away, revealing a clear night of preternatural calm. The water, a sheet of flat obsidian, reflected the stars overhead, along with the dim light of a jaundiced moon.
Leaving Erika in Nye’s care, Michael ventured to the Harpoonist’s Perch, a narrow plank jutting out from the prow, with a waist-high metal rail encircling its perimeter. Standing at the point, he looked down, watching the prow slice into the water, the incessant hiss of the foam a balm to his soul. The salt air tickled his nose with its complex bouquet, and he reveled in the sting of the spray and the caress of the wind against his face. Visibility was nearly unlimited and, if he squinted, he could see the lights of the French and Belgian coasts hugging the horizon. Tension leaked from him, and for the first time in uncounted hours, he felt relaxed—at peace.
“We’re almost there, Dad,” he whispered.
He cocked an ear, as if expecting an answer his conscious mind knew would never come; and yet he felt closer to his father than he’d ever felt in his life. It was a feeling that both comforted and left him bereft.
What happened out in that desert, Dad? And how the bloody hell did the Royal South Wessex regiment factor into all of it?
He knew the answer lay across the cold black waters. They had to reach Valdemarr, Jarmann, or Von Arnwolf before the killers did. If fate were on their side, one of these men would hold the key. Only then would the killing stop. Only then would they be safe.
He sensed Erika’s presence before he saw her.
She waited for him at the entrance to the perch, trembling from the chill in the air, her delicate brow furrowed with concern. He retraced his steps, went to her and took her into his arms, feeling her body fitting to his like two halves of a mold. Her heart hammered against her ribs, keeping cadence with his own. And then he kissed her. Soft at first, it quickly turned more urgent, her tongue warm and insistent. For Michael, it felt as if nothing else in the universe mattered.
She broke the kiss a moment later, leaning against him, sighing. “You looked so sad just now,” she said. “I was worried.”
“Just thinking about my father. As much as I want to know what happened, Erika, there’s a part of me that doesn’t.”
She shook her head. “You’re afraid he won’t live up to your image of him.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Only in a way that is good.”
“What about you, Erika?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did your father live up to your image of him?”
Michael didn’t get the reaction he expected. Instead of confiding in him, she pulled away and walked to the railing, her head bowed while she stared into the water. He stayed where he was, sensing she didn’t want him near just then. After a long agonizing moment, she turned to face him.
“There’s something we need to talk about, Michael. It can’t wait any longer. I—” she halted, the tears welling anew. “Scheisse! It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”
An icy chill swept through Michael. “What is it?”
“You’ll hate me.”
“No, I won’t. I’m too bloody much in love with you.”
An emotional tug of war played across her face. She bit her lip.
“You’re married, aren’t you?” Michael said, giving voice to his worst fear.
She shook her head. “If only it were as simple as that.”
He went to her and grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.
“I don’t care what it is. Do you understand? I don’t care. I don’t care if you’ve had ten husbands, or had a fling with the bloody girl next door!”
“You will care,” she said, her voice a tiny whisper almost lost to the wind.
“Oi, you two!” Captain Nye called out. “It’s bloody cold as a witch’s bum. Get on back here, I’ve got some tea brewing!”
Michael saw the relief in Erika’s eyes and decided that whatever was bothering her could wait. He took her hand, feeling her frozen fingers dig into his, and led the way back to the wheelhouse.
True to the old sailor’s word, a battered enameled teapot sat boiling atop an ancient hotplate, the odor of Typhoo permeating the air. Nye pointed a long bony finger toward two steaming cups, while taking a sip from his own. Michael nodded, picked them up, and handed one to Erika who retreated to the stern, taking a seat on the transom. Michael sat on one of the two swivel chairs and sipped from his; it tasted sweeter than he liked, but the warmth coursing through him was more than welcome. He took another sip and looked up to find Nye regarding him with an expression of cautious amusement.
“I never could understand ‘em myself,” he said, placing his mug on the instrument panel and grabbing the wheel with both hands.
Michael’s puzzled look elicited a soft chuckle from the elderly sailor. “Women. Loved ‘em as much as any man. Had one in every port, you see. But they’d drive me bloody crackers with all their demands and their contrary ways. Couldn’t abide being with one for longer than a week. By then I’d feel the call o’ the sea and back I went.” He gave the wheel an affectionate pat. “Molly’s the only woman for me. Right old girl?”
Michael smiled in spite of his dark mood. It didn’t take a genius to see that the old salt was trying to make him feel better. Funny thing, it was working.
“No regrets?” Michael asked.
Nye shook his head. “Nary a one. Molly and I have an understandin’, you see. I don’t go foolin’ with human females, and she don’t never let me down. So far, it’s been a perfect match.”
Michael nodded, finding the old man’s anthropomorphic thoughts about his boat both sweet and sad. To have spent a lifetime—alone.
“In fact,” Nye continued, “the last time I made this crossin’ was in this very boat back in ‘40. Oh, Molly was a real looker then, let me tell you. Not that you aren’t a fine specimen now, my dear,” he said, as if to mollify the boat’s wounded feelings. “Molly’s been good to me, and she was good to the boys who needed a lift back from Dunkirk, she was.” He gave Michael an appraising glance. “I just want you to know I’m not doin’ this just for the money.”
“Why then?”
Nye’s faced turned pensive, his mouth pursing as he mulled the question over.
“Why, indeed.... The truth of the matter is I’m bored, mate—bored to bloomin’ tears. I’ve spent a lifetime on the sea.... Loved her as only and old salt can. And in return, she’s given me and Molly a right good livin’. But I have to admit—she’s been a trifle tedious, as of late. You and the lady looked as if you might be good for a bit of fun.”
“For your sake, Captain, I only hope it isn’t more than you bargained for.”
Karl stared out at the ferry’s wake. Twin tails churned up by the two screws pushed the boat at a moderate twelve knots. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the KGB man move to the railing, his expression one of distress. The dummkopf was actually seasick. The Channel was as flat as a schoolgirl’s chest and, with the exception of the thrumming of the ferry’s two engines, there was almost no sensation of movement. Unless one looked at the wake.
The KGB man leaned over the railing and expelled a stream of vomit.
Idiot. Even a state certified moron would know they sold Dramamine in the snack bar for two pounds, fifty. Still, it provided him with the perfect entré. Except for an old man asleep in a deck chair, they were alone.
The KGB man wiped his face, gasping for breath. To his credit he watched Karl’s approach, his muscles tensed.
“Chilly night for a boat ride, isn’t it old chap?”
Karl’s flawless accent has the desired effect on the KGB man, who relaxed. “Yes, very chilly.”
Gott in Himmel! Karl thought. This Slavic boob would never fool anyone.
Smiling again, Karl pulled a flask from out of his coat.
“Then why not have a nip with me to stave off the cold, eh what? A drink to the Queen.”
He took a swig and held it out to the KGB man, who eyed it with ill-concealed suspicion. Then, thinking better of it, he shrugged and took the flask.
“That’s a good lad,” Karl said, watching the Russian take several large swallows.
The man exhaled, grinned and said, “Cheers!”
Karl returned the smile and then spit something into his hand. He showed the plastic cap to the Russian and laughed. “You know, they finally had to drown Rasputin because the poison he drank wouldn’t kill him. I should imagine you won’t have that problem.”
The KGB man stared at him his eyes clouded by alcohol and incomprehension. Then, with a cry, he hurled the flask into the water and flung himself at Karl. But the poison had already begun its deadly work, robbing the KGB man’s muscles of the vital oxygen necessary for a fight. Instead, he began to gag and convulse, bloody foam appearing on his lips. He strained his hands upward, trying to claw Karl’s face, but the big German just laughed and batted the man’s hands away. Then he reached down and lifted the KGB man by his legs and tossed his limp body over the railing. One last look around, and Karl was satisfied the man on the deck chair was still asleep. He straightened his coat and began a stroll around the deck, the air filling with the sound of his jaunty whistle.
From his deck chair, Corwin Brady cracked open his eyes and watched the burly German disappear around the corner of the deckhouse, his weathered face creasing in a smile. With the way things were going, it looked as if both the Russians and the East Germans were racing to do his job for him. Either way, his assignment would soon be over. And then it would be back to his farm in Kerry and away from all this malarkey masquerading as politics. Smiling again, he tipped his rain hat back over his eyes and let sleep overtake him for the rest of the long ride across the Channel.
Chapter Thirty
Werner Mueller’s Daimler limousine streaked along the A23, exceeding the speed limit by a wide margin. He stared through the windscreen, keeping his eyes fixed on a point far ahead of the vehicle. Next to him sat a Stasi man poring over a map.
“We have just passed through Handcross, Comrade General,” the Stasi man said. His accent was thick and guttural, matching his jutting brow and low hairline. He reminded Mueller of a chimpanzee.
Mueller nodded absently, his thoughts resting with Karl. By now he would have eliminated the KGB presence on the ferry and would be in place when Mueller was ready for him. The one piece of the puzzle left lay several kilometers ahead of them in Peas Pottage. Scheisse, these foolish Englanders had such idiotic names for their towns. It was no small wonder that no one took them seriously anymore. They were still cozy bed partners to the Americans, however. And that relationship should never be underestimated.
“How much further is it, Comrade General?”
It was the driver who’d spoken, snapping Mueller out of his thoughts. “In another five kilometers, you will come to a crossroads with a little stone church on the east side,” Mueller said. “Turn left there. The cottage is half a kilometer further on.”
The driver glanced into the rearview and gave his superior a curt nod, then ret
urned his attention to the road. Mueller turned to the Stasi man, who folded the map and slipped it into the pouch on the seat in front of him.
“I don’t want her harmed in any way, Franz. She is our lure to bring Thorley back to us. Do you understand?”
“Jawohl, Comrade General.”
Mueller grunted and swung his eyes back to that imaginary point in front of the car.
Soon.... Very soon....
Half an hour later, the Daimler coasted to a stop a hundred yards from Woodhaven Cottage, its lights extinguished. The cottage was dark, save for one dim light that burned in one of the windows. All three men watched for signs of life, then Franz unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the door. Mueller grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“Wait,” he said sharply.
Franz shot him a puzzled frown and Mueller nodded toward the cottage. The Stasi man followed his gaze, his expression turning from bewilderment to eagerness.
Lillian Thorley stepped from the cottage and strode quickly to her motorcar, a white Ford Escort with a scrape in the right front fender. She climbed in and the tiny four-cylinder whined to life. A second later the lights snapped on and the car reversed down the narrow gravel drive.
“Back up!” Mueller shouted. “Schnell!”
The driver slapped the shift lever into reverse and twisted in his seat, his eyes squinting to see the road behind them. Then he punched the accelerator and the Daimler shot backwards, weaving back and forth. The driver spotted another driveway and turned into it just when Lillian Thorley’s car reached the road. The little Ford bulleted past them, exuding a cloud of blue-white exhaust.
Mueller clapped the driver on the shoulder. “Follow her. And leave the lights off until we reach the main road. I have a feeling I know where she’s going.”
With her running lights extinguished, Molly’s Revenge bobbed in the swell a mile outside Calais harbor like a child’s tub toy. Captain Nye stood braced against the wheel, staring through a battered pair of Zeiss binoculars, his tobacco-stained lips moving his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. He lowered them and turned to Erika his expression grim.