“Now what?” he asked nervously.
“Now we keep to the plan,” Schurz said in an equally low voice. “We get off at Bad Freienwalde and take the crate with us. And try not to look as if you were climbing a scaffold—” It had been the wrong thing to say; Petterssen looked even more frightened than before. Schurz tried to make amends; Petterssen was still necessary. “Look,” he added in a conciliatory tone, “everything is working fine! When we get to Bad Freienwalde, just say what you were told to say. Understand?”
“It’ll never work …”
“What do you mean? It is working, damn it!” God, if only he spoke Russian and didn’t need the services of this monstrous idiot any longer! “It’s working fine. You’re on a train heading out of Berlin, aren’t you?”
“Heading toward Russia …”
“Except we’re not going to Russia! Good God!” Petterssen knew as well as he did exactly what the plan was, but the maniac insisted upon acting as if there wasn’t any plan at all, or as if it hadn’t been working fine up to then. If the idiot managed to ruin things at Bad Freienwalde, Schurz promised himself, he would see to it that the bastard hanged, if he had to occupy the adjoining gallows himself! Schurz brought his temper under control. One undisciplined conspirator was enough—was too much. “When we get to Bad Freienwalde,” he said quietly, “just say what you were told to say. Don’t embellish. Don’t invent.” Petterssen opened his mouth; Schurz spoke again before the big man could say anything. “And keep quiet now,” he added coldly, “until we get there.”
The two leaned back, with Petterssen trying his best to block from his mind the terrifying thought of facing the Russian train official in the guard’s van, wondering how he could possibly say his little piece without stammering and giving the whole show away. What was he doing here, anyway, dressed up like a Russian security man? He was not an actor. He was an artist, one of the finest engravers in the world! The Americans, or even the Russians, should have welcomed him with open arms, as they did Von Braun and the other scientists that the two countries had divided up like a loaf of bread. What had he done that was so bad in comparison to what the scientists had done against the Allies? It was all very unfair …
Outside the train window the shadows darkened across the battered city and its outskirts, throwing jagged ruins of buildings in stark silhouette against the fading sky, and with a light every now and then from some room, high up in some destroyed building, rehabilitated by some energetic or adventurous—or desperate—soul who had not only managed access to the aerie, but who had also managed to run an electric line from some main somewhere. Survival! Schurz thought, and felt proud of his fellow countrymen. In time, with the help of finances from treasures such as the Schliemann gold, they would come back. It would take time, but time was the one thing that never ran out.
The soldier-guard put his head in the compartment. “Bad Freienwalde in five minutes.”
The two men nodded and came to their feet. Petterssen took a deep breath and at Schurz’s urging, led the way through the crowded train toward the guard’s van. Soldiers lined the corridors, drawing back from the dark-suited civilians unconsciously, as if contact with them might somehow contaminate, or at least compromise. Card games were in progress in the compartments, the air was full of smoke. The advantages of victory, Schurz thought bitterly; the ability to smoke cigarettes rather than the need to hoard them, or trade them for food, or use them for currency! He put the unproductive thought aside and reached past a paralyzed Petterssen to rap sharply on the door of the guard’s van, a peremptory knock that advertised authority. The inquiring face of the train official peered out. He recognized the two men from the platform and his expression froze into one of polite immobility.
Schurz poked Petterssen sharply in the back. The tall man seemed to waken, as from a dream, wetting his lips nervously. “A crate …” he began, and swallowed the next words, pointing instead to the box near the outer door.
The official, fortunately, found nothing wrong. He had been expecting to be approached regarding the mysterious crate, and he was only too happy to be rid of it and any responsibility it might represent. And also to be rid of the men from the NKVD, as these two were bound to be. Still, there were the necessary formalities.
“You have the proper papers?”
Petterssen managed to find them in a pocket and hand them over. The official checked them carefully and then nodded. He made a move to tuck them in his pocket but Schurz reached around his taller companion, picked them from the official’s hand, and put them in his own pocket, instead. For a moment the train official thought to object, but then he shrugged. Let them take their “Captured Medical Equipment” and be damned to them, although the official knew very well that while the contents of the strange crate had undoubtedly been captured, or at least liberated, they were certainly not medical anything. More probably they were things taken from a chalet or castle and were about to decorate the apartment of some NKVD official, or more likely the apartment of his mistress. Although why, in that case, they would be getting off in Bad Freienwalde only a short distance from Berlin, was a mystery. Still, to ask too many questions of the NKVD—or any questions at all—was to invite disaster. And, after all, they did have the proper papers, which was the important thing. His skirts, at least, were clear. The official nodded at the other two and began to wrestle the heavy crate to the door sill itself, while beneath their feet they could feel the strain as the train began to brake.
The three stood, swaying with the motion of the slowing train, and then almost lost their balance as the train came to an abrupt stop. The door slid back. A dark sedan, very official looking, seemed to appear out of the blackness as if by legerdemain. Behind it, four or five railway cars back, the faint lights of the small station could be seen flickering uncertainly in the night. The car came to a stop across from the open van door. Its lights were extinguished and a man, also dressed in dark clothes but with a peaked cap instead of a homburg, stepped down and approached the train. Petterssen hurried down the steps, eager to be done with the affair, and went to pull the heavy crate from the platform of the van. Schurz gave him another sharp and painful poke in the kidneys. Petterssen turned, surprised and a bit angered by the unwarranted blow, and then found that in the meanwhile the trainman and the chauffeur between them had managed to get the crate down and were carrying it toward the car.
“Idiot!” Schurz said beneath his breath, and walked quickly to the car, climbing into the rear seat. Petterssen finally seemed to realize his near-gaffe and followed Schurz to the car, getting in and closing the door after him. Behind them they could hear the sounds of the crate being stored into the large trunk of the car. There was the slam of the trunk lid, the chauffeur returned to the front seat of the car, his headlights came on revealing the small flags of a general officer mounted on the front fenders. His motor started; the car slid into the darkness. Behind them they could hear the tortured scream of the engine’s whistle as the train began to move again.
In the car there was silence for a moment, then Schurz burst into laughter, clapping his hands in glee. They had done it! They had actually done it! He looked over at Petterssen sitting in one corner of the seat, squeezed there as if to hide from his own thoughts, and punched him lightly on one arm.
“Well?” he demanded triumphantly. “Well?”
“We’re not there, yet …”
“Oh, my God!” At least, Schurz thought, there was the satisfaction of knowing that before long he would be finished with this pessimistic clown. Once the lights of Trelleborg in Sweden could be seen from the boat, one stab and the chains he had asked to be put aboard would be used to weight down the idiot’s body. And for Jan Petterssen there would be no more worries, no more fears. Schurz knew it would be work getting the big man’s body over the rail, especially with the chains, but it would be a labor of love. He leaned forward, pushing back the glass between the driver’s seat and his own, speaking in a low voice.
“Heil Hitler.”
“Any trouble?”
“No. Only the car must be back before dawn. Lucky you weren’t too late.” The man smiled, a mischievous smile, etched by the lights of the dashboard. He spoke over his shoulder. “The General will be bouncing up and down on his girl friend till then. Any trouble at your end?”
“Not so far.” Schurz could not help but glance at Petterssen as he spoke. The tall man was staring from the car window into the night as if totally oblivious to the conversation. Schurz turned back to the driver. “You spoke to the captain?”
“Sneller? Yes. He came through two days ago with a load of fish on his way to Berlin. He’ll meet us at the fischer landungsplatz; the boat’s called the Linderndsee.”
“The Balmy Sea, eh? A good name,” Schurz said. “Let’s hope it’s an omen.”
“Yes,” the driver said, and added, “You have the balance of the money?”
“We have it.”
“Good. As I understand it, the boat has enough fuel, but nothing extra, so I don’t imagine you can be joy-riding on your way there.” The driver glanced over his shoulder at the still figure in the corner of the rear seat. Petterssen had closed his eyes. There was a grimace as of pain on his equinelike face. The driver lowered his voice even more, as if Petterssen might be asleep and he did not want to disturb him. “Has he been all right?”
“He’s been fine,” Schurz said expressionlessly. “No problem.”
“That’s good,” the driver said, and turned his attention back to the road. They sped through the darkness toward Warnemünde on the Baltic coast, four hours away.
CHAPTER SIX
THE BALTIC—May
The outskirts of Rostock rose about them in the dark; they sped through the cobbled streets, past the university and the darkened dormitory buildings, so recently barracks, and took the road that headed along the estuary to Warnemünde, eight miles away. Their trip had been undisturbed by road checks, although Schurz with his false identity papers had been fully prepared for them; the war was too newly over for the Allied forces to be able to organize the proper controls at any but the accesses to major cities. Both Schurz and Petterssen had napped during the journey. Now they both came awake, Schurz refreshed by the brief respite, Petterssen seemingly made more dubious as to the success, or even the fitness, of their venture the closer they came to the sea.
The car crept past the deserted Warnemünde ferry dock, not yet back in operation to Denmark, and took a side road that led eventually past net-hung docks. In the distance behind them the faint lights of Warnemünde itself could barely be seen, throwing into shadow the few dock cranes that had not been damaged or destroyed in the war. The car edged along, its headlights dimmed, its driver looking anxiously about him. A sudden beam of a flashlight, instantly extinguished, gave him direction. A moment later they had pulled up before a small nondescript boat swaying against its stays at dockside. A man came from the shadows, examining them by the lights of the lowered headlights as they climbed from the car. The driver also got down and together with Schurz managed to get the heavy crate from the car’s trunk and across the narrow gangplank to the dock of the boat, while Petterssen stood helplessly by. This done, the driver returned to his car and with a brief wave of his hand and a whispered “Heil Hitler,” backed around and sped off for the main highway and the road south. Their contact beckoned. Schurz, trailed by a dazed Petterssen, followed the man to a tiny cabin located forward and below decks.
Inside the cabin, with its close-fitting door closed and the blackout curtains tightly drawn, the man lit a small lamp connected to a gas bottle, blew out the match, and then turned to face the two of them with a smile on his bearded lips. Schurz returned the smile.
“Hello, Captain Sneller. It’s been a while.”
“Hello, Major. It has, indeed.”
Schurz glanced around the small cabin and then sat down on a pivoting pilot’s chair set before a small table, swivelling about in satisfaction. Across from him Petterssen sank down on the cabin’s single bunk, holding his head in his hands. Sneller considered the tall man a moment and then looked at Schurz queryingly.
“A touch of nerves,” Schurz said disinterestedly. “It’ll pass.” He dismissed the question of Petterssen and smiled at Sneller. “How do you like being a fisherman, Captain?”
Sneller shrugged lightly. “I was a fisherman before I was a U-boat captain,” he said, and smiled. “And lucky for you, or you’d still be shoveling bricks in Berlin. And lucky for me, too. Our idiot conquerors can’t picture a U-boat commander working with his hands, or with fishing nets.” His smile faded. “Major—”
“Yes?”
“I could go with you, you know. Bring the boat back. It would be much cheaper for you—”
Schurz smiled a cold smile. “That wasn’t our deal, Captain.”
“I know, but do you think you can make it across in this boat with only—?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the tall man on the bunk. Petterssen was paying no attention to the men or their conversation. He remained, head in hands, staring disconsolately at the deck.
“I can do it alone,” Schurz said confidentially. “I’ve had experience with boats or I wouldn’t have chosen to go this way. I can read a chart and it’s a simple gasoline engine, isn’t it?”
“It is, but—”
“No buts, Captain.”
Sneller shrugged, as if refusing any further responsibility.
“If you say so, Major. Now, the controls are on the bridge”—he pointed to the overhead of the cabin—“up there. I’ll show you when we’re through in here. There’s enough gasoline to get you there, but none to spare. Fuel is hard to get. But there is a full tank of cooking gas here for the lamp or the stove, if you want to do any cooking—”
“We won’t.”
“If you say so, Major. Then I think that’s all. Now”—Sneller cleared his throat—“there’s the matter of the balance of the money …”
“No problem,” Schurz said expansively. He leaned over, taking Petterssen’s wallet from the other’s inner pocket without asking permission. Petterssen made no move. Schurz opened the wallet, extracted some notes, counted the proper amount, and handed it over.
Sneller also counted the money, and smiled as he tucked the bills into a pocket of his heavy pea jacket. “You have a walking bank with you, eh?”
“More or less.” Schurz tucked the depleted wallet into his own pocket and looked around. “Any schnapps on board?”
Sneller pointed. “There’s plenty in the locker, there. But I’d take it easy if I were you. It’s a long trip in a boat this small, and there are Danish patrols I know of, and undoubtedly Swedish ones as well.”
“It isn’t for me—” Schurz tilted his head toward the silent figure on the bunk. Sneller nodded in understanding. Schurz dismissed the subject and looked at Sneller calmly. “Now, what were you saying about patrols?”
“Let’s go up on the bridge—”
The two men left the cabin, closing the door behind them. In the cabin Petterssen raised his head to stare after them a moment, and then put his head back in his hands.
The two men climbed to the deck. A short companionway took them to the small bridge mounted above the single cabin. Blackout curtains had been strung over the glass before the wheel. Sneller pulled them shut and flashed his flashlight around in the blackness. It stopped on a button.
“There’s the engine starter. Next to it is a choke if you need it.”
“Good. Now, about those patrols—”
“The accelerator, there. It pulls in and out. Too far in for slowing and it stalls.”
“I’m impressed,” Schurz said, trying not to sound savage. “Now, about those patrols?”
Sneller bit back a superior smile; his flashlight moved to the chart table at the left of the wheel. Captain Sneller leaned over it, pointing.
“Here’s where we are: Warnemünde. Now, the Dan
es have a small fleet of patrol boats, at least four that we know of, or that is to say, four that patrol in this area. They come every six hours, right on schedule. You’d think they were German the way they stick to routine! Anyway, one comes from the north every six hours, and another from the west. They all turn at Gedser lighthouse—here”—his finger rested on a small spit of land almost directly across the narrow arm of the Baltic from the estuary where they were—“and then go back the way they came.”
Schurz frowned. “They meet here? At the Gedser lighthouse?”
“No.” The captain smiled, a rather grim smile. “They’re foolish, but not all that foolish. They arrive at alternate periods, three hours apart. Somehow they seem to feel that covers all possible conditions.” Sneller sounded as if he wished the ships that had come under the scan of his periscope during the war had been that accommodating.
Schurz looked at him. “You know their exact schedule?”
“Of course.” The captain sounded disdainful. His finger went back to the chart. “The one that comes from the Lille Baelt—here, to the west—comes around Lolland and reaches Gedser very close to one, seven, thirteen, and nineteen hours.” He glanced at his watch, and then verified the hour with the chronometer mounted at the binnacle. “He would have already turned at Gedser lighthouse and is on his way back by now. But he wouldn’t have been any danger to you in any event. You’ll be too far east for him to have been any threat. It’s the boats from the north, the ones that come around Falster, that you would have to worry about.”
“And what are their schedules?”
“As I said,” Sneller said patiently, “there is three hours’ difference in the times they get here. In other words, the patrol boats from the north show up roughly at four, ten, sixteen, and twenty-two hours. And at four hours again, of course.” He checked his watch again, even though he had checked it a moment before. “It’s a little after one, now. Figure it will take you an hour or so to be off Gedser. If you leave now you should easily be out of sight of any patrol boat that is due to turn at the Gedser lighthouse at four hours. You should be well on your way by then.”
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