“Indeed, two days ago. There are seven large crates. We brought them aboard and put them in the forward cargo hold. I thought it would give you a bit more privacy.”
“Excellent, excellent,” Michael said as he turned towards the others who had gathered behind him. “Einar, I’d like you to meet our little research group. This is Doctor Yuri Chorev from Israel. He’s an international expert in underwater oil shale exploration, who has been consulting with your government on new oil finds in the Baltic.”
“A doctor! I do not believe we have had a doctor go out on one of our boats before.”
“Well, don’t get sick,” Chorev quipped. “I’m a geologist, not an MD.”
Person paused and looked around at the others. "And I see you brought a young lady with you as well," he bowed and seemed pleasantly surprised.
“This is Leslie Hodge… my research assistant,” Michael said.
“Your ‘research assistant’?” Person said with a twinkle in his eye and a slight bow. “I suggest you don’t try that one on Emma, Michael. She would box your ears good. But Hodge? I think I remember that name.”
“My brother, Eddie, was in the Air Corps with Michael,” Leslie answered.
“Ah, of course, from South Carolina. Now we know why it took you so long to come back to us,” Person said with a quick glance up at Michael. He was certain there was a question in there somewhere, but it appeared the old Swede would hold it for later. “Well, other than my wife, Emma, I don’t believe we’ve had a woman go out to sea with us, either, so that should be a change for the better.” Then his eyes came to rest on Manny.
"This is Manny Eismer,” Michael said, searching for the appropriate words. “He is a retired policeman and a friend of mine from New York.”
“A retired policeman?” Person asked as one of his eyebrows went up. “Another first for the old Brunnhilde.”
“And David Schiff, a diver who specializes in underwater research.”
Person smiled as he looked around at the new faces, then back at Michael. “Oil, eh? Well, you have brought quite a distinguished group with you, an Israeli scientist, a very fit looking diver, a New York City policeman, and your old friend’s sister from South Carolina. Is it oil that brings them all here, or an old, rusting U-boat?” Person silenced Michael’s protest with a smile and a wave of his hand. “No need, no need. You are a friend, Michael, and I trust you will do what is proper.”
“We’ll be doing some poking around, that’s all,” Michael assured him. “Everything will be legal and aboveboard.”
“I am sure it will be,” the Swede shook his head. “I lived for a time in Germany in the mid-1930s, before the war, when the Nazis were first flexing their power. I saw things there that I never wanted to see again, so I know all about your Nazis. The Swedish people are fair and have good hearts. We sympathize with the Israeli people; but I’m a Swede, and we have our laws. If everyone understands, there should be no problem.”
“Understood,” Michael assured him. “And all we are looking for is the truth, Einar,” he said quietly.
“Ah, the truth. Nothing is harder to find, and nothing can cause more damage than the truth,” Person replied. “But enough of that. Welcome to Trelleborg," Person spread his arms wide. “You have had a long trip and I am certain you must be exhausted. I have reserved some rooms for you in a nice little hotel near the harbor. In the morning, you can move into the cabins on the Brunnhilde and get your equipment set up.”
“When can we meet the rest of the crew?” Manny asked.
“Most of the regulars were out to sea when I got your cable. So, I shall take the helm myself. The Mate is a new man, a German named Balck; he seems qualified. I only wish that were so with the deck hand. He’s a union-hall pickup named Demberg, but we have to take what they give us these days. There’s no telling what he’ll be like.”
“Closing time,” the bartender’s voice echoed through the nearly empty tavern. The language might be Swedish, but it carried the bored intonation of saloonkeepers the world over. It had been a long night, with barely enough money in the cash box to pay the rent.
“Bottoms up,” he called out even louder as he finished washing the last of the glasses, adding a scowl for effect. “Let’s go. It’s the law, and I must lock up.”
As he looked out across the seedy, dimly lit room, the bartender saw there were only three customers left in the place; and he was not about to stop the clock on their account. The two strangers at a table nearest the front door took the hint. They exchanged quick, furtive glances and slowly rose to their feet. The smaller of the two, a sharp-eyed little weasel, dug in his pocket, counted out some folding money, and allowed the bills to fall from his fingertips onto the table. The bartender had seen this act from too many other cheapskates before. Nurse a few beers hour after hour, tell your friend you are picking up the tab, then drop exact change on the table and quickly head for the door. Well, good riddance to both of you, the bartender thought.
Now, there was only the third customer left to deal with, that asshole Demberg. The bartender shook his head and groaned. Over the years, he had seen it all — happy drunks, sad drunks, quiet drunks, loud drunks, angry drunks, stupid drunks, and mean drunks. Demberg was the last two and a real jerk. There were a half dozen other taverns along the docks. Why did Demberg always end up here, the bartender wanted to know. Despite the two bar calls, Demberg hadn’t moved. He sat hunched over his drink, slack-jawed, with his usual vacant expression. If he had heard a word the bartender said, it had not registered. Cheapskates and bad drunks, the bartender cursed. That’s all he ever got these days.
“Let’s go, Demberg,” the bartender called out again. “I gotta lock up, and I’m really tired.” Still, Demberg didn’t move. “I won’t take any crap from you tonight. You hear me? If I toss you out of here again, you won’t be coming back.”
The bartender had forty pounds on the short, wiry sailor; but he knew Demberg always had a straight razor up his sleeve or in his boot. No matter how drunk he looked, he wasn’t to be underestimated. “Come on,” the bartender softened. “I gotta go home to my wife. Why don’t you go home to yours for a change?”
“Shows what you know, Tomas,” he heard a slurred reply as Demberg finally looked up. “Why do you think I came in here? For the company?” he said as he held up his glass. “How about another tot, huh? Two, for you and me; I’ll even buy.”
“You’ve had enough already. Now, get out of here before the police come in here and climb all over my ass.”
“The police? Down here?” Demberg snorted. “That’ll be the day.” He gulped the last of his drink, spilling half of it down the front of his shirt. “Oh, all right, you ugly bastard.” He slammed the glass on the table and rose to his feet. He wobbled back and forth for a moment, glassy-eyed, and had to lean on the table for support. “Seems a man can’t even get drunk anymore without some pissant’s got to up and ruin it.”
“Do me a favor. Go home and sleep it off, Demberg,” the bartender growled. “And tomorrow night, take your business someplace else.”
Demberg gave him a nasty look and drew the glass back to throw it at him; but he was still sober enough not to bite the hand that fed him, or the hand that poured his drinks as the case may be; and he set it down. Besides, Demberg knew Tomas kept an oak club under the bar; and the bartender wasn’t afraid to use it. Demberg rose to his feet and pulled some coins from his pocket. Tottering back and forth, he dropped them on the table, not even bothering to count. He took a few unsteady steps toward the door, then a few more, his hand touching each tabletop he passed like a blind man navigating by Braille.
“You take care, Demberg,” the bartender called out sarcastically. “I wouldn’t want you getting hurt out there,” he said, not really giving a damn if someone beat the crap out of him, so long as it was down the street and away from his front door.
A half-block further up the street, the bartender’s wish was about to come true. The two men who h
ad spent the evening sitting at the front table now hid in a dark doorway waiting patiently for Demberg to come out. The big one stood at the entrance cleaning his fingernails with a long-bladed pocketknife keeping watch, while the little weasel, named Lindstromm, hid in the shadows, his eyes darting nervously up and down the street.
Finally, the tavern’s front door opened and Demberg staggered out into the dim circle of red neon light. Lindstromm smiled as Demberg stood at the curb, wobbling back and forth. The night was cool. The deckhand tipped his head back and took several deep breaths to try to clear the alcoholic haze from his brain, but there was not enough cold air in Sweden to pull that off, not after all the whiskey Demberg had drunk. Slowly, the deck hand turned and began walking a crooked path up the sidewalk directly toward them.
This was going to be ever so easy, the little weasel smiled. While the three men had spent most of that evening in the same bar, Demberg came out dead drunk while the other two were stone sober. Eventually, Demberg’s unsteady, shuffling pace brought him close enough for the weasel to step out of the shadows directly into his path. Surprised, Demberg stopped and took a step or two back, trying to focus his blood-shot eyes on this sudden threat from the darkness.
“Is that you, Demberg?” Lindstromm asked in a friendly voice.
“Huh? What?” Demberg snarled, squinting as he tried to see the man’s face, still shrouded in shadow. “Get the hell out of my way!”
“Hold on now, Demberg. All I want is a quick word with you,” Lindstromm grinned. “Surely you don’t mind talking with a fellow sailor?”
“You’re a sailor, huh? Well, you don’t look like one. You look like a little prick to me, that’s what you look like.” Demberg balled his hands into tight fists. He had just had a rotten night, and he had a rotten week before that. So why not end it by pounding lumps on this skinny little shit? “Who are you, anyway?” Demberg mumbled as he tried to shield his eyes for a better look. “I can’t see your damned face.”
“Me? Oh, I’m another hard-working sailor, just like you, Demberg, that’s all,” came the syrupy reply. “And hey, that wife of yours, she’s something else, isn’t she?”
Demberg stopped. His eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth as he realized what this stranger was saying to him. He’d do more than just pound lumps on this big mouth. He’d break the man in half.
“Yeah,” the stranger went on taunting Demberg with a big grin. “Somebody told me she ain’t half-bad looking, but I never turned on the light.”
As those words penetrated his drunken haze, Demberg’s face twisted with rage. “Come ’ere, you little bastard!” he swore, lunging forward. His hands went for the other man’s throat, but they never got that far. He was too drunk to get a good look at the stranger and too drunk to see his partner slip up behind him. A split second later, it didn’t matter, as a dull, crunching blow hit Demberg on the back of his head. He never knew what hit him; he never knew who delivered the blow; and he never saw the hard concrete sidewalk as it rushed up and crashed into his face. All he saw was an explosion of red and white stars before everything went black.
Demberg had barely hit the pavement before the big man raised the heavy steel pipe to smash him again. “No!” Lindstromm’s voice stopped the man’s arm in mid-swing. “They said to put him on ice for a while, Lars, not to kill him.” That said, Lindstromm gave Demberg two vicious kicks in the side. He heard the man’s ribs snap beneath the steel toe of his boot, and smiled. “That should hold him for a few weeks. Now get his money and his watch. We want this to look good.”
“You’re sure you can get his berth on the boat?” Lars asked as he rifled through Demberg’s pockets.
“It’s all been arranged through the Union.”
The big man grinned as he pulled a fat roll of bills from Demberg’s pocket. “Look what I found, Lindstromm? A bonus.”
The little man snatched the money from Lars’s hand and slipped it in his pocket. “I need that to grease the union steward,” he told him with a syrupy smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll turn the rest of it over to the party treasurer in the morning.”
The big man still had the lead pipe in his hand. He rose to his full height and towered over Lindstromm, tapping the pipe in the palm of his hand. “Don’t press your luck, Lindstromm. I may not have your brains, but I’d never have to buy another drink in this town when the boys learn I was the one who busted your skull; so don’t try me.”
Lindstromm looked up at him and smiled. “Oh, you can’t blame a man for trying, can you, Lars?” he chuckled and pulled the wad of money back out of his pocket. He had a knife in his pants, but Lars was big and strong; and he hadn’t lowered the pipe yet. Slowly, Lindstromm began dividing the stack of bills into two piles. “You’re just too smart for me, Lars. And to prove we can work together, I’ll even give you a little ‘socialist equity,’ eh?” he said as he handed the other man one of the two stacks.
The big man accepted the offering, but his eyes never left Lindstromm’s. He knew the sneaky little shit would kill him in a heartbeat and grab all the money if he thought he could get away with it. After all, it was Lindstromm who told him years ago never to trust anybody, so the big Swede was not about to start with his teacher.
“Now get going,” Lindstromm said. “Phone the Union Hall first thing in the morning. Tell them Demberg’s in the hospital and he won’t be taking any billets for a while. Tell them he got himself hurt in a bad fall. Then I’ll stop by around 9:00 AM and collect my work papers. Go on, go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
After breakfast at the small hotel in town, Michael led the group downhill to the harbor. As they neared the water, the pungent aroma of the docks, the fishing boats, and processing plants rose on the morning air to greet them. He had almost forgotten the sharp smells of cold salt water, herring, and cod. They were far different from the warm water, shellfish, and languid, brackish marshes of South Carolina.
When they walked around the side of the last row of warehouses and reached the quay, they saw the Brunnhilde tied to the pier in front of Person’s warehouse. Michael knew her from his three years of near-daily contact; this was the first glimpse the others got of what would be their home for the next few weeks. It would have done him no good to try to describe the old steel-hulled whaler to the others. The Queen Mary she was not. She had a tall prow and the wheelhouse stood amidships with glass windows and several radio masts poking through the roof. Forward and aft of the wheelhouse lay the cargo holds, each rigged with a stubby cargo boom. The white paint on her hull above the water line was streaked and chipped, and her sturdy oak deck had been worn smooth from decades of rubber boots, fishing nets, and wooden crates dragging back and forth across it. While she might not look like much above the water, Michael knew her engines had been rebuilt and they purred like a Mercedes Benz. With a high prow and wide beam, she could take anything the Baltic could throw at her; in the end, that was all that really mattered.
Einar Person came hurrying out through the rear door of his warehouse, pulling the pipe from his mouth as he greeted them with an embarrassed smile. “What can I say, Michael? You insisted on the Brunnhilde, because she would not attract too much attention. Well, there she is.” Person turned to the others and explained. “I was at the wheel of the Brunnhilde early that morning in 1945 when we found him floating in a small black-rubber raft headed for God only knows where, half-dead and out of his mind.”
“She’s my lucky charm,” Michael answered. “That’s why I wanted her, Einar.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “A big, rusting, smelly lucky charm, but we always caught fish when you took her out. We always caught fish — we even caught you, didn’t we?”
“True, and that’s all we need, Einar, one more good catch, one more big fish.”
“The Brunnhilde,” Leslie frowned as she read the faded name painted on the bow. “Wasn’t that one of the Valkyries?”
"Ah, you have heard of her then,” Person answered. Yes, Brunnhilde w
as Queen of the Nibelungen in our Norse legends. They would pick up our fallen heroes from the battlefield and carry them off to Valhalla on their great horses.”
“Yes, I know,” Leslie smiled as she turned toward Michael. “And do you know what else she did? She killed her boyfriend, Siegfried, when he lied to her.”
“Ah, your friend is a lover of opera! Emma will like that,” Person laughed.
“One with a very subtle sense of humor,” Michael said.
“No, every Saturday afternoon Mama would have the Metropolitan Opera broadcasts on the radio and we all listened,” Leslie countered. “See, I’m full of surprises.”
“Well, I don’t know much about the opera, or queens, or horses,” Michael said. “But if you like diesel fumes and the smell of dead fish, you’re going to love this Brunnhilde.”
Leslie wrinkled her nose and tried not to laugh.
“Do not let her looks fool you,” Person jumped in. “Above decks, she may look worn and tired, but down below is another matter. The crew’s quarters are clean and freshly painted. The men should find them comfortable; I only hope the young lady will.”
“I grew up working six days a week on my Daddy’s oyster dredge in South Carolina,” Leslie added. “Your boat is a palace compared to one of those.”
“Then, we are all set, eh?” Person smiled and motioned toward the boat. “Oh, incidentally, Michael, the union hall had to send me a new deck hand this morning. I had hired on a fellow named Demberg, but he’s in the hospital. It seems he got himself beat up and robbed last night outside a bar. These sailors can be such fools,” Person shook his head sadly. “Give a man a good job and look what he does? Drinks it all away.”
“This may not be any of my business," Leslie interrupted. "Don’t you have any of the regular crewmen you can call?”
“Mates, engineers, and officers I can hire, my dear, but for ordinary seamen we must order through those crooks over at the union hall. That is another change for the worse in our Swedish workers ‘paradise’ since Michael was here last. They are nothing but a pack of featherbedding Socialists and Communists; but I did interview the new man, a fellow named Lindstromm, and I think he will do. He knows I expect a full day’s work for a full day’s pay. If he does what he is told, there will be a bonus in his pay envelope.”
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