“All is arranged. You will follow me to Monterrey and park your car outside my house. There is a hotel nearby where you can spend the night, but you must be up early as your bus leaves Monterrey at six forty-five. I will pick you up at six fifteen. Please be ready. Do you understand so far?”
“Yes, Herr Huber, but what will happen to my car?”
“I know a dealer. I will get the best price I can for it and forward the money to your contact in Buenos Aires. It won’t be much, I’m afraid.”
Sybilla shrugged.
Huber continued, “The bus is direct to Tampico, on the Atlantic coast, but stops at the dock gate in Altamira. You need to get off there. You can’t miss it; you’ll see the massive cranes from the bus. The street where you get off the bus is lined with the offices of importers, exporters and freight companies. The company you want is Sigma, but it will be too late to do anything by the time you get there. There’s a hotel across the road about a hundred metres up on the left. Stay there overnight.
“The following morning go to the Sigma company offices. Your ticket will be waiting for you there and someone will escort you to the ship. I’m afraid it’s just a cargo vessel, not a luxury liner, but they keep half a dozen cabins available for paying passengers.
“So, Liebling, all that remains is to wish you a safe journey and a pleasant new life. Viel Glück!”
On impulse, Sybilla embraced him. “Thank you, Herr Huber, you’ve probably saved my life!”
Huber beamed. “That is precisely what the Kameraden organisation is for. We look after our own.”
A Luxury Cruise
The Sigma Miranda was a medium-sized, steam-powered cargo vessel registered in and sailing out of Argentina. Her itinerary, which never varied, was Buenos Aires, then a short hop across the bay to Montevideo, north to Rio de Janeiro, a long haul through the Caribbean into Havana, then across the Gulf of Mexico and into Altamira. Sybilla was embarked on the return sailing which followed the same route in reverse.
People would pay a lot of money to undertake this voyage, she thought, but perhaps not on this vessel.
Sybilla occupied one of the six cabins available for occasional passengers. Only two of the others were occupied, both by single men, probably travelling on business. Facilities were severely limited—there was only one bathroom between them—however, there was a mess hall or lounge where they took their meals, brought to them by their assigned steward, a Mexican with the extremely unlikely name of Jack. Jack was in his mid to late fifties and was pleasant enough, though he spoke little. Sybilla guessed that the food he brought was the same as that provided for the crew, but it was wholesome and there was plenty of it.
The lounge also boasted a number of easy chairs arranged around the bulkhead where they could relax out of the sun and, just outside, a short roped-off section of deck, which the steward informed them was their ‘promenade’ deck. On it were arranged a couple of rickety sunloungers that had seen better days. On very hot days—and there were a lot of those—Sybilla would go to her cabin, lock the door, make sure the blinds were fully closed and, having stripped off, lie naked on her bunk, the overhead fan whirring noisily above her. She wasn’t quite sure what purpose the fan served. It just seemed to move the hot air from one part of the cabin to another. Sybilla would have given anything to go outside and lie on a sunlounger in her underwear but, being the only woman among twenty crew and two strangers, she considered that that would probably not be a good idea.
The first part of the journey was tedious in the extreme, sailing due east across the Gulf of Mexico. After Altamira disappeared behind them, they didn’t see land again until late afternoon on the second day, and then just a hazy line of bluey-green in the distant south. Probably the tip of the Yucatan Peninsula. They anchored in Havana on the morning of the third day.
One of the officers, a handsome young man in his early twenties, who seemed to find any excuse to hover near the passengers’ promenade deck whenever Sybilla was sat out in a lounger, informed them that passengers were permitted ashore. He offered to escort her and show her some of Havana’s sights. Sybilla declined, conscious that she was probably still wanted in connection with her activities with the communists in the late forties, but she hated saying no to the man as she felt he might prove to be a useful contact.
She made up for it after they left Cuba by speaking to him whenever he was nearby. Perhaps emboldened by this, the young man would often stop to chat for a few minutes but was always careful not to stray into the passengers’ deck area. Sybilla was glad of these brief diversions as her fellow passengers, both Brazilian, seemed very wary of each other and hence were quite reticent.
It transpired that the young officer’s name was Hessel van de Berg, from Paramaribo in Suriname, where his family—descendants of Dutch settlers—owned a bauxite mine and processing plant. In consequence, his first language was Dutch, however he spoke excellent Spanish and English and passable Portuguese. He was tall with blond hair, bleached almost white by constant exposure to the sun. In stark contrast, his skin was burned a chestnut brown. Add to that a good physique and Sybilla, despite herself, and more especially because of the age difference, found herself attracted to the young man. He was clearly intelligent and had studied marine engineering in England before gaining a commission as an Engineering Officer with the Sigma line. He confided to Sybilla that he had accepted the commission with Sigma in order to gain experience before applying to one of the big Dutch shipping lines. Hess, as he preferred to be called, made a point of meeting with Sybilla once a day to update her on the progress of the voyage.
After leaving Cuba, they had sailed to the east of the Caribbean islands, staying well out to sea, so that the islands were barely discernible off their starboard beam. Even so, Hess was able to show off his knowledge by naming each of them as they sailed past. On the third day out from Cuba, Jack brought breakfast as usual, then began collapsing the loungers and bringing them into the mess before lashing them to one of the bulkheads.
“Storm approaching, Jack?” asked Sybilla.
“Si, very soon, please all to stay inside, please, yes?” said Jack, smiling broadly and nodding his head vigorously.
They finished their breakfast quickly. It was clear that Jack wanted to collect the dishes and get them safely out of the way, the ship already beginning to roll as the waves increased in size. Her two fellow passengers sought the relative comfort of their individual cabins, while Sybilla sat looking out to sea. Ever since she was a child, she had been fascinated by storms. She would sit at her bedroom window in Grense-Jacobselv, well within the Arctic circle, and watch as the storm progressed. The only time she felt fear was when her father or her ‘uncle’ Gunnar, later husband, were out in their fishing boats.
Now she sat in awe as the sky darkened and the rain hammered against the window, the wind gradually rising until it was shrieking like a banshee. The old ship groaned and creaked as it rolled and pitched, registering its protest in the only way it could. Of the other passengers, she saw nothing, however the captain came into the mess at midday, accompanied by Hess. They were both soaking wet. It was the first time she had met the captain since being introduced when she had first boarded the vessel. He was smiling apologetically.
“I am here to apologise on behalf of the god Neptune for his ungentlemanly behaviour, and also on behalf of my galley staff because they are unable to prepare a meal at the moment. I will have Jack bring some sandwiches for you and the other two passengers very shortly.”
Sybilla had risen as the two seamen entered. Hess rushed to her side, holding onto her shoulders, just in case the rolling of the vessel caused her to fall, of course. She took the captain’s outstretched hand and shook it warmly.
“Please don’t apologise, Captain, and I can certainly use a sandwich, but I suspect my fellow travellers may have lost their appetite.”
The captain laughed. “Probably! And you, querida señora, you do not suffer the mal de mer?”
/> “Of course not, Captain, I am a Viking and have weathered storms on a fishing boat in the Arctic. My father used to tell me it was just Thor’s way of telling us he had drunk too much the night before in Valhalla.”
Roaring with laughter, the captain turned to go, then turned back and shook Sybilla’s hand again. “Gracias, señora, I will remember that! You have taught me something today.”
By late afternoon the storm had all but abated. Hess appeared in the mess, smiling broadly. “The captain has sent me to check on the passengers. I’ll check on the two gentlemen first,” he said, pointing to the passageway leading to the passenger cabins.
He was only gone a few minutes before he reappeared, chuckling to himself.
“Are they okay?” asked Sybilla, smiling. Hess’s good humour was infectious.
“No! They are definitely not okay. I could only get grunts out of one of them, and the other one informed me that he didn’t want to see food again as long as he lived, which he said was not likely to be very long.” Hess sat down in one of the easy chairs alongside Sybilla. “You’ve certainly put them to shame, they won’t be able to look you in the eye when they emerge from their cabins,” he chuckled again.
“Oh, and by the way, the captain has retold your ‘Thor’ story several times to other members of the crew and he now refers to you as the ‘Viking Princess’. He’s quite taken by you.”
Sybilla laughed. “That’s nice! It was good of you both to come and check we were okay, and to come again now, thank you.”
“My pleasure, and in any case, there’s something I want to show you.”
“Oh, what is it?” asked Sybilla eagerly.
“May I escort you on deck, madam? It’s safe now,” he said with mock courtesy, extending an elbow.
“Why, thank you, sir,” Sybilla said, rising and taking his arm.
Hess walked her to the starboard side of the ship, circling her shoulders with his arm, and pointed.
“See? It’s land. That’s South America!”
“Is it Brazil?” asked Sybilla.
“Not yet—a little way to go still—that’s Venezuela, but there’s a special treat for you tomorrow.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“You will have a chance to see God’s own country, Suriname, my home!” Hess said proudly.
“That’s wonderful. Will you get a chance to go ashore?”
“I’m pretty sure I will. We’ll have to lay up for a couple of days to repair storm damage, but I should be able to get ashore perhaps on the second day. I’ll be needed to organise and supervise repairs on the first day.” After a pause, he said, “Perhaps you’d come ashore with me this time, Billa?”
“Yes please, I’d love to,” said Sybilla enthusiastically.
The following day was one of noise and chaos as workmen bustled around the vessel carrying out the necessary repairs. Sybilla seized the opportunity to go ashore to the town centre to look around and buy a few items of clothing.
Towards evening as she looked out over the rail, she was startled by a voice from behind.
“Goedenavond.” Sybilla knew exactly who it was. Standing there in grubby coveralls, the top open to the waist, his skin sweaty and smeared with oil, was Hess. Magnificent!
“The work is all done,” he explained. “I’m on watch tomorrow morning from six till ten, but the skipper says I can go ashore for a couple of hours after that. Would you still like to come?”
“Of course, thank you. I’ve seen the city centre and the waterfront, so could we go somewhere else?”
“Of course, we’ll sort something out tomorrow. I’ll see you at ten.”
At ten to ten the following morning, Sybilla, wearing the new shorts and blouse she had bought in the town, made her way to the gangplank. Hess was already there in his whites.
They picked up a taxi at the dock gates and made their way upriver to the bridge. Sybilla thought it would be a good opportunity to sound him out about other passengers who had travelled to Argentina on the Miranda. She thought she was being subtle, but clearly not subtle enough.
“Billa, why don’t we stop beating about the bush. You want to know if we have carried other Nazis to Argentina, right?”
“Other Nazis? You think I’m a Nazi?”
His directness had knocked her off balance.
“Well, aren’t you? ‘Young woman suddenly leaves the US and travels to Argentina’ can only mean one of three things. You’re a business-woman—I don’t think so, that would have come up in conversation; you’re looking for a husband—definitely not. A woman with your looks wouldn’t have to leave the States to find a husband; or you’re running away from something. The fact that you’re running away to Argentina suggests only one thing. Am I right?”
Sybilla nodded gloomily. “I did work for the Germans during the war. Does it make a difference?”
“To me?” he asked, laughing. “Hell, no! I didn’t support either side. I was only a teenager when the Netherlands were occupied, and I felt sorry for the Dutch people, but I am a Suriname Dutchman, not a Netherlander.
“As to the information you were fishing for … during my time with the ship, we have carried four Germans, three who were definitely Nazis and one I wasn’t sure about.”
“Any women?” asked Sybilla.
“You’re the first. The others were all men.”
Sybilla put on her concerned face. “I’m trying to locate a friend of mine I worked with in Germany. I think she may be in danger,” she glibly lied.
Hess shook his head. “Unless she was escaping from America, she wouldn’t have used this route. Most German immigrants to Argentina travel from Italy.”
“Yes, of course. I should have realised that.”
Under directions from Hess, the driver took them on a whistle-stop tour of some of the sights of Paramaribo, which included a Hindu temple and a wooden cathedral incongruously painted yellow and blue. The highlight was a visit to Independence Square to view the fine government buildings. Whilst there, they chanced upon a group of people forming a circle around a number of bird cages.
“We’re in luck!” said Hess. He instructed the driver to wait for them, then taking Sybilla’s hand, he walked her towards the birds, placing his finger on his lips to adjure her to silence. As they joined the other spectators, Sybilla was astonished at the beauty of the bird songs she could hear. Each cage contained the same type of bird—some species of finch, black and glossy—and each bird sang loudly, as if responding to the audience. One man was circling the cages, listening intently to each bird before moving on to the next.
Enthralled, Sybilla was disappointed when Hess, looking pointedly at his watch, indicated that it was time to leave.
On the way back to the ship Hess explained that they had witnessed a birdsong contest, not an uncommon sight in the gardens. The proud owners would bring their birds along for the songs of each to be judged, and one bird would be declared the winner. The man circling the cages had been the judge.
“But they were all using the same species?” It was more a question than a statement.
Hess nodded. “It’s a type of finch, known as the twa-twa. Nothing else can compete with it.”
They arrived at the ship with little time to spare. Sybilla didn’t even have a chance to thank him properly before he rushed off to the bridge. Less than thirty minutes later they were moving away from the wharf and heading out onto the open sea.
The journey from Paramaribo to Rio de Janeiro was pleasant and interesting, if rather hot. There was some excitement at least—on the part of Sybilla if not anyone else—when they crossed the equator. She had read of ‘crossing the line’ ceremonies on cruise ships, but there was none of that on the Sigma Miranda. She imagined that the crew and probably the two businessmen had done it many times before.
Hess was even more attentive than ever and never missed an opportunity to stop and chat. He would tell her about the towns and cities they passed and those coming up, but the s
hip was so far off the shore she couldn’t make out any detail other than that hazy line of bluey-green on the starboard horizon. To port there was nothing but sea for mile after mile.
A sudden squall blew up as they rounded the promontory of Jaoa Pessoa. It only lasted a few hours, but it was enough to send Sybilla’s fellow passengers fleeing to their cabins. She rarely spoke to the two men, and when she did, it was invariably about the weather or the food. Conversation was difficult because they were both Brazilian and hence spoke Portuguese. However, both had reasonable Spanish and very occasionally the conversation went a little further. She was able to glean that both were in businesses with interests in Mexico. However, in the main, there was little of common interest and Sybilla left them to themselves, although she always made a point of being friendly. She had ruled them out as possible Nazis within days of meeting them.
After passing Salvador, which she could barely make out on the shoreline, there was nothing until they sighted Vitoria Espirito Santo a day and a half later. ‘Sighted’ was not how Sybilla would have described the experience. She could make out the bay but had to take Hess’s word that there was a town nestling somewhere inside it. However, after passing Vitoria, Sybilla noticed that the ship was drifting closer and closer towards the shore, ready for the impending arrival in Rio de Janeiro.
They docked in Rio a full seven days after leaving Paramaribo. She watched as her two fellow passengers left the ship. This was their destination. She was on her own from here on. Hess appeared less than an hour later, begging Sybilla to go ashore with him that evening to sample the famous nightlife. Sybilla hesitated, pointing out that she didn’t have the right kind of clothes.
“I don’t mean this to be offensive,” said Hess, “but in Rio when men look at women, they don’t see the clothes. Billa, you would be a knockout in a potato sack!”
Sybilla, smiling, assumed that had been some kind of compliment and nodded her head. “Okay, Hess, I promise to wear my best potato sack, just for you.”
Shadow Of Evil: Cold War Espionage Thriller (Dragan Kelly Book 2) Page 18
