The Last Wolf (The Talisman Series)

by Stephen Ward

  Startled, he spun round. “Nothing, I'm fine.”

  “Don't lie to me, man, I've known you long enough to know, and also your hand is shaking!”

  Nikolaus couldn't remain quiet any longer, “Do you know what will happen to us if we don't succeed?”

  “We will succeed.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Everything can be done on time.”

  “But that's the luxury we don't have – time! Can you not see that we'll end up at the front line or worse.”

  “Nikolaus, concentrate on this task. I know it was all my fault and I'll take all responsibility for failure but we can do this.”

  The other man seemed slightly more at ease but he still had grave doubts. “OK. Put the kettle back on. I guess it's going to be a long day.”

  With fierce levels of concentration, and with scarcely a break, they worked straight through to two in the morning.

  “Have you finished?” asked Keller. Nikolaus marked one last bulkhead and shuffled everything together, “I think so.”

  Keller opened a large bag and piled some drawings in it. “Nikolaus, I'll get these couriered over to the foundry tomorrow morning,” he said. “The others will need to be manufactured here. Can I leave these to you?” Huber nodded then yawned.

  Raising an eyebrow the other man said, “Get some rest. I'll finish here.”

  Keller collected his pencils and other assorted implements, placed them into his drawer and made his way over to the heavy metal safe. With a large silver key, he opened it and placed the bag containing the plans inside. Relocking the door he spun the handle, It closed with Swiss accuracy leaving little or no gap along the seams. Then picking up his cigarettes and briefcase, he moved out of the door locking it behind him. K2 was quiet except for distant murmurs. Making his way down the corridors leading to the main bays he could see below him the boat lying in its dock. The opening in the hull where the conning tower had been, yawned up at him. “Tomorrow is going to be a big day,” he thought. “The yard crews won't be happy.” No one had ever sectioned a boat before and the job would be made that much harder because of the necessary secrecy. This part of France was full of Resistance spies. In ideal circumstances, the job would have been done in Hamburg away from prying eyes but at this stage of the war, it wasn't ideal. Making his way down the steps and past the basins he headed back towards his quarters. Despite the lateness of the hour he still had every intention of writing home. As it was, having been distracted by even more shoddy workmanship, it was nearly three in the morning before he arrived back at the hut.

  Fumbling with his keys he unlocked the door and flicked on the light. Stripping off, he folded his suit over the end of his bed, lit a cigarette and sat at his small desk to write his letter. Before starting, he slid open a drawer, pulled out a half bottle of schnapps and without using a glass took a swig. The dim yellow light made it hard to see well but he had to at least make an effort and so with that, he began.

  Chapter 10

  As the tender arrived at the dock, Forrester and Moorhouse stepped off. They looked around the picturesque sea front of Lorient spread out before them. The sun shone brightly in a stunning blue cloudless sky and the sea was flat and calm. A perfect day. Forrester pulled out a note which had been passed to him. Written on it was the address of his lodgings for the next few days.

  “Well, I guess we'd best get a taxi,” he said.

  “Leave that to me,” grinned Moorhouse, looking at a grey Renault 18 spluttering its way up the road towards them. To Forrester's astonishment his friend simply stepped into the road in front of the car which with a screech of brakes stopped mere inches away from him. Opening the back door he said, “Your carriage awaits, sir.” Still shaking his head in amazement, Forrester threw his bag inside and jumped in followed by Moorhouse who was slightly more careful with his holdall. The taxi driver didn't even turn to acknowledge them, just scanned the address and drove away from the kerb.

  “So, what's the plan? Check you in and then go find someone stupid enough to rent us a boat?” asked Moorhouse.

  “Yes,” replied Forrester, “I'll sort out the boat details while you get us some refreshments.” He reappeared quite quickly from the front of the hotel having been pleasantly surprised. It wasn't five star but at least he wasn't going to be cracking his head every time he sat up in bed.

  After a few minutes Moorhouse appeared, still clutching his holdall, “Are we off then?”

  “What are you doing with your bag, leave it in my room,” puzzled Forrester.

  “It's just got some essentials in it.”

  “Ok, let's go,” and off the two headed in the direction of the marina.

  “You go on ahead,” muttered Moorhouse, “I forgot the supplies.”

  Forrester walked slowly down the street, the aroma of freshly baked baguettes and petit pain came from open boulangerie doorways, caramelised nuts, chocolate from the sweet shops, flowers from the fleuriste. He stopped momentarily to look in at a small art gallery. Everywhere was so typically French – beautiful, peaceful. Soon the small streets opened out to a wide promenade. There again was the sea sparkling silver in the sunshine. To the left was the old town and the marina. Hanging on a chain link fence was a worn sign that roughly translated said boats were for hire. As he leant against the railings waiting for Moorhouse he looked over at the distant harbour. He could see the ships at anchor out at sea whilst off to the other side lay the massive concrete fortresses of the U-Boat pens with their large openings and vaulted roofs just visible through the glare off the water.

  “I'm rather puffed,” gasped Moorhouse as he jogged round the corner to join him. He held a large crate of beer and a fat French baguette.

  “What the hell? I said refreshments.”

  “Yes and that's what I got – refreshments. I know how to treat you, don't I?” replied Moorhouse with his wolfish grin.

  “Fuck sake! OK, then let's go see what we can get.”

  A man his face covered with a grimy handkerchief, was dozing on a pile of nets by a shabby looking boat. After a few minutes of coughing to politely get his attention, and a long and ultimately expensive barter in Forrester's broken French, the boat was theirs. It had taken a while to get across to the owner that they wanted to go out alone. Despite his initial reluctance he eventually acquiesced.

  Soon they were clipping along quite nicely, the comforting chug of the smoky diesel pushing them through the water. Moorhouse threw a bottle at Forrester and he had to admit, it felt good to finally relax.

  “Where are we headed for, Cap'n?” asked Moorhouse from his supine position on the fore life jacket box, his red tinted sunglasses reflecting the afternoon sun.

  “I don't know,” mused Forrester, “Maybe just past the breakwater. I wouldn't trust this heap of junk to make it any further. We'd be better off in a bath tub!”

  “Stop moaning, man. Can't you just enjoy the moment? Would you rent us a boat? I wouldn't! So I think on balance we did pretty well.”

  “I suppose you're right. I'll just take us over to that marker buoy beyond the breakwater, then we'll get the rods out.”

  Ten minutes later the sound of the engine stopped as Forrester turned off the diesel and threw a small anchor overboard. Moorhouse set up two poles and reached into his bag and produced a box of what looked like fish fingers. Forrester couldn't believe his eyes.

  “Hey! Don't look at me like that. Everyone likes fish fingers even the fish!”

  “You've never done this before have you?” asked Forrester.

  “Well, no. But I've seen it done on a fishing programme on t.v.

  Forrester couldn't help but guffaw, “Well just remember to release your arm or it will all end up fifty yards away. Anyway, I thought you told me you'd gone to get your fishing rod.”

  “I did. Well, sort of, but I'll try this first.”

  They both settled back, the gently pitching boat and the sound of the swell splashing against the side , making it a
peaceful place to be.

  “You know, I can't believe I'm going to miss the exercise. I've waited months for this and now I'm going to have to watch you lot sail off without me.”

  Moorhouse paused for a moment taking another swig of his beer, “Listen man, you got away with murder this morning. You'll get your ship because old Bully is on your side. It has to be worth it all just to let Wilkes make a fool of himself. Plus, let's be frank, it's just toy soldiers firing blanks. Anyway, you're meant to be relaxing just now.”

  After a few hours Moorhouse stamped his feet. “This is shit, not one bite. At this rate we'll be having croissants for dinner.”

  Forrester tipped his hat back grinning, “Why don't you just sing to them? Maybe that will make them jump out of the sea onto your knee.”

  Downing his bottle, Moorhouse stood up, “I bet I can get a bite in the next five minutes.”

  “Oh yeah! How are you going to do that? You haven't caught anything in three hours even with your fish fingers!” Forrester smirked.

  Moorhouse stood up and pulled his rucksack over to him and gently unzipped it. He produced a small six inch cylinder almost like a candle.

  “What the fuck is that? Please tell me you're not serious.”

  Moorhouse laughed, “You bet I am, baby.” Forrester grabbed the bag. “Whoa there, boy. You need to be careful. It doesn't like shocks. Go on take one. Try it out.”

  Forrester took hold of one of the sticks. “Is this what I think it is? Dynamite?” asked Forrester.

  “No, but close. It's a little concoction I learnt to make in Med School but it still packs a punch. Watch this..” He stood up and taking a lighter from his top pocket, lit the small fuse which fizzed brightly. “Bombs away!” The two hit the deck and twenty seconds later a plume of water erupted in the air. “Whoohoo!, now that's fishing,” hollered Moorhouse. He lit a second candle and threw it overboard, again the resultant plume showering them with spray. “Now tell me that isn't more fun than using a rod.”

  Forrester stood still holding the cylinder “I just can't believe you did that. You're crazy!”

  Moorhouse clapped him on the back, “Hey! It's a new Olympic sport. It could even catch on. Now keep an eye out for dead fish. I want poisson and frites for dinner tonight.”

  Still holding his stick, Forrester scanned the surface for any trace. Minutes went by and nothing could be seen. “Well if there were any fish down there, they've all left the area after those bangs.”

  Just then a large bubble of water erupted to the surface about fifty yards away from the boat, followed by a succession of others. So much so that the area seeming to be boiling.

  “Way to go, Doctor, you've ruptured a pipe.”

  Moorhouse looked out at the strange spectacle. “Don't you blame me. You outrank me. You're meant to stop me doing anything stupid.”

  Looking at the now huge mass of foam, Forrester pocketed the stick. Just then another area of bubbles and foam appeared yards behind the first until something slowly began to emerge. A long metal tube, then a rail, grey and rusty brown in colour. More shapes began to surface impossible to see due to the swelling bubbles. Then a point broke the surface where the first disturbance had been.

  Totally stunned, the men stared in amazement at what they now knew was appearing before them.

  Forrester managed to utter, “Is that what I think it is?”

  Moorhouse took a deep breath, “Well, it isn't a fish but we've certainly caught something.”

  It was a submarine, now high out of the water, its decks and railings covered with slimy seaweed and tangled old nets. Water spilled from its drain holes and decks. The once grey paint was still visible in areas but was now predominantly brown and rust stained. Remarkably, its deck gun was still in place. They could just make out letters on its conning tower – UX 505 and a curiously shaped icon still visible through the oxidisation. By now the terror and amazement had passed but Forrester still couldn't quite believe his eyes, “Just look at the size of it. I've seen one on display and in books but never one this big.”

  Moorhouse, ever the comedian, “Do we get to keep it?”

  “This could be it, pal. If we bring this old girl back in, it would show Wilkes off for good.”

  “I agree,” said Moorhouse, “but how the hell do we get that thing back in? This old tub can barely tow itself let alone that boat.”

  “Where has it come from? Why is it here?” wondered Forrester, “I can only assume that the blasts broke it free from the suction and she still has air pockets. We have to bring her in. Paul, I'm going over in the inflatable dinghy. You go back to shore and find something strong enough to tow her.”

  “Woah there, tiger,” said Moorhouse strangely worriedly. “Do you think that's wise? We don't know how stable she is. Look at her, she's a mess and she sunk once and not the way she was designed to.”

  “Listen, I'll stay on the dinghy. Just go and find something before the tide changes.”

  Forrester started to lower the inflatable using the hand crank. The second it hit the surface, he was in and casting off.

  “Are you sure about this?” asked Moorhouse, “Just for the record, I'm not happy. I've got a bad feeling about this. Here, you'd better take the radio just in case.”

  “Just hurry up. Paul, I promise to stay on this craft” and with that Forrester fired up the outboard motor and headed over to the now fully-floating vessel.

  Chapter 11

  Donald Winters' sleep was broken as the guard shouted that it was the end of the line. He had been so tired that he'd slept most of the way to London. The train came to a halt and Winters stood to collect his belongings. Throwing his long coat over his arm, he made his way down the aisle and stepped off onto the platform at Waterloo Station. The early morning light streamed through the latticed work roof high above. He'd beaten the rush but the platform was already beginning to fill up with the bustle of early morning commuters. Making his way past the arcade of shops he stopped once to pick up a newspaper slipping it into the side pocket of his worn leather briefcase. As he neared the exit, the large four-sided clock was about to strike eight. Admiralty House was only fifteen minutes away normally. Walking briskly down the steps in front of the grey-stoned façade he hailed a taxi. The black cab moved away from the kerb, “Where to, Guv?”

  “Admiralty House, if you will, please.”

  With a nod, the driver aimed the taxi towards Westminster. Winters settled back into his seat. The roads were busy, traffic stopped and started, sounds of idling motors and buses broken only by the sound of the occasional horn.

  “It's going to take ages to get there at this rate,” he thought. At least he'd have time to think about what he was going to say on arrival. He was still harbouring doubts as to whether he would get in to Admiralty House at all. For the first time he was actually worried that they would say “Just go away you silly old fool.” Perhaps, this was a mistake. After all, the war had been over for years. Winters managed to snap himself out of his personal angst and began to concentrate on just getting there as the queue of traffic edged closer and closer to his destination. Admiralty House finally came into view and he decided at this point that he would be quicker on foot.

  “Stop here, please.”

  “That's two quid, Guv.” Winters hurriedly paid and got out of the cab closing the door behind him.

  The large arch that dominated the front of the building was a fantastic statement and testament to how powerful England's navy had once been. But for all the grandeur of the Naval building, the Research and Records Department was deep down out of the way and in an almost forgotten wing.

  It was by no means certain that his friend would be in his office. He had known James Filmore for a long time, a gentle man, who was nearly impossible to gain access to due to the fierce protection of his personal secretary. Then again, you had to catch him early in his working day or getting any sense out of him was well—nigh impossible due to his enjoyment of a few recreational tip
ples. No matter, since Admiral Turnbull wasn't taking his calls, Dr. Filmore it had to be.

  The city was in full swing with commuters, tourists and buskers beginning their day as Winters made his final approach and looked for the main Reception. He had, at least, been able to make an appointment to get into the Records Office and that was half the battle.

  The large imposing building spread before him, with uniformed people briskly going about their business. A sign pointed towards the Reception desk, which was accessed by a door just up from the front entrance. The door opened quietly to reveal a spacious room with high ceilings and polished floors. A young woman sat typing behind a dark wooden desk. She looked up and smiled, “Can I help you?”

  “Er... yes. Doctor Donald Winters. I have an appointment with someone in the Records Department.”

  “I see. One moment, please. Could you fill in this card for me?” Winters took the card and reached to take the pen from the holder. “Typical, on a chain. An institution that defends the country and they can't stop someone filching a pen!” he chuckled softly to himself. Reaching into his breast pocket, he produced a silver pen and filled out his personal details neatly and returned the card to the young woman.

  “Thank you, sir. Just through the hall, second left, down the stairs.”

  Winters smiled and held up his hand. “Thank you, my dear, I know my way there. Have a good day.”

  Rows of paintings covered the walls, pictures of great leaders, vessels and strategic naval battle scenes, caught in time by long dead artists. At the end of the hall was a glass cabinet containing a wonderful model of a ship of the line, perfect in every detail. Continuing on his way, he deliberately ignored the receptionist's directions. He wanted to go the long way round. In his mind he'd decided that the longer he walked, the more chance he had of bumping into someone he knew. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he wondered where everyone was. The further down towards the basement level he got, the more the quality of the décor lessened. It soon became quite apparent that down here wasn't quite as glamorous as the upper levels. Up ahead lay the Records Room. Large heavy fire doors, scruffy and unsightly, marked the entrance. He would try there later. First he wanted to see if Filmore was in. To the left was a door with a small brass plate, worn but still shiny, “Doctor J. Filmore, Senior Research Administrator.” Winters smiled. That's a very posh name for a bookworm. Pushing the door inwards, he walked into a small lobby and there, sat behind a desk was Violet, Filmore's secretary. Never had a name been so unfitting. A short dumpy stone faced woman with bristles spreading from her chin. Beady eyes peered at him from behind bottle bottom spectacles. In their younger and less forgiving days, Winters and Filmore had unkindly named her Oxo partly because of the slightly beefy smell which emanated from her but mostly as she seemed as tall as she was wide!