by Alan Furst
“Send Amado below,” he told Kees. “Then go to the radio room, have Ali send the coded message, twice, and burn the paper. Then, put the BAMS codebook in the weighted bag and dump it off the starboard beam.”
“They’ll see!”
“Put it under your shirt, on the side away from them.”
“What if they figure it out?”
“Then they’ll shoot you.”
They were, he saw, well drilled, and well practiced. Two of them stayed in their cutter, and he counted eight in the boarding party that climbed the gangway-five armed with infantry rifles, one with a carbine, one a steel submachine gun with box magazine and fold-down shoulder brace. Once on deck they fanned out in pairs-to the radio office, the crew’s quarters, the engine room-while the officer marched to the bridge, shadowed by a dark, hulking bully with a heavy brow- his personal ape, as DeHaan put it to himself-who carried the submachine gun.
At close range, the officer was tall and fair-skinned, with a pale frizz from sideburn to sideburn that was meant to be a beard. Bright-eyed and eager, mouth set in a permanent, meaningless smile, he was a young man in love with power, with command, with salutes and uniforms, orders and punishments. Facing DeHaan on the bridge, he stood at attention and announced himself as “Leutnant zur See Schumpel. Schumpel.” Remember that name. Only a sublieutenant, Schumpel, but not for long. All it would take was one success, one lucky moment, and he would be on his way upwards. And today, DeHaan thought, was his day, though he didn’t yet know it. “Do you also speak German?” he asked DeHaan.
“I do.”
“And you are?”
“DeHaan.”
“What rank?”
Not yet. “First officer.”
“So you are able to locate the ship’s papers, logbook, roster of seamen and officers.”
“I am.”
“You will bring them to the wardroom.”
Well, that was that. The ghost ship was about to lose its sheet, and all DeHaan could do was obey orders. He took the logbook from the bridge, stopped at the chartroom-Schumpel’s ape two steps behind him-and collected the rest. Of course he could have handed it over, but that wasn’t the form. Better for him to carry his guilt in his own two hands, that was the way Schumpel wanted it.
Once they were seated at the wardroom table, Schumpel said, “Is it you who are the captain of this ship? Or is that your colleague?”
DeHaan didn’t answer.
“Sir, be reasonable. That little Spanish man is not the captain of anything. Or perhaps, like the English poem, he is the captain of his soul, but no more than that.”
“I’m the captain,” DeHaan said.
“Good! Progress. Now, the logbook and ship’s papers.”
Schumpel, it turned out, was a lively reader. He ran his finger along a line until it stopped, delighted at what it found, and went no further until it received a verbal confirmation-“Mm? Mm”-from its master. Who said, when he looked up from the papers, “The ship I am aboard would appear to be Dutch, and properly called the NV Noordendam. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“May one ask, then, why you are painted like a Spanish freighter?”
“Because a Dutch ship cannot enter the Baltic.”
“And at whose direction was this done?”
“At the direction of the owner.”
“Yes? And what exactly did he have in mind, do you think?”
“Disguise, Leutnant Schumpel.”
“It would seem so, but what would he gain, by doing that?”
“Money. More money than he would make from British convoys, much more.”
“For doing what? Some sort of secret mission?”
“Oh, that’s rather a grand way to put it. Smuggling, that’s a better word.”
“Smuggling what?”
“Alcohol, what else?”
“Guns, agents.”
“Not us. We carried wine and brandy, without tax stamps, first to Denmark, then to Riga.”
“To Denmark. You are aware that Denmark is a German ally, currently under our supervision?”
“Drink is drink, Leutnant Schumpel. In hard times, times of war, say, it helps men to bear up. And they will have it.”
“And exactly where, on the Danish coast, did you deliver this wine and brandy?”
“Off Hanstholm, on the west coast. To Danish fishing smacks.”
“Called?”
“They did not have names-not that night, they didn’t.”
“Unlikely, Captain, for Danish fishermen, but we’ll let that pass for the moment. More important: I presume, that when my men interrogate your crew, they will tell the same story.”
“They will tell you every kind of story-anything but that. They are merchant seamen, a vocation, I’m sure you know, given to sea stories and lies to authority. One will say this, the other that, a third something else.”
Schumpel stared at him, DeHaan stared back. “You will of course lose your ship, Captain, and you can look forward to spending some time in prison.”
“It’s not my ship, Leutnant, and the money we made smuggling is not mine either.”
“It belongs to…”
“The Netherlands Hyperion Line, formerly of Rotterdam. Owned by the Terhouven family.”
“And the idea of prison, does not bother you?”
“Of course it does. I must say, however, it is preferable to the bottom of the sea.”
“Perhaps.” He took a moment to square up the papers in front of him. “We will collect, from your crew, all the seaman’s books. We do discover the most curious people, sometimes, sailing in our territory. Do you, by the way, have weapons aboard this ship?”
“No. I can’t vouch for the crew, of course, but nothing that I know about.”
“On your honor, Captain? We will search, you know.”
“On my honor.”
“You don’t have passengers, do you? Not listed on this roster?”
“We have two. A Swiss businessman, the traveling representative of industrial firms in Zurich, and a woman, a Russian journalist.”
“A woman? A Russian journalist?”
“She is traveling with me, Leutnant Schumpel.”
DeHaan waited for a complicit smile, but it didn’t come. Instead, Schumpel pursed his lips, as though nagged by uncertainty, and, again, stared at DeHaan. Yes, freighter captains could be scoundrels, smugglers, whoremasters-but, this captain? “May I see your passport?” he said.
DeHaan had it ready for him, from its drawer in the chartroom.
Schumpel took a long look at it, comparing DeHaan to the faded photograph taken years earlier. “I like the Dutch,” he said. “Very upright and honorable people, as a rule. It pains me to encounter another sort.”
A bad type, yes, how right you are. DeHaan looked down at his shoes and said nothing.
As for Schumpel, he snapped back to his former self, the bright smile back in place. Brighter than ever, now, because this was a great day, a glorious day. He had distinguished himself-the unmasking of this criminal ship, an enemy vessel, after all, in German waters, more or less, would shine on his record like a brilliant star.
A long, melancholy afternoon with, now, a slow, steady rain. The Noordendam dropped anchor, Schumpel returned to M 56, for consultation and a W/T report to headquarters, then came back to the ship and told DeHaan the freighter would be taken under guard to the naval base at Dragr on the Danish coast.
DeHaan remained in the wardroom as the ship was searched, waiting for them to find the weapons-the Browning automatic and the rifle-and wondering what they’d do to him when they were discovered. Of course he’d had some vague notion of retaking the ship, had lied instinctively-a foolish way to lie-and now regretted it. Still, what did it matter? They might beat him up a little, but not too much-he was, after all, a prize fish in their net. What else would they find? Not much. After all, you couldn’t really search a ship like the Noordendam unless you had a week and fifty clever men wit
h screwdrivers, it was nothing but hiding places.
They did, of course, using the ship’s roster, find the officers, and the wardroom became a holding cell, guarded by a sailor with a rifle. First came Ratter, still barefoot, then Kees and Mr. Ali, followed by Poulsen. Kovacz did not appear, neither did Kolb. They’d evidently hidden themselves, for the time being, as had Shtern, who was brought to the wardroom with his hands tied behind his back and a swelling bruise under one eye. As for the German communists and Republican Spaniards, DeHaan could only speculate. Safe for the moment, he thought-there were no politics in seamen’s papers-though investigation in Denmark might tell another story. As prisoners of the Kriegsmarine they had at least a chance of survival but, if the Gestapo chose to involve itself, they were finished. And, DeHaan had to admit to himself, once that happened, the station at Smygehuk was also finished. The crew of the Noordendam was brave but, under the Gestapo’s methods of interrogation, the truth would be told.
It was Schumpel himself who escorted Maria Bromen to the wardroom, and his irritated glance at DeHaan said more than he realized. Had she worked on him? Maybe. As she came through the door their eyes met, for an instant, but not to say farewell. It’s not over, she meant, even though, and they both knew it, once they were taken off the Noordendam, they would never see each other again.
1550 hours. Off Falsterbo headland.
DeHaan was led up to the bridge, in preparation for the voyage to Dragr, and it was there that Schumpel confronted him with a list of Noordendam ’s sins. Item one: they’d found a pistol in the locker of the fireman Hemstra. If the Leutnant expected a reaction to this he was disappointed, because DeHaan was mystified and showed it. Hemstra? Plain, quiet, hardworking Hemstra? So, the Leutnant said, DeHaan had nothing to say? Very well, then item two: the chief engineer, Kovacz, was missing, as was the passenger S. Kolb. Any idea where they might be? Quite truthfully, DeHaan said he didn’t know.
“We shall find them,” Schumpel said. “Unless they’ve jumped into the sea. In which case, good riddance.”
From here, Schumpel proceeded to item three. “We are unable to find your codebook,” he said.
“I ordered it thrown overboard,” DeHaan said. “As captain of an allied merchant vessel, that was my obligation.”
“Ordered who, Captain, the radio officer?”
DeHaan did not speak.
“If you say nothing, we will assume that to be the case.”
“I acted under the rules of war, Leutnant. A German officer would behave no differently.”
That made Schumpel angry, the skin over his cheekbones turning pink-a captured codebook would have been the cherry on top of his triumph. But he could only say, “So, it’s the radio officer. We’ll let him know you told us.” He had more to add, but one of the German sailors came to the bridge and handed him a message, saying, “The cutter brought it over, sir.”
Schumpel read his message, then said to DeHaan, “You will remain on the bridge,” and, to the ape, “Watch him carefully.”
So, the two of them stood there, while Schumpel went off toward the gangway. And stood there. From the bridge, DeHaan could see the Leutnant, sitting at attention in the stern of the cutter as it made its way through the rain back to M 56. And, twenty minutes later, after the ape had rejected a very tentative attempt at conversation, DeHaan discovered how Kolb had managed to disappear.
With some admiration. Kolb, accompanied by a German guard, was walking along the deck, headed, perhaps, for the crew’s quarters. Or, more likely, for the galley, because Kolb was wearing the filthiest cook’s apron DeHaan had ever seen and, on his head, a freighter cook’s traditional headgear-a paper bag with the rim folded up.
In rain, beneath overcast skies, the afternoon had turned to early dusk by the time Schumpel returned. When he reached the bridge, DeHaan saw that he was virtually glowing with excitement. “We are going to Germany,” he said.
It took some effort, but DeHaan showed no reaction.
“To the naval base at Warnemnde.” To heaven, to be serenaded by a chorus of angels. “It turns out that this Noordendam is”-he paused, looking for the right words-“of interest,” he said at last. “To certain people.”
Again, DeHaan didn’t answer, but Schumpel was observant.
“Don’t like it, do you,” he said. “If you would care to guess why, some reason for this interest, I will do for you one favor.”
The bar in Algeciras, Hoek in his office, S. Kolb. “I don’t know why,” DeHaan said.
“This level of interest, is not usual.”
“I can’t help you, Leutnant.”
Schumpel was disappointed. “Very well,” he said. “I have ordered a helmsman sent to the bridge, and a crew to the engine room. Your course is south-southwest, compass bearing one nine zero. What is your best speed?”
“Eleven knots. In calm seas.”
“You will go ten, my ship will escort us.”
DeHaan calculated quickly. Under a hundred nautical miles to the Baltic coast of Germany, ten hours. A lot could happen in ten hours. DeHaan looked at his watch, it was ten minutes after five.
The helmsman appeared a few minutes later, as DeHaan signaled to the engine room. “Hello, Scheldt,” he said.
“Cap’n.”
“We’ll come about, then bear south-southwest at one nine zero.” Outside, the sound of a winch engine, and the anchor being hauled in. “For Warnemnde, Scheldt.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Back to normal, life on the bridge of the Noordendam. Scheldt giving the wheel a quarter turn every few minutes in order to stay on course, the engine drumming away down below, DeHaan smoking one of his small cigars. No ships sighted. All well on board. Schumpel paced the bridge, making sure, now and again, that the compass bearing was as he’d ordered, then looking out at the M 56, black smoke streaming from her funnel as she chugged along in escort position, some three hundred yards off their stern quarter. The ape with the submachine gun leaned against the bulkhead, bored, with long hours of voyage ahead of him.
For DeHaan, the hours were even longer. He’d done his best, but the odds had caught up with them and what had begun in Tangier, two months earlier, was now finished. He said this to himself again and again, though he knew it meant surrender, true surrender, the end of hope. And he fought it-his imagination produced a coast watcher on Falsterbo, alerting the Royal Navy, who just then had a submarine beneath this Baltic sea-lane. A sudden storm, an exploding boiler. Or Ratter, and the officers in the wardroom, who rushed their guard, then retook the ship with the hidden weapons. That last was not beyond possibility, though, if it was somehow accomplished, they would soon enough be blown to pieces by the minesweeper’s 105-millimeter cannon. But this was, at least, an honorable end, better than what awaited them in Germany. Interrogation, execution.
So his mind wandered, this way and that, from salvation to despair and back again. No point, really, except that it sometimes kept him from thinking about Maria Bromen, which, every time, brought with it a very bitter truth. Which was not that he had loved and lost her, but that he could not save her.
2035 hours. At sea.
“Where did you grow up, Captain?” Schumpel said.
“In Rotterdam.”
“Oh? I have never been there.”
“It’s a port city, typical, like many others.”
“Like Hamburg.”
“Yes, or Le Havre.”
“Perhaps you will see Rostock, where there is a central administration.”
“I’ve put in there-up the estuary from Warnemnde.”
“I suspect you won’t go by ship, this time. Perhaps by automobile.”
“Perhaps.”
“Oh, I think you will.”
He was quiet after that, pacing back and forth, looking at his watch, while, on the bridge, life went on as usual-the green glow of the binnacle light, the helmsman at the wheel, the mess boy bringing coffee.
But not the everyday service. Now that they
had guests, Cornelius had brought up a full pot of coffee though, true to his Corneliusian soul, he had forgotten the lid, so the coffee steamed in the damp air. But, at least, for a change, hot coffee. And Cornelius was not alone-he was assisted by Xanos, the Greek stowaway from Crete, poor little man, who wore a grimy white steward’s jacket and carried a tray of cups and saucers, and who was so nervous at this new job that his hands shook and the china rattled.
Schumpel was delighted. “Ah now, here you are more civilized than I thought.”
“Coffee, sir?” Xanos said. For this important occasion, someone had taught him the German words.
“Yes, thank you, I’ll have a cup.”
Xanos held out the tray, Schumpel took a cup and saucer, then Cornelius filled it with coffee. The aroma was strong and delicious on the smoky bridge. Schumpel turned to DeHaan and said, “You will join me?”
DeHaan said he would, but Xanos’s nerves got the best of him, and the tray slipped from his hands and the crockery went clattering to the deck. A startling event, to Schumpel, very startling, because he said, “Hah!” as though he’d been slapped on the back, and threw his cup and saucer in the air, the coffee splashing on his white shirt. But he didn’t care so much about the shirt, because he turned his head and looked over his shoulder and, as Xanos leapt away, drew in a long breath through clenched teeth and twisted his head back the other way, his eyes wide with panic. Xanos stepped behind him and did something with his hand, then Schumpel said, “Ach,” sank to his knees, tilted slowly, and toppled forward, with a loud thump as his forehead hit the deck.
On the other side of the bridge, the ape shouted, and DeHaan turned toward him. Head steaming, he howled and pressed his free hand to his eyes, while Cornelius stood gaping at him, the empty coffeepot dangling upside down from his fingers. Then the submachine gun swung toward him and he dropped the pot and grabbed the barrel with both hands and hung on for dear life, shoes sliding across the deck as he was spun around. The two of them circled twice before DeHaan and Scheldt got there. DeHaan drew his fist back but Scheldt shoved him aside and did it himself, three or four shots, bone on bone and loud. The last one worked, and as Cornelius fell backward with the gun clutched to his chest, the ape mumbled, “Leave me alone,” and sat down.
