Dark Voyage

by Alan Furst

  “Might as well try it,” Kees said. “Maybe we’ll be lucky a second time.” From his voice, he didn’t believe it.

  “Maybe we will.”

  Kees shook his head, looking very sour and dispirited. “Paint and a flag,” he said. “Not much.”

  “No,” DeHaan said. “Not much.”

  With the engine shut down, Noordendam began to lose way, rocking gently in the swell. Paint and a flag. Of course the NID could’ve done more, but they hadn’t. Because if the Noordendam had been caught with the secret cargo, what clandestine apparatus would’ve made any difference? And, now that they’d completed their mission, it didn’t matter what happened to them. They just had to keep quiet. Would they? Forty-one souls, plus Maria Bromen and S. Kolb?

  Kees had taken Amado to a corner of the bridge house and was, slowly and carefully, explaining what he should say. Amado’s head jerked up and down—yes—he understood—but he was plainly terrified. DeHaan fixed his binoculars on the M 56, the officer now stood at the rail. He was young, in his early twenties, chin held at a certain angle, back stiff as a board. As DeHaan watched, he put a hand on either side of his officer’s hat and made sure it was on straight.

  The M 56, engine idling in neutral, stood off their port beam, a sailor now seated behind the iron shield that held a long-barreled machine gun. When the officer stepped to the railing, loud-hailer in hand, DeHaan and Kees walked Amado, now wearing the captain’s hat, out to the bridge wing, then down to the deck, where DeHaan handed him their own loud-hailer.

  “What is your destination?” The German words boomed out over the water.

  Amado said, “Habla usted espaol?” DeHaan barely heard him. Amado looked for the switch, found it, turned the device on, and tried again.

  The officer lowered the loud-hailer for a moment, then raised it and repeated the question—slower, and more forcefully. That was the way with foreigners, you had to make them understand you.

  It didn’t work with Amado, who asked, once again, if the officer spoke Spanish.

  The officer took a long look at DeHaan and Kees, then said, “Can your officers speak German?”

  What? Amado shook his head and spread his hands.

  The officer pointed to Kees, thrusting his finger, three or four times, for emphasis, then called out, “Officer, officer.”

  Kees put out a hand and Amado gave him the loud-hailer. “Bound for Malm,” he said, in German.

  “Who are you?”

  “Second mate.”

  “What was your last port?”

  “Riga.”

  “What cargo do you carry?”

  “In ballast.”

  And now we can all be on our way.

  The officer held the loud-hailer at his side and took a long, thoughtful look at the freighter, bow to stern and back again. Then he called out, “Remain stood to,” and walked back to the bridge house. He was, DeHaan thought, the executive officer of M 56, and was going to consult with the captain on the bridge. Could he somehow check their story? DeHaan doubted it—the Russians had occupied Latvia a year earlier, and, despite being the nominal ally of Germany, wouldn’t be in a hurry to answer questions. And the M 56 couldn’t just wire to the Port of Riga—that would require a long journey up through the layers of Kriegsmarine administration.

  “What’s he doing?” Kees said.

  “Arguing with his captain. He wants to board.”

  “Why would he?”

  DeHaan smiled. “I could start with early days in school and go on from there, but it would all come down to who he is. Has always been.”

  “We are in Swedish waters,” Kees said. “You can see Falsterbo. Should we point that out?”

  “I don’t think they care.”

  “Bastards.”

  On the M 56, the sailors, most of them not yet out of their teens, stared curiously at the Santa Rosa, and the three men on her deck, awaiting the pleasure of their officer.

  “How long do we stand here?” Kees said.

  “Until he decides what he wants to do.”

  Finally, an older man in officer’s uniform, with a well-kept gray beard, stepped out of the bridge house. Brought back out of retirement? Stuck on a minesweeper with a teenaged crew. DeHaan met his eyes, then thought, merchant captain? Did he shake his head? Just very subtly? Can’t do a thing with him? No, probably not, probably just his imagination. The man returned to the bridge and, a moment later, the young officer walked back to the railing, looking proud and pleased with himself, a holstered pistol now worn on a web belt around his waist. He raised the loud-hailer and, speaking slowly, called out, “Stand by and prepare to be boarded.”

  “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 with 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.”