Finisterre

by Graham Hurley

  Diego showed her his ID. She inspected it without visible interest.

  ‘Gabriela?’ She sounded tired.

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Sí.’

  Diego dismissed her daughter with a wave of his hand. This wasn’t about her, he said. He wanted to know about Frank Donovan, about the gringo who’d stolen her other daughter.

  The word ‘stolen’ put a smile on the old woman’s face. For once she agreed with a policeman. Stolen was right. Stolen was exactly what this man had done. Not just stealing her daughter but other things, too.

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like cars. Autos. He comes here maybe last year, maybe the year before. He steals cars. He knows how to do it. He steals cars and takes them back to the US. These cars have owners. And where do the owners come? They come to me. Because they know about the gringo who stole my daughter. And so I have much trouble, much, much trouble.’

  ‘Your daughter says he was here, the gringo, yesterday.’

  ‘He was. He stayed three days. Until yesterday. Then I tell him no more. No more trouble. I love those kids, Francisca’s kids, but if they stay he stays. And so they go. All of them. Mother of God …’ he crossed herself, leaving tiny brown smudges on the front of her dress.

  ‘You know where they went?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Which direction?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He never mentioned other friends? Mexican friends? Places he might go? Find a bed for them all?’

  ‘No. But he has money. So he doesn’t need friends.’

  This was interesting. Diego glanced at Gómez, then went back to the old woman.

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘Lots.’ She made a dismissive gesture with her forefinger and her thumb.

  ‘Pesos?’

  ‘Dollars. US. This man is very rich. Maybe a millionaire. You know what he brings to our house? To our family? Nothing. I talk to Francisca about it. She says it’s the same for her, the same for the kids. He keeps the money, buys them nothing.’

  Diego asked to see inside the house.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he may have left something.’

  ‘He leaves nothing. He keeps everything.’

  ‘You’ve looked?’

  ‘Of course. Nada.’

  It was the first time Gómez had seen Diego crack a smile. This guy loves the rougher side of human nature, he thought. Something at last they had in common.

  The old woman took them into the house. It was cool inside and spotlessly clean. Gómez remembered the dump where they’d found her other daughter.

  ‘Gabriela lives here?’ he asked in halting Spanish.

  ‘Sometimes. Sometimes not. The gringo and Francisca were in here.’

  She showed them a room at the front of the property. It was the biggest room in the house. Two adults? Three kids? Bit of a squeeze but no importa.

  The room was bare: a double bed, two mattresses on the floor, a tall wardrobe with double doors, a gold-framed picture of the Madonna tacked on the wall above the bed. Diego was searching the wardrobe. It was full of dresses.

  ‘These are yours?’

  The old woman ignored the question. Something had come back to her. Something maybe important. The gringo had talked about business. He had to go back, he’d said. He’d had to go back north.

  ‘To the States?’ Gómez thought that unlikely.

  ‘To the north,’ she repeated. ‘Maybe more cars? I don’t know. And something else, too. My poor Francisca. You know what she tells me? She tells me the gringo has other women.’

  ‘She knows that?’

  ‘She thinks that. She found a photograph. Horrible.’

  ‘Describe it?’

  The old woman didn’t want to. After this sudden flurry of information, she’d buttoned her lip. She’s ashamed, Gómez thought. And embarrassed.

  ‘The photograph,’ Diego said. ‘Tell me about the photograph.’

  She shook her head. It was God’s business and God would settle the gringo’s debts in his own good time.

  ‘It’s a woman,’ Gómez said softly. ‘Isn’t it?’

  She looked round at him. Then she nodded.

  ‘Naked?’

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Showing herself, señor. All of herself.’ One hand flapped vaguely at her belly. ‘And a big kiss.’

  ‘For the camera?’

  ‘For the gringo.’

  *

  The knock on Stefan’s door came in the late afternoon. The door opened to reveal Otto. With a hint of regret, he announced that the delegation from Berlin had arrived. The word ‘delegation’ prompted Stefan to enquire further.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Definitely SS?’

  ‘SD.’

  The SD was the Sicherheitsdienst, the intelligence branch of Himmler’s vast organisation, SS people with nicer accents and broader minds.

  ‘You think the passengers on my boat were SD, too? The Brigadeführer? The others?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Herr Kapitän. I suggest you ask.’

  The visitors were waiting in an office down the corridor as Stefan limped in through the door. Otto had supplied Stefan with a set of clothes, including a handsome pair of slippers. The trousers were slightly too short and the shirt was tight across the chest but he was glad not to be facing these men still wrapped in a blanket.

  ‘Kapitän Portisch?’

  The older of the two men behind the desk waved him into the waiting chair. He was medium height, black hair carefully parted on the left. There was a deep weariness in his eyes though something close to a smile lurked around the fleshiness of his mouth. He looked like a businessman up against a tight deadline rather than a spy patrolling the ramparts of the Reich. To Stefan’s surprise, he wasn’t in uniform.

  He didn’t offer a name or a handshake or even a Heil Hitler. Neither did he bother to introduce his companion, a younger man who was evidently present to take notes. Otto left the office with the murmured promise of coffee, shutting the door behind him. The man behind the desk turned his attention to Stefan.

  ‘You’ll know why we’re here, I imagine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have anything to say? Anything that might be helpful?’

  Stefan held the man’s gaze. He realised he’d seen this face before, maybe a photo in a paper, maybe a glimpse in a newsreel. He was a big player in Berlin, tugged along in Himmler’s boiling wake. Walter something? Stefan would settle for that.

  ‘I was captain of U-boat number 2553,’ he said. ‘It was one of the new Elektro boats. I’m afraid these boats are shit. They don’t work properly. This one killed my entire crew.’

  ‘Except you, Kapitän. Would you care to explain that?’

  Stefan pondered the question. Luck? Chance? A wave that came from heaven and spared him the fate of everyone else on the boat?

  ‘I jumped,’ he said. ‘Into the dark.’

  ‘And here you are.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alive.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For now.’

  Stefan nodded. When the next question came – were you the last off the submarine? – he nodded. Traditions die hard. It was his job to get the rest of the crew off first. Only then did he climb the ladder to the conning tower.

  ‘Leaving no one else in the boat?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Then what do you mean?’

  ‘I mean there was no one else alive down there.’

  ‘Really? Then tell me more.’

  Stefan detected a spark of amusement in the face across the table. Thus far the conversation was an artful pas de deux, orchestrated by this powerful apparatchik from Berlin with his lazy eyes and tapping fingers. Stefan had already decided that his best hope lay in telling the truth. Anything else would diminish him, if not in these men’s eyes then certainly in his
own.

  ‘The boat was breaking up,’ Stefan said. ‘There was only myself and the Brigadeführer left.’

  ‘Johann Huber?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  Stefan described the earlier incident with Huber pulling a gun on him. At that point Huber had wanted himself and his men off the submarine first. He’d presumed there were life rafts available, some means of getting away.

  ‘Why did that matter?’

  ‘Because it turned out he couldn’t swim. There was a struggle. One of my men knocked him out. I took the gun.’

  ‘And later? When everyone had gone?’

  ‘He asked me to shoot him.’

  ‘Rather than drown?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I said no, at first.’

  ‘Why did you say that?’

  ‘Because it wasn’t my job to kill people like that. Not in cold blood.’

  ‘But you’ve spent this war in a U-boat, Kapitän. You must have killed hundreds of people, maybe thousands.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘So what’s the difference?’

  ‘They were the enemy.’

  ‘And Huber? You’re telling me he was a friend?’

  ‘He was a German. That made him a comrade.’

  ‘I see.’ He steepled his fingers and half closed his eyes. ‘Huber came from München. He was a Bavarian. I doubt he ever learned to swim.’

  Stefan shrugged. He didn’t know what to say. The truth, he told himself. Just stick to the facts.

  ‘We didn’t have much time,’ he said. ‘The boat was rolling. If it went over, that was the end of both of us.’

  ‘And so you killed him? Shot him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And left him there?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And what happened to the rest of Huber’s men?’

  ‘They got off earlier. In fact, I sent them out first.’

  ‘I see.’ He steepled his fingers again. ‘So you were the last to leave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Stefan described fighting his way up the ladder to the conning tower. The storm was beyond belief. He’d never seen waves like it.

  ‘But you still jumped?’

  ‘Of course. I had no choice.’

  ‘And plainly survived.’

  ‘Indeed. As you can see.’

  ‘Which makes you very lucky, no?’

  Stefan didn’t answer. This, he knew, was the crux of the story. Somehow he’d clambered ashore, made it off the beach, scaled the cliff, stayed intact. What next?

  ‘I suspect you found somewhere to shelter.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘You were injured but you were alive. You had no idea what had happened to the rest of your crew. You were still their Kapitän. You were still in uniform. You were still responsible for those men. Why didn’t you try to find them? Help them? Do your duty?’

  ‘I knew they were dead.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘People from the village told me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘But later’s no good, Herr Kapitän. I want to know why you did nothing when you got ashore.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’ Stefan briefly touched his leg. ‘I was badly injured.’

  ‘But, even so, you could have summoned some official, the police maybe, asked them to contact us. You knew you were on a special mission. You knew there was a special consignment aboard. You knew. And yet you did nothing.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Good. You admit it. So tell me why.’

  This was the point of no return and both men knew it. This was the moment, deep down, that Stefan had been dreading for weeks. Duty demanded a certain course of action. And Stefan had done nothing. Nichts.

  ‘I’d had enough,’ he said at last. ‘I was finished.’

  ‘With what, Herr Kapitän?’

  ‘With everything.’ Stefan made a vague gesture with his right hand, all the more hopeless because it felt like an act of surrender. ‘I was finished with the war, the regime, all the killing, all the dying, all the propaganda, all the lying, I’d had enough. If you think that’s cowardice, you’re probably right. If you’re saying I should have done more for my men, for you, for the Reich, you’re undoubtedly right. But I’d had enough. I fought the war from the first day. I did well. That’s a matter of fact. Check my record. I served on three submarines. Lots of sinkings. They were the Happy Times. I loved them.’

  ‘Of course, Herr Kapitän. Winning’s easy. Everyone knows that. It’s the years that follow that really matter. These doubts of yours? This …’ he frowned, ‘… exhaustion? You think you’re unique? You think you’re the only one to suffer?’

  ‘Not at all. We all suffered on that boat, all my crew. None of us believed in the war any more. We all knew that Hitler was a madman, that he’d take us all down, that there’d be nothing left. But I was the only survivor. So maybe that’s why it was tougher.’

  ‘You mean they were spared the decision? The decision you took? The decision to turn your back on it all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if they’d survived, would they have done what you did?’

  ‘I don’t know. I doubt it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was lucky. I fell among strangers. And they were kind to me.’

  ‘So we understand.’ A look of puzzlement had settled on his face. ‘And what about Huber? Do you think he’d lost faith in the war as well?’

  ‘Of course he had.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because he was on his way out. We were taking him to Lisbon. He could have been in South America by now. What does that tell you about his loyalties? About his faith in the Fatherland?’

  ‘You think he was deserting?’

  ‘Desertion is a big word.’

  ‘Of course it is. Be honest, Herr Kapitän.’

  ‘Then, yes, I do. The man was a deserter, an escapee. They all were.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Me? You want the truth?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Then the answer’s yes, again.’

  ‘You’re a deserter?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stefan smiled. ‘And proud of it.’

  There was silence. Then came a soft tap at the door. It was Otto. He was carrying a tray.

  ‘Coffee,’ he announced.

  They took the coffee in silence. The younger of the two SD men did the pouring. Stefan noticed that his boss took three lumps of sugar. While he was waiting for a refill, he extended a hand across the desk.

  ‘My name is Schellenberg,’ he said. ‘Walter Schellenberg.’

  Stefan nodded, shook his hand, said nothing. Of course. Walter Schellenberg. The favoured man in Himmler’s inner circle. The intelligence genius who was said to go riding with Admiral Canaris every morning the two of them happened to be in Berlin. Canaris had been an officer in the Reichsmarine in the thirties until Hitler made him head of the Abwehr, the Army’s intelligence service. He’d been another regular visitor to the naval college at Flensburg.

  Stefan was aware that Schellenberg was watching him. In some ways, not entirely unpleasant, this exchange had been like an audition or a job interview, a careful establishment of the facts coupled with an equally careful appraisal of exactly how well Kapitän Portisch could handle himself. The suspicion that his life probably depended on the outcome wasn’t lost on Stefan but so far the process had been far more agreeable than he’d ever expected. This man didn’t answer to the normal SS stereotype. He was sophisticated. He was nimble. He radiated an effortless charm. He was no Huber.

  Stefan wanted to ask him a question while the atmosphere was so relaxed.

  ‘What did those men bring aboard?’ he said. ‘What were we taking to Lisbon?’

  ‘You mean why were you risking your lives?’

  ‘Yes.’
<
br />   Schellenberg took a sip of coffee. Then he used the napkin on the tray to dab his mouth.

  ‘The SS emptied most of the galleries in Berlin. I gather some of the better stuff ended up in your torpedo compartment, carefully boxed of course. Then there’d be silverware, jewellery, all the usual trinkets.’

  ‘And this would end up where?’

  ‘In a bank vault, I imagine. These weren’t the kind of people to hang art on their walls. They needed bargaining power once they got to Lisbon. It was your job to deliver it.’

  Stefan nodded, said nothing. The news about their precious cargo was much as he’d expected.

  Schellenberg took another mouthful of coffee.

  ‘Tell me about your lady friend,’ he said. ‘I understand her name is Eva.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Did you know her before you came ashore?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then this is a young relationship, no? A matter of weeks? Maybe less?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And all the better for that? Passionate? Complete?’

  Stefan wasn’t sure about ‘complete’. He assumed Schellenberg was asking whether or not they’d had sex. ‘Complete’ sounded impossibly coy.

  ‘She means a great deal to me,’ Stefan said. ‘I don’t want her to come to any harm.’

  ‘You think we’re that crude?’ Schellenberg looked briefly pained. ‘You really think we’d apply that kind of pressure?’

  ‘I’d hope not. But I imagine that depends on what you might want.’

  ‘From you, Herr Kapitän?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘Then ask yourself this. You’re me. You’re sitting here behind this desk. Every man has his price and just now it’s my job to establish yours. You’ve had a good war, a very good war. Your people in Berlin speak very highly of you. That’s why you were selected for this mission. That’s why you ended up with Huber. I think I understand what’s happened since. You’ve lost faith in this war of ours. You no longer want to be part of it. This is a sentiment, dare I say, that’s more widely shared than you might imagine. The only difference is that you found you could do something about it. Not because you plotted or ran away but because events put you in the house of this woman and she became something special to you. From where I’m sitting, Herr Kapitän, you owe a very great deal to that storm. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stefan felt like applauding. Perfectly put, he thought.