“’S all right, Chief. What is it, lad?” Blake said.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir.” He quickly glanced at the angry chief glaring at him and shot off a salute. “I saw something strange down there.”
“Go on.”
“Bulkhead in the bow covered with fresh paint. There’s not another speck of fresh paint anywhere on this ugly old tub. I think I ought to know fresh paint when I see it, sir. I’ve been chippin’ and paintin’ ever since I landed in the navy and—” Blake stilled him with another wave of the pipe.
“Lead the way, son.” He and Hawkins quickly followed.
“Don’t get your hopes up. Probably nothing,” Blake whispered to Hawkins. “The chiefs tend to be overprotective of the captain. Important to be reasonably accessible, though. The men need to know that.” He clamped his pipe into his teeth and agilely followed Davies down the ladder into the hold, Hawkins right above. They followed to the bow, carefully stepping from one wobbling stack of tires to another, holding on to the deck supports above. Davies held his light up to the gray wall.
“See, sir?”
Blake pulled a key from his pocket and scratched the paint. It was still slightly soft, only a few weeks old, and clean. He began tapping across the bulkhead with the bottom of his pipe. It rang hollow. He put the pipe back in his mouth, puffed deliberately a moment and then turned and bellowed with surprising force toward the hatch. “Chief McCullum!” His head instantly swung down into the opening, halfway upside down. “Clear a pathway through these tires and have Machinist Mate Humphries and his acetylene torch brought over.”
-4-
Hawkins impatiently waited as Humphries and Davies slowly lowered the steel plate, ready to grab it from them and fling it aside, his anticipation and frustration rising by the second. What’s there? Hawkins thought. Can’t see, damn it. The sailor turned to his skipper first, of course, blocking Hawkins’s view. Hawkins craned up on his toes, trying to see over Blake’s shoulder, holding back, barely, although he happily would’ve shoved him aside. Blake peered in, then leaned back to let Hawkins look.
“Doubt this is your money, Hawkins.” The space was filled with tall oblong wood packing cases. They were fresh, custom built, the plywood clean and white, barely a scuff on them. “This looks like smuggled guns.”
Ah hell, Hawkins thought. Probably not money. Exactly the size of guns. His stomach began to sink. Bugger it all, anyway, he thought. Another wild goose chase. All this for what, a load of rifles? Who cares?
Blake pointed at one. The chiefs pulled it out. A lock dangled from one side.
A lock? Hawkins relaxed, then smiled, reaching out.
“I’ll take it from here.” He pulled his little leather lockpick set out and began working the keyhole. Blake watched, one eyebrow raised, puffing on his pipe.
“My, my. That’s an interesting talent.”
“Comes in handy in my line of work.”
“No doubt. Keep you off my ship.”
Hawkins smiled, slapped the lock on top of the case and lowered the door. Inside, nestled between wooden dividers, was a row of canvases on frames.
Now what, Hawkins thought. Damn. Paintings? Paintings! What in the name of holy god on high? He pulled one out. It was a cubist still life, a good one. He flipped it over. There was a large gallery label on the back. le déjeuner—georges braque. Hawkins read off the inscription and the address in French.
The sense of surprise was actual shock, even after all these years in the Secret Service, where one was often surprised—it was that unexpected. Paintings? He looked over and down into the secret compartment. Maybe ten cases. Goddamn. What’s this all worth? he thought. A bloody fortune, that’s what. What could they possibly be up to they’d need so much money? Could be millions here, he thought. Actually, tens of millions. The mind reeled at it, simply staggering. For a second he almost wished the Nazis were running guns, although god only knows why they’d want to do that, either.
Blake studied the painting a second.
“Modern art, I assume?”
“Yes. An important one.”
The commander peered inside the compartment, then motioned for the flashlight and shined it in. eckhardt had been crudely painted on the side of several cases.
“An artist?”
“Not that I ever heard. Probably the consignor or consignee.”
“Oh, look there.” Blake pointed to the back, flashing the light on another inscription:
eilversand nach veracruz für eckhardt. handgriff sorgfältig. diese seite oben. halten sie trocken.
“What’s that?”
“Express shipment to Veracruz for Eckhardt. Handle with care. This side up. Keep dry.”
“You read German? And French?”
“Yes, my father was an executive for Western Union based in London, we also spent time in Paris and Zurich. Went to school in both places.”
“I see”—Blake glanced warily at his men—“why they want you where they have you.”
“Yes. After that I came back to the States for a while. Then when my father died—he was gassed in the last one—I went back to Europe as the sales representative of an American valve manufacturer. Went all over, great practice.”
Blake absorbed that, carefully gazing at Hawkins over a long puff on his pipe, then grunted slightly.
“So sorry about your father. That’s a hard thing. I lost my younger brother—Passchendaele. He was eighteen. You were in Germany, then?”
“Thanks. Yes. Saw altogether too much for comfort.”
“How so?”
“One bright day like this I went into a factory in East Prussia to sell some valves and discovered they were making poison gas.”
“Which one? The gas, I mean.”
“Phosgene. Couldn’t miss it. Mixing carbon dioxide with chlorine. That’s why, or how, I got into all this.”
“Ah, I see. That was personal.”
“In part.”
“You didn’t go to the Yanks?”
“No. They don’t have an intelligence service.”
Blake frowned. “That’s a bad joke. Seriously, why—”
“No, really, they don’t!”
For nearly a minute he blankly stared at Hawkins, struck dumb before finally whispering, “Good heavens.” He mulled the thought another long moment, shook that appalling tidbit off with a roll of his head and pulled another painting from its slot.
“Now this is more to my taste, look at these cheery sunflowers.”
“That’s a Van Gogh.”
“How do you know that? You haven’t seen the back.”
“I don’t have to. He’s famous.” Blake very carefully slid it back in.
“And I suppose it’s quite valuable.”
“Extremely. There’s millions here.”
“I can see it’s time to set course back to Bermuda.”
“Yes. I need to get a haircut.”
Blake burst out laughing. “We’ll hurry, then.”
-5-
The HMS Dendrobium turned and disappeared off the stern, seemingly back on the hunt for U-boats. Finster had lifted off earlier. He was going to set back down, tie up to the Dendrobium and wait with Blake once the Santa Lopez was out of sight.
Hawkins walked around the superstructure to the Santa Lopez’s foredeck, inspecting the cargo derricks, checking the hatches. He turned and looked up. Davies saluted from the flying bridge, obviously enjoying himself, his Lee-Enfield casually dangling over his shoulder. Ah, well, Hawkins thought. The young sailor had volunteered to help escort the Santa Lopez back to Bermuda. Originally Blake was only going to assign a pair of chiefs to the prize crew, but since the boy’d spotted the painted bulkhead it seemed a nice reward to let him come along, too. Hawkins headed back up to the bridge—there’ll be a better view from up there, Hawkins thoug
ht. If I’m right. Only one way to find out quickly and we’re running out of time.
It started three hours later, four hours out of Bermuda. About right, Hawkins thought, they can’t chance getting closer to the harbor and the rest of the Royal Navy. Too bad I didn’t coax Blake into a bet—he was skeptical. A small puff of smoke from one of the ventilators and a couple of deck crew began shouting “¡Fuego, fuego!” running around, flipping open hatches and hose lockers.
Jollying around with Finster and Blake—infiltrating the Royal Air Force, as it were—had felt like a lark. But it still put Hawkins in his usual undercover mode: feelings and emotions battened down, locked away behind a carefully constructed facade. Now, despite the warm sun bearing down, he still felt a fresh hot flush of heat. Nazis! Here, he thought. Under my feet. Trying to set this ship on fire and destroy the evidence. The composed mode, the careful, calculated facade of the undercover agent blew off with a gust of sea breeze, the languor of an ocean cruise gone, too. Hitler himself might as well have been down there. No more damn waiting, Hawkins thought. Time to fight.
Martindale, one of the chiefs, an older burly man with a white crew cut and a nose professionally flattened by a boxer, started for the starboard ladder. “I’ll check, sir!”
There was a loud rush of steam escaping followed by a thudding sound and vibration as the engine abruptly stopped. That means there’s at least two Nazi agents aboard, Hawkins thought. Predictable. Didn’t think they’d send millions in loot off unguarded. Need to catch at least one of them, find out what they know, if we can. Bloody buggers. Not this time.
“No! Go down in the hull,” Hawkins said to Martindale, “take the upper tween deck, get forward, guard that hidden compartment.” Hawkins stepped out onto the flying bridge. “Davies, you, too!” Hawkins opened his coat, pulled a long cardboard tube from his waistband, held it over his head with both hands and carefully fired the rocket flare straight up. The red streak hissed up a few hundred feet, popped and dangled a flare on a little parachute. Then he tossed his hat into the bridge, drew his Browning Hi-Power from his shoulder holster and started down an inside ladder. He turned into a narrow passageway, reflexively checking the clip—all twelve rounds, good—running to the back to the engine room. An alarm bell ringing, followed by a klaxon. Men began pouring out of the cabins.
“Get back!” Shouting, pointing the Hi-Power, holding it out with both hands. They leapt back, latching the doors with loud slams. Hawkins reached the end and headed down another ladder to the engine room.
He edged around the corner, looking down. One greasy-looking man in blue work clothes and a black leather cap had six members of the engine crew cornered with a revolver. A couple were wide-eyed and scared, but the others were talking and gesturing, not taking it seriously at all, pointing off at something, obviously trying to talk him out of it. One of the hostages saw Hawkins from the corner of his eye and turned his head, gaping. Locking eyes with Hawkins, he nodded his head so very slightly toward the gunman, as if the man in the air force uniform needed telling. The gunman caught that gesture and instantly swung up and around and fired, too fast, before ducking behind a large steam pipe. The engine crew scattered, jumping down through service grates and clambering down another ladder. The bullet struck the wall a foot above Hawkins’s head, ricocheting harmlessly away.
Mind running on instinct now, in the moment, Hawkins stuck his gun hand out, first high, then low, a quick darting motion. Two more shots rang, two more clanging, zinging ricochets rattling around inside the steel walls, slowing down, the ring lowering in pitch with each bounce. Hawkins laid on the floor and edged forward, peering through the grated floor. The man saw him, stepped out and fired another two rounds. Very good, Hawkins thought. He slid back, fumbled in his pocket, found a big American silver dollar and tossed it out the entrance. The heavy coin made a deep ringing noise as it bounced. The man appeared from behind the pipe and wildly fired again.
Hawkins stepped out on the open grating over the engine, racing around to get the angle, aiming down. The man had barely managed to snap the revolver shut after reloading.
“No! Drop it!” Nothing. Probably doesn’t speak English, Hawkins thought. Maybe German? “Nein! Lassen Sie es fallen!” The man looked up. Still nothing. French? “Relâchez le pistolet!” The man started to swing up. Hawkins instantly fired, putting a round right through the middle of his neck. A steady, hard, fast stream of blood squirted from the severed artery, tracing a dripping, zigzagging course across the pipe and the smooth, white asbestos-covered boiler. Hawkins stared a second—enraged, disgusted and horrified all at once, the rush of his mind demanding action momentarily paused—then stepped back, instinctively looking away, a slightly sick feeling in his stomach. The shut-down professional mode instantly returned. He could hear the man dropping his pistol with a loud, rattling clang. Hawkins stepped up again, coolly looking down. The man seized his neck, making a low gurgling sound, then a loud uh-uh-uh from down in his belly, a deep sound of panic and terror, frantically running around behind the boiler, blood shooting in hard pulses between his fingers, fumbling in his pocket for a rag. He’d barely gotten it to his throat when he passed out, collapsing on the deck in a rapidly growing pool of blood.
Hawkins ran down to check, gingerly plucking the revolver from the blood, needing to see but trying not to look at the same time. One of the engine crew popped his head up.
“¡Inglés! ¿Por qué? You kill?” the sailor said, staring at the dead man. His face scrunched in from the effort of assembling enough English. “He say they only want stop ship, get off.” For all the world Hawkins wanted to say, I’d rather not have, but he now thought and felt nothing but hurry.
“Where’s the sea cock?”
“We bunked and ate! Together!”
Hawkins poked him hard with the Hi-Power, shouting, “Where’s the intake, damn it!”
The sailor pointed down a ladder. “There.”
Hawkins motioned him ahead. “Hurry! Hurry!” They almost slid down the ladder like firemen on a station house pole. The man started to point, then hesitated and ran over to a large pipe, peering at something. On top of the pipe a life preserver had been carefully wedged between the intake valve and the side of the ship.
“Don’t touch that,” Hawkins said. He took his lighter out and flicked it on, checking. A large slit had been cut into the side of one of the jacket’s bolsters. He carefully pulled the sides of the cut open. Red sticks of dynamite and a pull-type detonator were inside. A thin wire and a small wooden handle dangled from the slit. The sailor gasped very softly, slightly shaking his head. His whole body seemed to curl in horror, the way leaves do in front of fires.
“They would’ve killed you all first,” Hawkins said. He carefully lifted the life jacket and started back up the ladder.
-6-
The life jacket was heavy from the dynamite. Have to hurry, Hawkins thought. He climbed back up the ladder, holding it carefully, and ran forward through the passageway, then up another ladder, climbing high until he reached the top of the bridge castle and the radio shack. He gently put the life jacket on the deck and quietly edged up to the door, peering in, pressing the Hi-Power against the wall behind the door casing, watching for several seconds. The radio operator was lying on the floor, turned to one side, breathing shallowly, his eyes rolled up into his bloody head. It looked like he’d been badly bludgeoned. Another sailor was standing over him, straddling the body with his legs as he snapped out one drawer after another, flinging the contents about, rummaging around for something. The transmitter, dangling wires, had been pulled out, its top open, revealing the rows of glass vacuum tubes inside. All were dark. Next to it lay a tube chart.
The man suddenly saw Hawkins.
“Looking for something?” Hawkins reached into his pocket and held up the missing vacuum tube, smiling slightly, gently waving it back and forth in his fingers. The man cursed and jamme
d a fumbling hand into his pocket.
“Don’t do it!” Not stopping. Fine by me, Hawkins thought, get a taste of what you deserve, too. He stepped from behind the door and methodically and easily put a slug into each shoulder. The man silently fell back from the impact. He tried to reach up and grab his right shoulder, then the pain suddenly hit him, a series of quick breathless gasps. In between short pants the man stuttered, first in Spanish, then pidgin English. “¡Por favor! ¡Favor! Please! No me dead! ¡En nombre de dios! Maria and José! Favor! No me dead!”
“Eckhardt?” Hawkins said. “Du bist Eckhardt?” The man stared uncomprehendingly. He’s not German, Hawkins thought. The other one I shot didn’t speak German, either. Odd … that’s very odd, he vaguely realized. “Êtes-vous Eckhardt?” The man started shivering, then softly whined in pain. Damn it, Hawkins thought, he doesn’t speak much English and I don’t speak Spanish. But Hawkins kept pressing. “The other man, below, is he Eckhardt? Eckhardt?” Nothing, still.
Hawkins ripped the microphone cable out, seized one of the man’s trembling hands and then the other, quickly lashing them together and then to the table leg. He ripped open the man’s pocket, partially lifting him off the deck. Another pistol, a small Colt auto, a .30 caliber. Hawkins started to angrily fling it hard against the wall behind the radio sets, then caught himself and pocketed the pistol. Pulling up on the cable, provoking another crying gasp, he leaned into the man’s face.
“Hold that thought.” The man seemed to understand. He nodded. Yes, you get it, Hawkins thought. We’ll get something out of you later. He tossed the vacuum tube aside, breaking it, swung back out of the shack and down the ladder, gingerly picking up the loaded life jacket on the way, holding his breath, his attention now all on that business. Got to get rid of this, Hawkins thought, get rid of it fast.
The Hungry Blade Page 2
