“That was bloody marvelous, sir! Bloody marvelous! I’m ready for that anytime, sir!”
Hawkins looked at him, expressionless. Then he felt his stomach start to heave. He bolted for the rail and vomited over the side, hard, several times. Wiping his mouth on his dirty sleeve, he tiredly slunk back to Blake, sitting heavily on the hatch.
“Must be the smoke,” Hawkins said.
“Of course,” Blake said. Davies was staring at Hawkins, his mouth open. Blake waved him away.
The Dendrobium had pulled alongside and the crew was throwing lines over, tying up. Captain Perez suddenly appeared on the bridge, gaping out the smashed window of his ship, his mouth open. Hawkins coughed again and gestured at him.
Blake leapt up, pointing and shouting, “Throw that son of a bitch in irons!”
-9-
General Houghton’s big mahogany Hacker speedboat sliced through the waves pushing forty knots. They reached the far end of the Great Sound, the wide expanse of water Bermuda wrapped around like a giant fishhook, then slowed and turned into the Royal Naval Dockyard. Ah well, Hawkins thought. The air whipping through his hair never felt so good. Even with deep draughts of the fresh sea breeze he still couldn’t get the stench of burning rubber—and the coppery tang of blood—out of his mouth and nostrils. Hard to believe that was only a few hours ago, he thought.
Hawkins was back in mufti—who would loan him a uniform now anyway?—after a quick trip to the Princess Hotel in Hamilton and a long hot shower. It’d taken most of the ride back in the launch to brief the general on what had happened on the Santa Lopez, which was now tied up at the dockyard next to HMS Dendrobium. As the commander of the Imperial Posts and Telegraph Censorship Station on Bermuda, General Houghton was now officially in charge of any intelligence investigation. At the same time he wasn’t exactly Hawkins’s superior officer, which lent a note of ambiguity to the proceedings. But they’d met each other on Hawkins’s recent trip back from Europe, enough that they trusted each other.
Sailors and officers were milling around the old freighter. Bullet holes and ricochet marks all over the bridge castle were visible from the water. Look at them all, Hawkins thought. Survived that. Great god. What a bloody hell of a mess.
The numb feeling, deliberate or otherwise, however it came to him, was starting to slip away in little epiphanal waves, his mood bumping up bit by bit, aiming toward an almost giddy high.
Hawkins realized the general—a big, bluff man in khaki shorts, over tanned hairy knees—was looking at him strangely, his gaze sharp, penetrating and concerned. Oh. I know, Hawkins thought. I’m smiling, laughing, that’s what it is. Must look damn strange. Got through another bad scrape in one piece, pretty much. I am alive. They are dead. Not going to get me this time. Joke’s on you instead.
Houghton frowned ever so slightly and mouthed his name, watching him carefully. Hawkins shouted over the motors, “I’m fine. Just glad to be here.” The general nodded. Yes. He was a veteran of the trenches. He knew.
I fouled up, Hawkins thought. Or did I? Was there any other way to find out if there were hidden agents on that damn ship other than drawing a bull’s-eye on my chest? Hauling them in, interrogating the crew of a neutral ship one by one? Impossible. Not quick enough. And a dangerous violation of neutral rights, too far to push. No. No other way. Risky, but I pulled it off anyway.
When a bullet goes by your head, there’s reaction—reflex, actually—and a moment of fear. Then indignation—how dare they! Following that was a sense of being thoroughly pissed off and wanting to get even. If you were lucky, or had the jump, there came an end, presumably satisfactory, followed by the shaky letdown, a light-headed, giddy feeling. That was where Hawkins was now, on an emotional high. The adrenaline was still roaring, the danger, the crisis, now an afterglow of excitement, rolling around and around the mind, like wine in the mouth, reliving it.
Lieutenant Commander Blake was waiting at the dock as they tied up. When Hawkins and the general climbed the ladder there was a quick exchange of salutes.
“Commander, a pleasure,” General Houghton said. “How’s that man Hawkins shot?”
“He’ll live. We patched him up, gave him a transfusion, then transferred him to King Edward hospital. Doctor says he needs emergency surgery on one shoulder.”
“I see. And where’s our captain?”
Blake led them into the old brick complex and a large room overlooking the pier. The glowing sun was setting through the windows, filling the room with a reddish-orange light. A sailor with white spats and a matching belt and holster was guarding the door, cap tipped at a jaunty angle, standing at parade rest, watching the prisoner intently. Captain Perez was sitting at the end of a long blond-wood table. He looked badly frightened. Houghton pulled out a chair on the same side of the table and sat facing him, one ankle up on a bare knee.
“I swear, I had no idea they—” he checked himself, “those men were there!” Perez’s voice quavered slightly. Houghton took off his hat, carefully set it on the table and hooked his thumbs across his ample stomach, impassively eyeing the captain. The captain swallowed. “I swear.”
“You realize we could treat you as an enemy combatant out of uniform,” Houghton said. Captain Perez didn’t seem to understand, a confused look on his face. “A spy! We shoot spies, do you understand that!”
“I was out on the open ocean! I am a neutral ship—”
“That open ocean is a war zone!” Houghton thundered.
Hawkins leaned in, elbows on the table. “Captain, please. Don’t insult our intelligence by telling us you didn’t know about that compartment. It took time to do that. You had to know. Commander Blake, how long do you think it took to create that hideaway?”
“I should say no less than two days, and probably three. Moving enough tires alone could take a good day,” Blake said.
“I am not a spy,” Perez said, “I am a captain.”
“And you carry cargo,” Houghton said, his voice very quiet, “do you not?”
“What?”
“Carry cargo.”
“Yes.”
“I suggest you help yourself here.”
“I—I—have mercy, please, I did not know about those men.”
“Fine. The men. You didn’t know about them. Let’s stick to the cargo for now.”
“Cargo? I am the captain of a ship. I am in the shipping business. That is all.” More confusion. Then a noticeable hardening in Perez’s face as General Houghton pressed on. Something’s wrong here, Hawkins thought. That’s a shift, he’s backing off now. Making him shit his chair wasn’t working. What is it anyway? I know, the ascot. And the blazer with the fake yacht club patch. What’s with that? Hawkins nosily cleared his throat.
“Captain, your English is very good. Where did you learn it?”
“At home. In Valparaiso.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to go to sea. British ships, all over the world.”
“You sail on one?”
“Yes, to learn, get my master’s license. Many men from many nations do this. British merchant marine, biggest, best in the world.”
“Well, yes, that’s right. British ships everywhere. Britain rules the waves! Even now. Germany may have the Continent, but Britain rules the waves. Isn’t that right?” Captain Perez nodded. General Houghton impatiently glanced at Hawkins, waiting for this interruption to end. Hawkins ignored him, still on the edge of his giddy high mood. “How’s the song go? ‘Rule Britannia’ …” Hawkins start to sing a bit, “Rule Britannia …” He looked at the others. The general’s face froze, obviously pissed at this seeming distraction. Behind the general, Blake started to laugh a little, then came in halfway through. “Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never, never, never shall be slaves—” Hawkins looked back at the sailor guarding the door. He smirked a bit, joining in with a deep bass voice after Blak
e started, “Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves. Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.” Hawkins dug in for another chorus, gesturing with both hands at Perez. After a split second he shook his head, half smiled and ingratiatingly started to sing along, too, “Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves.” Several sailors on the walkway heard them through the windows and started singing too.
At that General Houghton rolled his eyes and head at the ludicrous spectacle, face reddening with anger, before finally, grudgingly, joining in when Perez kept signing, “Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.” Hawkins began slapping his hand on the table, Houghton couldn’t help himself, laughing now, too, Perez starting to smile and laugh. They kept on going until the end of the next stanza, “… shalt flourish great and free, The dread and e-e-e-e-nvy of them all,” breaking up in more laughter at the absurdity of it.
But Perez knew the lyrics.
“With that we should have some tea,” Hawkins said. “You would like some?”
“Please,” Perez said. General Houghton watched, head bobbing back and forth, unsure whether to be angry at being upstaged, uncertain whether his authority and position were being challenged, or intrigued.
“Commander, could we get some?” Hawkins could hear Blake chuckle ever so slightly behind him. Probably a little army-navy rivalry there.
“Well of course. This is a Royal Navy base. Biscuits, too.” He ordered the sailor at the door to go get it.
“We were talking about the shipping business and cargo,” Hawkins said. “We understand all that. Business. We do it, too. Maybe we can do business together. Even make you a nice offer.”
“An offer?”
“I have to check with my superiors, I am making no promises, understand?” Perez nodded. “But I should think so.”
“I see,” Perez said. They were in a different place, now. The fear was gone. Houghton watched, surprised, his mouth opening a bit, still quite annoyed, but hardly objecting, quickly looking back and forth.
“With whom were you doing this business?” Hawkins said.
“I’m not sure. They gave me names, but …”
“Yes, I know. There was money involved?”
“Of course.”
“Cash?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so,” Hawkins said. He glanced over at the general. “That’s the way they do these things. It’s a dead end. We won’t want to be bothered with that.” Houghton nodded at Hawkins, now in the swing of this new game.
“How much money?” Houghton said.
“Five thousand dollars. In American twenties.”
The rest of the story unfolded over ninety minutes and two cups of tea and a plate of cucumber sandwiches that was produced unbidden, much to Captain Perez’s pleasure.
It had started two weeks earlier when they made a landing at the port of Constanta in Romania. Perez was approached onshore by a man who identified himself as a Mr. Demetriou, a Greek name. However, he clearly was not Greek. He spoke English, and although Perez spoke English reasonably well, he still didn’t have a native’s ear for accents. Demetriou seemed to know that the Santa Lopez delivered tires under contract for Michelin, mostly to Latin America. Mexico, of course, because of its size and proximity to the United States and its vast car industry, was the biggest market for tires in Latin America. Would Perez be interested in a profitable arrangement? A certain amount of smuggling was always in the background of the international shipping business, so this was nothing particularly new or unusual. Even for a ship captain, five thousand dollars was a great sum. Half in advance, half on delivery. Perez agreed, adding hastily, he now truly regretted the whole affair—never, never, never again, rhythmically echoing the never never-nevers in “Rule Britannia.”
Once the tires bound for Romania were off-loaded Perez gave the crew two days’ leave. Demetriou and a team of men came that night and installed the hidden compartment. Not all of the crew returned—which was somewhat routine. They were still drunk, they’d hopped another ship, one never knew. His engineer had been approached by three sailors who were looking to sign on, so they were hired. They promptly sailed for Marseilles and another load of tires.
Once they’d landed at the Port of Veracruz Perez was to give the crew another overnight leave. He was to wait for two men, and he had the names: Horst Eckhardt and Werner von Falkenberg.
“Eckhardt?” Hawkins said, asking him to spell it out to be sure, glancing at Blake, who leaned forward, too. He did. It was the same name as on the boxes. They nodded at each other, then the general. “Go on.”
“They were to come aboard with a welder,” Perez said, “pay the second installment and take away whatever was in the hidden compartment.” A fairly straightforward transaction. “But I swear on my mother’s and father’s graves, I knew nothing about those men.”
Houghton started to bristle at that, but Hawkins gently waved him off. The general harrumphed, obviously unhappy, but went along for the moment. Hawkins guessed Houghton was probably restrained more by Hawkins’s personal relationship with their boss, William Stephenson, than any formal institutional considerations.
Hawkins was assigned to British Security Coordination in New York, a new umbrella agency encompassing all intelligence operations hemispherically, including the Bermuda Imperial Posts and Telegraph Censorship Station. Stephenson was now their superior. And it was Stephenson who’d enlisted Hawkins in the British Secret Service several years back. Hawkins had been casting about trying to figure out what to do after he accidentally saw Hitler and the Nazis making poison gas at that plant in East Prussia. Stephenson, who was in close contact with Winston Churchill, caught wind of Hawkins and followed through. They’d become good friends, with the older man as Hawkins’s mentor, too.
“That’s enough for now. Thank you, Captain.”
Outside Houghton finally confronted Hawkins. Blake watched warily.
“You really believe he’s telling the truth, that he didn’t know?” Houghton said.
“I wouldn’t tell him. He could get the rest of the crew to throw those three over the side, one at a time. They’re badly outnumbered and they have to sleep sometime. And Perez is the captain. There was safety in anonymity,” Hawkins said. Houghton mulled that a long moment, an exasperated sigh finally venting his pique like a locomotive letting off steam.
“Very well. I have to admit that makes sense.”
“Yes. The sailors they replaced are probably floating facedown in the Black Sea.”
“Did this Eckhardt and Falkenberg do that, too?”
“Maybe, maybe not. It could’ve been compartmentalized. Exactly like Captain Perez not being told they were on board.”
“But if only three came aboard in Romania, what about the other gunmen? Where’d they come from? I think we should interrogate them right away.”
Hawkins thought a moment.
“I think we start with the man in the radio room as soon as he sufficiently recovers. He wants to talk. Begged for his life. Told me he’d do anything. That’s interesting. I can tell you that’s not the voice of a true-blue Nazi talking, they’re not like that.”
“I see. Right. Makes sense, too. He must be one of the three who came aboard—”
“Precisely. He was trying to send a transmission back, or call a U-boat, whatever, that was his job. He’s the only one left who knows the whole story, who the other men were. We box the others in first.”
“Sensible. I agree.” Houghton turned to Blake. “Commander, let the captain go back to his cabin, but keep the ship under guard and make sure that transmitter isn’t working. And keep the two crew who fought on the bridge in the jail for now.”
“I’m starving. Can we get something to eat here?” Hawkins said.
“O-club is closed,” Blake said. “Gentlemen, join me on the Dendrobium. You could say I know someone in the gall
ey.”
-10-
The ship’s mess had emptied out, the galley crew busy cleaning, filling the tin-ceilinged compartment with the clanging of pots and pans. A few sailors readying for the night watch lingered in the back over mugs of black tea. Hawkins, Houghton and Blake sat down in silence. Not much else being available, plates of tough leftover corned beef, mashed potatoes and soggy peas were quickly ordered. Houghton left for the head while they were waiting.
“You take chances, Hawkins,” Blake said.
“It’s a dangerous line of—”
“No, I mean with the general. Those of us who come up in the Services learn very early on to fear the men with big shoulder boards.” He spoke in an almost fatherly tone, respectful, concerned, perhaps coaching a bit, a quizzical expression on his face. Hawkins recalled what Blake had said about the chiefs and being accessible. He could see what made Blake a good captain, or what made a good captain.
As Houghton came through the door Hawkins reflected he had in fact thrown his weight around a bit, after all.
“I’m sure I need to mind that. And haircuts.”
Blake smiled, then laughed just a bit again. “Yes, and haircuts.”
Radio broadcasts were piped into the mess. The operator up in the Dendrobium’s radio room started tuning in the BBC on the shortwave bands, but the program distantly wavered in and out of a howl of vibrating noise, only snippets distinguishable. Blake rose to a nearby phone, clicked the receiver and said something, then returned to the table.
“We try to get London, hear from home, does wonders for morale, despite the news. Unfortunately, the jamming’s rather bad tonight,” Blake said.
“That noise?” Hawkins said. “That’s new.”
“Yes. They started that recently, I assume they don’t want people in Occupied Europe to hear any real news, just their propaganda.”
“I’m sure,” Hawkins said. “Hitler and Goebbels call the BBC fake news.”
“Yes. We jam them, too, now,” Blake said. “Retaliation. Out here we usually end up listening to CBS or NBC from New York. They’ve powerful transmitters, quite clear over the sea at night.” With a swooping chirp the operator quickly caught the signal. The mess instantly quieted, the galley crew carefully setting things down, listening, too.
The Hungry Blade Page 4
