The Hungry Blade

by Lawrence Dudley

  Bastard. Bastard! Son of a bitch! Lie to me, lie to us, will you? Damn fool. Made me have to kill you. And to think I liked him. Rule Britannia, my ass. Blazer with fake yacht club patch. British merchant marine, the best. Hide the fact you speak German? Lie to me? Take our money? Kick me out of Paris? Send planes over London? Bomb my mother’s house? Kill my relatives, my schoolmates? Fucking Nazi bastard. Think you’ll get the jump on me? Leave me lying facedown in a pool of blood, will you? Bastardbastardbastard—hitting and hitting and hitting. Then he flipped the hook around in his fingers and slammed it back down again. It easily punched through the broken skull. Hawkins pulled to yank it out and hit him again. Instead it plunged in and caught, the hook poking out through the captain’s eye socket. He pulled him forward by it, dragging Perez’s limp body over to the edge of the dock. Finally, he gasped to catch his breath, fell back against a bale, wiggled and worked the hook out and threw it as hard as he could off into the water.

  “Hey, watch out,” came a voice from below. It was Farley. Good, Hawkins thought. He took another deep breath, hands on his knees for a second catching up. He searched Perez’s pockets, then shoved the body off the dock by its feet. It landed facedown, half in the water, half on the mud. The sailors quickly hauled him in. Hawkins looked over. It was a long drop. He couldn’t see any ladders.

  “Back at the ship,” he whispered.

  “Righto.” They quickly rowed off.

  A few minutes later Hawkins was waiting at the top of the accommodation ladder as they carried the body up onto the ship, wrapped in a piece of dirty canvas.

  “Now what, sir?”

  “The engine room.” Hawkins grabbed one corner of the canvas and they carried the body inside, through the passageway, hauling him down the ladder and into the engine room. The ship was due to sail on the tide, before dawn, so the boiler was already fired, building up pressure. Hawkins opened up one of the old fire doors left over from the ship’s early days when a black gang shoveled in the coal, squinting in at the white-hot heat.

  “That’ll do it.” He pointed in. They all wordlessly picked up the body by the canvas, swung it back and gave it the heave-ho through the fire door into the center of the boiler, pushing with a poker that came out steaming hot. Hawkins slammed it shut with a hard bang. Good enough for you, you bloody, lying bastard, he thought. Then he kicked the door again.

  “Can you get this thing out of the harbor yourself?”

  “Of course,” Farley said.

  “Good. Cast off and get out of here as soon as you can. Keep the rest of the crew under armed guard down below. Once you’re on the open sea radio Commander Blake, rendezvous with Dendrobium, then let him know what’s happened. Don’t use the radio for that. There’s also a thousand American dollars in a white envelope somewhere in that bastard’s cabin, plus whatever those two Germans gave him. Give that to the skipper.”

  “Right.” They all stared at the fire door a long moment, then wordlessly left.

  Hawkins walked back up the Avenida Malecón and around the corner to his hotel, feeling nothing but exhaustion. Inside he unpacked the suitcase radio, strung the aerial around the room, and began searching the dial for news, one eye on the photo of Daisy by the lamp. It was CBS again, this time a station out of Houston. The radio reporter was midstory, but the first thing Hawkins heard was an air-raid siren in the background. The reporter’s voice was tense and urgent—whatever was going on over there clearly wasn’t good. Massive air battle over the Channel. London burning. He listened a few minutes then sharply clicked it off.

  He sat back in the chair. That numb feeling’s back, he thought. Or perhaps there was nothing left inside after that outburst, the steam in the boiler gone. He cradled Daisy’s photo in his hand for a moment. Still nothing. A burst of lively music floated for a second through the window. It was still early. He was tired but at the same time felt an agitation or restlessness. He went out and began aimlessly walking the streets and under several lovely old arcades, not with any purpose in mind, not running from the radio and news, instead aimlessly exploring the unknown, perhaps seeking distraction, scratching an itch he couldn’t find. He paused by a crowded café. Inside a small band was playing a lively, jumping tune. A waiter brought him a cold beer. He tarried at an outside rail, listening. They played with great feeling, a tremendous happy energy. He could sense what they felt, without feeling it himself. How nice, he thought, to let yourself feel, to be happy like that.

  -19-

  Hawkins walked down the aisle of the train, brushing his hand along the red plush seats, looking for the two men he saw with Captain Perez yesterday. They’re government men, too, he thought, on an expense account. Almost certainly in the first-class section. Hawkins had already made another quick check of the baggage cars—a tip to the handler was required for that, although in no way was there anything illegal about it—confirmed the ten cases brought from the ship were still there, and double-checked the address, Wilhelm Aust, Calle Matamoros 81, San Ángel, Ciudad de México, Distrito Federal. He’d also checked the harbor—the Santa Lopez was gone. Leaving was far easier and faster than entering.

  El Jarocho Expreso jarred slightly with a series of tapping noises as the locomotive pulled the couplers tight, ready to roll. Hawkins spotted the men in the second car. He sat a couple of seats away and caught a snippet of German.

  One of them, maybe ten years older than the other, was quite fleshy in a muscular way, red faced and sweaty—all that mass trapped the heat. He was wearing a plain white shirt, not necessarily a bad idea—the day, as well as the locomotive, was already building up a head of steam. He had a tight crew cut, almost a shaved head, hard to tell if it was very blond or white, and an exasperated, tight-lipped expression that seemed to say he didn’t approve of anything he saw, an unreflective agitated quality. There was something odd about the man’s eyes. White all around the iris, giving them a staring quality, resembling those dog breeds—a husky or pointer, perhaps—that never blink or take their gazes off their quarry for a second of introspection or reflection. The cropped stubble on the left side revealed a long scar, and the tip of his ear was missing, as if it’d been sliced or shot off. Could that be a bullet crease on his scalp? Hawkins wondered. With the scar and the missing part of the ear, he absolutely had the look of a tough old veteran.

  The younger one, lithe and very fit looking, was wearing an expensive linen suit with a fine woven panama hat, fresh, crisp despite the heat, everything in place, handkerchief points precisely poking from his pocket. He exuded a sense of composure and self-possession, an aristocratic confidence or an ordered Apollonian quality, his gestures as smooth as his face. He had a hardcover book in one hand with torn notes sticking out the top. He was trying to read, but there was a touch of polite frustration in his glances at the other man, controlled annoyance at an unwelcome distraction. But he also had a tight-on-the-sides army haircut that didn’t quite fit with the rest. Accordingly, both looked to be military types, the older one, who nonetheless acted in charge, gave the feel of a tough old master sergeant confronted with a young new lieutenant. Hawkins got the unmistakable impression they both resented the arrangement.

  Veracruz’s estación had the usual newsstand found in train stations all over the world, large and decently varied. There were, of course, many Spanish-language newspapers and magazines, and quite a few English-language ones, including papers from the States, but also local foreign-language papers. Like the US, Mexico had a significant immigrant community. One stood out to Hawkins immediately: Deutsche Zeitung von Mexiko. Perfect, Hawkins thought, tailor-made. He’d eagerly plucked it up. I’m ready.

  The car was less than half full. Hawkins sat a few seats away from his targets, unfolded the Zeitung and started reading. He’d positioned himself between them and the lavatory. The train was going to make a few stops along the way, it was several hours’ ride, they were bound to get up and go by at some point
. Sit back and see if they take the bait, he thought. Not go to them, not look like I’m aware of them or thinking about them or anyone else.

  A whistle blew and the train powerfully pulled from the station, rapidly accelerating, the end of the platform a blur as they whipped by. A few minutes later they were out of the city center into the suburbs. Hawkins looked out expecting to see the usual suburban landscape one saw in Europe or North America: industrial parks, suburban housing developments, countryside, trees. Instead the express passed through a vast and barren encampment, for lack of a better word, stretching into the distance, covered by a miasmal haze.

  In the US one from time to time saw “Hoovervilles,” shantytowns named after the president who presided over the start of the Great Depression, built from cast-off lumber, salvaged windows and mismatched roofs with sheet metal stovepipes sticking through. Often salvaged car seats were perched on blocks outside, holding an old man smoking.

  These shacks looked nothing like that. A stove? Windows? Obviously, unimaginable luxuries. A car seat—what an absurdity. Instead, dirty smoke from small fires poured directly through the low open doorways, past the rags covering the few raw openings, if there were any, that passed for windows. The roofs were made from every kind of scrap imaginable: flattened tin cans, cut-up pieces of tire, broken halves of tiles, the walls bits of wood and cloth and mud, whatever the builder could scavenge from a dump, or the earth itself. The train slowly passed around a turn toward a switch. Indescribably filthy, mostly naked children played in the garbage-strewn mud outside the hovels.

  As he stared the train slowly passed by a doorway, offering a flashing glance inside at a disheveled woman sitting on blocks of dirt. His eyes caught hers for a second, dead despair in hers, and he looked away, feeling in a vague and undefined way that looking was a guilty act of violation. Dear god …

  Hawkins was well traveled. He’d been everywhere from Chicago to Moscow and down to Rome. The Crash and Depression had hit hard everywhere. Poverty was never difficult to find. But this was different, this shocked the senses.

  A shadow crossed his paper. He looked up. The older crew-cutted man was standing over him, head at an angle looking at his paper.

  “Sprechen zie deutsch?”

  “Ja. Sie auch?”

  Then man nodded, leaned over a bit, frowning, and said in German, “You should close that window until we get out into the countryside. These dirty animals burn dried human manure for fuel. You’ll get the ashes on you. It’s not safe.” When he’d sat down Hawkins had opened the window in the station to get some air. He glanced around. No one else had their window open. Hawkins replied in German, “Oh god, I had no idea. Thanks!” leaping up to close it.

  The man nodded again. “Enjoy your paper,” looking out, shaking his head in disgust, walking back to his seat.

  Disconcerting, Hawkins thought, felt. Although … exactly what was disturbing? he wondered. Getting distracted? The sight out the window? Not seeing him move? Or was it this known Nazi agent doing something decent? Of course, only if what he’s saying is true … is it? He only needed to ponder that a second. Yes, shit, once dried, would probably burn. Dirty, like peat. Oh god … that brown cloud. I guess all of it is true, he decided. He turned back to his paper, now keeping an eye on them. Letting myself get distracted, Hawkins felt that more than he thought it, need that numb feeling: stay on the beam. About fifteen minutes later they were deep into the country passing cornfields. The crew-cutted man rose and opened their window, letting in a fresh and welcome breeze. He turned and caught Hawkins’s eye and nodded again as Hawkins rose to open his, too.

  The two men rode along like—well, two friends or acquaintances quietly talking, reading a bit, nothing seemingly going on. Hawkins kept discreetly watching but not actually looking, going through the Zeitung from front to back. After two or three hours a white-jacketed steward came through softly tapping a tune on a set of boxed chimes. The dining car was open for this section. The two men rose, the older man getting his jacket. Hawkins followed along.

  -20-

  As they passed through the cars, the younger man held the door behind him and nodded slightly in greeting. Hawkins asked in German, “Do you know anything about the menu? I’m new here. You know how you get warnings about the food and the water.” Hawkins was now fully back in undercover mode, cool and coldly sizing them up.

  Both turned, open, friendly, looking at each other in a manner that said why not? Then the younger man said, “Yes. Come join us.”

  “Thanks. You been here long?”

  The dining car was clean, bright and modern, maybe ten or fifteen years old, a round white enamel ceiling, mahogany trim, blue plush seats. The white-jacketed waiters were quickly setting out fresh, crisp white tablecloths. The men sat.

  “A while. It’s not hard, just make sure it’s all cooked and only drink bottled water,” the older man said.

  “How do you speak German?” the younger one said.

  My accent must be off, Hawkins realized. But it didn’t matter. “My parents immigrated to the US after the last war. We spoke German at home.” And in fact many had. “I kept it up, it was too useful to lose.”

  “A smart move these days!” the older one said.

  “Yes. Germany is on the rise,” Hawkins said.

  “That it surely is.”

  “Where was that?” the younger one said.

  “New York. It was easy. There are many associations, schools, the Bund, of course.”

  “You’re a friend of Germany?”

  “Of course. What brings you here?” Hawkins said.

  “Business. We represent a consortium of aircraft manufacturers. And you?”

  “I represent an art and antiques gallery in Manhattan. I’ve come looking for some Spanish colonial things we can sell at a good price, also silver. You can buy things very cheap here, get a good markup. With the crazy rents in Manhattan today, you have to have that.” Hawkins handed them a pair of fake business cards they’d quickly made up in Bermuda—Alpert Gallery, Broadway and Eleventh Street. They in turn gave him a pair of theirs. To Hawkins’s mild surprise, they indeed read Horst Eckhardt and Werner von Falkenberg, representing Norddeutsche Luftfahrtpartner, with an address in Mexico City.

  The name on the cases and the names the Germans gave Captain Perez, Hawkins thought, probably real. Von was the key. The von probably meant old Prussian nobility, and Falkenberg had that to-the-manor-born air about him with a precise Hochdeutsche, or High German, accent. Eckhardt, by comparison, had traces of a Plattdeutsch, or Low German, accent, a tendency toward a hard k sound, a bit-off, maken instead of machen or dag instead of the more drawled out tag. Slight, but noticeable. Working class, for sure, probably from one of the north German coastal cities.

  The waiter arrived for their orders. To Hawkins’s additional surprise both seemed to speak decent Spanish, fluidly telling the waiter what they wanted. The waiter hesitated a second, smiling.

  “¿De España?” apparently asking if they were from Spain. No was the answer. But they obviously weren’t speaking the kind of Spanish spoken here in Mexico, something must’ve given them away, too. Then Hawkins noticed Falkenberg’s tattered old book: Spanisch Für den Hochentwickelten Kursteilnehmer—Spanish for the Advanced Student. He’d brought his old university textbook. Perhaps he was working on his accent, Hawkins thought.

  “You studied Spanish at university?”

  “Yes. In Berlin, then the Kriegsakademie.” There it was, the prestigious Prussian military academy, the German Sandhurst or West Point. And a member of the officer class. That seemed to make Eckhardt uneasy. Obviously, not a university man. And defensive.

  “But you’ve been in Spain?” Hawkins said. That was a key thing to know, he thought. The vast and savage civil war in Spain had ended only sixteen months earlier. At Hitler and Mussolini’s incitement, pro-Fascist Spanish Army units und
er General Francisco Franco had mutinied against the democratically elected government. The major powers, thinking they could appease Hitler and Mussolini, proclaimed their neutrality and did nothing. The two dictators at first covertly and then openly sent “volunteers” to crush the Spanish Republic and support Generalissimo Franco’s coup, and get their own countries ready for war. It proved to be a dress rehearsal for the new world war.

  “Yes, some years now,” Eckhardt said, “that’s where I learned. On the job!” He apparently realized he had divulged something he shouldn’t have, quickly changing the subject, “Ah, feel that.” The train was leaving the lowlands and steadily climbing into the Sierra Madre Oriental, a long range of very high mountains, the temperature dropping, a huge relief. The tracks began running along a high series of cliffs cut into the forested hillsides, a vertiginous drop below. As they rose their ears began popping, all of them working their jaws.

  Eckhardt peered down. “I hope these animals don’t jump the tracks.”

  “I didn’t bring my parachute,” Falkenberg said.

  “Yes. These fools have no business running a railroad. Or anything else.”

  Hawkins was about to say, The Mexicans seem to be doing perfectly fine—what was there to criticize, actually? Nothing—but bit his tongue. Better agree, he thought. What was it people said?

  “A simple people,” Hawkins said.

  “Exactly.”

  “You jump?” Hawkins said to Falkenberg.

  “No. I’m a pilot. We don’t plan for that! It would get expensive.”

  A pilot. That meant Luftwaffe, not army, Hawkins thought. And these men have both been in Spain. Did Falkenberg fly with Göring’s Condor Legion on Franco’s side, for the Fascists? If so, why wasn’t he with the Luftwaffe now?