by Ken Follett
from him, a small cottage which looked inhabited.
He got to his knees and began the long crawl to the front door.
EIGHTEEN
The 7-505 wheeled in a tedious circle, her powerful diesels chugging
slowly as she nosed through the depths like a grey, toothless shark.
Lieutenant-Commander Werner Heer, her master, was drinking ersatz
coffee and trying not to smoke any more cigarettes. It had been a long
day and a long night. He disliked his assignment, for he was a
fighting man and there was no fighting to be done; and he disliked the
quietAbwehr officer with sly blue eyes who was an unwelcome guest
aboard the submarine.
The Intelligence man. Major Wohl, sat opposite the captain. The man
never looked tired, damn him. Those blue eyes looked around, taking
things in, but the expression in them never changed. His uniform never
got rumpled, despite the rig ours of underwater life; and he lit a new
cigarette every twenty minutes, on the dot, and smoked it to a
quarter-inch stub. Heer would have stopped smoking, just so that he
could enforce regulations and prevent Wohl from enjoying tobacco, but
Heer himself was too much of an addict.
Heer never liked Intelligence people, because he always had the feeling
they were gathering intelligence on him. Nor did he like working with
Abwehr. His vessel was made for battle, not for skulking around the
British coast waiting to pick up secret agents. It seemed to him plain
madness to put at risk a costly piece of fighting machinery, not to
mention its skilled crew, for the sake of one man who might even fail
to appear.
He emptied his cup and made a face.
"Damn coffee," he said.
"It tastes vile."
Wohl's expressionless gaze rested on him for a moment then moved away.
He said nothing.
Heer shifted restlessly in his seat. On the bridge of a ship he would
have paced up and down, but men on submarines learn to avoid
unnecessary movement. He said: "Your man won't come in this weather,
you know."
Wohl looked at his watch.
"We will wait until six ajn.," he said calmly.
It was not an order, for Wohl could not give orders to Heer; but the
bald statement of fact was still an insult to a superior officer. Heer
said: "Damn you, I'm the master of this vessel!"
"We will both follow our orders," Wohl said.
"As you know, they originate from a very high authority indeed."
Heer controlled his anger. The young whippersnapper was right, of
course. Heer would follow his orders. When they returned to port he
would report Wohl for insubordination. Not that it would do much good:
fifteen years in the Navyhad taught Heer that headquarters people were
a law unto themselves.
He said: "If your man is fool enough to venture out tonight, he is
certainly not seaman enough to survive."
Word's only reply was the same blank gaze.
Heer called to the radio operator.
"Weissman?"
"Nothing, sir."
Wohl said: "I have an unpleasant feeling that the murmurs we heard a
few hours ago were from him."
"If they were, he was a long way from the rendezvous, sir," the radio
operator volunteered.
"To me it sounded more like lightning."
Heer added: "If it was not him, it was not him. If it was him, he is
now drowned." His tone was smug.
"You don't know the man," Wohl said, and this time there was a trace of
emotion in his voice.
Heer subsided into silence. The engine note altered slightly, and he
thought he could distinguish a faint rattle. If it increased on the
journey home he would have it looked at in port. He might do that
anyway, just to avoid another voyage with the unspeakable Major Wohl.
A seaman looked in.
"Coffee, sir?"
Heer shook his head.
"If I drink any more I'll be pissing coffee."
Wohl said: "I will, please." He took out a cigarette.
That made Heer look at his watch. It was ten past six. The subtle
Major Wohl had delayed his six o'clock cigarette to keep the U-boat
there a few extra minutes. Heer said: "Set a course for home."
"One moment," Wohl said.
"I think we should take a look on the surface before we leave."
"Don't be a fool," Heer said. He knew he was on safe ground now.
"Do you realize what kind of storm is raging up there? We would not be
able to open the hatch, and the periscope will show us nothing that is
more than a few yards away."
"How can you tell what the storm is like from this depth?"
"Experience," Heer told him.
"Then at least send a signal to base, telling them that our man has
not made contact. They may order us to stay here."
Heer gave an exasperated sigh.
"It's not possible to make radio contact from this depth, not with
base," he said.
Wohl's calm was shattered at last.
"Commander Heer, I strongly recommend you surface and radio home before
leaving this rendezvous. The man we are to pick up has information
vital to the future of the Reich. The Fuhrer himself is waiting for
his report!"
Heer looked at him.
"Thank you for letting me have your opinion, Major/ he said. He turned
away.
"Full ahead both!" he barked.
The sound of the twin diesels rose to a roar, and the U-boat began to
pick up speed.
PART FOUR
NINETEEN
When Lucy woke up, the storm that had broken the evening before was
still raging. She leaned over the edge of the bed, moving cautiously
so that she would not disturb David, and picked up her wristwatch from
the floor. It was just after six. The wind was howling around the
roof. David could sleep on: little work would be done today.
She wondered whether they had lost any slates off the roof during the
night. She would need to check the loft. The job would have to wait
until David was out, otherwise he would be angry that she had not asked
him to do it.
She slipped out of bed. It was very cold. The warm weather of the
last few days had been a phoney summer, the build-up to the storm. Now
it was as cold as November. She pulled the flannel nightdress off over
her head and quickly got into her underwear, trousers and sweater.
David stirred. She looked at him: he turned over, but did not wake.
She crossed the tiny landing and looked into Jo's room. The
three-year-old had graduated from a cot to a bed, and he often fell out
during the night without waking. This morning he was on his bed, lying
asleep on his back with his mouth wide open. Lucy smiled. He looked
adorable when he was asleep.
She went quietly downstairs, wondering briefly why she had woken up so
early. Perhaps Jo had made a noise, or maybe it was the storm.
She knelt in front of the fireplace, pushing back the sleeves of her
sweater, and began to make the fire. As she swept out the grate she
whistled a tune she had heard on the radio, Is You Is Or Is You Ain't
My Baby"? She raked the cold ashes, using the biggest lumps to form
; the base for today's fire. Dried bracken provided the under and wood
and then coal went on top. Sometimes she just used wood, but coal was
better in this weather. She held a page of newspaper across the
fireplace for a few minutes to create an up draught in the chimney.
When she removed it the wood was burning and the coal glowing red. She
folded the paper and placed it under the coal scuttle for use
tomorrow.
The blaze would soon warm the little house, but a hot cup of tea would
help meanwhile. Lucy went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the
electric cooker. She put two cups on a tray, then found David's
cigarettes and an ashtray. She made the tea, filled the cups, and
carried the tray through the hall to the stairs.
She had one foot on the lowest stair when she heard the tapping. She
stopped, frowned, decided it was the wind rat-ding something, and took
another step. The sound came again. It was like someone knocking on
the front door.
That was ridiculous, of course. There was no one to knock on the front
door only Tom, and he always came to the kitchen door and never
knocked.
The tapping came again.
Just to assuage her curiosity, she came down the stairs and, balancing
the tea tray on one hand, opened the front door.
She dropped the tray in shock. The man fell into the hall, knocking
her over. Lucy screamed.
She was frightened only for a moment. The stranger lay prone beside
her on the hall floor, plainly incapable of attacking anyone. His
clothes were soaking wet, and his hands and face were stone-white with
cold.
Lucy got to her feet. David slid down the stairs on his bottom,
saying: "What is it? What is it?"
"Him," Lucy said, and pointed.
David arrived at the foot of the stairs, clad in pyjamas, and hauled
himself into his wheelchair.
"I don't see what there is to scream about," he said. He wheeled
himself closer and peered at the man on the floor.
"I'm sorry. He startled me." She bent over and, taking the man by his
upper arms, dragged him into the living-room. David followed. Lucy
laid the man in front of the fire.
David stared pensively at the unconscious body.
"Where the devil did he come from?" he wondered.
"He must be a shipwrecked sailor."
"Of course."
But he was wearing the clothes of a workman, not a sailor, Lucy
noticed. She studied him. He was quite a big man, longer than the
six-foot hearth-rug, and heavy around the neck and shoulders. His face
was strong and fine-boned, with a high forehead and a long jaw. He
might be handsome, she thought, if he were not such a ghastly colour.
The stranger stirred and opened his eyes. At first he looked terribly
frightened, like a little boy waking in strange surroundings; but, very
quickly, his expression became relaxed, and he looked about him
sharply, his gaze resting briefly on Lucy, David, the window, the door,
and the fire.
Lucy said: "We must get him out of these clothes. Fetch a pair of
pyjamas and a robe, David."
David wheeled himself out, and Lucy knelt beside the stranger. She
took off his boots and socks first. There almost seemed to be a hint
of amusement in his eyes as he watched her. But when she reached for
his jacket he crossed his arms protectively over his chest.
"You'll die of pneumonia if you keep these clothes on," she said in her
best bedside manner.
"Let me take them off."
The stranger said: "I really don't think we know each other well enough
after all, we haven't been introduced."
It was the first time he had spoken. His voice was so confident, his
words so formal, that the contrast with his terrible appearance made
Lucy laugh out loud.
"You're shy?" she said.
"I just think a man should preserve an air of mystery." He was
grinning broadly, but his smile collapsed suddenly and his eyes closed
in pain.
David came back in with clean nightclothes over his arm.
"You two seem to be getting on remarkably well already," he said.
"You'll have to undress him," Lucy said.
"He won't let me."
David's look was unreadable.
The stranger said: "I'll manage on my own, thanks if it's not too
awfully ungracious of me."
"Suit yourself," David said. He dumped the clothes on a chair and
wheeled out.
"I'll make some more tea," Lucy said as she followed. She closed the
living-room door behind her.
In the kitchen, David was already filling the kettle, a lighted
cigarette dangling from his lips. Lucy quickly cleared up the broken
china in the hall then joined him.
David said: "Five minutes ago I wasn't at all sure the chap was alive
and now he's dressing himself."
Lucy busied herself with a tea pot.
"Perhaps he was shamming."
"The prospect of being undressed by you certainly brought about a rapid
recovery."
"I can't believe anyone could be that shy."
"Your own deficiency in that area may lead you to underestimate its
power in others."
Lucy raided cups. "You don't usually get all bitter and twisted until
after breakfast. Besides, how can an area be powerful?"
"Semantics is always your last line of defence." David doused the butt
of his cigarette in a pool of water in the sink.
Lucy poured boiling water into the teapot.
"Let's not quarrel today we've got something more interesting to do,
for a change." She picked up the tray and walked into the living
room.
The stranger was buttoning his pyjama jacket. He turned his back to
her as she walked in. She put the tray down and poured tea. When she
turned back he was wearing David's robe.
"You're very kind," he said. His gaze was direct.
He really didn't seem the shy type, Lucy thought. However, he was some
years older than she about forty, she guessed. That might account for
it. He was looking less of a castaway every minute.
"Sit close to the fire," she told him. She handed him a cup of tea.
"I'm not sure I can manage the saucer," he said.
"My fingers aren't functioning." He took the cup from her
stiff-handed, holding it between both palms, and carried it carefully
to his lips.
David came in and offered him a cigarette. He declined.
The stranger emptied the cup.
"Where am I?" he asked.
David said: "This place is called Storm Island."
The man showed a trace of relief.
"I thought I might have been blown back to the mainland."
David pointed his toes at the fire to warm his bare feet.
"You were probably swept into the bay," he said.
"Things usually are. That's how the beach was formed."
Jo came in, bleary-eyed, trailing a one-armed panda as big as himself.
When he saw the stranger he ran to Lucy and hid his face.
"I've frightened your little girl," the man smiled.
"He's a boy. I must cut his hair." Lucy lifted Jo on to her lap.
"I'm sorry." The stranger's eyes closed again, and he sw
ayed in his
seat.
Lucy stood up, dumping Jo on the sofa.
"We must put the poor man to bed, David."
"Just a minute," David said. He wheeled himself closer to the man.
"Might there be any other survivors?" he asked.
The man's face looked up.
"I was alone he muttered. He was very nearly all-in.
"David Lucy began.
"One more question: Did you notify the coast guard of your route?"
"What does it matter?" Lucy said.
"It matters because, if he did, there may be men out there risking
their lives looking for him, and we can let them know he's safe."
The man said slowly: "I... did... not."
