by Alan Furst
Ferrar stood by the gangway, hood up in the rain. At the bow of the Santa Cruz, coal rumbled down a long chute attached to a bulky wooden storage tower with a ladder to the top. Machado said, “I have to update my logs, so I’ll be in the office if anybody needs me.”
At three-thirty, the coal and water resupply completed, Machado reappeared. “We’ll be getting under way,” he said. “When did Hector get back?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
The captain was annoyed. Looking at his watch he said, “What the hell is he doing?” Then, “Take Silva with you and go find him.”
Ferrar and the bosun went off down the road. As the lights of the coaling station receded, it grew very dark and Ferrar kept the beam of the flashlight on the ground ahead of them. In fifteen minutes they reached what looked like an ancient stone hut. Inside, illuminated by a single lightbulb hanging on a cord, the shelves were packed from floor to ceiling with everything that merchant crews might need. Since the ships being serviced were from many countries, the owner spoke a few words of several languages, including English. When Ferrar and Silva came to the counter, the owner seemed anxious and frightened. “What is?” he said. His voice quivered and his eyes darted back and forth, from Ferrar’s face to the revolver.
Silva said, “We’re looking for a man from our ship. A big fellow, did he show up here?”
The owner nodded. “Is gone,” he said.
“How long?”
“Long time now. I saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“He left, then robbers take him.”
“What?”
“I watch him go away, then his light went …” With his hand, the owner imitated the wild path of the stoker’s flashlight, up and down, side to side. “Put him in truck,” the owner said. “Drive away.” He slid one hand across the other, the gesture meant gone.
“We better get back to the ship,” Silva said. They searched the road on the walk back to the Santa Cruz, but found nothing.
Machado was waiting for them at the head of the gangway. Silva recounted what the store owner had told them, and Machado, mouth grim, said, “There’s a telephone in the port office, I have to call the police.” He paused, then said to Ferrar, “This is a simple robbery, nothing more, is that what you think?”
“Yes, what else could it be?”
“Something to do with the cargo and where it’s going.”
Ferrar hesitated, then said, “It’s possible.”
There was an anxious crowd of sailors gathered on the deck. When Silva and Ferrar had returned, no Hector to be seen, the news had spread quickly. From the crowd, the stoker called Horst emerged and hurried toward the captain and the others. “Captain,” he said, “I don’t know if it means anything, but they tried to get me to jump ship.”
“Who are ‘they’?” Machado said.
“A German, in a bar in Constanta. He pretended to be a seaman, but he wasn’t. He offered me money, to go back to Germany.”
Machado looked directly at Ferrar and said, “I’m going to have to tell the police everything, I hope you understand.”
Ferrar nodded. “Yes, you have to,” he said.
De Lyon came down the passageway and he and Ferrar moved away from the crowd to speak privately. “What do you think?” Ferrar said.
“This was no robbery,” de Lyon said. “This was an abduction, they’ve figured out what we’re doing, and what they don’t know they’ll find out from Hector.”
It was dawn by the time the detective showed up; tired and weary. Tired because he’d been called from his bed before dawn, weary because he’d spent his life looking at the bad side of human nature and that wasn’t going to change. He was swarthy and broad, and reminded Ferrar of Stavros. In the passenger cabin, de Lyon and Ferrar sat on one cot, Machado and the detective on the other. As Greece and Great Britain were longtime friends and close allies, the second language in the cities was English. The detective listened carefully as Ferrar told the story, made a few notes, then said, “They robbed him, but it might have been more than that. Why take him away? Why not just hit him on the head?”
De Lyon said, “There’s some chance this was an abduction.”
“That does happen, you know, in ports. Some captain is short a crewman, so they go out to the bars and find a sailor on liberty …” He spread his hands, so life goes around here.
“There’s a possibility he was taken by the German spy service,” de Lyon said.
The detective, incredulous, stared at him, then, for a time, at Ferrar, and said, “Who are you, sir? Merchant seaman? Owner’s representative? What?”
“My friend and I are taking munitions back to Spain.”
“Which side?”
“The Republic.”
The detective said something to himself in fast Greek. Then, “Thank you for telling me but, I hope you understand, if I report what you’ve said, then the government will have to get involved. And you’ll be here forever.”
“Yes, we know that,” Ferrar said.
“What do you want me to do?” the detective said.
It was Machado who answered. “I’m responsible for Hector, whatever happened to him has to be investigated. Maybe you can even find him but, no matter what, his family has to be informed and so does the company.”
“And then? For the rest of the story?”
“Our soldiers need this cargo,” Ferrar said.
The detective put his pencil away.
Two nights later, some time after nine in the evening, it began to rain; at first a summer shower, then a steady, windblown rain and the Santa Cruz began to rise and fall as she fought through the heavy swell. On the platform above the wheelhouse, the seaman keeping watch tried to use his binoculars but it was hopeless. When the waves hit the ship’s hull, a cloud of spray burst over the deck and was caught up in the wind, so he had to wipe saltwater from his burning eyes. The ship had now entered the Mediterranean and was ten miles off the town of Licata, just below the boot of Sicily.
The watchman kept trying, squinting into the night, then turning aft and looking over the ship’s stern. Where he thought he saw a light, just for a second, then it was gone. Was he seeing things? That happened on the nighttime watches; a phantom, a mirage at sea. The watchman lay flat on the platform, the spray blowing over him, and tried to find the light with his binoculars. A minute went by, then another. At last he gave up, told himself there was nothing to be seen, and started to rise. Then he saw it again. Off the aft beam, then gone, or hidden when whatever was out there plunged into the trough of the rolling waves.
The watchman, hanging on to the railing, went down to the wheelhouse, its interior lit a faint green by the light of the compass on its post. “Wet out there,” the radioman said. On the table by his transmitter was an enamel coffee pot. “It’s cold as hell but you can have some coffee if you want.”
“There’s a light out there, somewhere astern of us.”
The radioman shrugged. “Another ship. Want me to see if I can raise her?”
“Try it.”
The radioman tapped out some code, then listened to his headphones. “No answer.” He tried again, using this frequency and that, but there was only silence.
The watchman flipped the hood of his rain jacket back on and said, “I’m going to have another look.” He worked his way up the metal steps, and again flattened out on the watchman’s platform. The wind was singing now, and he could hear each wave as it slammed against the hull, then burst into spray. He almost missed the light, because he hunted for it where he’d seen it earlier but the positions of the two ships had changed. Now it was on the other side of the freighter’s stern. A tall wave towered to the level of the lower deck and the freighter shuddered as it hit her. But there it was again. Brighter. And now it didn’t disappear.
The watchman once again returned to the wheelhouse, where the helmsman struggled with the big, spoked wheel, trying to keep the Santa Cruz on course. The wheelhouse window st
reamed with water. The radioman said, “Well, see anything?”
“There’s a ship out there, and it’s catching up to us.”
“In this? The hell is he doing?”
“I better go find Silva,” the watchman said.
“What’ll he do?”
“That’s what he told me, report anything at all. And, whoever she is, she’s keeping radio silence, right?”
“I guess so. Or they’re drunk or asleep.”
A few minutes later, the watchman returned, Silva by his side. The bosun asked the radioman to keep trying the usual frequencies, then the two climbed up to the platform. The storm was growing worse, the wind now howling through the deck cranes of the freighter. Silva and the watchman focused their binoculars on the stern. “There it is,” the watchman said. “Fifteen degrees off the starboard beam.” When Silva found the light he said, “It’s getting closer. He should be changing course, moving away, but he isn’t.” A minute later he said, “Closer now, and staying on our aft beam. The sonofabitch is chasing us.”
Down in the wheelhouse the wireless came to life. Through the crackling static the signal was fast, then repeated as the radioman translated the Morse code into words and wrote down the message. “Is that him?” the helmsman said.
“On the emergency frequency.”
“What did he say?”
“They’re the Italian naval launch Spezia and they are ordering us to make for the port of Licata.”
“Go up and tell Silva,” the helmsman said. “He’ll get the captain.”
By the time Machado reached the wheelhouse, the motor launch Spezia was running two hundred yards off their starboard side and the powerful light held the Santa Cruz in its beam. “Send this,” the captain said. “ ‘Cannot follow your order. Captain Machado. Santa Cruz.’ ”
The radioman tapped out the message and the Spezia operator was back immediately: the words “we repeat” and the same message as before. Machado said, “All right, let’s try this: ‘We are Santa Cruz of Tampico, a Mexican vessel in international waters.’ ”
The radioman sent the message, but there was no reply. The men in the wheelhouse were holding on to whatever they could reach as the ship pitched and rolled. From the Spezia, the wail of a siren cut through the howling wind. “Helmsman,” Machado said, “put the light on her.” The helmsman worked the control by his wheel and the illuminated Spezia turned from gray ghost to white motor launch. On the bow, a machine gun set in a metal shield was aimed at the wheelhouse of the Santa Cruz.
Then a naval officer, his oilskin coat open to reveal a white uniform, appeared on the deck of the motor launch; in his hand a loud-hailer. The officer raised the device to his mouth and, his voice amplified, said in slow, halting Spanish: “Santa Cruz, we are ordering you to change course and make for the port of Licata. We will follow you in.”
The freighter’s loud-hailer was hung from a wire loop by the light control. Machado grabbed it and stepped outside the wheelhouse. “Spezia, you have no authority to order us to do anything.”
From the officer on the Spezia: “We will fire on you if you do not obey our order.”
Machado stepped back into the wheelhouse and said, “He’s threatening to shoot at us.” Nobody answered, this was the captain’s decision to make. They all knew about the tons of ammunition in the holds, one bullet would be more than enough. Suddenly, a stream of sparks flew across the bow of the Santa Cruz.
“Filho da puta,” Silva said. Son of a whore.
“That’s tracer,” the radioman said. Bullets made an impact, tracer ammunition set a target on fire.
“Silva,” the captain said. “Go find the gangway watch pistol, then get the ship’s rifle from my cabin.” When Silva hesitated, the captain said, “We’ve been caught up in some kind of secret operation—they’ve been after us since we left the Black Sea. Which means that if we follow this order there is more than a cargo at risk. We are at risk, we’ll be locked up in prison, or worse. So we’re going to shoot out his searchlight and make a run for it.”
Silva was back quickly with the weapons—the rifle was an old German Mauser from the 1914 war. As he handed the captain a box of bullets, another stream of sparks whizzed over the bow. From the officer on the Spezia: “Santa Cruz. That was your final warning.”
Silva took the big revolver from its holster, Machado put a handful of bullets in his shirt pocket, worked the bolt of the rifle, then slid a round into the chamber. Together, crouched low, they ran out of the wheelhouse and lay flat on the deck. Machado, following target shooter’s protocol, wound the strap of the rifle around his upper arm to steady his aim.
Then the Spezia’s machine gun fired at the freighter—they could see the tracer as it hit the hull. That was the end. The radioman mumbled a prayer and the helmsman crossed himself as they waited to die. The Spezia fired again, a buzzing orange flash lit the wheelhouse as the round punched through the wall, the helmsman said “Unh” and sank to one knee. Just by his side, there was blood on the wall.
Ferrar and de Lyon, both breathing hard, came running into the wheelhouse. The radioman was trying to stop the helmsman’s bleeding and was tying a belt into a tourniquet above the wound in his thigh. De Lyon ran out onto the deck where, using two hands, Silva was firing the revolver. De Lyon lay down next to the captain. “Let me try it,” he said.
Machado, voice raised above the wind, shouted, “It’s impossible to hit anything—the target is moving and so are we. But maybe you’re better at this than I am.” He handed the rifle to de Lyon.
“What do you want, Captain? The officer or the light?”
“The light. Our only hope.”
De Lyon fired at the light, the bullet hit the wheelhouse of the Spezia. The officer, offended that someone had the nerve to shoot at him, shook his fist and ran for cover. Once again, the Spezia’s machine gun raked the hull of the Santa Cruz but the deflected tracer flew away into the night.
As de Lyon reloaded the rifle, Machado said, “The iron hull is too thick for a light machine gun.”
“What about the wheelhouse?”
“That’s thin steel. I better get everybody out of there.”
The captain clambered to his feet, the Spezia gunner fired at him, one of the rounds hit the deck in front of de Lyon and sailed away over his shoulder. Concentrating hard, de Lyon exhaled, then held his breath and put slow pressure on the trigger. The light stayed on.
Machado took the helm, Ferrar and the radioman carried the helmsman out of the wheelhouse, headed for the stairway that led down to the second deck and the crew quarters. Meanwhile, the officers on the Spezia, realizing that their machine gun would not penetrate the freighter’s hull, sent out a sailor with a high-calibre rifle. Ferrar, having left the helmsman to be tended in the crew quarters, reached the deck by the wheelhouse. “We were on fire,” he said to de Lyon.
“Where?”
“Storage room. A tracer came through the porthole and hit a pile of tarred rope. The crew took care of it.”
Silva was putting the revolver back in its holster. “All done,” he said. “No more bullets.”
“Let’s go back to the wheelhouse,” de Lyon said. “Maybe there’s one last thing we can try.”
Machado was at the helm, trying to keep the freighter on course. When the others arrived and stood next to him, he nodded at the motor launch. As the sailor on the Spezia fired, they could see an orange muzzle-flash. “Captain Machado,” de Lyon said, “I think all we can do is run for it.”
“He’s a lot faster than we are.”
“If you change course so that our stern is facing him, he can shoot all he wants.”
The captain nodded and used the engine-room telegraph to call for full speed, then turned the wheel to bring the Santa Cruz’s stern around.
It took time for the motor launch to react, then, when it did, it also sped up, giving chase. Faster by several knots than the freighter, the Spezia closed, in a few minutes, to thirty yards off the aft
beam.
“He’ll hit us if he doesn’t slow down,” Machado said.
“I’m going back to the stern,” de Lyon said. He left the wheelhouse, Ferrar followed him. The two lay flat on the deck, de Lyon slipped a round into the rifle’s chamber. The Spezia’s searchlight was a lot closer now, de Lyon made sure of his aim, then squeezed the trigger.
The light exploded.
In the wheelhouse, Machado turned off the Santa Cruz’s searchlight and ordered Silva to put out every light on the ship. The machine-gunner and the rifleman on the Spezia took this as a challenge, now firing at a dark, bulky shape in the driving rain. But the upward angle made it difficult to aim and the tracer flew up over the wheelhouse. The captain of the Spezia kept his position for fifteen minutes, then gave up and set course for Licata.
The Nationalists and their allies tried once more. Two fighter planes were readied for action at the Nationalist airfield on the island of Majorca. The pilots sat in their planes, ready to take off when the Santa Cruz neared the island, but the order never came, because the storm rolled west across the Mediterranean and nothing was going to fly in that. The Santa Cruz steamed into the port of Valencia on the twelfth of July and the ammunition was loaded onto trucks bound for the river Ebro. On the twenty-fifth of July, the Army of the Ebro began to cross the river, an air attack soon followed. The anti-aircraft gunners brought down some of the Messerschmitts strafing the men on the pontoon bridges but it didn’t matter, the Nationalists had plenty of reserves. The battle went on for a month, the Army of the Ebro was destroyed, and columns of refugees headed north, seeking refuge in France.
26 July. In the garden of the Hungarian embassy, Count Polanyi mopped his forehead and grumbled about the weather. “I don’t like the summer,” he told Ferrar. “I’m not built for the heat, can’t get to sleep, no appetite.”
“It’s the same with me,” Ferrar said. “My apartment doesn’t really cool off at night.”
“And these, poor beasts …” He referred to the vizslas, who lay stretched out on the gravel, panting, eyes half-closed. “I take them out to the Bois for a run, and they just sort of mope around, sniffing the bushes.”
