by Antony Trew
‘He gave us a message,’ said Francois.
‘What was it?’ asked Black.
‘To tell Kyriakou, when we next saw him, that he was the son of an infidel dog.’
Black was puzzled. ‘Why the hate for Kyriakou?’
‘Hassan reckons the police story and the snatch from the island was a frame-up.’
‘With what object?’
‘So that the Greek wouldn’t have to pay him for his last consignment.’
‘Their next meeting should be interesting.’ Black yawned. ‘I see you’ve changed.’
‘Too cold for midnight swimming.’ Francois’ teeth chattered.
Black looked at the shut door to Manuela’s cabin. ‘She all right?’
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. ‘She sleeps, I expect.’
For a moment Black seemed undecided, then he laid the chart on the table. ‘Here. Have a look at this.’ He pointed with a pencil. ‘That’s Rendezvous Gamma. Thirty miles north of Cape Matifu. See Matifu there? On the eastern side of Algiers Bay. The wind has dropped and we’re making a good fifteen point three. We’re here now. The Vedra light is coming up on the beam. At this rate we should make the rendezvous by eight-thirty in the morning. Daylight’s at six thirty-one. Things that worry me are the two hours in daylight, and that all this is happening four days ahead of schedule. ZID’s had less than forty-eight hours’ warning of the possible change of plans. And now it’s happened. Here we are, asking to be met on the fifteenth instead of the nineteenth.’
Helmut looked at the chart and measured with dividers, making notes on a pad. ‘Weissner was off Benghazi on the tenth. If ZID moved him westwards on the thirteenth, when they got our stand-by signal, he’ll make it.’
‘It’s a big if, Helmut. We don’t know his movements between the tenth and thirteenth. Anyway we’ve no option, so let’s get on with it. Check that we can make the rendezvous by eight-thirty.’
Helmut got busy with the dividers again and when he’d finished he confirmed Black’s estimates.
‘Right.’ Black took a signal pad and, calling out the message word by word, he wrote: Prospect embarked. ET A Rendezvous Gamma 0830 to-day fifteenth. Request early confirmation. How’s that?’
‘Goot,’ said Helmut.
‘Bon.’ Francois waved his cheroot in a gesture of approval.
Black yawned, stretched his arms, and then dropped them suddenly. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he barked at Helmut. ‘Get it off to ZID. Geschwind Dummkopf!’
Helmut gave an exaggerated Nazi salute. ‘Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.’
Francois made a rude sign and hissed.
An hour later when the light at Vedra had dropped out of sight astern and Punta Rotja, the southernmost light on Formentera, was abeam ten miles to the east, course was altered to 130 degrees. Now Rendezvous Gamma was dead ahead, distant 73 miles, and Black breathed more freely for they were clear of territorial waters. Anything that happened from now on would be on the high seas.
Not that he had any serious qualms. Even if Weissner failed to make the rendezvous in time, Black felt they were comparatively safe. At daybreak Snowgoose would be some eighty-five miles to the south of Ibiza. He accepted the possibility that Nordwind would be used for seaborne pursuit if the Spaniards knew in which direction the schooner had sailed. But how could they know? By daylight, when the farm truck was found abandoned at Cabo Negret, all they would know was the point of departure. From it, Snowgoose might have sailed anywhere. They would assume, of course, that she’d keep clear of Spanish territory. But that still left a host of options around three-quarters of the compass. The imponderable which worried him was the extent to which the Spanish authorities might decide to become involved.
The Guardia Civil had known early on of van Biljon’s abduction—the road chase had followed—and there was the hold-up of the farm truck. But somehow he did not feel that these offences, serious though they were, would be regarded by the Spanish as sufficient to warrant activity other than that normally undertaken by the police. There were no naval or airforce units in Ibiza at the moment, though there might well be some not far off. But he discounted the likelihood of their being used for a special search, particularly at such short notice.
The breeze from the south-east had dropped and the sea was calm, the schooner rolling gently to the remains of a westerly swell. The dark blanket of the night was pierced occasionally by the steaming lights of ships, distant and anonymous, and sometimes the whine of high-flying jets could be heard above the thump of the schooner’s diesel, and the splash and tumble of water along the hull.
Black stayed in the cockpit with Dimitrio, silent most of the time, on the edge of physical exhaustion, yet his mind restless, busy interminably with what had happened and what lay ahead. Deliberately, as from the first days in Ibiza, he fought against thinking about van Biljon, conscious always of Kagan’s injunction: emotional involvement is dangerous: maintain always your objectivity. But what of Manuela? Kagan knew nothing of her, of that emotional involvement. He went back in his mind over all that had happened since they’d met on the Barcelona ferry steamer. How had he allowed himself to become emotionally involved? What were the insidious steps by which these things happened? He decided it couldn’t be explained. Why was one woman suddenly more important to you than all the others you’d ever known. The elements were always the same: eyes, nose and mouth; breasts and broad thighs; flesh and skin and bone; ninety per cent water, it was said, the body regenerating itself entirely in a seven year cycle. What then made Manuela important to him? Her eyes? The bones in her face? The way she could look sad? Her smile of recognition? Her voice, the strangely inflected English, North American with a Puerto Rican accent? Her helplessness? How could one say?
He thought of her sleeping in the cabin, not ten feet away. Miserable, exhausted, frightened, not knowing in what she had become involved, believing that he had somehow betrayed her. When they got to the other side, would she stay with him? He didn’t know much about drugs. What if she were an addict? There were clinics, he supposed, where she could be treated, even cured. If he could arrange that, would she co-operate?
The door to the forward companionway opened and shut, and a man came into the cockpit. It was Helmut.
‘Signal from ZID,’ he said.
Black put out his hand in the darkness and took it. Switching on the chart-table light he read: ‘Your 0107. Meeting Rendezvous Gamma 0830 to-day fifteenth confirmed. ZID.’
‘Thank God,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ll be glad to hand over.’
‘You know,’ said Helmut, ‘I won’t. This has been terrific. Now it’s just about over, I feel kind of flat. You know. I mean, what’s there to look forward to?’
Black started as he felt someone touch him. It was Francois. ‘I must have dozed,’ said Black. He was sitting on a flap seat, huddled in the corner of the cockpit.
‘You should have rested in the saloon. You weren’t needed here.’
‘Thanks for the compliment,’ said Black. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘He insists on seeing you.’
‘Who?’ Black rubbed his smarting eyes.
‘Van Biljon. He’s over the worst of the Pentothal. Quite lucid. See for yourself.’
Black went to the portlight and looked in. Van Biljon, back to him, was sitting at the desk beside the bunk, his head in his hands.
The deck-watch showed nine minutes past three. ‘Get Helmut to bring him to the saloon,’ said Black. ‘You take over here.’
When Francois had gone, Black went across to the wheel, spoke to Dimitrio and checked the compass course and log repeater. He looked down the half-open hatch to the engine compartment where Kamros was making an adjustment. ‘Okay, there, Kamros?’ he shouted.
Kamros looked up, his face stained with grease and sweat. ‘Fine. We can manage a few more revs if you need them.’
‘Not at the moment. We’re logging fifteen point two. What’ve you got in hand?’
&n
bsp; ‘About a knot, if I open everything. Prefer not to, though.’
‘Nice to know, but I don’t think it’ll be necessary.’
Black went down the companionway and forward to the saloon. While he sat there waiting, arms folded, eyes half closed, fighting off sleep, he wondered what line van Biljon would take. I must keep calm, he thought. Think of what I’m saying. Mustn’t bully. Remain detached. Outside it all. Leave to him, at least, the dignity he denied to others.
The saloon door opened and a tall angular shape came in. The dark glasses had gone, lost in the mêlée in the gallery, and for the first time Black saw that van Biljon’s eyes were narrow slits with puffy white surrounds, so little of the eyeballs visible that at first no colour could be ascribed to them then, later, they took on a faded blue against the scarred face. Because of the low deckhead the old man stooped, his manacled hands and his head held forward, the overall effect so predatory that Black was reminded of a mantis.
Standing in the corner of the saloon, silent and motionless, he gestured van Biljon to the settee. Awkwardly, because he could not use his hands, the old man edged in between the table and the settee and sat down, his breathing laboured. Francois remained standing at the door until Black nodded to him; then he, too, sat down.
‘You wish to see me?’ said Black.
Van Biljon’s head came up, his body stiffened, and the old air of authority returned. He thumped the table with his manacled hands. ‘I demand an explanation of this outrage. I am a Spanish citizen, well known to influential members of the Spanish Government. You may think you will get away with this …’ He paused, wheezing with the effort he was putting into what he was saying. ‘This violence. But you won’t. The Governor is a friend of mine. The full resources of the State will be used to track you down. You and your gang. Then you will receive the punishment you deserve.’ The tightly compressed lips, the pink tongue tip spitting the words through them, reminded Black of a snake.
He stared into the narrow eyes, set in the scarred face like coin slots in a vending machine, raking his memory, searching for a spark of recognition, but none came.
‘I doubt if the Governor will do anything,’ he said. ‘By nine o’clock this morning he’ll know that you are Kurt Heinrich Gottwald, formerly of Zurich, wanted by the Israeli Government for war crimes against the Jewish people.’
Again the old man raised his hands in protest and banged the table, the handcuffs rattling like chains. ‘Lies,’ he hissed. ‘Damned lies, and you know it. I am not Gottwald—whoever he may be. And as for war crimes—that is childish nonsense. I am not and never have been a German. I can prove that. And I can prove that I was not in Germany for one day of the war.’
Black sighed wearily, not so much that he was tired, but that he was sick with emotion, sick with remembered horror; too sick to shout accusations at this carrion-like old man, to pour on him the hatred and loathing of a lifetime. Instead he said, ‘Something of what you say is correct. You are not a German. You were in Switzerland from the beginning of the war until November, 1943, when you moved to South America. Whether these facts will help you, will be seen when you are on trial. In the meantime, save your energies for that occasion.’
Van Biljon stared at him, leaning forward across the table, baring uneven yellow teeth. ‘You concede that I am Swiss. That I was not in Germany during the war. So this nonsense you talk of war crimes is not going to help you. What is this? A cloak for crime? For abduction?’ He stopped, closing his eyes and pressing the tips of his fingers against his eyelids. ‘I will not play that game: ask what the ransom is. How it is to be paid? Where it is to be collected? I am too old for that.’ He sighed. ‘I will leave it to the Spanish Government to deal with you. Do what you wish with me. I have had my life. But you will end your days, you and the others, rotting in a Spanish gaol.’ The words came spitting from the twisted mouth, as if their emission hurt.
Black watched him, unmoved. ‘There is no ransom, Gottwald. No easy way out. No escape. Eichmann discovered that, and many thousands of others. There is no escape.’
Van Biljon shook his manacled hands in a final gesture of despair. ‘Stop this absurd act. At once! It is preposterous that you should subject an inoffensive old man to such indignities. In the name of God, stop it.’
Black shook his head. ‘We met many years ago, Gottwald. Of course you look different now.’
The old man’s neck muscles worked as he glared at his captor. ‘I never forget a man’s face. We haven’t met before.’
‘It’s not a man’s face you have to remember. It was longer ago than that.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you do,’ said Black. ‘That Cézanne picture. The water-mill at Argenton-sur-Creuse.’
‘What of it?’
‘It was my uncle’s.’
Gottwald’s face crumbled and his head sagged forward as if its means of support had been suddenly withdrawn. ‘You mean, you mean …?’ he whispered.
‘Yes. I am Bernard Falk. Johan Stiegel’s nephew. You sent us up that path in the forest.’
Gottwald closed his eyes. ‘Mein Gott!’ he said. ‘Mein Gott!’
Chapter Twenty-Four
After Helmut had taken van Biljon back to the owner’s suite, Black sat hunched on the settee in a corner. Drained of emotion, exhausted yet unwilling to sleep, his mind blurred with thought, he tried to concentrate on the rendezvous: Helmut would have to get a star fix at dawn, plot Snowgoose’s position, make the necessary alterations of course to reach Rendezvous Gamma by eight-thirty. With luck they would have a little time on hand. If not, use would have to be made of those extra revolutions.
The legal niceties must be observed. Fifteen minutes before they were due at the rendezvous they’d transmit a MAYDAY signal. Mistral of Monaco in distress 50 miles N.W. Algiers. Hull leak. Sinking rapidly. Providentially, Weissner would show up. A schooner sinking on the high seas. He would take them off. Return to his base. Hand those he had rescued to the appropriate authorities. Everything had been thought of. ZID was an organisation manned by people of intelligence, determination and infinite patience. Its director, Kagan, was the embodiment of those virtues. Black’s thoughts trailed away, interrupted by the sound of a door opening. He looked up.
Manuela stood in the doorway, pale and uncertain, steadying herself against the schooner’s corkscrew motion.
Her hair was untidy, she had no make-up, the soft lips glistened and there were dark smudges under eyes which regarded him as if he were a stranger. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ she said. ‘I heard what was said.’
Black had not moved. Now he looked away, running his hand over his forehead. ‘With Gottwald, you mean?’
She came over and stood above him, her hand on his shoulder. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I will not repeat it. But the ventilator over the door was open. It was terribly stuffy.’
‘So you know,’ said Black, feeling that it wasn’t a very bright remark.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and I am—well—sad and happy. You know.
Mixed up.’
‘Happy that you’re safe. But why sad? For him?’
She shook her head emphatically. ‘Happy that you are—what you are. Sad that I have thought such unkind things about you.’
He felt an enormous relief and pulled her down beside him.
‘I had to do pretty unkind things to you.’
She said, ‘Yes,’ and he put his arms round her, burying his face in her hair, holding her tight, restraining thoughts and fears he preferred not to face.
Gently she pushed him away. ‘You know I can’t call you Bernard. It is not you. For me you can only be Charles. I don’t mind the Falk. I never thought much of Black.’
‘I thought it was rather good. Sort of strong-silent-man name. Killer Black. You know. But Charles is my second name. Bernard Charles Falk.’
She put up a hand to stifle a yawn.
‘You must sleep,’ he said.
> ‘Impossible. My brain is too active. There’s too much I don’t understand.’
‘What, for example?’ He held one of her hands, marvelling at its softness, the wrist almost transparent, the veins and arteries showing through the skin like threads in marble.
‘What you were talking about to van Biljon. How could he commit war crimes against the Jews outside Germany? How could you, an Englishman, be involved? How did you escape? Can’t you tell me?’
‘It’ll all come out at the trial, Manuela.’ He looked at her with tired, inquiring eyes; then, seeing her disappointment, he said, ‘All right. I’ll tell you. But don’t repeat it. You could ruin me if you did.’
‘Look at me,’ she said impulsively, leaning towards him. ‘Do you think I would ever do that?’
‘No. I don’t.’
‘Oh, Charles,’ she said, ‘I wish I’d known before.’
‘Sit over there, not too close.’ He said it sternly, moving away from her. ‘I can’t think clearly with you next to me.’
He put his legs on the settee, wedging himself in the corner. ‘It’s a long story. Gottwald was a Swiss. At the beginning of the Second World War he was a small, not very successful art dealer in Zurich. He was in his early thirties then. For several years before that he’d had connections with an art dealer, Rosenthal, on the German side of Lake Constance. In 1940, Rosenthal persuaded him to operate the Swiss end of an escape route across the lake for Jewish refugees. These were wealthy people. They brought easily transported valuables. You know. Diamonds, gold, jewellery, pictures.
‘Gottwald’s reward for his services was the sole right to dispose of these for their owners. He got a twenty per cent commission. It was a lucrative business. After he’d worked in this way for some time his reliability and discretion were well established, and a steady trickle of Jews was getting through.
