Schurz nodded. “In that case we’d better be off.”
“I would say so. I’ll help you cast off.”
He turned off his flashlight, pulled back the blackout curtains, and led the way down the narrow companionway. Spurning Schurz’s help he dragged the gangplank from its hold on the dock and dropped it onto the deck. He stepped on the rail, prepared to jump the small distance to the pier, and waved a hand.
“Good luck. Heil Hitler.”
“Heil Hitler!” It was said in a whisper.
Sneller jumped down lightly to the dock. He unwound the ropes that held the boat both forward and aft from the dock bollards tossing them lightly toward the Linderndsee already drifting from the dock, waving a hand in a last good-bye. Schurz waved in return and then dragged the ropes aboard, tossing them in a heap against the rail. He then hurried up the companionway to the small bridge, Sneller already forgotten. He pulled the blackout curtains farther to one side and studied the binnacle a moment. Then he pressed the engine starter, pleased to hear the engine catch at once. He brought the speed to SLOW and headed the boat for the entrance of the estuary to the sea. As the first slight wave of the Baltic lifted the prow of the Linderndsee, Schurz raised the speed and headed the ship toward Gedser, across the narrow arm of the Baltic. Then, for the first time that long, long day, he took a deep shuddering breath, feeling himself begin to tremble.
He had done it! He had actually gotten away with it! And he had done it alone. There was no point in even counting Petterssen, who not only had been more of a handicap than a help, but who would shortly be dead. He tried to control the trembling, but it seemed to be a thing outside of himself. For a moment he wondered if he should lash the wheel long enough to go below and take a stiff drink of schnapps to settle his nerves, but he knew this was no answer. He also felt a sudden desire to sing at the top of his voice, or to yell his exultation, but he knew how sound carried over water. And he still had seventy miles or so to go to reach Trelleborg in Sweden, and in this boat that would mean at least six hours at sea. Time to sing or yell when he had beached the boat at his final destination.
The trembling slowly abated under the constant need to keep an eye open for the sign of any ship, or any light; the steady burbling sound of the engine’s exhaust had a hypnotic effect that also needed to be fought against. No, schnapps was the last thing in the world he needed. He settled himself at the wheel, forcing his mind to forget the successful events of the day, even forcing himself not to think of the future. All there was, was the present, the boat and the sea and the many miles to go. The Linderndsee headed steadily out across the waters.
Below in the small cabin, Petterssen raised his tragic-looking face at the sound of the engine starting. The rumble of the gasoline motor, transmitted through the small boat in vibrations as well as sound was, he knew, a knell for him. There was no doubt in Petterssen’s mind that Schurz had no intention—had never had any intention—of allowing him to live to share that treasure in that crate on deck. Why, then, had he come along? Petterssen did not know. He only knew that he was tired of hiding, tired of running, tired of being afraid, tired of everything.
Should he turn the tables and kill Schurz before Schurz killed him? But to what end? He could not go back to Germany, and Sweden held no future for him; to his family and his friends he was a traitor. And what would he do with the treasure if he had it? He would have no idea where to go to dispose of it, to turn it into kroner, or any other currency. Besides, he didn’t want the treasure. If it hadn’t been for the treasure he wouldn’t be here now, waiting to be killed. Yet, maybe it was better to let Schurz kill him. Maybe that was the answer. He wondered exactly how Schurz planned to kill him. By gun? But the German had not had a gun on the train, he was sure of that; unless, of course, the captain had given him one when the two of them had gone up to the bridge. By knife? The thought was distasteful. He felt a shiver go through him. He hoped it was not by knife, although that was a distinct possibility. Certainly the German could not be considering attempting to throttle him, since he could break Schurz in two if he had a mind to. Still, by whatever method, he was sure that Schurz was fully prepared to handle the matter as efficiently as he had handled everything else in connection with getting the treasure.
And after he was dead?
Then Schurz undoubtedly planned to dump him overboard. That, at least, was not distasteful. The sea would be warm this time of year, and soft and comforting. Yes, letting Schurz till him was one solution to the pain he was feeling, a pain that had no source and therefore no cure. In fact, it was undoubtedly the only solution.
But it would certainly go better all around if he had some of that schnapps the captain had mentioned. Otherwise he might resist, might even avoid being killed, and that would never do. He came to his feet, bending a bit under the low overhead, and suddenly staggered as the ship dipped. They had entered the Baltic, then. He only had a few hours left of life. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that. How many people, he suddenly wondered, would have been relieved to know the exact hour of impending death? Probably more than one imagined.
He crossed the room and opened the lockers there one by one until he found the one the captain had referred to. He nodded as he considered the many bottles within. Yes, there was certainly enough schnapps there to drink oneself to death if one cared to, he thought a bit sadly, or if one had the time. Unfortunately, he always either got sick or fell asleep before he had had anywhere near enough to cause death. It was a pity in a way. It would have been the ideal way to cheat Schurz of the satisfaction of killing him. Still, one could always try. And in any event, enough schnapps to numb the thought of death when the moment came could do no harm. He took a bottle back to the bunk with him, opened it, and drank deeply.
The schnapps was of top grade, and it occurred to Petterssen that possibly in the past he had gotten sick or fallen asleep because he had never been able to get his hands on liquor of such fine quality. Maybe with this he could get enough down to never wake up. But the bottle was not even half-finished when he had to suppress a deep yawn and knew he would never make it to death in this fashion. It was such a pity; life was so unfair! He felt a lump in his throat and felt tears begin to roll down his cheeks. What a shame! A man of his talents, and he couldn’t even choose his own way of dying!
He looked around the cabin with reddened, swollen eyes, taking in the effects one by one. If he had gone to sea as a boy, as many of his friends had done, he would not be in the position he was in. Maybe he would have ended up the owner of a boat such as this, not big but big enough. In the evenings, after a hard day’s work, he could have come to a cabin such as this one, and instead of waiting for death could have rested, or read by the light of the lamp … the lamp! The lamp! He set the bottle at his feet and moved unsteadily to the table with the lamp on it. He studied the bottle of gas and then watched the steady flame of the lamp burning within the glass enclosure. He smiled and then began to giggle. He reached over to the tank and slowly turned the valve, watching the lamp begin to flicker and dim. One final twist and the light disappeared completely, leaving the curtained cabin in total darkness. Now Petterssen opened the valve fully, sniffing at the aperture over the glass enclosure. For a moment he felt a touch of panic—there was no smell! But the sudden wave of dizziness that washed over him convinced him that the gas was pouring out, smell or no smell. He groped his way back to the bunk and sat down, feeling for the bottle on the deck. He found it and raised it to his lips. Just one more drink and then to sleep, he said to himself. Just one more drink and then … He lay back on the bunk, inhaling deeply, and smiled at the thought of Schurz’s surprise and undoubted disappointment.
Before the war, and even during the early years of it when the enemy to the south pretended to respect its neighbor’s neutrality, Eric Hansen had been captain of a Danish destroyer—the Hval, the Whale, and it was a bitter day for Captain Hansen when, together with other naval commanders, he was ordered to s
cuttle his ship to prevent it from falling into the hands of the Germans. But Hansen was a man who believed in obeying orders, and he did not hesitate. Opening the sea cocks of his beloved vessel and watching it slowly sink did nothing to further endear the hated Germans to him, nor did the years he spent in internment as a result of the sinking. Only his escape when the building in which he was held was bombed by the British air force in March of 1945 made the outraged mariner feel there was any justice in the world at all.
Now, a mere two months later, the war was over and Captain Eric Hansen was once again the master of a ship. It was not a very large ship, and while it was supposedly a naval vessel of sorts, it was merely a coast-guard cutter, and the only weaponry it carried was an old 40-mm Bofors cannon mounted forward at the narrow prow, plus the rifles issued to the crew when the necessity for them arose.
The mission of the cutter was a simple one, to attempt to prevent any smuggling, or—and more important to Captain Hansen—to prevent the illegal entry of the hated tyskerne wishing to escape a country devastated through their own insanity, to the far more stable and prosperous Denmark. It was not the same as commanding a destroyer, of course, but far more satisfying. In the one month Captain Hansen had commanded the Elritse he had seen more action than in the eight years he had had the bridge of the Hval.
The area patrolled by the Elritse—the Minnow, named by Captain Hansen in a rare moment of black humor, for he was basically a humorless man—was along the eastern shore of Sjaelland Island, leaving Copenhagen from its base on the Öresund, then around Amager to skirt the shores of the Køge Bugt, past Mø and Falster to the lighthouse at Gedser, and then to return. When not stopping and searching suspicious-looking ships, Captain Hansen was proud of maintaining a rigid schedule of patrol. But tonight it was certain that no schedule was going to be maintained. A bit of flotsam off Øbylyng in the Køge Bugt had caught the ship’s propeller, twisting it badly. The inspection and attempted repair by the ship’s engineer, sent below with scuba gear and a light, took an hour from the schedule, and the slow speed required to avoid damage to the propeller-shaft bearings, brought the Elritse around Falster a good two hours late. Captain Hansen had just about decided to abort his patrol and return to the base for definitive repairs, when there was a whistle from the speaking tube on the bridge. Hansen moved over, picking it up.
“The captain here.”
“Lookout here, sir. A small boat, two points off the starboard bow, distance between three and four miles. Running without lights, sir …”
Hansen picked up his night glasses and trained them in the indicated direction. The small boat that came into his sights seemed to be the perfect example of a smuggler’s vessel, undoubtedly expecting the patrol would have already been well on its way on its return trip. Hansen had always known holding a rigid schedule was foolish, but orders were orders. And now when he was sure he had a smuggler in his sights, he had to be with a crippled ship! Still, the smuggler couldn’t know that. He picked up the speaking tube.
“Lookout—”
“Sir?”
“Signal that ship to lay to and await our boarding party.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The flasher on the lookout platform went into action. The captain turned to his mate.
“Have a gunner stand by the Bofors.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The mate hurried out. Captain Hansen trained his glasses on the ship running at a slight angle to his own course. Was it possible it was not a smuggler, even though running without lights? Certainly there seemed to be no fear of the cutter, well-illuminated though it was. Nor did the other ship make any effort to take any evading action. On the other hand, there was no reply to the order to lay to nor any effort to do so. The small ship was clearly visible now in the brilliant arc of the Gedser lighthouse as it swept around on its steady path. Captain Hansen frowned and swung the wheel a bit, setting a course to intersect the other’s path, reaching with one hand for the speaking tube.
“This is the captain. Fire a shot across his bow!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
On board the Linderndsee Schurz had been dozing. The steady drone of the engines, the even vibrations of the ship, the soothing hypnotic rising and falling of the ship as it easily breasted the slight waves of the calm sea, together with the fact that he had not had any decent rest for several days, all combined to induce a lethargy beyond his ability to control. His head rested between two spokes of the wheel, unconsciously holding the ship on course. He had been dreaming of his days as a lieutenant in barracks, trying to sleep, when suddenly some schlaumeier started to play a flashlight across his eyes to try to wake him up. He turned his head a bit to avoid the irritating clown, and bumped his forehead on one of the spokes. He started to come awake and then sat erect, frightened by the loud boom of a cannon. Ahead of him a spout of water incredulously rose in the air.
Schurz stared, trying to get his confused senses to explain to him what was happening. There, approaching him all lit up like a Christmas tree, with a flasher working like crazy from somewhere above the bridge, was what had to be a coast-guard cutter! He glanced quickly at the chronometer, awake at last. He was less than an hour from Warnemünde! How did the damned patrol boat happen to be here when it should have been halfway back to its base by now? Damn himself for falling asleep at the wheel, but double damn that lying traitor Sneller! Schurz promised himself that if he came out of this alive he would personally see to it that information went to the Russians telling them exactly where they could put their bloody hands on Captain Ernst Sneller of the Unterseedienst!
He thrust the throttle to the maximum, turning the ship away from the cutter, and then knew he was wasting time. He forced himself to think clearly. The cutter was no more than two miles away, fifteen or twenty minutes between them at the most. If he turned and ran they could easily send him to the bottom with a well-placed shot from their cannon. As if to prove the point another waterspout rose even closer to him, the echo of the boom reverberating over the water. He pulled back the throttle and reached for the switch controlling the deck lights. What happened to him was unimportant. What was vitally important was that the treasure not fall into the hands of the enemy. He hastily lashed the wheel to keep the ship from swinging and presenting a broader target if they decided to sink it despite his surrender, and ran down the companionway. He paused at the chest containing the treasure, looking about him wildly, seeking some sort of orientation. There! The lighthouse itself gave one direction! He swung about, frantically searching for some other marker to give location to his instant triangulation. There were a few lights from the village, strung along what seemed to be a dock of sorts. It would have to do. Someday, somehow, he would recover this chest, but the most important thing was that the treasure must not fall into enemy hands! Not now, not after all the work and risk and fears and triumphs—or at least near-triumphs! No, not now!
He bent to the Herculean but urgent task of raising the heavy crate to dump it over the rail, but the strain was too much. The patrol was now only a mile or so away, and while it seemed for some unknown reason to be merely creeping, they were still only minutes away. He bent to the task again, but he could barely budge the heavy case. Damn! Damn, damn, damn! Why had he demanded the treasure be put in a steel case? Did he subconsciously know that it might have to be dumped? But what if it had? Gold didn’t suffer from salt water. No, it was just one more thing to frustrate him!
He paused, panting, thinking furiously, and then looked up. Petterssen! The big ox was useless, but one final task he would be given—to help put the crate overboard. And if he refused? Schurz promised himself that Petterssen would not refuse, not with a knife in his ribs! He abandoned his efforts with the crate and glanced up. The patrol was even closer; there was no time to be lost. He dashed down the companionway to the cabin below decks, and shoved open the door.
No light! So Petterssen was sleeping, eh? Well, he’d wake the big ox in a hurry, and there would be no n
onsense from him, either. Or he wouldn’t live to die later! A sudden dizziness seemed to bother Schurz, but he put it down to his lack of sleep and the shock of awakening to find the patrol cutter bearing down on them. No time now for ailments! he told himself sternly, and reached into a pocket for a match, lighting it.
From the log of the Danish cutter Elritse, entered by her captain, Eric Hansen:
23 May, 1945: Propeller shaft twisted after hitting unknown object at 2315 22 May necessitating delay and reduced speed thereafter. At 0205 today encountered small “boat running without lights off Gedser light. Flashed orders for it to lay to and when it did not obey, fired several shots across her bows. In our crippled condition she could have outrun us, but unaware of that fact, elected instead to self-destruct. The Elritse cruised the spot where she blew up and foundered until 0300. There were no signs of survivors or anything to indicate what cargo the ship carried so precious as to cause the smuggler to blow the ship rather than lay to and submit to search…
III
1979
CHAPTER SEVEN
GEDSER—January
Winter storms on the Baltic are not uncommon, but the one that raged down from the north that day in late January surpassed any of the long, bitter season. Knud Christensen, standing at the window of his farmhouse outside of Gedser, stared with concern out over the sea. Ahead was nothing but a wall of white sweeping over gray waters lashed by wind. The small dock at the end of his property was barely visible, with the high waves washing over it, foaming as they tried to sweep away the dory anchored under it. But it was not the vulnerability of the dory that concerned Christensen. He was worried about his two brothers, out in the storm. They were both seasoned fishermen, both excellent sailors, but this storm had come up so suddenly, so viciously, that any boat caught in it could be in danger.
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