She nodded.
"We still have to leave this boat on the beach so they won't hunt for it with the submarine," he pointed out. "We still have to hike to the cove."
"I understand. So hurry, let's… wait." She sat straighter. "Wait, wait. You told me the cave was blown up. What happened to the last batch of lake organism?"
"Sealed with the Nazis, I suppose."
"My God." She seized his parka. "We can stop them!"
"What?"
"Don't you see? The only lake organism left is on the submarine and Schmidt hasn't locked that away yet; he's still expecting more from underground when Jürgen returns. If we destroy it they can't reproduce any in Germany! They'll have the disease but no cure, and unless they're totally insane they won't dare unleash it! We can beat them, Owen! If we hurry!"
"Go back inside? They'll recognize me, Greta. They'll ask too many questions."
"I know. I'll do it. It's late, people are asleep. I'll hurry."
"What if someone notices what you're doing?"
"I'll do it quickly, quietly."
"No, it's too risky…"
"Trust me, Owen." And then before he could grab her she was springing back on deck and trotting to the hatch. She yanked it open and disappeared inside.
The sailor came clambering down from the conning tower. The pilot's hand drifted to the submachine gun and he waited, tensely.
"I thought she was going with you?" The question was troubled, suspicious, the sailor's features invisible in the dark.
Hart shrugged. "She is. But she forgot something." He spat. "You know. Women."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Greta climbed down to the main deck and listened. The submarine hummed with the ceaseless, oil-scented drone of a warship, but was otherwise still. The desultory sailor on watch in the control room barely nodded as she slipped down the midships ladder to her laboratory, her pulse hammering. She opened the hatch cautiously. Empty. She closed it after her.
Despite her abortive efforts at straightening the lab, clutter remained. Schmidt's tank of drug was in plain view on a crate used as a makeshift table, the drug storage tubes he'd emptied into it scattered around. Remaining canisters of the organic sludge sat on the deck along one bulkhead. The workbench with its bacterial cultures of disease was on the other. Beakers and flasks and pots remained crusted with paste. The surviving rabbits skittered in their cages at her entrance, no doubt afraid of another needle. She'd thought she was done with this claustrophobic warren and yet here she was again.
She moved decisively. A sampling of the drug sludge went into a bottle slipped into her pocket. Then she lifted the heavy canister it came from and began pouring the remainder into their drain pipe. The unprocessed organism would go into the U-boat's waste system and overboard. It glugged with glacial slowness but at last emptied. She let the canister drop to the deck and picked up another. She was sweating in her heavy outdoor gear.
There was a click and a bump as the hatch opened again. She started, but kept pouring. Probably Jacob, the animal tender, and she could outbluff any sailor. It would be enough to point to the disease. Get out, go away! It's dangerous down here!
Boots thumped onto the deck. She prepared to turn suddenly in irritation.
"What do you think you're doing?"
She jumped. It was Schmidt! She looked at him in guilty surprise as he watched her pour. He seemed confused and haggard.
"Max! I thought you were asleep."
"Having coffee." His expression began to narrow. "Sleep has tended to elude me of late, and a chance mention by the watch of your being down here got me curious." His look became grim. "I shudder to think what might have happened had I not decided to investigate. Put that damn container down. Now."
Reluctantly, she did so. "I only— "
"Only what? Only wanted to destroy everything we worked for. Back away from that drain pipe, Frau Biologist. Thank God more is coming from the cave." He paused, considering her clothes, her midnight appearance. "Or is it? Are you finally ahead of us, Greta? Do you finally know something I don't?"
"That would be difficult, Max, given that you know everything." Her expression was one of intense hatred. Also, of triumph.
"Bitch!" His hand cracked across her face and she went flying against the remaining algal containers, knocking several over. The cap snapped off one and its contents began sloshing across the metal deck grating, draining into the bilge. She shook her head dumbly. The blow was so hard she was dazed, her vision blurred.
"Violence seems to be your forte, Max," she said, glancing sideways at the still-full algal containers. Suddenly, she turned and grabbed for the bottles, getting a cap off one before Schmidt was on top of her.
"Get your hands off that!" He seized her by the hair and hauled her backward, trying to strike her with the other fist. His clumsy blows were blocked by the arm she lifted to ward off his attack. He was taller but old and not particularly strong. She twisted and kicked, making him wince. Then they grappled, Greta punching and biting and scratching for her life. He managed to get behind her with an arm around her windpipe and began choking. They stumbled, locked in a pained dance, her voice cut off and Schmidt wheezing as he desperately tried to master a woman thirty years younger than himself. She realized she was beginning to black out and groped wildly with a free hand, looking for a weapon. Her fingers skittered on a glass cylinder, rejected it, then seized it again. Yes! One of his damned hypodermics!
She stabbed. The needle went into Schmidt's shoulder near his neck and the doctor squealed, letting go to claw at the agonizing sting. As he did so she shoved as hard as she could. He lurched sideways and there was a splintering crash. The crude workbench broke from its supports and the beakers, flasks and glass petri dishes with their agar films of plague culture shattered, bits skittering across the laboratory. Like a reproducing fungus, a puff of spores from a broken test tube blossomed into the air.
Schmidt, ensnared in the wreckage, looked goggle-eyed in horror. The hypodermic needle jutted from his shoulder as if sucking at the droplet of bright blood that appeared there. Bits of glass and microbial culture littered his skin. He lifted himself on his elbows. "You've infected me!" he gasped in disbelief. Reaching, he jerked the hypodermic out of his shoulder, groaning. "He was so weak to bring you…"
She brought the cylinder of algal drug powder down on the doctor's head. There was a solid thud and he fell back, unconscious.
"Shut up, you old ghoul." The words were a croak from her sore throat.
She listened, but all she heard was the hum of the ship. Schmidt would have closed the hatch when he came down. So. Think. Consider the variables. She took a shuddering breath. God what a mess!
Numbly, almost automatically, she tipped the remaining containers of the cave organism toward the oily bilge. It was the best she could do with her shaking tremble. Schmidt remained still. She had no idea if he was alive or dead and was too frightened to inspect him. Too much in shock to care. Think! She hefted the cylinder of the drug. The germs were loose, thrown everywhere by the fight: she probably carried some on her clothes. She needed to treat herself. And Owen. And… The hum of the ship. My God. She looked at the ventilator opening, exchanging air, sucking in spores. But if she took the remaining drug with her…
If she took it and the submarine turned into a Bergen, all these men would die.