"Morning, Edward, Lydia." Braun watched her smile through a mouthful of food. "You look famished," he prodded.
With Edward lost behind his newspaper, Lydia smiled brazenly and winked.
Braun went to the buffet. He found a half dozen selections in such huge quantities that he knew most would go to waste, even after the servants had had their chance. He paused at a massive stand of bacon. No one here could imagine the conflict he felt as he reflected on the last time he'd seen such a pile of pork. Desperate for any warmth on a subzero Russian night, he had slept huddled against a sow. The next morning, his fellow troops had slaughtered the animal and gorged themselves. Braun moved to the eggs.
"Are you working today, Edward?" Lydia asked.
Edward peered around the Journal "Of course, dear. A few hours, anyway. I'll never make partner if I dont at least show my face each day."
Partner, Braun thought. The summit of his ambition.
Edward said, "But my doctor has prescribed fresh air, so Til be taking the boat out this afternoon. What do you say, Alex? Are you up for some sailing?" He turned to Lydia. "I'd invite you as well dear, but the forecast is for strong southeasterlies — it might be rough."
Lydia said,"You know I dont enjoy the nasty weather, darling."
"Alex, what do you say? I suppose you haven t been on a boat in some time."
Having just spent nearly two weeks crashing across the Atlantic on a U-boat, Braun smiled. He had always regarded sailing as an aimless discipline. Drifting slowly, the wind blowing you where it wanted. It was far too serendipitous. He preferred to live by design. On the other hand, he had nothing more pressing.
Braun looked at Edward and beamed. "Why not?"
PART II
Chapter 14
Two weeks. Two frustrating weeks. Thatcher again made his way down the hall to the Records Section. He'd averaged six hours a day there, pouring over rosters from the British and American POW camps. There were millions of names, thousands of lists. Some were organized alphabetically, some by rank, and others not at all. So far he'd found no Alexander Braun. It weighed on Thatcher that the man might have used a false name. It weighed on him that Braun could have been taken in a Red sector — if so, he'd likely never be heard from again. Even with a lack of new arrivals, other work was accumulating on Thatcher's desk. Perhaps it was a wild-goose chase, as Roger had insisted. As the American Jones would have him believe.
He decided to give it one more day. If he didn't find anything, he'd move on. Passing through the office entrance, a lethargic young sergeant greeted him.
"Mornin', Major. Back for more?"
Thatcher was about to answer when he stopped abruptly. He turned and glanced at the open door. Something, but what? He stared at the words stenciled onto the wood: records section. He then shifted to what was beneath. C-18. Room C-18. Something about it stirred his gray matter. U-801. Letters and numbers. They could be used for many things. U-801. Klein had assumed it was a filing note. Thatcher scurried into the room.
"I must know if the Germans had a submarine designated U-801. If so, I need to find out where it is now."
The clerk at the desk yawned, his breath laced with coffee. "I thought you was lookin' for a bloke, sir."
Thatcher gave a hard stare.
"Right," the sergeant said. He meandered into a back room, reappearing five long minutes later. He plopped a file on the counter. "If it's the German Navy you're after, these'd be all the messages we have. They're not separated — some are confirmed sinkings, some ships were captured, and the rest surrendered. Goes back for years."
"What if I need to find the crew of a particular boat?"
The man shrugged. "Best of luck, sir. One or two might have crew manifests attached."
"If I want to find a specific captain?"
"I suppose most mention the commanding officers, aside from the ones that went down."
"And if I find a name, can we locate that person?"
The sergeant smiled wryly. "If we got to him before the Russians? Piece of cake, just like that other one you're lookin' for. Only about two million names on the prisoner of war rosters."
"All right. First we'll concentrate on the boat."
The sergeant's smile evaporated as Thatcher cut the thick stack and shoved half his way.
"We? You want me to get on with this?"
"We're looking for U-801. With any luck, she's surrendered or been captured in the last few weeks."
Thatcher pulled up a chair and dove into his stack. When the enlisted man didn't follow suit he shot the man a pointed look. Soon both were scouring a thousand messages in search of a single boat.
The break came after four hours.
"Bollocks!" The sergeant waved a message. "U-801. She surrendered to an American destroyer off the coast of Cape Cod, in the States. Two weeks ago. They escorted her to the Naval Air Station Quonset Point. The boat was given up and the crew interned."
"So she did go to America!" Thatcher said excitedly. He thought it through. "And she turned herself over in America for one of two reasons. They were either low on fuel, or they didn't know which adversary had occupied their home port in Germany — if surrender was inevitable, the Americans or British would have been much preferred to the Russians."
He took the message and saw that it had no reference to U-80Vs captain or where he and the crew were being held. Thatcher felt a stirring in his blood. He had to find out, and there was only one sure way.
"Absolutely not!" Roger Ainsley slammed a palm down on the bar. "I need you here Michael, not traipsing around America looking for ghosts."
It was mid-afternoon, but the usual crowd at the Cock and Thistle had come early. The celebration had been nonstop since victory over the Jerries had been declared, and Ainsley's raised voice was lost amid a room buzzing with raucous chatter. Thatcher sat calmly in the face of it all.
"It's the only way, Roger. This mission was something big. We have to be sure it's ended."
"It has ended. This U-boat surrendered."
"The boat was lurking off the coast of America. And it was there to deliver Braun."
"We know no such thing!"
"He's probably in a prisoner of war camp," Thatcher reasoned. "If not, the crew can tell us what became of him. Either way, I can't miss this chance to close the book on Alexander Braun."
"It's too thin," Ainsley argued. He then changed tack. "Anyway, I need you here, Michael."
"No you don't. You told me they're closing the place down. It's only natural that the pipeline will slow. And besides, I haven't been off station in two months, since I tracked down that cutthroat Smoltz."
The bartender slid a pair of replacement pints in front of the two officers without asking, and removed the first-round empties. It was the final installment of their customary order.
"Roger, it's my job to hunt down the ones that have slipped through — the high-profile cases. Let me get on top of this one while it's still fresh."
Ainsley shook his head and took a long draw on his mug.
"My mind is made up," Thatcher said. "You know what a nuisance I can be when my mind is made up."
"You've really slipped your moorings, Michael. I should deny it just for the sport. And make you take a week's leave."
"If you give me a week's leave, you know where I'll go straightaway." Thatcher waited patiently.
"Bloody hell! Two weeks. Not a minute more."
Thatcher grinned. "I'm sure it won't take any longer."
Chapter 15
The next morning Thatcher took his tea with honey, hoping to soothe the unmistakable rawness that was building in his throat. His body ached — more than usual — and the pressure in his sinuses sealed it. He was coming down with a cold. The timing was miserable, but there was nothing to be done.