The questions ran until, ten minutes later, the guard returned with a schoolboy's geography book in his hand.
"This was all I could find, Major. Sorry."
"We'll make do." Thatcher took it and leafed through to a page that showed the northeastern United States. He turned it on the desk to face Scholl, and U-80Vs captain tapped a finger straight on the spot.
"Here. Just off the eastern end of Long Island."
Thatcher saw a town called Hampton. "All right. I'll double-check the position with your executive officer."
The German suddenly seemed hesitant. "Fritz? He is not here with the rest of the crew."
"No. He's in a hospital, over in Rhode Island. Recovering nicely from his infection, I'm told."
Thatcher watched carefully as the man who had battled the sea for so many years shifted slightly in his seat. It was a classic interrogator's tactic. He knew that with the crew interred together, any story line could have been concocted among them.
The executive officer was conveniently outside, an unassailable cross-check to the captain s story. The two men locked eyes and a new atmosphere fell into place. The captain had either lied or not told the entire truth. Was he doing it for the good of the fallen Reich? Thatcher doubted that. More likely he had done something improper, perhaps even criminal.
Thatcher lowered his voice and spoke slowly, suggesting a departure from the previous track. "Kapitanleutnant — I suspect there is something more. I'll offer two options. First, I can go to every man on your crew, including the executive officer, and compare their stories. This will waste a great deal of my time, which will make me angry. If anything should be brought to light that is questionable under the rules of this war, I will push very hard to have you and any culpable members of your crew prosecuted. On the other hand, if you tell me everything here and now, and I believe it to be true, you will not hear from me again. On this, you have my word as an officer. I will tell the Americans you have cooperated fully." Thatcher paused. "We have just finished a long and very nasty war. I am dedicated to cleaning up the loose ends, and this man you delivered to America may be a very significant one."
The U-boat commander found his balance. Far from being cowed by the ultimatum, he grinned, the blue eyes piercing into his interrogator. "I am glad, Major, that you spent the war in places like this and not in command of a destroyer. You might have given me trouble."
"We all have our uses. Now, what have you not told me?"
The German studied his adversary, a luxury he must rarely have had when he'd guided a ship under the ocean, Thatcher thought.
"The Wehrmacht captain is dead, Major. Put your mind at ease."
"What happened?"
"He was a bastard, but I only did him a favor. If he had been captured with the rest of us, he would have been identified as a spy and hanged." The German dropped his spent cigarette to the floor and twisted the toe of his boot over the remains. "We surfaced three miles from the shoreline, right where I showed you, and sent him above. Then we shut our hatches and dove. He had nothing. None of his equipment — and no raft."
"You don't think he could have swum ashore?"
"I can t imagine it. The water was cold. The currents. He is gone, Major."
Thatcher now understood Scholl's omission. It was certainly a crime, and as captain he was responsible, notwithstanding the logic that the spy would have been executed in any event. Yet by its very criminal nature, the confession was dressed in truth. They had thrown Braun overboard with almost no chance of survival. Almost no chance.
"But how can I be sure?" Thatcher wondered aloud.
The Kriegsmarine skipper grinned and shook his head. "Major, there were many times when I heard my torpedoes hit their mark, yet with destroyers buzzing around like angry wasps above, I could not venture a look to verify the kill. You must do what I did. Give yourself the benefit of the doubt. And move on to the next target."
The two weeks had passed like two years. Braun drifted through the currents of leisure — golf and tennis, lunch at the Newport Country Club, and even a formal dinner at the Van DeMeer's. Each affair was little more than a tease, like studying the design of a magnificent castle, knowing all along that a wrecking ball was imminent.
He was enjoying breakfast for once, so far alone in the huge dining room. As Braun gorged himself, he studied the abomination on the wall behind Sargent Cole's place at the head of the table. An exquisite Renoir was on display, one of the master's latter works emphasizing volume and contour. Hanging next to it was the most god-awful piece of modernist trash Braun had ever seen. That was what money allowed, he decided. Take something extravagant and, if the whim strikes, spit in its face.
He was tired, having been up nearly all night contemplating his course. He would have to leave soon, if for no other reason than to carry his false existence to a natural conclusion — the Japs were on the back foot, but not done yet, and Alex Braun, the soldier of obscure rank and service, had work to do. With Harrold House soon to be a distant memory, he needed something new, a plan to take him forward. Unfortunately, his only other connection with this country involved a rendezvous in New Mexico — for a mission he had no intention of completing.
He was taking his coffee when Edward bustled in.
"Good morning, Alex."
"Good morning, Edward."
Edward scooped sausage and a hard-boiled egg onto his plate. "What are your plans today?"
"Oh, the usual. A bit of tennis, then maybe lunch on the terrace." On his last day, Braun thought, he might add, And screwing your wife as a nightcap. Lydia had come to his room each night. After the first liaison, Braun had been unsure of what to do. He found Lydia s passion frustrating, distracting given the current circumstances. Continuing the affair carried risk, yet he had always answered her knock, satisfied her impulses. To what end he had no idea.
Edward said, "I'm taking Mystic out this afternoon. Care to come along?"
Braun would have preferred pistols at dawn. He'd already been out on the boat twice. It was a tedious affair as Edward blathered about his work and nautical exploits in inverse share to the demands of the boat — the greater the wind, the less he talked.
"Hows the weather?" Alex inquired.
"Should be a strong breeze today. A storms working its way up from the Carolinas."
"Might be fun." Braun weighed the thin positives of wasting another day at sea with Edward. But then his thoughts ricocheted down a very different path. He found himself saying, "Perhaps Lydia would come along."
"Lydia7. Good heavens, she hates heavy seas. It's all I can do to get her out on the bay."
"Well, we'd be good sports to ask." "Ask if you like, but I know what the answer will be." Braun got up to leave, taking a cup of coffee with him. "What time?"
"Oh, let's say three." "Right."
Chapter 17
With Edward at the office and her father tied up with business, Lydia decided it would be an ideal day to invite Alex to lunch at the Newport Country Club. And while she desperately wished she could spend the time alone with him, there was no choice — she had to bring mother. Lydia was an awful liar. If it were just she and Alex, the old hens roosting at their regular tables would see it in her eyes, and their tongues would wag mercilessly.
She found Alex in the library, standing in front of a large wall map of the United States, one finger planted on a spot to the lower left.
"Hello," she said.
Alex turned sharply, but then his eyes softened. His gaze drifted over her body in that open appraisal she so enjoyed. "You look fetching," he said.