"I told you that I think I know who your German scientist is. If it is the right man, his information could indeed be worth all this trouble."
"It is worth much more. I have seen the results with my own eyes."
"Still, if you can answer one question, Alex, it will convince me beyond a doubt. What was his code name?"
Braun wondered briefly how Beria could know this. But then he remembered — the man was a spy master.
"Die Wespe," Braun said. "The Wasp."
Lavrenti Beria smiled.
Chapter 40
The USS Indianapolis carved into the crystalline blue waters of Apra, Guam, on the morning of July 27th, 1945. The deep-water harbor was a largely natural formation. Cradled by the Orote Peninsula to the south, and Cabras Island to the north, modest hills of bleached white coral stood protectively around the glistening waters. The few enhancements to the natural breakwater were thanks to the U. S. Navy Seabees, who had been in possession of the island for nearly a year since the occupying Japanese forces had been evicted. The Seabees, starting from scratch as always, had turned a strip of barren coral rock into one of the world's busiest sea ports.
From the highest ground available, a short coral bluff, Lydia watched the huge ship lumber into the center of the harbor, gradually fall still, and then drop her massive anchor. It reminded her of a big dog marking its territory. There were several other ships in the harbor, a mix of sizes and purposes, but none were on the scale of Indianapolis. Lydia looked over her shoulder, wondering where Thatcher was. He had gone to use the telephone in the Naval Operations building. Tomas Jones had sent word that he'd be arriving with a team of FBI men to watch the harbor this morning. Oddly, she and Thatcher had seen no signs of them yet.
Thatcher came back hurriedly.
"Any luck?" she asked.
"No. They left the States three days ago, but nobody seems to know where Jones and his team are."
Lydia looked across the harbor. A small gray boat churned out toward Indianapolis, trailing a thin line of black smoke over the sunlit water. "But people will be coming ashore any minute. What can we do?"
"There's not much choice. We'll go down ourselves and see who comes off."
"But we don't even know who we're looking for," Lydia argued.
"No. Not unless we can spot Alex Braun."
Watching the small utility boat plow across Apra Harbor, neither knew that they were, at that very moment, looking directly at him.
He was seated on the aft bench of the small Navy tender. The craft plodded steadily through aquamarine water, its diesel engine growling at a constant pitch. As they closed in, Braun regarded the ship that lay before him.
She was ugly to begin with, a leviathan whose angular lines and blunt moldings were a pure crime of function over form. If this was not enough, she bristled with guns and antennae, the tools of destruction that were the very essence of her existence. Braun had seen beautiful ships. During the summer before his mother had died, they'd sailed to Europe on the S. S. Normandie. Even now, he remembered vividly that vessel's elegant flow and workmanship. Smooth, feminine curves. Cultured materials fitted by the hands of skilled craftsmen. Even Edward's little boat, Mystic, had held a certain grace. But the thing before him now was an abhorrence.
It made his task, to some degree, less unpalatable. When the war was over, Indianapolis would fall obsolete. Driving her home now to Davey Jones' Locker would simply save the world another rusting, mothballed eyesore. The fact that over a thousand men would be put in harm's way registered only as a footnote to Braun — here in the Pacific, the war still ran, and in the calculus of armed conflict such a disaster could not be differentiated from the bombings of Dresden or Tokyo. Braun had killed before, and while it had always involved one victim at a time, the mass of agony he was about to unfurl seemed no worse by way of its scale.
He pulled the sea bag at his feet closer. It had been given to him by Kovalenko, and contained everything one would expect a basic seaman to carry. Spare uniforms, a few personal effects, and — a touch Braun rather liked — a Bible. The bag also carried one thing no basic seaman would keep — a simple, yet powerful radio transmitter. It would activate intermittently over the next two days to act as a beacon.
Kovalenko had assured him that his bag would not be searched. Back at the pier, a sentry had gone over his orders and War Department ID card. Beria's people had done a fine job — the photograph, fingerprints, and physical description were all quite legitimate, and the ID even showed a slight stain from spilled beer. The guard had thumbed Braun past without a second look at his ubiquitous sailors sea bag.
The tender pulled up alongside the big ships boarding area, and Braun spotted a half dozen uniformed officers milling about in wait. He was not surprised. Though Braun had served in the army, he suspected officers were a predictable lot, regardless of service or country. The captain and his staff would probably be the first to go ashore. They'd mingle with their peers at headquarters, make a few token decisions about when and how Indianapolis would depart. Then the group would recess for an extended lunch at the Officer's Club. There, they'd gossip about promotions, assignments, nurses, and — if the mood struck — the war.
Lines were tossed, and the tender, rocking on small seas, was secured to the unmoving island that was Indianapolis. Braun scanned behind the gaggle of officers. He finally saw what he was looking for — Karl Heinrich with a suitcase chained to his wrist. The scientist did not see him, but then he wouldn't be looking for Braun here, and certainly not in a U. S. Navy uniform.
Braun stepped onto Indianapolis, following two other seamen. He tried to make eye contact with Heinrich, but the little German was talking to a Marine who was stationed at the gangway. The man was big and had the look of a fighter. Not that it mattered for the moment. Right now the only thing was to get Heinrich's attention. Braun had to keep him on the ship.
"Orders!"
The gruff command surprised Braun. He turned to see a weathered petty officer, his shoulder heavy with stripes. The man's hand was extended impatiently. Braun, uniformed as the lowest of the low, would get no respect. The Russians had wanted to make him a junior officer. Braun had argued that, while it might allow some small degree of authority once aboard, the commission would also bring duties and responsibilities. Instead, he had been suited as a basic seaman, his orders for kitchen duty. The expectations were slim — salute any officer, respect enlisted superiors, and know port from starboard. It was a part Braun could play convincingly.
He fished his orders and ID from a pocket. As the man looked them over, the group of officers began boarding the launch. At that moment, Heinrich looked up. The German did a double take. He went rigid, his eyes becoming huge circles.
Braun blinked slowly, deliberately, to indicate calmness. He then gave an almost imperceptible nod away from the launch.
"Any contraband in there?" the petty officer demanded as he handed back Braun's orders.
"Just a few bottles of whiskey, chief." Braun smiled.
The gruff man eased up and chuckled. "Yeah, well you just save one for me, sailor. And tell the cook to stop using that goddamn horse meat in the stew."
Braun slipped his papers back into his pocket and smiled again. "You bet." He walked toward the main passageway and saw Heinrich speaking to the Marine again. Rounding a corner, Braun was out of the crowd's sight. Heinrich appeared a moment later.
"What are you doing here?" he whispered. "I thought we were to meet on shore!"
"Steady, Karl. We have thought things through very carefully. You must trust our planning." Braun watched the effect of these words.