The first thought that flashed through Stefan’s mind was that this smell was chlorine and they needed to get off Eagle quickly, but as his brain began to classify the various organic molecules that he had detected, he quickly realized it wasn’t chlorine after all. In fact, it was a smell like no other: decaying human flesh.
Chief K began to vomit. Eyes watering, Stefan peered into the hold. He couldn’t miss it. A body. He stared at the clothes, the bloated face. Hard to tell who it was. And then he noticed the bare feet, soles bruised and scabbed. He pushed the hatch back in place. “Come on,” he said to Kate and Chief K.
In the clear air topside, Kate was the first to recover. “Who is it?” she asked, the reporter in her going to work. She reached for the notebook in her purse.
“The farm boy,” Stefan replied. “Jerzy. Chief, when was the last time you saw him?”
“Huh?” Chief K replied dully.
“Jerzy!” Stefan barked sharply, glaring down at the man. “He’s one of your men. How long has he been unaccounted for?”
Chief K recoiled as if slapped. “I… I … dunno exactly.”
“Think, man.”
“Yesterday. Yeah, that’s it. Maybe, midday. Left him tinkering. I went to get some shuteye. Then we surfaced, and everything got busy. Hans said he was sick. Flu or something. I didn’t think anymore about him.” The chief grabbed his head, began moaning. “What the hell was he doing down there. He should have known better. I should have watched him….”
Stefan motioned for one of the sailors on the deck. He had him take Chief K aside.
“I don’t understand,” Kate said. “How could something like that happen? And he’s been there the whole time while we?…”
“I’m sorry,” Stefan said. “You need to go. I must contact our embassy, get someone to look at the body.”
“Wait,” Kate protested.
Stefan shook his head, began leading her to the gangplank. “Please don’t make this difficult,” he said. “I’m very pleased to have met you, Miss Kate Roosevelt. Maybe we shall see each other again.” He turned and disappeared into the boat.
“I’ll take that bet, sailor,” Kate said.
Chapter Thirty
“My dear captain, you look much better, if I may say so.” Ritter stood and smoothed down the front of his uniform.
Sieinski looked out from beneath his towel, glanced with surprise around the room, and then back at Ritter. Steam still billowed out of the bathroom behind him. There was a slosh of water, and a woman’s giggle.
“What the hell?…” Sieinski said, reaching back and closing the door.
Ritter pointed to small pile of white powder on the table. “Refreshments and a bath and some recreational activities. You must feel like a new man. I must say you look like one.”
Sieinski blinked, recognition suddenly flaring across his face. He flung the towel aside, pulled his robe tightly around his waist and marched up to Ritter. “Who are you?” he said, jabbing a finger in front of Ritter’s nose.
In anyone else, Ritter would have admired the man’s composure. In this one, it was simply poppy-based courage. Ritter clicked his heels together. “Let me formally introduce myself. Fregattenkapitän Peter von Ritter of the German U-Bootwaffe. Under normal circumstances, I would then say ‘at your service.’ But really, the point of my visit, is to say, you are at my service.”
“Eagle?” Sieinski said with alarm.
“Aren’t you the sharp one, Captain. Indeed, Eagle.” Ritter glanced at his watch. “Right about now, Estonian officials are interning your vessel.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? The Eagle is a wonderful vessel. The Third Reich needed it. And so…”
Sieinski began to nod. “It has been you all along. The mechanical problems. The delays…”
“Of course, Captain,” Ritter cut in smoothly. “I never figured you for a stupid man. Distracted, but not stupid. We had to prime the pump of your gullibility. Convince you of the fragility of your new vessel. It wasn’t too difficult.”
Sieinski visibly sagged. He stepped away from the German officer, slumped into the chair. “My ship,” he whispered.
“Actually,” Ritter said, finger in the air, “my ship now.”
Sieinski struggled to rise, his face contorting in rage. Ritter stepped forward, pushed him back into the chair.
“And now we meet to discuss your fate, Captain.”
“What do you mean?” Sieinski said dully. His glance drifted over to the cocaine on the table.
“Soon enough, Captain,” Ritter purred, “I will leave you to your vices. But first you must do something for yourself and your men. Your ship is no longer under your command. But you still have men to lead. I’m told the Estonians are willing to send them home—and we will guarantee them safe passage—but only under your command. If not, their fate is uncertain, as is yours…”
“I need time to think,” moaned the captain.
“No time,” Ritter barked. “The fate of you and you men rest in making a decision at this point. Your father is also waiting to hear from me. Your cooperation will go a long way toward demonstrating the kind of cooperation we will expect from him and his rich friends when we complete our conquest of your country.”
Sieinski stared blankly at the German. “My father? But they will blame me.”
Ritter shrugged. “That is the nature of men and their leaders. You are forced to make difficult decisions. And then held accountable for them. And so, your decision, please.” Ritter began to pull on black leather gloves.
Sieinski, face in his hands, nodded. “I’ll do what you ask. I have your word we will be treated safely?”
“One gentleman to another,” Ritter bowed his head briefly.
“All right, then,” Sieinski surrendered.
“Very well, Captain,” Ritter said. “Good choice. Get dressed. You will stay here until an officer from the Estonian Navy comes to get you.” He crossed the room, opened the door. A German soldier was standing guard. “One of our men from the embassy. For your protection,” Ritter said, smiling.
Sieinski looked up. “And what of Poland?” he asked.
“Poland is no more,” Ritter said simply. He opened the door and left. Halfway down the hall he heard a muffled crash as Sieinski began to vent his rage on the furniture in his suite. “But of course, you already knew that,” he said to himself.
Stefan and two other sailors, their faces covered in masks, laid Jerzy’s body, wrapped in canvas, on the dock, and then backed away.
Removing the boy from the battery compartment had been a grisly task. Despite the masks, the men were almost overwhelmed by the smells from his already putrefying body. Rigor mortis had set in, forcing Stefan to break both of his legs in order to pull him out. At the sound of the first leg cracking like a piece of rotten wood, the eyes of one of the sailors standing by to help had rolled back in his head and he had dropped on the spot.
“What the hell happened to him,” panted one of the men, moving up wind.
Stefan was white-faced. It was hard to think what might have motivated the boy to crawl into the battery compartment on his own. And even if that unlikely event had managed to occur, why hadn’t anyone heard shouts from the trapped boy? And that still left someone to put the hatch cover back in place. Jerzy couldn’t have done it.