‘The British commander was armed. He was carrying a Walther PPK.’
‘I know. I’ve read your diary.’
‘How did the SS react when they learned about what had happened? If I may ask, sir?’
‘You have nothing to worry about, Lorenz. No one has suggested you were at fault.’
‘I’m surprised, Admiral.’
‘You may well be; however, that is — thankfully — how things stand. Now, I would suggest we move on.’ Dönitz suddenly appeared uncomfortable. He sighed and sat back in his chair. ‘Look: between you and me, Lorenz, I wasn’t happy about this escapade. There’s no such thing as a spare boat, and I wanted U-330 elsewhere at the time. Be that as it may, I was not able to refuse the request. Do you understand?’
‘It wasn’t good for the crew, sir,’ said Lorenz. ‘They’re sailors, they don’t like Fridays and they touch their collars for luck. Sutherland killed a man and then took his own life — on our boat! The men were… unsettled, Admiral.’
Dönitz lifted the war diary and turned it over so that the title page was facing upward: a clear indication that the matter was closed. Twitches around his lips resulted in an unconvincing smile. ‘Thirty-one thousand tons, all things considered a good total. But I know that you can do better.’
‘I’m sure I can, sir.’
‘Another twenty-eight thousand, Lorenz, that’s all that stands between you and a Knight’s Cross. I trust that when you return from your next patrol, you will have given us good reason to celebrate.’
‘Thank you for your confidence, sir.’ The sun edged into view, and the window pane behind Dönitz’s head was instantly transformed into an oblong of white brilliance. Lorenz shaded his eyes.
The hotel café Astoria functioned as an unofficial social club for the 1st U-boat flotilla. It was patronized largely by those who eschewed the dubious pleasures of the Casino Bar and tended to attract the higher ranks: officers, warrant officers, and very occasionally a visiting commodore. Conversations took place against a constant background roar of battle reenactments and immoderate, drunken hilarity, while the statutory chanteuse, whose ruined voice resembled a foghorn, competed for attention with the assistance of a surprisingly energetic trio of elderly musicians.
Lorenz was standing at the long, brightly lit lounge bar, stooped over his beer, eyeing his own reflection: a well-groomed man with a clearly defined jaw and dark slicked-back hair. Behind his shoulders, the mirror revealed a large, crowded space of peeling gilt and threadbare fustian receding into hazy obscurity. Overhead, an ostentatious chandelier manufactured miniature rainbows.
‘How was it in the Lion’s den?’ asked Graf.
‘He growled a bit,’ Lorenz replied. ‘But on the whole he was perfectly civil.’
‘Did he say anything about — you know — our little errand for the SS?’
‘Not a great deal. It’s as though the whole episode never happened. Or at least that’s how they want it to appear now.’
‘Perhaps someone important blundered.’ Graf raised his glass and after taking a few sips, licked the foam from his upper lip.
‘That seems very likely,’ Lorenz nodded.
‘I’d still like to know what it was all about, though…’ Graf was distracted by a loud crash. A chief petty officer had fallen to the floor and his companions were trying to get him back on his feet again.
‘Where are you taking your leave?’ asked Lorenz. He was glad of the opportunity to change the subject.
‘My wife’s coming here at the end of the week,’ Graf replied. ‘And then we’re going to spend some time at the chateau.’
‘Which one?’
‘De Trévarez. Have you been yet?’
‘No.’
‘It’s right out in the Breton countryside, overlooking Châteauneuf-du-Faou — rolling hills — beautiful.’ Graf seemed to be absorbed by recollections of the picture-postcard retreat, where, between patrols, U-boat men could stay and relax with their wives or paramours. Embarrassed by his temporary absence, Graf excused himself and added, ‘Then we’re going back to Dresden. The children are staying with my mother-in-law until we get back.’ Tilting his head to one side, he inquired: ‘And you, Kaleun?’
‘Paris.’
Graf gave a sly smile and nodded knowingly. For a brief, passing instant, Lorenz was tempted to disclose something more, but he found that he could not speak openly about his private life. Consequently, their conversation became disjointed. Graf yawned and said that he was going to bed. Lorenz stayed on, drinking alone, thinking of Paris and Faustine — her little apartment in the Marais, and their intense, desperate lovemaking. When he finally stumbled out of the Hotel Café Astoria at an hour much later than he had originally planned, he discovered that he had drunk too much and the cobbles felt springy and buoyant underfoot. He needed to walk in order to sober up and he found himself, without much consideration, heading off in the direction of the naval harbor.
The massive steel doors of the bunker were wide open. Painted over the cavernous entrance was a stylized, angular eagle clutching a swastika in its talons and beneath this totemic emblem was a slogan, rendered in blockish, utilitarian lettering: THROUGH STRUGGLE TO VICTORY. Two armed guards acknowledged Lorenz’s approach and an administrator wearing a uniform decorated with silver trim looked up from his clipboard.
Once inside, Lorenz marched along a corridor that passed between workshops. The air was permeated with dust and the stench of burning rubber. Men in dungarees operated lathes and milling machines — acetylene torches hissed, sparks fell in glittering cascades, and carpenters sawed, hammered, and hollered: the din was unremitting. Near the firefighters’ room a throng parted respectfully to allow Lorenz through, and he continued to penetrate the bunker complex until he arrived at the entrance to pen ‘A.’
The dimensions of the structure inspired a reaction akin to religious awe. Lorenz registered converging perspective lines, huge planes of damp concrete, and an inestimable volume of empty space. There was something about its size, its airy vastness, that invited comparison with a cathedral, even though the interior was entirely functional and without ornament. High above the wooden crates on the quayside the ceiling was covered with panels of corrugated steel and spanned by the gantry of a mobile crane. Two hinged, overlapping metal doors provided defense against the sea and upward of these was an opening through which Lorenz could see a slab of black sky.
U-330 had been lowered onto stocks and the harsh glare of the surrounding lights exposed every detail of its distempered skin, eruptions of blistering paint and florid outcrops of rust which, like soft-tissue ulcers, appeared to be producing runnels of brown discharge. A stab of pity caused Lorenz to catch his breath. To him, the boat did not look like an inanimate object, but rather a great wounded leviathan. Schmidt and Krausse were guarding the footbridge: fear of sabotage had become so great that only crew members and authorized personnel were permitted on board. As Lorenz approached, Schmidt saluted. ‘The repair team was called away, Herr Kaleun. Some kind of emergency in the next pen, and they needed extra hands.’
‘Well,’ said Lorenz, ‘there’s no hurry. We’re not going anywhere for a while. Anything I should know about?’
‘Nothing specific,’ said Schmidt. ‘They say there’s a lot to do.’
‘That’s hardly surprising,’ Lorenz responded. ‘We took a few knocks this time, didn’t we?’
‘Yes, sir — we certainly did.’
Gesturing toward the boat, Lorenz continued, ‘I’m going to take a look.’
He set off down the footbridge, and craning over the hand rail observed that the floor of the pen was still mottled with puddles of seawater. He also noted some conspicuous dents in the bulging fuel tank. On reaching the other side of the channel that separated the deck from the quayside he climbed the conning tower and lowered himself through the hatch.