‘Friends?’ said Falk, hopefully.
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ Lorenz quipped before speaking through the communications pipe: ‘Half speed, both engines.’ He then requested some minor alterations to their course.
‘Small, isn’t she?’ said Falk.
‘And no guns,’ Lorenz replied. ‘Not what I was expecting.’
Lorenz ordered small arms to be distributed on the bridge. Falk and Ziegler looked uneasy. ‘A precautionary measure,’ Lorenz reassured them. ‘I’m sure we’ll be welcomed like the prodigal son.’
As they drew closer, a rift appeared in the clouds and moonlight poured through the opening. ‘Well, that should make things a little easier,’ said Falk.
Lorenz leveled his binoculars. ‘What a tub!’
‘Do you have any idea what all this is about?’ Falk asked. ‘Surely you can say now?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Lorenz’s breath condensed in front of his mouth. ‘The message contained very little information. Anyway, we’ll all know soon enough, won’t we?’ He gestured ahead, ‘Almost there now.’
It was cold, but not freezing. The temperature had risen, and there were no longer any ice floes on the water. Everything seemed muted, preternaturally still.
U-330 halted alongside the rusting hulk, an old cargo ship with two derricks and a dilapidated superstructure. Figures silently watched the maneuver from above. One of them leaned over the rail and shouted: ‘Kapitänleutnant Lorenz?’
‘Yes?’
‘Obersturmbannführer Hans Friedrich — permission to board.’
‘Permission granted.’
The men on the bridge glanced at each other. The SS? What the hell are they doing here?
A Jacob’s ladder was lowered and the SS officer clambered down. The skull-and-crossbones insignia on his cap was conspicuously illuminated as he stepped into the moonlight. ‘Heil Hitler,’ he said, raising his arm. Lorenz responded with the military salute. ‘Welcome aboard U-330, Obersturmbannführer.’
‘An honor, Kapitänleutnant.’ The SS man studied Ziegler — who was holding the ladder — and spoke softly to Lorenz, ‘If I may — a word in private?’ Lorenz led Friedrich away from the tower. Friedrich lifted his lapels and in doing so exposed his death’s head ring: not a national decoration, but an award bestowed in recognition of the wearer’s personal devotion to the brotherhood’s ideals. ‘Forgive me. We have very little time and I must be brief. I have two prisoners for you to transport: one a British naval officer, and the other a gentleman whom we believe to be in possession of some extremely sensitive intelligence. They must be taken to your flotilla base immediately. Neither you nor any of your crew members are authorized to question the prisoners. Indeed, I would suggest that you avoid all but essential conversation.’
‘Who are they?’
‘The naval officer is Lieutenant Commander Lawrence Sutherland — a submariner like you.’
‘What happened to his boat?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’
‘Does he speak German?’
‘A little.’
‘And the other prisoner?’
‘Professor Bjørnar Grimstad — a Norwegian academic.’
‘He’s a long way from Oslo.’
‘Indeed.’
‘What’s his subject?’
Friedrich grimaced. ‘Herr Kapitänleutnant, I must stress that this is a special operation. Your orders…’ Leaning closer, he whispered, ‘Your orders originate from a source close to the Führer. It is essential that they are obeyed to the letter. Get these prisoners to Brest safely. Nothing else need concern you.’
‘Of course,’ said Lorenz.
Friedrich marched back to the ladder, where he improvised a megaphone with his cupped hands: ‘Send them down.’
The British naval officer was the first to land on the deck, a tall, lean man wearing a cap, greatcoat, and tattered uniform. His trousers were torn at the knees, his beard was unkempt, and one of his eyes was bruised and swollen. Even in the half-light it was obvious that he had been severely beaten, possibly tortured. He limped slightly when he moved. The second prisoner was small and elderly, perhaps in his late sixties or early seventies. His grey-blond hair was combed back and myopic eyes squinted through round spectacles. He was spry for his age and appeared to be unharmed. Neither of the captives showed any sign of emotion, their faces were fixed masks of impassivity.
Friedrich stood squarely in front of the British naval officer, feet apart, hands on hips, and snorted with contempt. Then, turning to face Lorenz, he raised his arm once again. ‘Heil Hitler.’ His ascent was reminiscent of a spider running up a web. The ladder was retrieved and the shadowy figures looking down from above dispersed. Lorenz inclined his head. ‘Commander Sutherland, Herr Professor Grimstad, I am Kapitänleutnant Siegfried Lorenz, the commander of this vessel. Allow me to escort you to your new quarters.’ They remained expressionless, their eyes giving no indication as to what they might be thinking.
The prisoners were ushered onto the bridge and down through the conning tower hatch. Lorenz noticed that Sutherland was attempting to avoid putting weight on his bad leg. The interior was illuminated by a red light that made the watchful crew look like a troop of demons.
Richter, one of the mechanics, was undertaking minor repairs, and when he turned to gawk at the arriving prisoners he dropped a heavy wrench which bounced on the rubber link matting and came to rest at Sutherland’s feet. The British commander moved swiftly for an injured man. He genuflected and was suddenly standing upright with the tool in his hand. The circle of men tensed, but Sutherland simply gestured for Richter to take it back. When the mechanic grasped the dimpled handle he found that he had to pull it hard to free it from Sutherland’s grip.
‘The English place a very high value on common courtesies,’ said Lorenz.
Richter bowed and said, ‘Thank you, sir.’
Sutherland studied the mechanic for a few seconds, showing no emotion, and turned away.
‘Let us proceed,’ said Lorenz. From the control room the prisoners were marched in single file toward the bow, passing along the officer’s mess and between the bunk beds beyond. Cured meats and hard cheeses hung from the overhead, and these had to be pushed aside to make progress. They arrived in the forward torpedo room.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Lorenz, speaking in English and sweeping his hand around the restricted space. ‘I’m afraid that this is all I can offer you. You’ll have to sit on the linoleum, but should a hammock or bunk become available you’ll be permitted to lie down. It’s not ideal, I realize that. But I’ve troubled to accommodate you some distance from the engine room — so sleep isn’t completely out of the question. We are not accustomed to entertaining guests; however, I suspect that you will find us better hosts than the Schutzstaffel, who are not renowned for their hospitality.’ Sutherland’s injuries were horribly vivid. His right eye was surrounded by livid bulges and his lips were crusted with carbuncles of dried blood. Lorenz noticed a pattern of crossing lines on the man’s forehead and supposed that they would match the underside of Friedrich’s boot.
Lorenz continued, ‘Your leg has been hurt. We don’t have a doctor on board, but one of the crewmen can perform basic medical duties. I can send him to examine you — if you wish?’ Sutherland shook his head. ‘Very well.’ Lorenz looked from Sutherland to Grimstad. ‘Are you thirsty?’ he asked, reverting to German. ‘Do you want something to eat?’ Neither of the captives replied. ‘All right, suit yourselves. You can have breakfast along with the rest of us in due course. Kruger?’
‘Kaleun?’
‘Keep an eye on our guests.’
‘Should I tie them up?’