Some of the crew had already been interviewed, and Lorenz learned that Berger was the last person to have spoken to Wilhelm before the errant bosun’s mate had departed for Hamburg. Lorenz had the young seaman brought to his quarters.
‘It was the day after the explosion,’ said Berger. ‘A group of us had gotten together in a beer cellar down in the port, Herr Kaleun. We’d all drunk too much. It was getting late and most of the men went off to the Casino Bar: Kruger, Peters, Stein, Neumann, Arnold — and a few others — crew from different boats who I didn’t know. I was left sitting at a table with Wilhelm.’
‘How was he behaving?’ Lorenz asked.
‘He wasn’t himself, sir.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘He was glum, moody: not very talkative. But then, all of a sudden, he started saying things…’ Berger shifted in his seat as though he was experiencing some kind of physical discomfort.
‘Things? What things?’
‘It was difficult to understand him at first, sir. He wasn’t very clear, because of the drink, I suppose — mumbling, cursing. Then he started saying that the boat wasn’t right.’
‘You mean unsafe?’
‘No, he wasn’t referring to a technical problem. More like the boat was…’ Berger hesitated. ‘More like the boat was jinxed. I suppose he was brooding about Hoffmann — and the explosion.’ The young seaman ventured a tentative opinion. ‘We have been unlucky, sir.’ His expression was a tacit invitation for Lorenz to agree, and his features sagged when the anticipated endorsement was not forthcoming.
‘What else did he say?’
‘Something about God and punishment, something about his mother meeting a gypsy in a wood, and Richter — he was going on about Richter being right. It was all very confused, Herr Kaleun.’
‘It sounds like Wilhelm was frightened.’
Berger frowned. ‘No, not really — I’d say upset. But it’s difficult to say, sir. He was very drunk, Herr Kaleun. I didn’t stay with him for long. To be honest, I was feeling a bit sick and wanted to lie down. That was the last I saw of him.’
After Berger was dismissed Lorenz summoned Sauer and Voigt.
‘Do you think you can manage without Wilhelm?’ he asked.
‘If we have to,’ Sauer replied. Voigt nodded his assent.
‘Good,’ said Lorenz.
‘I can’t believe he would have done such a thing, Herr Kaleun,’ said Sauer.
Lorenz sighed and remembered how he had found Wilhelm standing outside the listening post — awkwardly positioned, his eyes wide and fearful. The boy had seen something. And like all superstitious sailors he had taken it to be a bad omen.
Lorenz was seated next to Graf in the lounge bar of the Hotel Café Astoria. The chanteuse with the plangent voice was singing a song about a cold-hearted lover, and her geriatric accompanists were performing with customary vigor.
‘Are you satisfied?’ asked Lorenz.
‘Yes,’ Graf replied. ‘The new propellers are wonderful. Not a sound…’
‘Hydroplanes?’
‘The whole system has been taken apart and put together again: you couldn’t find a speck of rust with a magnifying glass.’
‘Engine mountings?’
‘Solid as a rock.’
‘Ah,’ said Lorenz, ‘there they are.’ An administrator was standing by the door and scanning the room. By his side was a handsome, square-jawed young officer, whose permanent half-smile communicated condescension rather than good humor. The administrator spotted Lorenz, raised his hand, and advanced with his companion through the smoky haze.
‘Kapitänleutnant Lorenz, Oberleutnant Graf. May I introduce Leutnant Max Pullman, the photographer assigned to your patrol.’ The young officer saluted and Lorenz invited him to sit. ‘I’ll get more drinks,’ said the administrator. Lorenz asked Pullman about his prior experience of U-boats, and he was surprised to discover that the lieutenant had already been out on one (albeit uneventful) patrol. ‘My photographs appear regularly in magazines,’ he said proudly, ‘and one of them was chosen to be on the front cover of the Illustrated Observer.’ He was, as Lorenz had expected, intelligent and well-informed. They talked for a whole hour before the administrator announced that he had orders to take Pullman back to the academy. The photographer had been engaged to take some formal portraits of Cohausz. As the administrator and Pullman elbowed their way through the crowd, Graf leaned toward Lorenz and said softly, ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘He’s a Party man,’ Lorenz replied. ‘He’ll be keeping a close on eye us. You’d better warn everyone.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Graf.
The following evening the crew of U-330 was assembled on the deck in readiness for the commander’s customary pre-departure speech.
‘All hands present or accounted for,’ said Falk.
‘Well,’ said Lorenz. ‘Here we go again. There are expectations, but we are prepared and able to meet those expectations.’ He paused, grinned at the crew, and scratched the back of his head. ‘A boat can only ever be as good as its crew, but its crew is only ever as good as its captain.’ Pullman was positioned near the tower and the repetitive sound of a camera shutter echoed around the vast interior of the pen. ‘I’ll do my best — as I’m sure you will too. And together…’ Lorenz filled his cheeks with air and let it out slowly. ‘And together, we shall prevail. Dismissed.’
The photographer sidled up to Graf and said, ‘That was his speech?’
‘Yes,’ said Graf. ‘His longest yet. He may have spun it out for your benefit.’ Although Pullman maintained his habitual half-smile, he was not able to conceal his disapproval.
Thirty minutes later U-330 floated out of the bunker and followed a tug boat through the obstacles in the military harbor. Lorenz was on the bridge, calling engine and rudder orders through the communications pipe. The sky was not covered with an even distribution of stars: barrage balloons produced ominous areas of blackness — sharp-edged voids. Hulks materialized out of the gloom like cursed ships, and the air smelled of oil and seaweed.
‘No brass bands,’ said Graf. Lorenz nodded. Further expansion was unnecessary. They were clearly leaving in secrecy because of renewed suspicions of an intelligence breach.
Lorenz thought of his family, the quiet courage of his sister and the small, perfect hands of his niece and nephew. He thought of Monika, her upturned face beneath the street lamp — tiny ice crystals landing on her eyelashes; Leo Glockner in his study, and finally Faustine — beautiful, sensuous, elegant Faustine — who he would never see again. Would he see any of them again?
An escort vessel was waiting for U-330 outside the sea wall. It led them through the Goulet de Brest, along the coast, and past the Pointe de Saint-Mathieu. They continued west, and on reaching the 200-meter contour Lorenz cleared the bridge. Just after midnight he gave orders to dive, and the boat slipped beneath the waves. In Lorenz’s pocket, a British penny was continuously rotating between his fingers, and each revolution seemed to accumulate dark presentiments of increasing intensity.
PATROL
Two days passed, the watch-rotation progressed through its inexorable cycles, and the lookouts stared over an unchanging, empty wilderness of foamy ridges. The monotony of their vigil was broken only once by the appearance of a flotilla of wooden crates. Lorenz, ever curious about the detritus carried between continents by the sea, ordered that one of the containers should be opened. Inside were a number of identical yellow velvet ball gowns. They were so old-fashioned they could have been made by a seamstress in the nineteenth century.