‘Tie them up? Where do you think they’re going to run?’
Lorenz made his way back to the control room, passing men who looked at him quizzically. After calling out instructions for the boat to be turned around, he spoke to the navigator. ‘Plot a course for Brest. The most direct route possible.’
Müller picked up the compasses and parallel ruler. ‘Really?’
‘Both engines, full speed ahead.’ The public address system crackled to life. ‘Men,’ Lorenz continued, ‘we have been ordered to return to base. That is all.’ The crew were shocked into silence. Then, gradually, expressions changed and before long every one of them was grinning inanely. Excitement and relief had turned U-330 into a ship of fools.
Lorenz was sitting in the officers’ mess with Juhl, Falk, and Graf — the Chief Engineer. They were all hunched over the rectangular table top, conspiratorially close, their heads bowed beneath a shaded lamp. The steward was serving them coffee.
‘We’ve all heard talk of death rays and the bomb,’ said Falk. ‘You know, the big one, the one that can destroy whole cities.’
‘The old boy’s a scientist. Obviously,’ said Graf. The chief engineer was dressed casually — a chequered shirt, a sleeveless pullover, and a loosely knotted scarf. On his head he wore a blue peaked cap.
‘It seems inconceivable,’ said Juhl, ‘that a single explosion could cause so much destruction.’
‘How does it work?’ asked Falk. ‘This bomb?’
‘Why don’t you go and ask the old boy?’ Graf suggested.
‘He’s not very talkative,’ said Lorenz.
‘Nor is the Tommy,’ Juhl observed.
‘They don’t like us,’ Lorenz replied. ‘It’s inexplicable.’
‘Look, I understand why we’re not supposed to ask them any questions,’ Falk persisted. ‘But what I can’t understand is why they’re being quite so reticent. They haven’t said a word. They haven’t even asked for a glass of water.’
‘I wonder if they were captured separately or together?’ Graf mused.
‘They might not know each other at all,’ Juhl speculated. ‘What if they’re strangers, thrown together by chance?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure about that,’ said Falk. ‘I think I can sense…’ The sentence trailed off and he rippled his fingers next to his ear.
‘What?’ A note of mistrust sounded in Juhl’s voice.
‘Something,’ Falk continued, ‘You know… something between them, an affinity.’
Juhl pursed his lips and replied. ‘I haven’t sensed anything.’
‘Perhaps the Norwegian resistance helped the scientist escape and sailed him out to a British submarine.’ Falk’s bright blue eyes were like discs of glazed china. ‘Perhaps a technical fault prevented the submarine from diving, and it was discovered by one of our destroyers. The British surrendered, and the two most important prisoners — the officer and the scientist — were whisked away in that rusty merchantman.’
‘Yes, but why put them in a cargo ship?’ Juhl challenged.
‘Safety?’ Falk ventured. ‘A hulk like that isn’t an obvious military target.’
‘We haven’t received any news of a British submarine being sunk or captured,’ said Lorenz, ‘not recently and certainly not in these waters.’
‘Special operations,’ Graf grumbled. ‘Who knows what’s going on? We’re wasting our time thinking about it.’
‘Iceland,’ said Lorenz. Before he could elaborate, Kruger appeared. Lorenz acknowledged his arrival and added, ‘Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on our guests?’
‘Dressel’s taken my place, sir,’ said Kruger.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘The old boy — something’s wrong with him. His eyelids started fluttering, and now he’s talking to himself. It’s like he’s in a trance or having some kind of fit.’
Lorenz’s companions stood to let him squeeze out from behind the table, and he followed Kruger between the bunks to the torpedo room. Sutherland was leaning against the torpedo tube doors but Grimstad was seated on the linoleum with his legs stretched out in front of him; between his trembling eyelids only thin white crescents were visible. His lips were moving and he was mumbling quietly. When Lorenz crouched next to Grimstad he was unable to identify what language the professor was speaking, but the pattern of stresses and the vowel sounds suggested a Germanic dialect. Spittle adhered to the old man’s beard like threads of cotton. As Lorenz listened he detected regularities, insistent repetitions, and an underlying pulse that reminded him of religious chanting. He reached out and shook the old man’s shoulder. ‘Professor? Can you hear me?’ Grimstad’s head rolled lazily from side to side.
‘Shall I get Ziegler?’ Kruger asked.
Lorenz ignored the question and turned to address Sutherland. He spoke in English. ‘Does this man have a medical condition?’ The British commander communicated his ignorance with a shrug. Lorenz tried again: ‘Was he beaten? Did he receive a blow to the head?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Sutherland replied. It was the first time the British commander had spoken, and his voice was hoarse.
Lorenz glanced at Kruger and reverted to German. ‘How long has the professor been like this?’
‘Not long,’ Kruger replied. ‘I came to get you as soon as he started acting strange.’
‘Yes, but how long was that?’ Lorenz persisted. ‘One minute, two minutes…?’
‘About two minutes,’ said Kruger. ‘No longer than that.’
‘Professor?’ Lorenz shook the old man’s shoulder with greater force. ‘Wake up!’ Grimstad snapped out of his delirium. His eyes opened and his right hand, moving with unexpected independence and speed, traced a triangle in the air, its simple, inclusive geometry seemed to connect the professor and the two commanders. The movement was too precise to be unconscious, and Lorenz was reminded of the sign of the cross, the symbolic unification of the trinity by means of two intersecting lines. This curious association made Lorenz feel uneasy. The old man blinked, drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his knees. ‘Professor?’ Lorenz inquired. ‘Are you all right?’ Grimstad moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue and whispered in perfect, deliberate German: ‘The fetters will burst and the wolf run free, much do I know and more can see.’ The old man closed his eyes and his head fell forward as if exhausted by the extreme effort. A small flat stone with smooth edges dropped from his left hand. Lorenz picked it up. Something had been scratched on one side: a triangle attached to a vertical line.
Dawn. The waves were the color of green glass; not the luminous, emerald green produced by light passing through a church window, but the inert, opaque green of a beer bottle. White streamers leapt from rising crests and hung in the air before finally succumbing to the pull of gravity. Lorenz hadn’t been able to sleep. He had been too preoccupied. Gazing across the sea, the same unanswered questions were continuously revolving through his mind. He tapped Juhl on the shoulder, indicated that he was about to leave the bridge, and climbed down the ladder that descended through the conning tower to the control room. Graf acknowledged his return, and without pausing, Lorenz marched to the forward torpedo room. It looked as if the two prisoners hadn’t moved. Blankets had been provided, and Grimstad had used his to make sitting more comfortable. His eyes were closed, and he was embracing his knees. Sutherland had remained standing, and his blanket was untouched. Lorenz inclined his head at Sutherland and extended his arm toward the crew quarters: ‘This way, please.’ The British commander limped between the occupied bunks, past the officers’ mess, and into the area between Lorenz’s nook and the radio shack. Fresh air from the bridge was passing through the compartment, displacing the ripe stench of body odor. Lorenz noticed how Sutherland was looking around and how he ducked quickly to get a better view of the crowded control room through the hatchway.