‘So,’ Lorenz addressed Graf. ‘Is the manometer working?’
‘Yes, Kaleun.’ Graf replied. ‘It’s fine.’
‘What do you mean, fine?’ Lorenz protested. By the time the soup spoon had reached his mouth it was already empty.
‘I’ve checked everything.’
‘And…?’
‘It’s in perfect working order.’
‘Then why did it malfunction?’
‘I don’t know, Kaleun — just one of those things.’
‘One of those things,’ Lorenz repeated, shaking his head. The steward appeared and tried to wipe the table with a rag. ‘Not now, Keller.’ The steward retreated. Above their heads, the tureen swung away from the hull and more potato soup splashed onto their trousers.
‘I’ve been thinking about our guests,’ said Falk.
‘Really?’ said Lorenz, finally transferring some soup from the bowl to his mouth.
‘Have you had a chance to look through the old man’s notebook?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you find anything of interest, apart from the runes, I mean?’
‘That’s all there is — runes. Perhaps those rumors about death rays and the big bomb are all wrong. Perhaps the SS intend to win this war using magic.’
More soup rained down on the table. Graf swore at the tureen and then said, ‘Maybe he put a curse on the manometer.’
It was a flippant remark, but it caused discomfort rather than amusement.
‘We were… unlucky,’ said Falk, eager to fill the uncomfortable silence. ‘That’s all. Like you said — one of those things.’
‘Yes,’ Graf’s head moved up and down emphatically, ‘one of those things.’
When Lorenz went back to his nook he opened his drawer. He reached in for the bottle of rum but was startled by an unanticipated sensation. His fingers closed around the stone Grimstad had been holding when the old man was having his fit. It was definitely warm. Lorenz rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. He wasn’t mistaken — the stone was very warm — almost hot.
The BBC German-language broadcast — relayed over the public-address system — began with a familiar calclass="underline" ‘Attention! Attention! This is Viktor Ferdinand, the chief, speaking.’ The men responded with a communal cheer. Viktor Ferdinand purported to be a high-ranking, old guard ‘brown shirt,’ but nobody believed that. It was assumed that he was a bilingual Englishman who spoke extremely good German. He delivered his lines with the panache of a skilled actor. Ferdinand began by vilifying the upper echelons of the Party, and then pouring scorn over certain members of the SS. He accused them of dandyism, effeminacy, and cowardice. Some fictitious military blunders were reported, and Göring was accused of rank incompetence. Curiously, Ferdinand never ridiculed the Führer. Given the Messianic psychology of the German people, or at least their perceived Messianic psychology, the British may have thought that to criticize a demigod was unwise. Everyone was eagerly anticipating the final part of the program, which was typically dedicated to a salacious exposés. Some of the crew had started to laugh merely thinking about what was to come.
‘So,’ said Ferdinand, delaying his revelation, toying with his audience. ‘So… let us now turn our attention to the mayor of Bremen, a dear friend of Himmler and a great supporter of the Party, a man who has taken a keen interest in youth projects and has donated a considerable sum of money to the war widows’ foundation. What sort of a man is he, this fine, upstanding pillar of the community, this distinguished humanitarian and champion of high culture: this servant of the people, frequently photographed with school children, urging them, like a kind uncle, to aspire to the elevated ideals that he holds so dear — purity, duty, and valor? Ah yes, purity, purity.’ It was easy to imagine an accompanying sneer. ‘Allow me to enlighten you.’ There was another dramatic pause. ‘For many years now the mayor has been a problematic figure for his Party associates on account of his irregular appetites. Be that as it may, his political sponsors have been unstinting in their efforts to conceal his disgraceful predilections. But there is only so much you can do for a man like the mayor of Bremen, a man who has become so inflated with his own self-importance that he no longer feels obliged to exercise discretion. Our sources have revealed that only last week, the good mayor presided over an orgy in the Town Hall, in which he and his guests were excited by the obscene spectacle of five Polish fisherwomen defecating.’
Every compartment in the boat filled with laughter and a hail of swiftly interjected quips.
‘Not content with such gross depravity,’ Ferdinand’s delivery was portentous, ‘the mayor then invited several of his female guests to urinate over his manhood, and he subsequently demonstrated that his taste for expensive French wines is complemented by a weakness for an altogether less refined vintage.’
Again the crew was quick to respond. Sounds just like the Casino Bar — Perhaps we should invite him — But only if he promises to bring those Poles.
Before long the crew was laughing so much that the broadcast could no longer be heard. Only occasional words—‘degeneracy’, ‘baseness’, ‘hypocrisy’—floated above the shrieks and guffaws. Sailors were wiping away tears, slapping thighs, and falling out of bunks. In due course, Ferdinand made his final appeal. ‘Comrades, don’t let this go on! Report it to Minister Dr. Lammers in Berlin. He will be most interested to hear from you!’
Berger climbed through the bulkhead hatchway and halted outside the radio room where Lorenz was seated. ‘That was a good one, wasn’t it?’ His cheeks were glowing.
‘One of the best,’ said Ziegler.
‘Where does he broadcast from?’ asked Berger.
‘We’re supposed to believe that he operates a mobile transmitter on the European mainland,’ Ziegler replied.
‘But where is he really?’
‘The wireless monitoring service has plotted the source of the signal, and he is definitely in London.’
Lorenz smiled at the young seaman. ‘Ever been to London, Berger?’
‘No, Herr Kaleun.’
‘A very fine city: I’m particularly fond of the view from Greenwich.’
‘Perhaps I’ll visit London after we’ve won.’
Lorenz sighed with satisfaction. The chief had done it again. BBC propaganda was so prodigiously good for morale.
A radio message from the U-boat command center warned of several British destroyers in the vicinity. Lorenz gave the order to submerge, and U-330 began a silent run at forty meters — speed one and a half knots — just sufficient to maintain depth. The subdued atmosphere in the control room was intensified by the red glow of the dark-adaption light. Lorenz and Müller were leaning over the chart table, conversing in low tones, when Hoffmann interrupted them. ‘Excuse me. Kaleun? The sound man wants a word.’
Lorenz nodded and climbed through the fore bulkhead hatchway. Thomas, the younger hydrophone operator, was turning the hand wheel and looking at the large dial located above it. The pointer swept from 220 degrees to 260 degrees, stopped for a moment, then rose until it was vertical. When Thomas saw the commander he said, ‘I’ve been picking up something very odd, Herr Kaleun. I’ve never heard anything like it before.’