He heard a door open, the last indistinct words of a conversation. Footsteps walking toward the cliff’s edge, a silhouetted figure above him appearing and disappearing.
“Who the fuck is it?” It was a young voice, a boy of fifteen, sixteen.
“No one local. It’s got D.C. plates.” A young girl, a Georgia peach of an accent.
“Shit.”
“C’mon, Jeff, there’s no sense in gettin’ fired up. Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Like where?”
A giggle. “Well, we can’t do it here, can we?”
“I’ll flatten the bastard. This is our place.”
“There might be more than one of them.”
“Umm.”
“C’mon, I’ve got to be home by ten.”
“Okay, okay.”
The footsteps receded, car doors slammed, a revving motor. The headlamps drew a circle of light as the car turned and headed back inland. Kuznetsky put his gun in the shoulder holster. What had he been thinking about children and animals? If they’d found the other car… He hoped they were the only young couple who thought they owned this trysting place.
But there were no other interruptions as the hour hand on his watch crept slowly forward. At 11:30 he started flashing the signal lamp at five-minute intervals, straining his eyes for a sight of the submarine. Several times he thought he glimpsed a periscope slightly to the north, but it must have been something else for, at precisely a quarter to midnight and directly ahead, U-107 broke surface with disconcerting abruptness. He flashed the light again, and thought he could glimpse figures climbing down from the conning tower onto the hull.
Breitner and Russman shook hands with the captain and launched the inflatable raft. Paul eased himself in and held it fast for Breitner to follow. Conscious of the U-boat descending behind them, they paddled for the shore, a dark wall that gradually resolved itself into a forested line of cliffs. The light blinked again and they shifted direction toward it.
“There’s not many who’re going to be able to say that they took part in the Wehrmacht’s invasion of America,” Gerd whispered.
“Or the strategic withdrawal.”
“Optimist.”
When they were nearly there they could see the man waiting on the rocks. He waded out into the surf to help them beach the dinghy and indicated that they should follow him. He’d dug a hole for their boat and all three shoveled the sand back in on top of it.
“The clothes will do,” he said after looking them over. “I’m Jack Smith. Call me Jack,” Kuznetsky said in English.
“Gerd Breitner, and this is Paul Russman,” Gerd said, holding out his hand. The stranger’s grip was brief but strong.
“My German’s not very good,” Kuznetsky said, “but we speak English only from this moment in any case.”
“Understood.”
Kuznetsky led them up the cliff to the car. Gerd took the seat beside him, Paul the back. As they drove inland Paul watched the strange shapes of the foreign trees silhouetted against the sky. Here they were, he thought, casually driving through the American night, two officers in an army that was losing battles almost everywhere else. The whole business was absurd. Daring, perhaps, but if the Führer and his friends hadn’t yet learned that daring had its limits, then they were even madder than he’d thought.
Paul looked at the back of the stranger’s head. Who the hell was he? An Abwehr agent obviously, but he wasn’t a German. What reasons could any non-German have for supporting the Nazi cause? There were enough Germans with doubts. He didn’t suppose it mattered — the man seemed to know what he was doing. There was an air of authority about him that was almost chilling. And most un-American. Paul closed his eyes and listened to the purr of the car.
He was awakened by a prod from Gerd. They had stopped outside a hotel. Kuznetsky handed him a collection of documents: driver’s license, military deferment, there were about ten of them. “Memorize them,” he said.
“Where are we?” Paul asked.
“Savannah,” Gerd replied.
“We’re staying the night here,” Kuznetsky said.
He led them into the hotel, where rooms had already been booked. A sleepy clerk showed them up, explaining that he got a tip for carrying the luggage even if there wasn’t any. “It’s the principle,” he said. Kuznetsky gave him one, pointed the two Germans into one room and disappeared into the other.
They didn’t bother to undress. “Very strange,” Paul murmured, looking down from the window at the empty street.
“Ja. Yeah.”
“Very good.” Paul indicated the next room. “He’s not what I expected. He’s no amateur.” He lay back on the bed. “I wonder how he’s avoided the Army.”
“Too old,” Gerd answered. “The Americans have still got some young men to spare.”
“It feels strange wearing these clothes. Do you know how long it is since we were out of uniform?”
“Too long, Paul. Go to sleep.”
It was a blazing hot morning, the heat of Africa wrapped in a clammy Georgian blanket. Paul was glad to see that their driver was sweating as profusely as he was, and that he’d had the sense to place a case of beer on the backseat.
Smith didn’t say much though. They learned that he’d had military experience in South America and Spain, but beyond such bare facts he offered nothing. He refused to discuss the operation until the fourth member of the unit — a strange name for it, Paul thought — was present.
“We have to know everything each other knows,” Kuznetsky said.
They asked him about the fourth member. He was a she. A German woman who’d lived twenty years in America. It was at this moment that Paul wondered if it were possible, only to dismiss the idea as ridiculous. She would never fight for Hitler’s Germany. “How old is she?” he asked.
“About thirty-five.”
That fit. But it couldn’t be. “What’s her name?” he asked.
“Rosa, as far as we’re concerned.”
Rosa. She’d had a doll called Rosa. “Is she attractive?”
“I suppose so. Why do you ask?”
There seemed no reason not to explain. “I knew a German girl who lived in America. She’d be about that age now. Just curiosity. It couldn’t be the same woman.”
“Why not?”
Was he imagining it, or was there an edge to Smith’s voice? “She had no reason to help Germany, rather the opposite.”
“What did she look like?”
“Slim, dark-haired, a lovely face. Full of life.” It was funny, he could see her so clearly, even after all these years. “Amy,” he murmured.
Kuznetsky could hardly believe his ears. His mind raced. How could this have happened, how could something so vital have been ignored? Question followed question. When had they known each other? How much did he know about her — was her cover blown? The German might be talking about a chance meeting at a party when they’d both been in America. He might be talking about a love affair lasting months. He knew she had “no reason to help Germany.” What did he know? Christ, what a mess.
What could he do? There was no way of warning her — they’d just come face to face at the lodge. He’d have to play it off the cuff. But could he and she do it on their own? He unconsciously tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“She is slim and dark-haired,” he said, measuring his words. “I wouldn’t say she was — what did you say? — full of life. But people change. It could be the same woman. But there are a lot of Germans in this country who support Germany without loving the Führer. How well did you know her?”