Alan Furst - Dark Voyage

“What is she?”

“Minesweeper, M class. Could be French or Norwegian, originally, an old thing, built just after the war, 1919, maybe 1920. They use them for coast patrol, mostly, but if there’s a mine they can take care of it.” He handed the binoculars back to DeHaan and said, “And they are going to challenge.”

“Doing it now,” DeHaan said, looking through the binoculars. A sailor at the rail had an Aldis lamp going, blinking Morse at him, his hand fast and expert on the shutter. What ship? DeHaan kept the glasses trained. “But they’re not in any hurry,” he said, gauging the rate of closure between the two ships.

“The hell they aren’t-she’s only got ten, maybe twelve knots in her and she’s using every bit of it.”

“Stay at three-quarter speed,” he told Kovacz. “And we’ll see what happens.” Had they read his course change as evasion? Maybe he’d made a mistake.

Kovacz went to the door, then stopped and turned back to DeHaan. “I won’t be taken prisoner, Eric.”

DeHaan lowered the binoculars and met Kovacz’s eyes. “Easy does it, for now. All right?”

“Just so you understand.”

As he left, DeHaan called to the lookout on the starboard wing. “Have Mr. Ratter come to the bridge, and find AB Amado and bring him up here. Fast!” Sliding his hands down the railings, the AB went down the ladderway in three hops. Meanwhile, from the port lookout, “They’re signaling again, sir.”

“Very well, get the Aldis lamp and make back, ‘ Santa Rosa, Valencia,’ but take your time.”

“Aye-aye, sir. I can’t go very fast.”

“Good. And get the letters wrong.”

“Count on me, sir.”

Under a mile now, and closing. DeHaan looked at his watch. 12:48. On the M 56, sailors moving around on deck, and an officer, sweeping his binoculars back and forth across the Noordendam. Full uniform for the crew-some of them in navy crew caps, almost berets, with ribbon on the back-and the officer, blue jacket and trousers, white shirt, black tie. On this chunky, coal-burning old pot? DeHaan didn’t like it. From the speaker tube to the radio room, three clicks from Mr. Ali. DeHaan picked up the tube and said, “Yes?”

“Do I send anything?” Ali said.

“No, stay silent.”

As DeHaan returned the speaker tube to its hook, Ratter hurried through the door. He’d apparently been taking a shower; his hair was wet, his shirt was hanging outside his trousers, and he was barefoot. DeHaan found himself looking at the eye patch-was it dry? Did he take it off to shower? Ratter raised his binoculars, focused on the German ship, and swore under his breath. “They’ve run up a Stand To signal,” he said.

DeHaan saw that he was right. “Go down to the chartroom, Johannes, and find the minefield maps, in the third drawer in the cabinet to the left, slipped into the chart for the Mozambique Channel.”

“If we burn them we’ll never get out.”

“I know. But put them somewhere-in a ventilator duct, somewhere like that.”

“Aren’t we in Swedish waters?”

“Would you do it now, please?”

“Make a run for the coast-why not?”

“Now?”

As Ratter left, Kees appeared, followed by the AB and Amado, who looked pale and frightened. DeHaan turned the engine telegraph to Full — Stop. “Think he’ll challenge?” Kees said.

“He already has. We’re waiting for him.”

From Kees, the sigh of the man who’d known this would happen. The engine-room telegraph rang, confirming the order to stop, and DeHaan heard the engine shut down. Kees said, “So then, we use Amado.”

“Give him some answers-we’ve got a few minutes yet. We’re steaming in ballast from Riga, where we delivered Portuguese cotton and bagged jute. And we’re headed up to Malm for sawn boards.”

“Might as well try it,” Kees said. “Maybe we’ll be lucky a second time.” From his voice, he didn’t believe it.

“Maybe we will.”

Kees shook his head, looking very sour and dispirited. “Paint and a flag,” he said. “Not much.”

“No,” DeHaan said. “Not much.”

With the engine shut down, Noordendam began to lose way, rocking gently in the swell. Paint and a flag. Of course the NID could’ve done more, but they hadn’t. Because if the Noordendam had been caught with the secret cargo, what clandestine apparatus would’ve made any difference? And, now that they’d completed their mission, it didn’t matter what happened to them. They just had to keep quiet. Would they? Forty-one souls, plus Maria Bromen and S. Kolb?

Kees had taken Amado to a corner of the bridge house and was, slowly and carefully, explaining what he should say. Amado’s head jerked up and down-yes-he understood-but he was plainly terrified. DeHaan fixed his binoculars on the M 56, the officer now stood at the rail. He was young, in his early twenties, chin held at a certain angle, back stiff as a board. As DeHaan watched, he put a hand on either side of his officer’s hat and made sure it was on straight.

The M 56, engine idling in neutral, stood off their port beam, a sailor now seated behind the iron shield that held a long-barreled machine gun. When the officer stepped to the railing, loud-hailer in hand, DeHaan and Kees walked Amado, now wearing the captain’s hat, out to the bridge wing, then down to the deck, where DeHaan handed him their own loud-hailer.

“What is your destination?” The German words boomed out over the water.

Amado said, “Habla usted espaol?” DeHaan barely heard him. Amado looked for the switch, found it, turned the device on, and tried again.

The officer lowered the loud-hailer for a moment, then raised it and repeated the question-slower, and more forcefully. That was the way with foreigners, you had to make them understand you.

It didn’t work with Amado, who asked, once again, if the officer spoke Spanish.

The officer took a long look at DeHaan and Kees, then said, “Can your officers speak German?”

What? Amado shook his head and spread his hands.

The officer pointed to Kees, thrusting his finger, three or four times, for emphasis, then called out, “ Officer, officer. ”

Kees put out a hand and Amado gave him the loud-hailer. “Bound for Malm,” he said, in German.

“Who are you?”

“Second mate.”

“What was your last port?”

“Riga.”

“What cargo do you carry?”

“In ballast.”

And now we can all be on our way.

The officer held the loud-hailer at his side and took a long, thoughtful look at the freighter, bow to stern and back again. Then he called out, “Remain stood to,” and walked back to the bridge house. He was, DeHaan thought, the executive officer of M 56, and was going to consult with the captain on the bridge. Could he somehow check their story? DeHaan doubted it-the Russians had occupied Latvia a year earlier, and, despite being the nominal ally of Germany, wouldn’t be in a hurry to answer questions. And the M 56 couldn’t just wire to the Port of Riga-that would require a long journey up through the layers of Kriegsmarine administration.

“What’s he doing?” Kees said.

“Arguing with his captain. He wants to board.”

“Why would he?”

DeHaan smiled. “I could start with early days in school and go on from there, but it would all come down to who he is. Has always been.”

“We are in Swedish waters,” Kees said. “You can see Falsterbo. Should we point that out?”

“I don’t think they care.”

“Bastards.”

On the M 56, the sailors, most of them not yet out of their teens, stared curiously at the Santa Rosa, and the three men on her deck, awaiting the pleasure of their officer.

“How long do we stand here?” Kees said.