Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

Schurz poked Petterssen sharply in the back. The tall man seemed to waken, as from a dream, wetting his lips nervously. “A crate...” he began, and swallowed the next words, pointing instead to the box near the outer door.

The official, fortunately, found nothing wrong. He had been expecting to be approached regarding the mysterious crate, and he was only too happy to be rid of it and any responsibility it might represent. And also to be rid of the men from the NKVD, as these two were bound to be. Still, there were the necessary formalities.

“You have the proper papers?”

Petterssen managed to find them in a pocket and hand them over. The official checked them carefully and then nodded. He made a move to tuck them in his pocket but Schurz reached around his taller companion, picked them from the official’s hand, and put them in his own pocket, instead. For a moment the train official thought to object, but then he shrugged. Let them take their “Captured Medical Equipment” and be damned to them, although the official knew very well that while the contents of the strange crate had undoubtedly been captured, or at least liberated, they were certainly not medical anything. More probably they were things taken from a chalet or castle and were about to decorate the apartment of some NKVD official, or more likely the apartment of his mistress. Although why, in that case, they would be getting off in Bad Freienwalde only a short distance from Berlin, was a mystery. Still, to ask too many questions of the NKVD — or any questions at all — was to invite disaster. And, after all, they did have the proper papers, which was the important thing. His skirts, at least, were clear. The official nodded at the other two and began to wrestle the heavy crate to the door sill itself, while beneath their feet they could feel the strain as the train began to brake.

The three stood, swaying with the motion of the slowing train, and then almost lost their balance as the train came to an abrupt stop. The door slid back. A dark sedan, very official looking, seemed to appear out of the blackness as if by legerdemain. Behind it, four or five railway cars back, the faint lights of the small station could be seen flickering uncertainly in the night. The car came to a stop across from the open van door. Its lights were extinguished and a man, also dressed in dark clothes but with a peaked cap instead of a homburg, stepped down and approached the train. Petterssen hurried down the steps, eager to be done with the affair, and went to pull the heavy crate from the platform of the van. Schurz gave him another sharp and painful poke in the kidneys. Petterssen turned, surprised and a bit angered by the unwarranted blow, and then found that in the meanwhile the trainman and the chauffeur between them had managed to get the crate down and were carrying it toward the car.

“Idiot!” Schurz said beneath his breath, and walked quickly to the car, climbing into the rear seat. Petterssen finally seemed to realize his near-gaffe and followed Schurz to the car, getting in and closing the door after him. Behind them they could hear the sounds of the crate being stored into the large trunk of the car. There was the slam of the trunk lid, the chauffeur returned to the front seat of the car, his headlights came on revealing the small flags of a general officer mounted on the front fenders. His motor started; the car slid into the darkness. Behind them they could hear the tortured scream of the engine’s whistle as the train began to move again.

In the car there was silence for a moment, then Schurz burst into laughter, clapping his hands in glee. They had done it! They had actually done it ! He looked over at Petterssen sitting in one corner of the seat, squeezed there as if to hide from his own thoughts, and punched him lightly on one arm.

“Well?” he demanded triumphantly. “Well?”

“We’re not there, yet...”

“Oh, my God!” At least, Schurz thought, there was the satisfaction of knowing that before long he would be finished with this pessimistic clown. Once the lights of Trelleborg in Sweden could be seen from the boat, one stab and the chains he had asked to be put aboard would be used to weight down the idiot’s body. And for Jan Petterssen there would be no more worries, no more fears. Schurz knew it would be work getting the big man’s body over the rail, especially with the chains, but it would be a labor of love. He leaned forward, pushing back the glass between the driver’s seat and his own, speaking in a low voice.

“Heil Hitler...”

“Heil Hitler.”

“Any trouble?”

“No. Only the car must be back before dawn. Lucky you weren’t too late.” The man smiled, a mischievous smile, etched by the lights of the dashboard. He spoke over his shoulder. “The General will be bouncing up and down on his girl friend till then. Any trouble at your end?”

“Not so far.” Schurz could not help but glance at Petterssen as he spoke. The tall man was staring from the car window into the night as if totally oblivious to the conversation. Schurz turned back to the driver. “You spoke to the captain?”

“Sneller? Yes. He came through two days ago with a load of fish on his way to Berlin. He’ll meet us at the fischer landungsplatz; the boat’s called the Linderndsee. ”

“The Balmy Sea, eh? A good name,” Schurz said. “Let’s hope it’s an omen.”

“Yes,” the driver said, and added, “You have the balance of the money?”

“We have it.”

“Good. As I understand it, the boat has enough fuel, but nothing extra, so I don’t imagine you can be joy-riding on your way there.” The driver glanced over his shoulder at the still figure in the corner of the rear seat. Petterssen had closed his eyes. There was a grimace as of pain on his equinelike face. The driver lowered his voice even more, as if Petterssen might be asleep and he did not want to disturb him. “Has he been all right?”

“He’s been fine,” Schurz said expressionlessly. “No problem.”

“That’s good,” the driver said, and turned his attention back to the road. They sped through the darkness toward Warnemünde on the Baltic coast, four hours away.

The Baltic — May

The outskirts of Rostock rose about them in the dark; they sped through the cobbled streets, past the university and the darkened dormitory buildings, so recently barracks, and took the road that headed along the estuary to Warnemünde, eight miles away. Their trip had been undisturbed by road checks, although Schurz with his false identity papers had been fully prepared for them; the war was too newly over for the Allied forces to be able to organize the proper controls at any but the accesses to major cities. Both Schurz and Petterssen had napped during the journey. Now they both came awake, Schurz refreshed by the brief respite, Petterssen seemingly made more dubious as to the success, or even the fitness, of their venture the closer they came to the sea.

The car crept past the deserted Warnemünde ferry dock, not yet back in operation to Denmark, and took a side road that led eventually past net-hung docks. In the distance behind them the faint lights of Warnemünde itself could barely be seen, throwing into shadow the few dock cranes that had not been damaged or destroyed in the war. The car edged along, its headlights dimmed, its driver looking anxiously about him. A sudden beam of a flashlight, instantly extinguished, gave him direction. A moment later they had pulled up before a small nondescript boat swaying against its stays at dockside. A man came from the shadows, examining them by the lights of the lowered headlights as they climbed from the car. The driver also got down and together with Schurz managed to get the heavy crate from the car’s trunk and across the narrow gangplank to the dock of the boat, while Petterssen stood helplessly by. This done, the driver returned to his car and with a brief wave of his hand and a whispered “Heil Hitler,” backed around and sped off for the main highway and the road south. Their contact beckoned. Schurz, trailed by a dazed Petterssen, followed the man to a tiny cabin located forward and below decks.