Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

“The cunt just pissed on me,” she heard someone yell. She couldn’t restrain a laugh. A slap made her ears ring. Someone grabbed her by the hair, and smacked her head against the bricks, once, twice.

And then she was free. She tried standing, but the ringing in her ears continued. She felt the wall against her back, and slid down it into a sitting position. There was something warm spreading across her forehead. She tried to raise an arm, but for some strange reason it felt as heavy as a sack of concrete. In the shadows, she could see figures grappling in front of her, as if she was watching an out-of-focus movie. She wanted to ask a question, but for the life of her, couldn’t remember what it was. And then, mercifully, there was nothing more.

“What should we do with her?” Helmut Bergen said, licking the cuts on his knuckles and gesturing toward the woman slumped against the brick wall.

Ritter flicked his lighter to life. He held the flame up to her face, lifted her chin so he could get a better look. Unconscious. Lots of blood, but the head wound didn’t look too serious. Probably a concussion. The bruise on her cheek would be nothing. Didn’t seem to be harmed any other way. And then he recognized her. The woman in the pub. The American.

“We take her with us,” Ritter said with sudden inspiration, sensing that voice whispering in his ear once again. “I think she may be just the ticket we need.”

“What do you mean?” Bergen was thinking that a woman was the last thing they needed, right at the moment.

“What man can turn his back on a damsel in distress?” Ritter laughed.

“And him?” Bergen flicked his eyes toward Reggie, who was sitting on the pavement in the midst of his shattered camera, rubbing his chin.

“What the hell. Let’s make it a party.”

Stefan jogged steadily uphill, away from the waterfront. The explosions and the German dive bombers had been more effective than a legion of roosters. The streets were filled with the curious and terrified, some hastily packing suitcases onto overloaded cars, and others on more serious missions. He watched a lorry, soldiers crowded into the back like cordwood, rattle past him in the direction of the airfield, another truck and a pair of motorcycles, race off toward the coastal artillery batteries. At least someone was trying to do something, though the thought gave him little comfort.

Stefan couldn’t imagine his own captain sleeping through this din. But he supposed that all depended. If Stefan had to guess, by this time in the early morning, Józef Sieinski, second son of one of the wealthiest men in all of Poland, had long ago left his dinner party, retiring to the suite his father provided for him, free of charge, of course, while the Eagle was in port. If he wasn’t still drinking or pawing one of his companions, he was probably passed out, snoring heavily while the woman who thought it might be advantageous to accompany him to bed, had turned to something more interesting than he. A magazine perhaps, or painting her nails.

Stefan had to admit that there were times when Sieinski wasn’t a bad sort. Life and people were rarely as clear-cut as one hoped. His captain seemed smart enough to know when he needed help, charming enough to get it willingly, most of the time. The young sailors aboard the Eagle nearly worshiped him. He certainly looked the part of a captain. And after this stint in the Navy, he would join his father’s company, quickly assuming some senior position.

And that’s where the problem began and ended. The Navy was just a stop along the way for him. He didn’t want any bumps in the road, no risks, and he had been born to expect obedience. Money meant Sieinski had been obeyed all of his life. As he grew older, he assumed that obedience was a result of his own leadership. He couldn’t have been more mistaken. Despite all of his advantages, Sieinski knew nothing about leadership and treating men with dignity and respect unless it was in the pursuit of his own interests.

But a ship needed its captain. That’s how it had always been. And though the mere thought of it made Stefan quiver with barely suppressed rage, Sieinski was the Eagle’s captain, and it was his duty, as second in command, to get him back to his ship. In the end, there was always duty.

As Stefan trotted across the street and up to the front of the Royal Hotel, the doorman standing at attention took one look at Stefan’s sweat-streaked face and rough clothes, and said stiffly, “Please wait here.” He put out his white-gloved hand like a police officer stopping traffic.

Stefan didn’t even bother to break stride. He shoved the man aside and shouldered his way through the gleaming doors.

The front desk was crowded ten deep with haphazardly dressed guests all competing for the clerk’s attention to check out, though Stefan wondered where they could flee once they checked out. If what he suspected was true, it was already too late. German troops were surging over the border, and any traffic on the roads would be an easy target from the air. He continued across the marble floor of the foyer, directly for the elevator, his sea boots pounding out a steady rhythm.

The operator, an old man with nose hairs sprouting like daisies out of each nostril, jumped up from his stool and saluted. “Where to, sir?”

“Name your last posting, Chief?” Stefan asked, recognizing in the salute a fellow seaman.

The old man’s smile revealed more gum than teeth. “We called her Mazur .”

“Ah, yes. Good, stout ship as I recall.” Of course, Stefan couldn’t place her, but the lie was worth it when he saw the sudden stiffening of the man’s back.

“Yes she was, sir,” the old man replied, his pale gray eyes, watering with appreciation. “Our Navy’s first ship after the war. But that was long ago. How can I serve?”

“Captain Sieinski?”

The elevator operator touched the side of his nose, motioned Stefan inside, pushed the door closed, and then rotated the brass control handle burnished to a warm yellow, engaging the lift’s motors. He ignored half a dozen angry rings on the way up and brought the elevator to an easy stop at the sixteenth floor. “I’ll wait,” he said, grinning as he pulled open the door. “You’ll find your captain in the suite at the end of the hall.”

The thick rugs that covered the floor muffled the sound of Stefan’s approach. He paused at the door, considered for a moment using the heel of his boot to kick the beautiful walnut wood door off its hinges. Of course that would require some explaining on the off chance the captain wasn’t unconscious. More importantly, it would also ruin a perfectly good door. Stefan glowered at his reflection, and then raised his fist and knocked.

He waited a moment, and then pounded the door again, harder this time.

Still no response, he tried the knob. It was unlocked. “When in Budapest,” Stefan murmured to himself as he pushed open the door and stepped into the suite.

Despite the lateness of the hour, every light in the sitting room was ablaze. A half-dozen silver serving plates piled high with fruit, meat, cheeses and pastries crowded a table in the center of the room. A special place of honor in the center of the grouping had been devoted to a sterling silver bowl filled with black, gleaming caviar. Stefan couldn’t even guess what it had cost—more than a month’s wages, to be sure. Nothing had been touched.

“Captain?” Stefan yelled, crossing the room, using a hunk of bread as a scoop for some fish eggs, and then stuffing it all in his mouth.

No sounds. Stefan tried again. “Captain?”

As he waited, he helped himself to some cheese, stuffing meat and bread into the pockets of his coat, some practical part of him realizing that Christ only knew when he might get a chance to eat again. When his pockets were filled, he began flinging open doors and yelling the captain’s name, his hope growing with each vacant room. If he didn’t find him soon, it would be only reasonable to return to the ship without him. By all rights, command of the Eagle would be his.