Stealing Trinity (5 page)

Ainsley spoke in a quiet voice, "Michael, I know you'll do a bang-up job on this, but there's something that's been bothering me."

"What? Have I cocked up? If it's about that Lieutenant I rousted yesterday over the condition of his sidearm--"

"No, no. Tell me -- what day of the week is it?"

"Day of the week?"

"Yes, tell me what day it is."

"Well, I suppose it's Thursday." He watched Ainsley frown as he sat back at his desk. "Or perhaps Friday. What the devil does it matter, Roger?"

"What time did you leave here last night?"

"Around midnight, I suppose."

"And the night before?"

"Perhaps a bit later. I've been keeping the same hours for a year."

The colonel steepled his hands thoughtfully under his chin. "This war has hit you harder than most of us, Michael."

"Nonsense. I've recovered fully. My leg--"

"I'm not talking about your leg." Ainsley had turned things around, and now he was the one steeped in stony seriousness. "Have you given any thought as to what you're going to do?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Afterward, Michael. After the war."

In fact, he had not. Not really. Before the war Thatcher had been a happily married man, well on his way to becoming a solicitor. Two years remaining at King's College, Cambridge, and a lifetime to spend with Madeline. Then the damned war had taken it all away. It was strange to even imagine going back to school, yet he could think of nothing else to say. "I suppose I'll go back and finish my law studies."

"Have you contacted them?"

"No. How can I without a schedule? Roger, we'll be chasing down these scoundrels for years. There's so much to be brought to light. You saw those photos last week, the classified ones of this Dachau camp. It was barbaric! They must be brought to justice, and it's our job to shoulder."

"It's our job to chase down and interrogate suspected high-ranking Nazis. Right now we're having a field day. But, Michael, I went to a meeting yesterday. For the moment this is between the two of us -- but Handley Down is to be closed in early September."

"What? That's only three months! How can we do our job in that amount of time?"

"You know we're not the only ones. There's Kensington Palace Gardens and, of course, the Americans and the French."

"So we'll be transferred?"

The pause was deafening. "It's not out of the question, but even then -- six months, or a year. You and I will soon be demobilized. I'll retire, but you're barely thirty years old, with the balance of your life ahead. Michael, you were a man on the rise before the bloody war. You must go back."

Thatcher's crooked shoulder sagged and he stared at the floor in thought. Go back? Go back to what? The university seemed like a lifetime ago, and if he did return it would be without Madeline. Would the memories be insurmountable?

"I know how much this work means to you, Michael, but you must move on. You must!'

Thatcher stood slowly and spoke in a quiet voice, "Of course youre right, Roger. Someday I'll return to finish my studies. But until that time there's work to be done."

Prisoner 68, as he was internally known, was already in the interrogation room. It was a spartan place, one of the few rooms in Handley Down that could be made so. Formerly occupied by one of the lesser servants, the color scheme was institutional gray. A single table divided three chairs -- one versus two, subliminal reiteration to the prisoner that he was outmanned at every turn. Baker's hulking figure loomed near the only door, and dim light came by way of a lone bulb hanging naked from a wire.

Number 68 had been sitting in place for thirty minutes, long enough for him to understand that prisoners and guards might have their time wasted, but interrogators were far too busy to bother with punctuality. So far, under the watchful eye of Baker, Number 68 had been calm as he sat with his manacled wrists crossed on the table.

Thatcher crashed through the door and bustled in, Baker springing to rigid attention. It was a mockery of the military bearing normally shown around Handley Down, but served as a clear message for their guest -- this was an officer not to be trifled with. Thatcher carried a thick file under his arm and he took a seat without making eye contact with the prisoner. He opened the file like a book and began sorting and sifting through the pages, as if an encyclopedic dossier already existed on the man facing him.

In fact, most of the pages were blank, and what they really had would fit on a single page with room to spare. Number 68 was supposedly Corporal Fritz Klein, secretary to a top Nazi spy-master. If it was true, more documentation would confirm these facts in time -- the Nazis were sticklers about records -- but it might take months or even years to sort through all the captured information. Thatcher paused at a paper here and there, narrowing his eyes critically like a doctor regarding the chart of a terminally ill patient. He finally slapped the file down on the table and addressed the prisoner.

"Guten Morgen."

The prisoner nodded. He stared at Thatcher with dark eyes that held firm. He was rather heavy, of medium height, and his skin had a vibrant, healthy hue, absent the pallor and perspiration usually seen on the first session. Number 68 seemed to have a purpose. Thatcher wondered if the man might have been involved in interrogations himself. He poised a pen over paper.

" Was ist dein name7"

No answer, but an easy shake of the head. Thatcher continued in fluent German.

"Your unit and service number?"

Nothing.

"Do you wish to say anything?"

The man sat in silence. Nearly half did on the first session.

Thatcher put down the pen and leaned back in his chair. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed, then refocused on the German with a piercing glare. It was no act. "Why don't we get things straight right now. You are here to answer our questions, and you will do so until we are satisfied. Whether it takes ten days or ten years is of no consequence to me. We will eventually find out everything. If you have committed crimes, your degree of cooperation will be considered when punishment is assessed. I will ask once more. Do you have anything to say?"

The German nodded once. With two index fingers that were chained in close proximity, he pointed toward the pen and paper on the table. A thankful Thatcher poised again to write.

"Manhattan Project."

The German's accent fell hard on the English words, but there was no mistaking them. Thatcher looked up quizzically and Number 68 again gestured for him to write. Reluctantly, Thatcher did, only to be rewarded with more silence. The prisoner was done for the day. Thatcher took the paper and crumpled it into a ball as he rose. He strode from the room, Baker again steeling to attention as he passed, and slammed the door shut.

Alone in the hall, Thatcher paused. At first he had thought Klein, if that's who he really was, was going to be the defiant, silent type. But a bloody gamesman. Unusual, but good. They had agendas, deals to make. In a matter of days this one would be offering everything for a price. And then the words came to Thatcher's mind. Manhattan Project.

He wondered what the devil it meant.

Chapter 6.

The day's run had been without incident. U-801 ran quietly at ninety feet, her black hull easing closer to the coast of Long Island. Braun had divided his time between the navigation table, monitoring a plot of the boat's course, and below in his quarters preparing his gear. He was eager to get the drop over with before anything changed, any message or scrap of information that could take away the legitimacy of the ship's standing orders. If Germany surrendered, the Kriegsmarine would recall the fleet. And Braun would lose control of his destiny.

Shortly after dark, U-801 began her final approach. She rose to periscope depth where the captain confirmed that conditions were adequate. Scanning the surface, he addressed Braun, "The seas are light, Wehrmacht, but a low moon in the east will give some illumination."

He moved to the chart table to join Braun, who was dressed for his mission -- khaki pants, heavy shirt, wool sweater, and workman's boots. The ensemble was worn, but clean and serviceable, the labels all authentically American.

"We will soon be in place," the captain said, pointing to a drop zone circled on the chart, just off the eastern end of Long Island. "You are ready?"

"Yes. How long will it take for your men to deploy the raft?"

"We will be on the surface no more than three minutes."

Not much of an answer, Braun thought, but it conveyed the idea. He would climb up the sail, then back down onto deck while a raft and oars were stuffed up through the forward hatch. With any luck the thing would land upright in the water. From there, Braun was on his own. U-801 would seal her hatches and submerge, leaving him to negotiate the final, most dangerous miles.

With the drop imminent, the control room of U-801 took on a surreal air. Red lights basked gauges, instruments, and faces in a bloody hue. The crew fell silent, and the scents of the submarine seemed to magnify. Oil from machinery, brine from the bilge, and the sweat of fifty sailors. All mixed regularly in the damp, stale atmosphere, but now it was traced with something else, something Braun recognized from the rat holes of Stalingrad -- fear. The tang of the unexpected.

The crew stood at their stations, grasping wheels and levers, but all eyes were locked on the captain. On his command, U-801 started to rise. Just short of the surface, the boat leveled and the skipper turned once more to the periscope, scouting for any last sign of trouble. Apparently satisfied, he gave the final order.

"Bring her up!"

Compressed air hissed into the ballast tanks, voiding water and providing enough buoyancy to bring 900 tons of warship back to the crew's natural surroundings.

"Captain!" The shout came from the aft passageway. An ordinary seaman from the radio room stood waving a paper.

"Not now!" the captain ordered.

"Captain, please!"

The crewmen stared down the sailor, but the skipper eyed the man with interest. Braun knew what he was thinking. No one would interrupt at such a moment without good reason. The captain nodded and the sailor scurried to hand over the message. The boat's deck pitched forward slightly, and a gentle rocking motion told everyone that U-801 had surfaced.

Braun watched intently as the captain's face cracked into a weak smile. He looked up, his eyes darting between crewmen before making the announcement. "Gentlemen, our war has ended."

There was no cheer, no refrain of joy as would certainly have been the case on an American or British boat, but the relief was palpable. Some bowed their heads, perhaps in thanks to whatever god had delivered them this far, while others grinned at their buddies, open hope that a better life might soon lay ahead.

"Germany has conceded unconditionally," the captain continued, "and we are to return immediately to Kiel -- to surrender our boat." Unease stirred as the crew swallowed the bitter order. The captain said, "I think, perhaps, it would be appropriate to take a moment to remember our fallen brothers-in-arms."

He dropped his chin to his chest, and the crew followed suit. Braun went along with the motion. After a very short minute, the skipper ended the exercise. "And may God have mercy on their immortal souls."

"Captain," the helmsman broke in, "shall we rig to dive?"

The captain looked disdainfully at Braun. "Ah, I almost forgot. My friend, any previous orders are now certainly overridden by this bittersweet news. Do you not agree?"

Braun met the skipper s gaze coolly. "I do not. We have come this far. I must still undertake my mission."

The captain seemed amused. He strolled toward Braun, who held his ground, and the two exchanged a hard stare. The tenuous authority of Braun's orders, his only control, was now lost.

"Captain," the executive officer insisted, "we are exposed! Request permission to dive."

"Yes! Yes! The war is over, but there might be a destroyer captain about who has not gotten the news." He smirked and gestured to the ladder. "Still, we must not take lightly the sacrifices of our other services. Standby to man the deck!" he ordered. "U-801 will complete her last mission. Prepare the raft at the forward deck hatch." The captain turned to Braun. "The coastline is three miles off," he grinned and pointed to starboard, "that way."

The pressure door above opened and residual seawater splashed down the ladder. Braun moved for his gear, but the captain stepped in the way.

"No, my friend. We have brought you here at great risk. Your things will stay with us --a reward, of sorts, for our efforts."

The two men glared at one another. A half dozen crew members took their skipper's lead and eyed Braun menacingly. The duffel, wrapped in oilskin, contained everything he needed -- documents and uniforms to run his cover as a soldier, a Lugar 9mm, and 10,000 U. S. dollars. For a brief moment he wondered how they knew. But then Braun understood. He should have anticipated it. At the beginning of the voyage, when he had tried to hide the money in the nooks and crannies of his stateroom, he'd found three bottles of liquor and an indecent book. Nothing could be hidden here without the crew's knowledge. It was their territory, every inch, and they would have been intensely curious about anything Braun had brought aboard. It was the money they wanted, a rare chance at spoils for the vanquished.

"All right, keep the money. But I must have the rest." Braun reached for his bundle, but the captain kicked it away. He knew about the gun as well.

"Go now, Wehrmacht! Before I lose my benevolence!"

A stocky sailor, built like a squat stone pillar, brandished a heavy wrench. Braun considered his options. He could easily take the captain, and perhaps a few others, but the odds were extreme. There was no way to get his gear topside without unacceptable risk. Even then it would be pointless without the raft, to be delivered on deck through a separate, forward hatch. Braun put a hand to the ladder. His pale blue eyes focused on the captain, yet fell obscure, a fog covering what lay behind.