The guard on foot laughed again and proceeded east on his solitary patrol
around the building. The man in the chair returned to his book.
David sidestroked his way back toward the hull of the trawler.
His arms were getting tired; the foul-smelling waters of the harbor
assaulted his nostrils. And now he had something else to consider: Eugene
Lyons.
Lyons was a quarter of a mile away, diagonally across the water, four
curving blocks from the foot of Ocho CaHe. If Rhinemann’s patrols began
cruising the area, they would find the FMF vehicle with Lyons in it. It was
a bridge he hadn’t considered. He should have considered it.
But he couldn’t think about that now.
He reached the starboard midships and held onto the waterline ledge, giving
the muscles of his arms and shoulders a chance to throb in relief. The
trawler was in the medium-craft classification, no more than seventy or
eighty feet in length, perhaps a thirty-foot midship beam. By normal
standards, and from what David could see as he approached the boat in
darkness, the mid and aft cabins below the wheel shack were about fifteen
and twenty feet long, respectively, with entrances at both ends and two
portholes per cabin on the port and starboard sides. If the Koening
diamonds were on board, it seemed logical that they’d be in the aft cabin,
farthest away from the crew’s normal activity. Too, aft cabins had more
room and fewer distractions. And if Asher Feld was right, if two or three
PeenemOnde scientists were microscopically examining the Koening products,
they would be under a pressured schedule and require isolation.
David found his breath coming easier. He’d know soon enough whether and
where the diamonds were or were not. In moments.
He untied the cloth around his head, treading water as he did so, holding
the pistol firn-dy. The shirt piece drifted away; he held onto the line
ledge and looked above. The gunwale was six to seven feet out of the water;
he would need both his hands to claw
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his way up the tiny ridges of the hull.
He spat out what harbor residue was in his mouth and clamped the barrel of
the gun between his teeth. The only clothing he wore was his trousers; he
plunged his hands beneath the water, rubbing them against the cloth in an
effort to remove what estuary slick he could.
He gripped the line ledge once again and with his right hand extended,
kicked his body out of the water and reached for the next tiny ridge along
the hull. His fingers grasped the half-inch sprit; he pulled himself up,
slapping his left hand next to his right, pushing his chest into the rough
wood for leverage. His bare feet were near the water’s surface, the gunwale
no more than three feet above him now.
Slowly he~raised his knees until the toes of both feet rested on the
waterline ledge. He paused for breath, knowing that his fingers would not
last long on the tiny ridge. He tensed the muscles of his stomach and
pressed his aching toes against the ledge, pushing himself up as high as
possible, whipping out his hands; knowing, again, that if he missed the
gunwale he would plunge back into the water. The splash would raise alarms.
The left hand caught; the right slipped off. But it was enough.
He raised himself to the railing, his chest scraping against the rough,
weathered hull until spots of blood emerged on his skin. He looped his left
arm over the side and removed the pistol from his mouth. He was – as he
hoped he would be – at the midpoint between the fore and aft cabins, the
expanse of wall concealing him from the guards on the loading dock.
He silently rolled over the gunwale onto the narrow deck And took the
necessary crouching steps to the cabin wall. He pressed his back into the
wooden slats and slowly stood up. He inched his way toward the first aft
porthole; the light from within was partially blocked by a primitive
curtain of sorts, pulled back as if parted for the night air. The second
porthole farther down had no such obstruction, but it was only feet from
the edge of.the wall; there was the possibility that a sentry – unseen from
the water – might be on stem watch there. He would see whatever there was
to see in the first window.
His wet cheek against the rotted rubber surrounding the porthole, he looked
inside. The ‘curtain’ was a heavy sheet of black tarpaulin folded back at
an angle. Beyond, the light was as he had pictured it; a single bulb
suspended from the ceiling by a thick
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wire – a wire that ran out a port window to a pier outlet. Ship generators
were not abused while at dock. There was an oddshaped, flat piece of metal
hanging on the side of the bulb, and at first David was not sure why it was
there. And then he understood; the sheet of’metal deflected the light of the
bulb from the rear of the cabin, where he could make out – beyond the fold
of the tarp – two bunk beds. Men were sleeping; the light remained on but
they were in relative shadow.
On the far side of the cabin, butted against the wall, was a long table
that had the incongruous appearance of a hospital laboratory workbench. It
was covered by a taut, white, spotless oilcloth and on the cloth,
equidistant from one another, were four powerful microscopes. Beside each
instrument was a high-intensity lamp -all the wires leading to a
twelve-volt utility battery under the table. On the floor in front of the
microscopes were four high-backed stools – four white, spotless stools
standing at clinical attention.
That was the effect, thought David. Clinical. This isolated section of the
trawler was in counterpoint to the rest of the filthy ship; it was a small,
clinical island surrounded by rotted sea waste and rat disks.
And then he saw them. In the corner.
Five steel crates, each with metal strips joined at the top edges and held
in place with heavy vault locks. On the front of each crate was the clearly
stenciled name: KOENING MWES, LTD.
He’d seen it now. The undeniable, the irrefutable.
Tortugas.
The obscene “change funneled through Erich Rhinemann.
And he was so close, so near possession. The final indictment.
Within his fear – and he was afraid – furious anger and deep temptation
converged. They were sufficient to suspend his anxiety, to force him to
concentrate only on the objective. To believe – knowing the belief was
false – in some mystical invulnerability, granted for only a few precious
minutes.
That was enough.
He ducked under the first porthole and approached the second. He stood up
and looked in; the door of the cabin was in his direct line of sight. It
was a new door, not part of the trawler. It was steel and in the center was
a bolt at least an inch thick, jammed into a bracket in the frame.
The Peenemiinde scientists were not only clinically isolated,
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they were in a self-imposed prison.
That bolt, David realized, was his personal Alpine pass – to be crossed
without rig.
He crouched and passed under the porthole to the edge of the cabin wall. He
remained on his knees and, millimeter by millimetre, the side of his face
against the wood, looked around the comer.
The guard was there, of course, standing his harbor watch in the tradition
of such sentry duty: on deck, the inner line of defense; bored, irritated’
with his boredom, relaxed in his inactivity yet annoyed by its
pointlessness.
But he was not in the paramilitary clothes of Habichtsnest. He was in a
loose-fitting suit that did little to conceal a powerful -military – body.
His hair was cut short, Wehrmacht style.
He was leaning against a large fishing-net winch, smoking a thin cigar,
blowing the smoke aimlessly into the night air. At his side was an
automatic rifle, -30 caliber, the shoulder strap unbuckled, curled on the
deck. The rifle had not been touched for quite some time, the strap had a
film of moisture on the surface of the leather.
The strap…. David took the belt from his trousers. He stood up, inched
back towards the porthole, reached underneath the railing and removed one
of two gunwale spikes which were clamped against the inner hull for the
fish nets. He tapped the railing softly twice; then twice again. He heard
the shuffling of the guard’s feet. No forward movement, just a change of
position.
He tapped again. Twice. Then twice more. The quietly precise tapping –
intentional, spaced evenly – was enough to arouse curiosity, insufficient
to cause alarm.
He heard the guard’s footsteps now. Still relaxed, the forward motion easy,
not concerned with danger, only curious. A piece of harbour driftwood,