Stealing Trinity (12 page)

Thatcher sighed. Perhaps he could salvage something when he got back.

His flight, the first available, would leave from RAE Farnborough in two hours. It was an American B-24 being repositioned to the Pacific theater. The third landing would deposit him at a place called Westover Field, a U. S. air base in Massachusetts. From there he would track down the crew of U-801. Alexander Braun might still be among them. Or perhaps not.

Thatcher would simply have to find out.

Chapter 16.

The three flights took two days, slowed by a broken oil cooler that had grounded them for twelve hours in Halifax. The B-24, designated Big Red by her nose art, touched down in America at six in the morning and deposited Thatcher on the tarmac of Westover Field in Massachusetts. To his surprise, he was informed that a message was waiting for him at Base Operations. He took his bag, thanked the crew, and trudged wearily across the ramp.

The American bomber had proven no more comfortable than the Lancasters Thatcher was familiar with. Deafeningly loud, it had a heavy vibration when the propellers weren't perfectly synchronized. This, complemented by a temperature well below the freezing point, had resulted in no sleep whatsoever during the journey. To top it off, Thatcher's head cold was ratcheting up. His throat was raw and his joints ached.

Base Operations was a small, hastily erected clapboard building that hardly owned up to its lofty title. Inside, he found an enlisted man at the reception desk. The soldier stiffened slightly, and Thatcher suspected he probably had no comprehension of British rank insignia. He put the man at ease.

"I'm Major Thatcher. I was told you have a message for me."

"Oh, yeah," the man smiled and began fishing into a drawer.

"Here you are, sir."

Thatcher unfolded the paper to find what he'd been hoping for: crew of u-801 held at fort devens massachusettes.

Sergeant Winters had done well, Thatcher thought. But nothing about Braun. In a perfect world they might have already found him. He turned back to the enlisted man. "How can I get to Fort Devens?"

"Devens? Its about eighty miles northeast, almost to Boston. If its on your orders, they'll set you up with a car at the motor pool. Otherwise, the bus station is a few blocks outside the main gate."

Thatchers initial reaction was to go with the bus, but as he walked out of Base Operations he decided that a car might speed things considerably. He'd always heard America was a big place and getting around might be a problem.

The sergeant in charge of the motor pool was of British descent, bored, and took right away to the amiable major who needed a car for a day or two of the king's business.

"I have a sedan, sir. The only thing is, I've got to have her back by midnight on the third day."

"Of course," Thatcher agreed, having no idea if he could keep the bargain.

Ten minutes later, map in hand, he drove out the main gate and concentrated on his driving. He owned a car, a dilapidated Austin 7, but since the start of the war he'd rarely driven it for lack of petrol. Now came the added complication of staying on the right side of the road.

Once comfortable, he allowed his eyes to drift to the surroundings. The traffic was heavy, like he'd only seen before in London, but absent were the bombed-out buildings, blackout curtains, and sand-bagged batteries of antiaircraft artillery. The stores along the street were all open and seemed well stocked with goods. There were signs of the war, of course. Soldiers strolled the sidewalks with girls on their arms, and patriotic posters were plastered in the shop windows. Still, he had the impression that the war's influence here was less direct, a distant threat that touched all but harmed few.

The drive to Fort Devens took over two hours. On arriving, his first order of business was to establish approval for an interview. Thatcher lacked any official, written authorization to conduct his investigation, so he tread lightly with the request. Fortunately, the camp commander was a disinterested sort who saw nothing wrong in an Allied officer pursuing a distant inquiry. "If you've come all this way," the man decided, "you must have a good reason."

Thatcher next talked to the captain who had already investigated the case. He confirmed that U-801's entire crew was incarcerated at Fort Devens, except for her executive officer, who'd been taken elsewhere for medical attention. He also learned there was no Alexander Braun on the crew roster. The American officer had questioned U-801's captain once, but the results were limited, giving Thatcher none of what he was after. Not wanting to waste time, he requested that Kapitanleutnant Jurgen Scholl be brought right up.

If the interrogation rooms at Handley Down were utilitarian, those at Fort Devens were minimalist. Inside a tent, three chairs sat on wet dirt. They were the folding metal type, sure to inflict equal discomfort to the backsides of all participants. The table separating the chairs was nothing more than a thin sheet of laminated wood resting crookedly on two uneven stacks of bricks. Thatcher took a seat and did not rise when Jurgen Scholl was guided into the room. The guard looked inquiringly at Thatcher, who shooed him off with a wave of his hand. "No need, Sergeant. You may wait outside."

The man did as instructed. Thatcher switched to German.

"Have a seat, Kapitanleutnant."

The Kriegsmarine man moved guardedly to a chair. He was small, slightly built, though not in the sense of being malnourished as were so many of the prisoners Thatcher had seen. He wore an unkempt beard, but behind the mask a pair of piercing blue eyes held strong. Thatcher reached into his pocket and offered up a cigarette and a light.

The German accepted with a nod of appreciation. "Thank you.

"I am Major Thatcher of the British Army. I am not assigned to this facility. Are they treating you and your crew well?"

Scholls eyes sparkled. "Each of my men has his own bunk, we shower every day, and the food is excellent. We might not wish to leave."

Thatcher smiled thinly. Civility established, he set his course. "I have come here seeking information about a man, and I think you may be able to help. After today, Captain, you will not see me again. That is, assuming what you offer is found to be -- accurate."

The U-boat commander showed no reaction, and Thatcher realized that any attempt to instill fear would fall flat on this one. Years under the Atlantic had certainly deadened whatever nerves he still possessed. Other means would be necessary.

"You are from Kiel?" It was one of the few facts established from the previous session. That was where Jurgen Scholl would want to go.

"Yes."

"And you have a wife and son there?"

"Who knows." The German shrugged and took a long draw on his cigarette. "Major, tell me what it is you wish to know. The sooner we settle these things, the sooner we can all go home."

"Indeed." Thatcher leaned forward and interlaced his fingers on the wobbly table. "I wish to know about your last mission, the one that brought you here to America." Thatcher saw little reaction. "Did you deliver a spy?"

"Yes. A Wehrmacht captain. I do not know his name -- not his real one. Our instructions were to make best speed and deposit him ashore at the place they call Long Island."

"And you did?"

"Yes. We received a message regarding the war's end only moments before the drop-off. The spy insisted on going ashore anyway. We sent him topside with his things and a raft, three miles out. It was the last we saw of him."

"I see. The conditions were good? The weather?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary."

"So in all likelihood this man is now in America."

"I suppose. And don't bother asking me what his mission was, Major. As I said, I did not even know his true name."

"All right." Thatcher raised his voice, "Sergeant!"

The guard peered in the door.

"I need the best map you can find of the United States. The northeast coast in particular."

"Yes, sir."

Thatcher turned back to the prisoner. "What did he look like?"

"Rather tall. Blond hair, blue eyes. And a scar, here." He drew a slash across his temple.

"Tell me, what time of day was this drop-off?"

"Shortly after dark. Once the drop was complete, we went back out to sea. However, I could not make contact with headquarters. We were very short on fuel and would never have made it back to Kiel. I thought it best for my men to surrender here."

The questions ran until, ten minutes later, the guard returned with a schoolboy's geography book in his hand.

"This was all I could find, Major. Sorry."

"We'll make do." Thatcher took it and leafed through to a page that showed the northeastern United States. He turned it on the desk to face Scholl, and U-80Vs captain tapped a finger straight on the spot.

"Here. Just off the eastern end of Long Island."

Thatcher saw a town called Hampton. "All right. I'll double-check the position with your executive officer."

The German suddenly seemed hesitant. "Fritz? He is not here with the rest of the crew."

"No. He's in a hospital, over in Rhode Island. Recovering nicely from his infection, I'm told."

Thatcher watched carefully as the man who had battled the sea for so many years shifted slightly in his seat. It was a classic interrogator's tactic. He knew that with the crew interred together, any story line could have been concocted among them.

The executive officer was conveniently outside, an unassailable cross-check to the captain s story. The two men locked eyes and a new atmosphere fell into place. The captain had either lied or not told the entire truth. Was he doing it for the good of the fallen Reich? Thatcher doubted that. More likely he had done something improper, perhaps even criminal.

Thatcher lowered his voice and spoke slowly, suggesting a departure from the previous track. "Kapitanleutnant -- I suspect there is something more. I'll offer two options. First, I can go to every man on your crew, including the executive officer, and compare their stories. This will waste a great deal of my time, which will make me angry. If anything should be brought to light that is questionable under the rules of this war, I will push very hard to have you and any culpable members of your crew prosecuted. On the other hand, if you tell me everything here and now, and I believe it to be true, you will not hear from me again. On this, you have my word as an officer. I will tell the Americans you have cooperated fully." Thatcher paused. "We have just finished a long and very nasty war. I am dedicated to cleaning up the loose ends, and this man you delivered to America may be a very significant one."

The U-boat commander found his balance. Far from being cowed by the ultimatum, he grinned, the blue eyes piercing into his interrogator. "I am glad, Major, that you spent the war in places like this and not in command of a destroyer. You might have given me trouble."

"We all have our uses. Now, what have you not told me?"

The German studied his adversary, a luxury he must rarely have had when he'd guided a ship under the ocean, Thatcher thought.

"The Wehrmacht captain is dead, Major. Put your mind at ease."

"What happened?"

"He was a bastard, but I only did him a favor. If he had been captured with the rest of us, he would have been identified as a spy and hanged." The German dropped his spent cigarette to the floor and twisted the toe of his boot over the remains. "We surfaced three miles from the shoreline, right where I showed you, and sent him above. Then we shut our hatches and dove. He had nothing. None of his equipment -- and no raft."

"You don't think he could have swum ashore?"

"I can t imagine it. The water was cold. The currents. He is gone, Major."

Thatcher now understood Scholl's omission. It was certainly a crime, and as captain he was responsible, notwithstanding the logic that the spy would have been executed in any event. Yet by its very criminal nature, the confession was dressed in truth. They had thrown Braun overboard with almost no chance of survival. Almost no chance.

"But how can I be sure?" Thatcher wondered aloud.

The Kriegsmarine skipper grinned and shook his head. "Major, there were many times when I heard my torpedoes hit their mark, yet with destroyers buzzing around like angry wasps above, I could not venture a look to verify the kill. You must do what I did. Give yourself the benefit of the doubt. And move on to the next target."

The two weeks had passed like two years. Braun drifted through the currents of leisure -- golf and tennis, lunch at the Newport Country Club, and even a formal dinner at the Van DeMeer's. Each affair was little more than a tease, like studying the design of a magnificent castle, knowing all along that a wrecking ball was imminent.

He was enjoying breakfast for once, so far alone in the huge dining room. As Braun gorged himself, he studied the abomination on the wall behind Sargent Cole's place at the head of the table. An exquisite Renoir was on display, one of the master's latter works emphasizing volume and contour. Hanging next to it was the most god-awful piece of modernist trash Braun had ever seen. That was what money allowed, he decided. Take something extravagant and, if the whim strikes, spit in its face.

He was tired, having been up nearly all night contemplating his course. He would have to leave soon, if for no other reason than to carry his false existence to a natural conclusion -- the Japs were on the back foot, but not done yet, and Alex Braun, the soldier of obscure rank and service, had work to do. With Harrold House soon to be a distant memory, he needed something new, a plan to take him forward. Unfortunately, his only other connection with this country involved a rendezvous in New Mexico -- for a mission he had no intention of completing.

He was taking his coffee when Edward bustled in.

"Good morning, Alex."

"Good morning, Edward."

Edward scooped sausage and a hard-boiled egg onto his plate. "What are your plans today?"

"Oh, the usual. A bit of tennis, then maybe lunch on the terrace." On his last day, Braun thought, he might add, And screwing your wife as a nightcap. Lydia had come to his room each night. After the first liaison, Braun had been unsure of what to do. He found Lydia s passion frustrating, distracting given the current circumstances. Continuing the affair carried risk, yet he had always answered her knock, satisfied her impulses. To what end he had no idea.