Stealing Trinity (6 page)

"Until we meet again, Captain." With that, he climbed to the sail.

Above, the salt air hit with its customary raggedness, an altogether different realm from the smooth darkness of twenty fathoms. Braun searched across the black sea. He could just make out lights along the coast. It looked farther than three miles, but judging at night was difficult. Forward, the deck of U-801 stretched out before him. He could just see the outline of the forward cargo hatch. It would open at any moment to disgorge his salvation, the raft and oars that would carry him the last miles to America.

Then Braun heard it. At his feet, the solid clang of the hatch closing. A churning astern as U-80Ts screws were engaged. Bastards! The boat eased forward, and her bow planes extended with a downward tilt.

Braun scampered down from the sail and ran forward to the cargo hatch. He stomped on it with his boot, the rubber sole thudding against a steel fortress. The boat picked up speed, and soon foamy water began to churn over the top of her black hull. When the water reached his knees, he succumbed to the futility. Braun jumped as far as he could, hoping to clear the twisting screws. The water was cold and hit like a shot of electricity, but for the moment only one thing mattered -- kick, swim, get clear!

With his head down, Braun pulled for all he was worth. The water transmitted a throbbing pulse to his ears, closer and closer. His body twisted against waves and whirlpools that seemed to pull him toward the spinning propellers. He went under, tumbling, not sure which way was up, which way was clear. Then, finally, he surfaced. He shook his head to clear the water from his face and saw U-801 slip down and disappear into a maelstrom of foam. The sound of her engines faded and the seas quickly reverted to their standard, uniform chaos, no traces left to betray the steel black monster lurking just below.

Treading water, Braun scanned the horizon for the shoreline he had seen only moments ago. It was hopeless. The gentle waves that had caressed U-801 now seemed huge. Braun rose and fell on the swells, yet even at the crests he was too low to make out the horizon. He had to act fast. With water so cold his time was limited. There was only one reference, the moon, still low to the east. As long as he kept it at his back, he would be moving in the right direction.

Braun began swimming at a brisk pace, but quickly realized his problem. The clothes were impossible, dragging like a sea anchor. He curled down and took off his boots, then tore away the heavy jacket. He tried again, but progress was still impeded, and when he stopped a breaking wave caught him flush in the face. Braun coughed and spit out the briny mess. He cursed inwardly. He had survived far too much. It will not end here, he thought. Not like this!

He reached down and frantically stripped off everything -- shirt, pants, briefs, and socks -- until he was naked, save for the Swiss-made timepiece strapped to his wrist. Now the water seemed colder still, and for a moment Braun despaired. But he knew the one thing that would save him. He could just make out the second hand on his watch. One minute.

He took a deep breath and fell back, floating fluidly on the churning sea. Above, he saw the stars in their familiar patterns, an unmoving reference against the roiling ocean. It was the same constant he had found in the skies over Stalingrad. There, on clear nights, the black stillness above was the only thing to hold against the chaos of bullets, knives, and explosions all around. Time and again over the last years he had watched men panic in the face of such trials. He'd seen them throw their guns down and run screaming from foxholes, seen them rush suicidal into enemy onslaughts, perhaps hastening what they saw as inevitable. He had watched men who were not on regular terms with God fall to their knees and pray for His intervention.

Braun, however, had always been the provider of his own salvation. This was where he differed from other men. Purging the cold, purging everything, he closed his eyes and set his mind to a blank. He soon acquired a tranquility that mirrored the heavens above. It was his advantage, a mental structure that always held form and foundation. He would waste no thoughts on cursing Colonel Gruber or the captain of U-801 for bringing him here. He would not brag inwardly that he would win, or that he had never been beaten. He simply fell calm. Braun allowed his limbs to float freely in the ocean's cold, aqueous womb. His mind acquired order and a singular, absolute constant fell into place -- the task of swimming a few miles in the correct direction through a freezing ocean.

He noted the time, referenced the moon, and again started off. His arms and shoulders did the work, stroking at a firm, rhythmic pace as his mind considered the variables. How far was it to shore? He was a strong swimmer, but the cold would take his strength. Would he have an hour? Two? The winds were light, but what about the current? Sourced from the south, he decided, the Gulf Stream flowing up along the coast. Perpendicular. He hoped it was so. A knot or two against him would double the task. Braun concentrated on his form, and his muscles filled with blood from the exertion. It felt good, but he realized that the warmth his body manufactured was ultimately no match for the oceans cold. There were limits. Even he had limits.

The breaking waves were merciless. He sucked in seawater, coughed up brine and bile. Every few minutes he paused to reference the moon, rising steadily behind him. He went for nearly an hour when, at the crest of a wave, he thought he saw a light on the horizon. His spirits rose. But on the next rise he saw nothing. Braun returned to pulling through the water, his limbs straining with less authority now. Had it been a light on shore? A low star? Or perhaps a boat? He felt the first cramps in his back. Yes, a boat would do nicely. A fisherman. He could make it work. Somehow. He looked west again, but still saw nothing. It was very cold.

He ignored his watch now, and Braun's mind began to drift -- odd, directionless thoughts. Minnesota, Cambridge, the steppes of Central Russia. Useless thoughts. Had it been another hour? Two? What did it matter -- he had the rest of his life. The cramps forced him to adjust his stroke. From an overhand crawl he shifted to the breaststroke, but with the seas in his face it was impossible. He went to a sidestroke, alternating, and made far less headway. Soon his legs began to cramp, and Braun began to shiver. His teeth chattered uncontrollably against the temperature drop. He knew what it meant -- his body was nearing the end of its ability to function. This, too, he had seen in Russia, but always in others. Braun had never been this far himself.

Still no lights. His mind began blanking. The waves seemed bigger. Or was he simply moving lower in the water? His right leg seized, the muscles rigid. Headway was nothing. Just stay up!

Waves slapped mercilessly, and then suddenly all was calm. His surroundings fell still and dark, shrouded like an overcast Russian sky. And with the last vestige of consciousness, Alexander Braun realized he had gone under.

Chapter 7.

Michael Thatcher strove desperately to find the virtue of routine. When he woke at five thirty, his customary hour, the first stop was always the washbasin. He stirred shaving cream in a cup and was about to apply it to his face when he paused to regard the image in the mirror. Five o'clock shadow notwithstanding, the face staring back at him was a sad sight. His thin, narrow features seemed to strain along the vertical axis, as if some great weight was pulling everything down by the chin. Dark circles lay under murky, tired eyes. And his brown hair was too long, tousled, and untidy. I've let myself go, he thought. Or perhaps Roger is right. I've been working too hard.

After shaving, the tide continued against him. Laundry had been piling up and there was no clean underwear in his top drawer. Thatcher eventually found a pair wedged in the gap between his dresser and the wall, and he thought they looked clean enough after he'd shaken off the dust. Once dressed, he placed a pot of water on the stove.

He had spent the previous night with Mr. Churchill on the radio, finally hearing the words the country had been waiting years for-- "The German war is over. God save the King!" He had been tempted to go down to the Cock and Thistle for a pint -- the place must have been riotous. But he'd been tired. Very tired.

That's what war does to you,Thatcher had reasoned before falling asleep in his best chair.

This morning things seemed strangely unchanged. There was no brilliant sunrise --an early morning drizzle tapped against the windows --and the same stack of cases would still be scattered over his desk, oblivious to the formal surrender. Thatcher was pouring his morning tea when the telephone rang. Roger Ainsley sounded weary.

"Michael, I need you here right away."

Thatcher was taken aback. Roger worked hard, but never found his way to the office before daybreak. "Can I ask what this is about?"

"It has to do with Number 68.1 can t say anything more."

"I see. I'll be right in."

Thatcher turned off the stove and donned his uniform, wondering what had happened. Roger sounded in a state. Had Klein done himself in? It had happened once before, an SS major who'd certainly been up against the gallows. But Klein was a nobody, a corporal. He might have useful information, but the man hardly seemed a war criminal. Thatcher remembered the results of his questioning -- Manhattan Project. More than ever, he wondered what the devil it meant.

Thatcher stepped into Ainsley's office twenty-five minutes later, his boots muddied and his uniform peppered with moisture from the early morning drizzle. He saw Ainsley flanked by a pair of serious men. One was tall with angular features, and wore the uniform of a U. S. Army colonel. He stood rigidly for the introduction. The other looked a civilian, a slight man with close-cut reddish hair that receded on top to reveal a freckled scalp. He swam in a tweed jacket, and held a casual stance. A cigarette dangled loosely from two fingers.

"Major Thatcher," Ainsley said in an uncharacteristically formal tone. "These gentlemen would like a word with you. This is Colonel Rasmussen of the U. S. Army Intelligence Corps."

Thatcher exchanged pleasantries with the officer.

"And Mr. Jones is a representative of the United States War Department."

The civilian offered a soft handshake, then retreated to the side and leaned against a bookcase. Thatcher decided that the man was trying to imply, by his aloofness, that he effectively outranked the colonel.

"Gentlemen," Ainsley began, "Major Thatcher here is an interrogator. Hes also our tracker -- when we find reliable evidence of important Nazis on the run, we send Thatcher to hunt them down. He's quite good at it."

"I see," Rasmussen said. "Yesterday, Major, you interviewed Number Sixty-eight?"

"I did."

"And what were the results?"

"Well, the only thing I got was this phrase -- Manhattan Project. The prisoner clearly thought it would mean something to me. It didn't, so I asked around a bit."

"Who did you discuss this with?" Rasmussen asked.

"A couple of the officers here. I also made a call to a friend in intelligence at SHAEF," Thatcher said, referring to the Supreme Allied Headquarters.

"A Major Quinn?" Rasmussen suggested.

"Yes, that's right. He's an old acquaintance, and always knowledgeable."

"Why did you feel the need to ask someone in our intelligence services about this?"

Thatcher thought it was obvious enough. "The name of course. Manhattan Project."

The American officer clasped his hands behind his back. "I see. And was anyone able to shed light on this name?"

"No. Not yet. Is it something important?"

"Nothing vital. A shipbuilding project in New York. But it is classified. We'd like to find out what else Number Sixty-eight knows."

Thatcher's voice was edged in skepticism, "This project is nothing vital, but you've rushed over straightaway in the middle of the night -- just in case there's something more?"

Rasmussen frowned and Ainsley stepped in. "We'd like you to interview Sixty-eight again. Really press in and see if he has anything else. We've confirmed his identity." Ainsley tapped a folder on his desk. "Just as we thought --Corporal Fritz Klein."

Thatcher recognized the German Army personnel folder. "Where did you get that?"

"Berlin. We pulled it out of the Wehrmacht's records."

"Berlin? That usually takes three weeks. We got it overnight?"

The man called Jones finally entered the match, his tone impatient. "Major Thatcher, we're asking for a little help here. I know you're an investigator by nature, but let's remember who pulled Europe's ass out of this fire."

Thatcher bristled and was ready to lash back when Ainsley again turned referee. "Michael, this comes straight from Whitehall. Let's see that it's done. I've already arranged for Sixty-eight to be brought to The Stage."

Thatcher knew what that meant. The Stage was a unique interrogation room, the only one with a mirrored viewing area. Ainsley and the Americans would be watching. He was being steamrolled, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Thatcher locked eyes with Jones like a prizefighter staring down an opponent.

"All right then. Let's get on with it."

The brightness was incredible. Braun opened his eyes and squinted severely against the brilliance. The sound of the ocean remained, echoing in his ears, yet when his hands clawed there was no longer water. Something firmer, yet still liquid through his fingers. Sand.

He shielded his eyes for relief and slowly began to see, slowly began to remember. U-801. Swimming, gasping, breathing. Just barely breathing. And then sinking, falling slowly, helplessly until his feet finally hit something. Push! Push back up! At last another breath. Then fighting the waves until he could stand, crawling the last few meters. The cold had been next. Not like Stalingrad, but the same vital thoughts. Keep moving. Find protection, warmth.

Braun's vision focused more clearly. He registered dunes and outcroppings of long grass. He was in a recess dug into the side of an embankment -- a bed of coarse sand and a blanket of strawlike grass to break the wind and absorb the rays of the sun. He tried to move, only then remembering that he was still naked. Rising, the sand and grass gave way, exposing his body to a steady breeze.