The Bone Hunters (23 page)

29 May

Casa Grande Brugg

Dunmore Town

North Eleuthera

Bahamas

Macaulay watched the lights in the guardhouse barracks flicker and die.

If Barnaby had managed to disable the main power system, Macaulay figured it would take Brugg's people at least ten minutes to reconnect their power with the backup generators in the utility building. Ten minutes to find Carlos and for them all to get out.

Moving cautiously from his position inside the tree line to the side of the building again, he crept forward to the corner closest to the rear entrance. The two guards were standing under the portico out of the rain.

“I cawn't see nothin', mon,” said one.

“Backup lights be on soon,” said the second guard. “It happen all the time.”

The beam of a flashlight suddenly lit up their faces.

“Why are you not at your posts?” barked an imperious voice from the path leading to the parking lot.

In the dim, hazy outline of its reflected light, Mike McGandy looked every inch the deputy commander.
Both guards dashed down the portico steps and came to attention, holding their machine guns at port arms.

“Have you forgotten how to salute?” demanded McGandy in Bardot's imposing uniform cap.

Retaining their grip on the weapons with their left hands, they raised their right ones in a saluting gesture as McGandy strode toward them. Macaulay came up silently behind their backs and grabbed the machine gun from the left hand of the first guard.

“On your knees,” Macaulay said, pulling back the bolt to cock the machine gun.

Without turning around, the second guard dropped his weapon. McGandy turned off the flashlight as he circled around them, picking up the second machine gun and quickly binding their wrists with the cord he had found in the garage.

Macaulay nudged them in the back with the barrel and said, “We're going down to the cellar. Call out and I'll kill you.”

The stone steps leading down into the darkness were slippery with rain. As soon as they were out of sight, McGandy turned on the flashlight again. At the bottom of the staircase, Macaulay looked across the low-ceilinged chamber and saw flickering candlelight.

McGandy ordered the guards to lie facedown on the stone floor. While he bound them more securely, Macaulay headed toward what looked like a big slab of butcher block with candles at each end. Looking down at the naked man lying on top of it, he wasn't sure he was alive. The man's eyes were hidden in a mass of swollen purple tissue.

“Carlos?” he said.

One of the masses above his nose slowly parted to reveal a sliver of eye.

“Steef?” came the ragged croak.

Macaulay gave him a reassuring pat on his shoulder. It was one of the few places on his body that didn't show visible signs of torture. Carlos began sobbing as Macaulay unscrewed the two wrist shackles and released his arms.

“I be no tell nothing, Steef,” he whispered through broken and missing teeth.

“We're getting you out of here,” said Macaulay. “We have to move fast.”

“No toes,” he croaked.

“Sweet Jesus,” said Macaulay as he reached the end of the slab to remove the last two shackles.

The places where the toes had been appeared to be cemented with airplane glue.

“You just enjoy the ride,” said Macaulay.

McGandy had covered the guards' heads with two feed sacks he had found after taping their mouths shut. Carlos's clothes were on the table next to the toolbox and McGandy brought them over.

“They never got a good look at me,” whispered McGandy. “Maybe they'll think I was Bardot.”

Macaulay pointed to Carlos's feet.

“I wish I had a chance to spend five minutes with the guy who did this,” said McGandy as Macaulay helped Carlos into his pants.

“Me too,” agreed Macaulay.

“He be a woman,” croaked Carlos, “a big woman.”

“Black Mamba,” said McGandy, “Brugg's mother. I told you about her.”

“Let's go,” said Macaulay, picking up Carlos and
carrying him in his arms. McGandy carried the two light machine guns, their semiautomatic pistols, and two large pouches holding spare magazines.

At the top of the steps, McGandy paused long enough to make sure the area around the rear entrance was deserted. Over the noise of the wind and driving rain, he could hear laughter from inside the barracks.

“That's good. They're celebrating with rum,” he said to Macaulay as they headed out into the driving rain.

•   •   •

In the garish light of battery-powered floodlights, the party guests flowed out of the house and headed to their cars. No one had bothered to wait for the fireworks display that traditionally capped the evening's festivities. Many had already witnessed the fireworks after the royal entourage viewed Juwan's collection in the catacombs under the house.

The mansion house staff had set up hurricane lanterns for people to navigate through the rooms on the main floor. By the time Juwan got back to the great hall, the duke and duchess of Lancaster were standing at the top of the cellar stairs with their black Yorkshire terrier in a shadowy pool of light.

“You are a monster,” declared the duchess. “I will personally see to it that the authorities in New Providence learn of your atrocities.”

When Juwan attempted to defend himself by declaring that his birds were now protected forever from harm, she threatened to have the duke challenge him to a duel. The duke remained standing behind her and showed no indication of stepping into Juwan's orbit to slap his face.

They stormed out of the house with their entourage in
tow a few minutes later. Varna stood on the terrace and watched them go with tears streaming down his face.

“Varna,” said Juwan, tenderly encompassing his back in an affectionate hug. “This is nothing. Don't worry about it. I'll make it up to you.”

“How can you do that?” said Varna. “You'll never understand me.”

Pivoting on his heel, the little Panamanian made his way between the rows of departing guests and headed up the main staircase. Li watched as he mounted the stairs in his skintight pants.

“Where is Bardot?” demanded Juwan to one of the security staff.

“Lieutenant Mai said he saw him over near the guard barracks,” said the young guard.

“Find him and bring him to me,” said Juwan.

Zho Shen Wui stepped closer to Juwan and said, “It is highly probable that whoever did this may still be in your compound.”

“Search every car as it goes out the gate,” demanded Juwan before heading back inside the house.

•   •   •

When Black Mamba descended the steps underneath the guard barracks, she sensed that something was wrong. She could hear the noise from someone or something straining to be heard, but it was coming from the wrong side of the chamber.

Looking across toward her workstation, she saw that the heavy slab was empty. Someone had taken the man. There was no way he could have walked out by himself.
Going to the source of the sounds, she found two men trussed like chickens lying on the stone floor.

Pulling the cloth sack off one of the heads, she saw it was one of the men she had left in place to guard the rear entrance. Several strips of duct tape encircled his lower head and jaw. She ripped it away.

“Where is my prisoner?” she shouted into his terrified face.

“Colonel Bardot took him,” were the only words he could get out before she kicked him in the genitals.

“You're a liar,” she said, heading for the toolbox.

•   •   •

Macaulay and McGandy waited for Barnaby and Lexy in the barracks' garage. Macaulay had told them to meet there as soon as they could after the diversion began. McGandy had found a first aid kit in the trunk of the Ferrari and dressed the wounds to Carlos's hands and feet. He gave him some water and Carlos was able to keep it down before he passed out again.

“I'm not sure if he is going to make it,” said McGandy.

“Just a few more minutes,” said Macaulay.

“Someone's coming,” whispered McGandy as they heard heavy footfalls outside over the rain.

A few moments later, Barnaby staggered into the garage.

“I waited as long as I dared for Alexandra,” he said. “We got separated by the crowd in the darkness. All proverbial hell is breaking loose over there.”

The lights suddenly came on across the compound in the mansion house, followed by the ones in the guardhouse barracks.

“You two follow the plan,” said Macaulay. “I'm going after her.”

He was out of the garage and starting to run toward the mansion house when Lexy broke through the dense undergrowth near the parking lot. She was wearing her muddy catering uniform, her hair flattened by the rain.

They embraced for a moment before he led her toward the black panel truck.

Carlos was still unconscious and McGandy gently laid him down next to the naked dead man in the rear of the van. If a guard opened the door, he would hopefully assume they were both dead.

The black tarpaulin car cover that Mike McGandy had found in the garage was large enough to cover Macaulay, Lexy, and Barnaby in the space between the corpse and the front seats. McGandy put on Bardot's uniform cap over his gaudy uniform coat, started the engine, and headed toward the pillars of the compound gate.

A line of cars stretched ahead of them, and armed guards were demanding that everyone in each vehicle get out and open their trunks. McGandy could see several rain-soaked guests in the beams of their car's headlights angrily shouting at the guards to no avail.

“We have to go now,” said Macaulay from under the tarp.

McGandy swung the truck out of the waiting line and
onto the grass-covered strip that fringed the driveway. As he drove boldly toward the gate, one of the guards checking a car shouted for him to stop. He began chasing the truck as the two guards flanking the gate raised their machine guns and aimed at McGandy.

Stopping short at the gate, McGandy switched on the interior lights above the truck's dashboard. Seeing the uniform with its gold stars under the colonel's cap, the men at the gate immediately lowered their machine guns.

The guard who had chased the truck raced up to the rear door and yanked it open. He was about to vault into the freight bed when he saw the two bodies and recoiled backward.

Hidden as he was under the tarpaulin, Barnaby's head was propped directly behind the driver's seat and McGandy's shoulders.

“Hors du chemin,”
he shouted in French, his voice becoming dangerous.
“Hors de mon chemin vous imbéciles.”

From the way the guard in the rear slammed the door shut, it was obvious that Bardot's men were familiar with his tirades in French. The two guards flanking the gate immediately waved them forward. A few moments later, the truck disappeared into the rain.

30 May

Estancia da Fonseca

San Jose de Mayo

Uruguay

Tommy Somervell didn't think June Corcoran would last out the day. She was visibly shrinking in front of him. The only things that seemed to be keeping her alive and nourished were cigarettes and coffee laced with apple brandy. She had refused all food for the last two days along with the painkillers she had occasionally taken over the previous few weeks.

They had arrived in Montevideo the previous night at three in the morning on a military flight from Ramstein, Germany. Tommy had gone straight to the American consulate and arranged transportation for seven that same morning. She had refused to stay behind at the hotel in Montevideo when he told her that he would go after the U-boat commander's logbook alone.

June was waiting for him in the hotel lobby when he came down after shaving and taking a quick shower. She had on the same outfit she had been wearing when they left Berlin. But then he was wearing the same suit too.

He had slept a bit on the plane across the Atlantic, fueled by the bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold Label scotch he had purchased at the Ramstein PX. Every time he
awoke during the flight, she had been sitting under the little cone of light from the upper console and scribbling in her notebook.

“I don't know how you managed to track down von Bulow's daughter so quickly,” he had said.

She had ignored him and kept scribbling.

“What are you writing?” he had asked.

“
War and Peace
,” she had said. “Part Two.”

The American consul in Montevideo provided a car and driver and they drove south from the capital through the rolling, verdant countryside for almost two hours. It was a stunningly beautiful country, Tommy thought, even if it had harbored hundreds of Nazis after the Second World War. They had lived well.

He couldn't help noticing that she was dealing with an uncontrollable dribbling of saliva from the corner of her mouth. She stanched its flow by continually dabbing at her mouth with the small white hand towel she had taken from the plane.

Tommy felt deeply torn at allowing her to continue the journey. In Ramstein, he had almost decided to have her forcibly checked into the base hospital, and then changed his mind. Knowing her for as long as he had, he knew she would have it no other way.

At nine in the morning, they crossed the bridge over the Rio San Jose and entered the small city of San Jose de Mayo. Their driver punched the address into his GPS that had been provided to them for the residence of Greta von Bulow da Fonseca, the daughter of U-boat Kapitan Kaspar von Bulow. It was in an enclave of imposing homes at the edge of a small lake.

The three-story brick mansion was surrounded by
broad, manicured lawns. A clay tennis court flanked one side of the house and an Olympic-size swimming pool the other. Two tanned and beautiful young blond women were playing singles on the court as Tommy and June walked up the front path.

A butler met them at the door and led them to the rear of the house and up a set of stairs to a glass-walled solarium that faced onto the lake. A statuesque woman with a heart-shaped face stood in front of the windows. She was dressed in a white silk dress that emphasized her well-endowed chest and hourglass hips. Her long graying blond hair was crowned by a silver tiara laced with baby's breath.

“Please sit down,” said the woman, beckoning Tommy and June into the Louis Quinze chairs that faced her own as a maid appeared with a coffee service on a silver tray.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice, Madame da Fonseca,” said Tommy in German.

She looked at his rumpled seersucker suit, stained white shirt, and blue-and-white polka-dot bow tie with a hint of distaste. Her eyes drifted over to June.

“I am receiving you this morning because the German consul in Montevideo is a personal friend and asked me to extend the courtesy,” she said, responding in English. “I have little to do with the current regime in Bonn. When it comes to the current chaos in Europe, they are as passive as white mice.”

Her voice was deep and husky, with an accent like Tommy remembered from Marlene Dietrich in
Destry Rides Again.
He looked up at the huge oil painting that dominated the interior wall of the room. Its subject was a balding old man with an impressive set of epaulets on
his gold-bedecked military uniform. He was holding his hat to his chest and staring down at them with firm-jawed resolution.

“That is Field Marshal Manuel de Freitas da Fonseca,” she said. “My husband is a direct descendant.”

“Very impressive,” said Tommy, responding again in German. “To come straight to the point, we are hoping to have a brief opportunity to review the logbook compiled by your father when he commanded German Kriegsmarine U-boat 113 in the early months of 1942.”

Her face betrayed no sign of emotion or recognition. She sipped her coffee and put the demitasse cup back on its saucer.

“I have none of his logs,” she said. “You have come a long way for nothing.”

“The logbook in question was stolen from the Kriegsmarine naval archives in Freiburg im Breisgauin in June 2005,” said June Corcoran in German. “I believe you were in the country at that time on a short visit.”

“I do not wish to offend you, but you are drooling on my chair,” responded Greta von Bulow in her accented English. “I want to know if it is contagious.”

“Yes, it is,” said June Corcoran. “I am going to die.”

“I can see that,” said von Bulow's daughter without feeling. “I saw so many die when I was a girl. In regard to your question, my travel back to Germany on that occasion was a family matter.”

“I should tell you that at the behest of the United States government, the German war crimes prosecution office in Nuremburg is preparing to reopen the case of your father and his alleged atrocities against helpless allied prisoners,” said Tommy Somervell. “If the case
results in a guilty verdict, the heirs to those who were murdered will be entitled to full financial restitution for property that was commandeered by Kapitan von Bulow before sinking their ships. They will also be entitled to legally sue those to whom Kapitan von Bulow bestowed his assets upon his death.”

“Did the Jews send you?” she hissed.

Ignoring the question, Tommy said, “In order to maintain continued good relations between Germany and the United States, we are prepared to help forestall this prosecution from taking place based on your cooperation with our request to see the logs.”

“The Jews hounded my father into his early grave,” said Madame da Fonseca. “He was falsely accused of these crimes. My father was a hero of the Third Reich.”

Tommy stood up and helped June Corcoran to her feet.

“I gather that your answer is no,” he said calmly. “I will report your answer back to the government in Bonn. You can expect to hear from the prosecutors within the next two weeks.”

They had almost reached the door to the solarium when Marlene Dietrich's voice brought them up short.

“I will show you the logs,” she said.

As they followed her back through the house, June turned to Tommy and whispered, “Was that all true?”

“What do you think?” he said, his arm encircled in hers.

The room in which Greta da Fonseca kept her father's logbooks was a windowless shrine to the past glory of Hitler's Third Reich. A bust of the Führer was spotlighted in a wall cubicle. The walls of the study were covered with
photographs of her father in the glory days of the Battle of the North Atlantic. In one of them, he was receiving the Knight's Cross from Hitler in Berlin. A glass display case held all his medals.

Von Bulow's daughter unlocked a drawer in the Empire desk in the center of the room. She removed five bound books and laid them on top of the desk.

“You can read them here,” she said. “You will not copy any of the contents. I will stay here until you are finished.”

Tommy brought a second chair over to the desk. He and June sat side by side and began to examine the logs. Von Bulow had used an indelible marking pen to handwrite the year of operations for his U-boats on the canvas-backed covers. There were two of them for 1942. They put the others aside. The first logbook recounted the operations of U-boat 113 from January through March 1942.

“It has to be this one,” said June Corcoran, opening it to the first page. Tommy couldn't help noticing that the small white hand towel was turning pink from each new dab at her mouth.

There were multiple entries for each day of the month. They included everything from ship sightings to disciplinary actions imposed on crew members. His log listed
each radio communication to and from U-boat headquarters in Lorient, France.

They quickly scanned through the entries for January and February that von Bulow had recorded in his cramped German writing style. Some of the pages had been stained with seawater, and the ink had become smeared. As they reached the entries at the end of February, June turned the page. At the top of the next one was the word SIEG.

Victory, he had written in large block letters.

The first line read
28 February 1942. 0427. Sank a freighter approximately seven thousand tons off Nord Eleuthra
.
Teufels Rückgrat.

“Devil's Backbone,” said June. “It's the one.”

Tommy's eyes were focused on the next line.
Ship broke in half and exploded. Closed fifty meters to search wreckage. Secondary explosion schaukelte das boot. Suche uber Bord verloren.

“Lookout lost overboard,” Tommy heard June whisper before her head sagged slowly downward toward the desk until it came to rest on the open page of the log. Tommy gently placed his fingers on her carotid artery above the collar of her blouse.

“What is wrong with her?” demanded Greta da Fonseca.

“She is dead,” said Tommy Somervell.