The Passenger (23 page)

‘Can we go into town tomorrow night?' she asked.

‘If you want,' Lorenz replied.

She laid a hand against the side of his face. ‘I've booked a hotel.'

‘Which one?'

‘The Fürstenhof.'

Lorenz grinned. ‘An excellent choice.'

G
LOCKNER USHERED
L
ORENZ DOWN A
dimly lit hallway and into a spacious living room: bookcases, escritoire, Grotrian-Steinweg upright piano, leather sofa, and reading chair. Everything was the same. There were no ornaments, paintings, or photographs, and the air seemed somewhat hazy, as if the contents of the room were being viewed through a fine mesh.

‘You've started playing again?' Lorenz had noticed a Beethoven piano sonata on the music stand.

‘Yes. It's gradually coming back.' Glockner wiggled his fingers.

‘I don't know why you stopped.'

‘Time,' said Glockner, ‘never enough time. And I can't bear to play badly.'

Lorenz sat on the sofa, crossed his legs, and extended his arms along the back rest. ‘Well, what did you find out?'

Glockner lowered himself into the reading chair. ‘He was quite a character, your Professor Grimstad. You said he was an archaeologist.'

‘That's what I was told.'

‘He did supervise some archaeological digs in Norway and Iceland, but these were undertaken without the approval of his university. In fact, he wasn't an archaeologist but an authority on
Norse literature. He came to prominence early when his controversial translation of the Völuspá was published.'

‘The what?'

‘The Völuspá. The Seeress's Prophecy. Some believe it to be the greatest poem of the Germanic peoples.'

‘I've never heard of it.'

‘It's part of the Edda, which you
must
know.'

‘We did it at school.'

‘Indeed. Grimstad's reputation grew, and for many years he enjoyed the respect of his colleagues; however, he began to attract criticism when he started writing about pagan ceremonies. It was all rather speculative, and his peers began to question his judgment, and it was about this time that he began to dabble in archaeology—a discipline in which he had no formal training or experience—presumably in the hope of discovering evidence that would support his theories. Things came to a head about four years ago. It seems that he persuaded some of his students to participate in reenactments of a pagan ritual, and a subsequent scandal led to his dismissal from the university. I'm not sure what he got up to, precisely, but I believe that there were allegations of sexual impropriety.'

‘Was he a member of the resistance?'

‘After his dismissal he became involved with various folkloric groups, among whose number he was bound to have met staunch nationalists.'

‘And the Schutzstaffel? Why were they interested in him?'

‘I don't know. I wasn't able to find that out; however, Himmler—of course—is renowned for his peculiar ideas about the significance of Norse mythology. And he's very fond of runes.' Glockner hummed a jaunty introduction and sang a few lines of a famous SS anthem: ‘
We all stand ready for battle, inspired by runes and death's head
. . .'

Lorenz nodded in agreement and the two men fell silent. A clock was ticking and outside a car drove past. A sudden blast of
wind rattled the windows. ‘Thank you,' said Lorenz. He took a slip of paper out his pocket and handed it to his friend.

‘What's this?'

‘A name and a telephone number.'

‘Lulu Trompelt?'

‘She likes opera and foreign poetry and she's supposed to be pretty—although I only have someone else's word for that.'

O
N RETURNING TO
B
REST,
L
ORENZ
was informed by Cohausz that Wilhelm had gone absent without leave. He remembered the young bosun's mate, clearing up the boat—anxious, scared—handing him the British penny. ‘He was due back three days ago,' said Cohausz. ‘I've spoken to his parents. He spent Christmas with them in Hamburg. They said goodbye to him at the station.'

‘Did they see him get on the train?'

‘No.'

‘He could be anywhere.'

‘True. But eventually he'll be found and then . . .' Cohausz mimed aiming a rifle and pulling a trigger. ‘What a fool. Do you have any idea why he's chosen to face a firing squad?'

‘Well, we don't know that for sure, do we? Not just yet, sir.'

‘He couldn't have gotten lost.'

‘An accident possibly, Kommodore?'

‘What? On the way down from Hamburg? I think that's highly unlikely, don't you?'

Some of the crew had already been interviewed, and Lorenz learned that Berger was the last person to have spoken to Wilhelm before the errant bosun's mate had departed for Hamburg. Lorenz had the young seaman brought to his quarters.

‘It was the day after the explosion,' said Berger. ‘A group of us had gotten together in a beer cellar down in the port, Herr Kaleun. We'd all drunk too much. It was getting late and most of
the men went off to the Casino Bar: Kruger, Peters, Stein, Neumann, Arnold—and a few others—crew from different boats who I didn't know. I was left sitting at a table with Wilhelm.'

‘How was he behaving?' Lorenz asked.

‘He wasn't himself, sir.'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘He was glum, moody: not very talkative. But then, all of a sudden, he started saying things . . .' Berger shifted in his seat as though he was experiencing some kind of physical discomfort.

‘
Things?
What things?'

‘It was difficult to understand him at first, sir. He wasn't very clear, because of the drink, I suppose—mumbling, cursing. Then he started saying that the boat wasn't right.'

‘You mean unsafe?'

‘No, he wasn't referring to a technical problem. More like the boat was . . .' Berger hesitated. ‘More like the boat was jinxed. I suppose he was brooding about Hoffmann—and the explosion.' The young seaman ventured a tentative opinion. ‘We
have
been unlucky, sir.' His expression was a tacit invitation for Lorenz to agree, and his features sagged when the anticipated endorsement was not forthcoming.

‘What else did he say?'

‘Something about God and punishment, something about his mother meeting a gypsy in a wood, and Richter—he was going on about Richter being right. It was all very confused, Herr Kaleun.'

‘It sounds like Wilhelm was frightened.'

Berger frowned. ‘No, not really—I'd say upset. But it's difficult to say, sir. He was very drunk, Herr Kaleun. I didn't stay with him for long. To be honest, I was feeling a bit sick and wanted to lie down. That was the last I saw of him.'

After Berger was dismissed Lorenz summoned Sauer and Voigt.

‘Do you think you can manage without Wilhelm?' he asked.

‘If we have to,' Sauer replied. Voigt nodded his assent.

‘Good,' said Lorenz.

‘I can't believe he would have done such a thing, Herr Kaleun,' said Sauer.

Lorenz sighed and remembered how he had found Wilhelm standing outside the listening post—awkwardly positioned, his eyes wide and fearful. The boy had seen something. And like all superstitious sailors he had taken it to be a bad omen.

L
ORENZ WAS SEATED NEXT TO
Graf in the lounge bar of the Hotel Café Astoria. The chanteuse with the plangent voice was singing a song about a cold-hearted lover, and her geriatric accompanists were performing with customary vigor.

‘Are you satisfied?' asked Lorenz.

‘Yes,' Graf replied. ‘The new propellers are wonderful. Not a sound . . .'

‘Hydroplanes?'

‘The whole system has been taken apart and put together again: you couldn't find a speck of rust with a magnifying glass.'

‘Engine mountings?'

‘Solid as a rock.'

‘Ah,' said Lorenz, ‘there they are.' An administrator was standing by the door and scanning the room. By his side was a handsome, square-jawed young officer, whose permanent half-smile communicated condescension rather than good humor. The administrator spotted Lorenz, raised his hand, and advanced with his companion through the smoky haze.

‘Kapitänleutnant Lorenz, Oberleutnant Graf. May I introduce Leutnant Max Pullman, the photographer assigned to your patrol.' The young officer saluted and Lorenz invited him to sit. ‘I'll get more drinks,' said the administrator. Lorenz asked Pullman about his prior experience of U-boats, and he was surprised to discover that the lieutenant had already been out on one (albeit uneventful) patrol. ‘My photographs appear regularly in magazines,' he said
proudly, ‘and one of them was chosen to be on the front cover of the
Illustrated Observer
.' He was, as Lorenz had expected, intelligent and well-informed. They talked for a whole hour before the administrator announced that he had orders to take Pullman back to the academy. The photographer had been engaged to take some formal portraits of Cohausz. As the administrator and Pullman elbowed their way through the crowd, Graf leaned toward Lorenz and said softly, ‘Well, what do you think?'

‘He's a Party man,' Lorenz replied. ‘He'll be keeping a close on eye us. You'd better warn everyone.'

‘That's what I thought,' said Graf.

T
HE FOLLOWING EVENING THE CREW
of U-330 was assembled on the deck in readiness for the commander's customary pre-departure speech.

‘All hands present or accounted for,' said Falk.

‘Well,' said Lorenz. ‘Here we go again. There are expectations, but we are prepared and able to meet those expectations.' He paused, grinned at the crew, and scratched the back of his head. ‘A boat can only ever be as good as its crew, but its crew is only ever as good as its captain.' Pullman was positioned near the tower and the repetitive sound of a camera shutter echoed around the vast interior of the pen. ‘I'll do my best—as I'm sure you will too. And together . . .' Lorenz filled his cheeks with air and let it out slowly. ‘And together, we shall prevail. Dismissed.'