The Reunion (18 page)

31

Afternoon shadows gave way to a brilliant twilight. The moon peeked just above the horizon, casting a silver path across the calm black water.

Colonel Haney revved the twin six-hundred-horsepower Chrysler engines and glided across the bay. His boat was a 57-foot-long Hatteras. It was a beautiful fishing craft, perfectly rigged for tuna or blue marlin, both of which were plentiful off the coast of Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. It was also the only boat Dunlevy knew he could charter for the cost of fuel and with just 24-hour notice.

Up on the bridge the glow from the colonel's navigational toys threw a dim tint of green into the nooks and crannies of his weathered face. His assistant police chief, the boy with the military crewcut, sat beside him. “Take a nap,” he shouted to Dunlevy. “It'll be at least two hours.”

Dunlevy was perched in one of the two fighting chairs bolted to the deck. He looked up. “You're sure night is the best time to do this?” he sarcastically yelled back.

The colonel's bellowing laughter seemed to echo throughout the boat. “You're the one that said this was a clandestine mission. If we spend a whole day in the Gulf Stream without coming back with tuna people will talk. I never come back without fish,” he said, laughing out loud again.

“I'm beginning to have second thoughts,” Dunlevy half jokingly replied.

The colonel stood atop the aluminum ladder, looking down at him. “Son, the Geiger counter is AWOL. I promised to have it back at Lejeune by 0-900 hours. So quit being such a civilian, would ya? It's a beautiful night. This will be an easy dive.”

“I'll take your word for it.”

Dunlevy was thankful for the calm water. There were no whitecaps. The lights on shore seemed to slide by with automated precision. And the colonel had been right about not attracting attention. If the FBI brass knew about this little operation they'd have his ass. But he had to know if he was on the right track. On some level he hoped that his suspicions were wrong. If there was weapons-grade plutonium on the sub the EPA would eventually have to be notified, and questions would be asked that he wasn't prepared to answer.

The boat fell silent. Over the next ninety minutes Dunlevy would rest his eyes from time to time, but sleep never followed. He contemplated the possible dangers and found himself anxious, yet charged by the challenge of a nighttime dive. He had been certified years earlier but his diving experience was limited to the occasional guided reef excursion, and always in daylight.

The colonel reduced his speed to just better than idle, pointed the bow to face the shore lights, and handed off the controls to his assistant. He then lifted up the bench where he'd been sitting, removed two black wet suits in the cubby beneath, and tossed them to the deck below. “Time to suit up,” he yelled.

Dunlevy tugged on the neoprene rubber, stretching it over his thighs. “What's the water temperature?” he asked.

“Almost eighty. But there might be some sharp metal down there, I want you fully covered.”

When they were dressed the two men straddled the starboard edge, facing each other. The colonel handed Dunlevy a large battery-powered light that was sealed in an underwater housing. “You never wander more than ten feet away from me at anytime, you understand?”

Dunlevy nodded.

“These things throw a lot of light. Visibility won't be an issue. You'll see just fine. But I'll hold on to this,” he said, waving the two-foot metal wand. “A conventional Geiger counter clicks. This does the same thing, only the click sparks the battery and makes this little red bulb on the handle flash.”

“How sensitive is it?”

“Not very. We'll have to be relatively close to any radioactive material to trigger it.” The colonel gave a thumbs-up to his assistant at the wheel. “We're back in thirty,” he shouted just before throwing back his shoulders and splashing loudly into the night water.

Beneath the glassy surface Dunlevy was momentarily struck by the black, a darkness more tangible than night. It was as if a warm soup had enveloped him, pressing on his chest, making his breath deep and unnatural.

He fiddled with the grip of the flashlight for a second before his thumb caught the correct switch, firing a bolt of yellow through the water. As he directed the light toward the bottom, specks of ginger, moving in unison, swept past him. The school of baby red snapper whirled around the light, concluded there was no food, and left as quickly as it came.

Dunlevy's eyes followed the beam from the colonel's light as it swept the bottom, eventually resting on a massive wall of iron that his mind quickly processed as the hull. Its enormity was startling. He consciously had to remind himself to breathe. He swam as fast as he could to keep up, his pulse racing as their lights moved together now, illuminating more of the tail section of the submarine.

U-352 sat upright, in one piece, but listed at a forty-five-degree angle. The stern deck plates were gone, and its once smooth veneer had been eaten away by the corrosive salt water. Only the rough pressure hull remained. The sheet metal surrounding the aft torpedo tube was also exposed, revealing the cone of the explosive still loaded in the cylinder. To his left, one of the rudders was still visible.

As they inched forward the colonel made wide, sweeping motions with the Geiger counter along what was left of the pressure hull. Bare struts were visible in several places. When he encountered a breach the colonel meticulously circled the area with the Geiger wand and then reached inside as far as his arm would allow. There were no flashes of red to signify a hit.

The next pass was more localized, concentrating on the many hatches on the U-boat, all of which were open. The two men floated above the largest point of entry, the forward loading hatch. Dunlevy held the flashlight steady. His gaze concentrated on the handle of the Geiger wand as it waved around the circle. He was desperate now for even one blink of red.

Then it struck him, the history books were wrong. It wasn't just a depth charge that sent U-352 to the bottom. When the sub was dead in the water the crew must have finished the job themselves, scuttling to keep the Coast Guard from boarding the vessel and retrieving classified information. Why else would every hatch be open?

Dunlevy looked up to see the colonel gesturing with his hands again. He wasn't faring well with this bizarre game of underwater charades. He squinted, the mask hiding the perplexed look on his face as he lifted his light in the colonel's direction. He still couldn't make out exactly what he was trying to convey. When Dunlevy finally did piece together all the pointing and chest pounding it was too late to react. The colonel had begun his penetration into the sub.

***

Colonel Haney entered the forward-loading hatch feet first, conscious not to kick his flippers, which would stir up a storm of silt and sand. It was the largest hatch aboard any U-boat—designed that way to accommodate supplies, torpedoes, and engine batteries that had to be replaced from time to time during the life of a submarine.

The idea of a penetration dive hadn't just struck him. In fact, the colonel had researched it well. He called a charter captain in Morehead City, who had explored the wreck dozens of times, and had actually recovered a few antiquities from the interior. Feigning an interest in hiring him for a sport dive, the colonel learned the best places for ingress and egress, as well as which areas of the sub to avoid. He also familiarized himself with the schematics of a class VII attack submarine, which he found with ease on the Internet.

There was no fear, just exhilaration as he tentatively moved through the long narrow cylinder and pondered what life must have been like for forty men confined in such close quarters, at times for months on end. He passed dozens of valves, knobs, and various controls, all encrusted in a layer of hardened silt and plant material.

He fought the urge to touch, fearing any unnecessary movement would churn up more sand. He passed the torpedo tubes. Next, a quick succession of cabins, what he remembered from the schematics to be the commander's quarters, the petty officer's room, and the radio listening station. He could see the control room hatch ahead.

The first flash stopped him dead in his tracks. It was just a brief flicker, so quick he wondered if he'd imagined it. Instead of turning his body around he gently inched himself backward along an air flask. He was in front of the radio area when it blinked again. There was no mistaking it this time.

The radio room was nothing more than a small closet. He extended his outstretched hand into the area as far as it could reach. The light on the handle came alive again, this time blinking in a steady rhythm and brighter than it had before.

It was time to leave. A brief exposure to this level of radiation wasn't life-threatening, but no sense taking chances. The quickest way out was straight ahead. He squeezed through the control room hatch, through a second larger hatch at the opposite end of the control room that led to the crew quarters, and then on to the galley. He looked upward through the galley hatch and saw Dunlevy's beacon waving around like a lighthouse, directing him to safety.

As he wiggled out, a grin only he would know about materialized behind his mouthpiece
. I'll be God-damned,
he thought to himself.
The fibbie's wild story just might be true.
The senate candidate's granddaddy was starting to look like a Nazi collaborator.

***

To the other hotel guests they must have looked like any other handsome young family on vacation. Franklin wore a ball cap, sweatshirt, and jeans. He sipped his black coffee as he scanned the boxscores from the previous night in
USA Today.
Carolyn picked at her cinnamon roll, breaking off tiny pieces and pushing them one by one into Kenny's mouth. Carolyn moved her fork around her plate but didn't eat much of her breakfast. The Providence Biltmore offered the best accommodations in town, yet without Dunlevy there it felt like a prison. The twenty-four hours apart felt like an eternity. It frightened her to have become so attached to a man.

He had left her with direct orders not to leave Franklin's side and promised to join them later that afternoon. It was also her job to coax as much information as possible out of the old man. Dunleavy supplied a tape recorder and a microphone with a special accessory for the phone. It was fast approaching ten forty-five, just fifteen minutes until the appointed time.

She touched Franklin's arm. “It's almost eleven o'clock. You think you could baby-sit for a while?”

Franklin smiled and nodded his head. “No problem,” he replied.

Upstairs in her suite Carolyn dug around in her suitcase for a yellow legal pad. She flipped through the pages until she spotted the phone number and then started dialing.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Reussel here.”

“Mr. Reussel, this is Carolyn Baerwaldt. Thank you for taking my call.”

“There's not much more I can tell you. I'm talking to you out of respect for your father. He saved my life.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I was the first officer. On May 9th, 1942, I was the one that gave the order to abandon ship. When I opened the hatch I took a bullet in the leg.”

She scribbled on her pad as he talked. “You were shot?”

“We were in cold water. I was numb from the waist down. Your father held me up and wrapped his belt around my leg to stop the bleeding.”

She repaid his candor with a truth of her own. “I recently came across some of my father's belongings,” she stated. “He still had his medical bag from the war. The surgical instruments—the handles—they were hollow. Small scrolls of paper had been left inside. The FBI called them Enigma messages.”

He smiled. It took the Allies years to break their code. “Go on.”

“One message suggests that a crew member came ashore in this country, somewhere along the New England coast.”

“My American geography is not so good, but it could have been there. I can't give you an exact location.”

Carolyn's eyes grew wide. Her palms were sweating. “So it's true?”

He hesitated. “If my daughter were here she would be very upset with me for talking to you. I'll tell you, but we must never talk again. You understand this?”

“Yes, I understand. Please, someone came ashore?”

“Yes. I did, on at least three occasions over two different tours of duty. Naturally, they were quick visits, no longer than five minutes. An operative, always the same one, would be waiting on the beach with a package.”

She impatiently broke in. “Blueprints?”

He shrugged. “I never knew. Didn't want to know. Sometimes it was a long narrow tube, other times it was a box.” He grew weary of the grilling. “I really must go now. I'm sorry about your father. He was a good man.”

“Hold on,” she demanded. “If you saw a picture of the man, your operative on the beach, would you recognize him?”

“Not a man. A woman.”

“Wait! Don't hang up. What if I could find a picture? I could send it to you.”

“No, don't send anything,” he said adamantly. “My daughter gets all the mail. Just like last time. If you find a photograph, e-mail it to me. But this is our last phone conversation.”

He hung up the receiver.

32

Dunlevy circled the Biltmore three times but had to settle for a metered parking space two blocks away. He walked briskly along Dorrance Street, up the steps and into the crowded hotel lobby. He had plenty of news to share, but none of it seemed important now.

He carefully examined his reflection in the chrome elevator doors as a long list of boyhood insecurities started to ping his brain.
Jesus, what are you doing? All you need now is a sports car, you middle-aged dope,
he told himself. But he pushed those thoughts from his mind. At that moment, he had a physical need to hold her.

He left the elevator on the fifth floor, turned left and followed the signs to 5714. He knocked, and waited.

“Who is it?” asked the male voice.

“Dunlevy,” he said to the door.

The bolt flipped, and the door opened slowly. Franklin was wearing sunglasses and had his car keys in his hand. “About time. I've got an interview in Groton in thirty minutes.”

“Nice to see you too,” said Dunlevy. He took a step back as the younger agent slipped by. “Call later, there's been a change of plans.”

Franklin was almost to the elevator when he stopped and turned.

Dunlevy waved him on. “Go, we'll talk later.”

Carolyn stepped into the hallway. She was about to speak when he dropped his bags and surprised her with a determined embrace. They kissed for a long minute.

“I've missed you,” she said softly.

He nuzzled her neck but said nothing as he slipped his hands under her bulky sweatshirt and began rubbing her back. Her clothes smelled new. “Shopping in the lobby, huh,” he commented. The sweatshirt read Brown University in bold letters. The campus was less than seven miles away.

She pressed her lips to his a second time. “It was either this or a Paw Sox jersey.”

“You made the right choice.” His eyes swept the room. “Where's Kenny?” he asked, as he kicked the door shut.

“Down for a nap, but he'll be getting up soon.”

They moved to the living area of the spacious suite, falling together onto the couch. He relayed all the events surrounding his nighttime dive. In between the kissing and cuddling, she told him about her conversation with Gerhard Reussel, his story about a female American contact, and her intention of finding a photograph of Mary Vocatura so she could e-mail it to the old man.

“I'm sure we can round up an old picture of her somewhere. I'll put Franklin on it,” he told her.

She dropped her eyes. “I'm not exactly helpless, you know. I could make a few calls. Maybe it would keep my mind off things.”

He pulled her closer to him on the couch. “You won't have time. I want you and Kenny with me. Vocatura has a political rally tomorrow and we're going to be there.”

“Where?”

“Westerly. It's their home turf.” He wrapped his arms around her. “It's time to be a little more pro-active. I've booked two cabins in Watch Hill. We're checking out of here in the morning.”

***

There were two residency requirements for the Ocean Breeze assisted living center: Medicaid and enough function to feed yourself and use the bathroom. Little else mattered to the staff. The building was a large, run-down Victorian surrounded by trees in a Groton neighborhood that used to be considered middle-class. The nearest body of water was twelve miles away, making an ocean breeze unlikely.

The minute Franklin entered the lobby a pungent antiseptic smell made him wince. It was also uncomfortably warm. He asked for Marcus Mangino.

The woman at the desk was pleasant, but startled. “He's a patient here. How can I help you?”

He flashed his credentials. “You can't. I'd like to talk to Mr. Mangino. Which room, please?”

Her smile faded considerably. “This is rather unusual. I'll have an orderly bring him to the visitors center, that is, of course, if he's willing to speak with you.”

He shook his head. “You don't seem to understand. This isn't a social call. I'm here on official FBI business to speak privately with Mr. Mangino. The room number, please.”

“Seventeen West, go down the hall and make a left.”

All the doors were cabana style, with thick white slats that could be opened to allow the staff to peek in.

He knocked. The man who opened the door appeared younger than he expected. Marcus Mangino's file listed his age at eighty-seven; Franklin would have guessed seventy-five, at best. He wore a plaid, short-sleeve shirt, khaki slacks and slippers. He was olive skinned, diminutive, with thinning iron gray hair, and piercing eyes framed by a heavy brow.

“Mr. Mangino?”

“Yes?”

“Sir, I'm Agent Franklin with the FBI. I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“About time somebody investigated this dump.”

“That's not why I'm here. Can I come in?”

Mangino motioned toward the chairs by a small television. “Sure, have a seat. What can I do for you, young fella?”

“I'd like to ask you about Anthony Vocatura.”

He ran his fingers through his hair as he studied the agent for second. “He's been dead for more than thirty years. What the hell do you want?”

“We're trying to trace Mr. Vocatura's activities at the General Dynamics plant, back in 1942. We understand you worked closely with him back then.”

He smiled. “You're trying to smear the kid, aren't you?”

He shook his head. “Not at all, sir. This is a criminal investigation.”

His eyes grew wide. “That was sixty years ago. What could any of that matter now?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

Mangino folded his hands and stared down at his feet. When he looked up, his eyes appeared vacant and glassy. “Franklin, what's that, an Irish name?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because it doesn't end in an vowel. In 1941, every Wop in the plant got followed around by you assholes. They treated us worse than the coloreds. If there weren't so many of us, they would have locked us all up like they did the Japs.”

“I assure you, Mr. Mangino, your Italian ancestry has nothing to do with this.”

“Bullshit, sonny. You've got no idea what you're talking about.” He smiled again. “And this can't be very important, or they wouldn't have sent a fifteen-year-old boy to come rattle my chains.”

“Look, your insults don't matter much to me, Mr. Mangino,” he said. “You're either going to answer my questions or you're not.”

The old man saw it as a game now. “Go ahead sonny, ask away.”

Franklin paused, determined to shake him. “Did you assist Mr. Vocatura in stealing radioactive material and submarine schematics from the Electric Boat in early 1942?”

“You take any history in high school, little boy?” His eyes grew cold. “There was no radioactive material to steal at Electric Boat in 1942.”

“That's not what War Department records indicate.”

“Well, if that's true, it's news to me. And security at that plant was so tight, nobody left without them knowing how much change you had in your pocket.”

“So the answer is no?”

He stood. “The answer is no. You better leave.”

Franklin gave the old man a curious look. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Mangino.”

He glared. “If the FBI has any more questions, tell them to send somebody that's old enough to shave.”

***

Mangino waited a full hour before slipping past the front desk, into the kitchen, and then out the back door. Even if the staff did notice, they wouldn't do anything about it. He often went AWOL, sneaking off to a nearby convenience store for cigarettes and beer, both of which were banned at Ocean Breeze.

On this trip, he went straight for the pay phone. He dialed. “Honey, it's me.”

“You're not supposed to call this line,” she snapped.

“Call me right back. The regular number,” he said, hanging up the phone without saying goodbye.

He picked up on the first ring. “The FBI came to my room today, asking about Anthony.”

“What?” she gasped.

“One agent, a pup. He asked about plutonium. It sounds like somebody in high places has got it in for junior. Let's hope he's smarter than his grandpappy.”

“Jesus! What did you say?”

“I didn't say anything, yet.”

She hesitated, taking a deep breath to shake the anger from her voice. “Don't be stupid. You've got nothing to gain and everything to lose, old man. You were the thief, not Anthony. And you wouldn't even have a roof over your head right now if it wasn't for me.”

“Oh, thank you, princess,” he mocked. “It's just like the Ritz. How about we switch places. You stay here in this shithole, and I'll move to the mansion on the beach.” He chuckled. It felt good tweaking her for a change. “Saint Anthony, always with his fly open and the liquor cabinet full. He sure made my job easier.”

“Shut up!

“Keep your knickers on. I'm too tired to make any trouble for junior. Hell, if I lived in Rhode Island, I'd probably even vote for him. If they find out, it won't be from me.”