The White Schooner (23 page)

There was a porthole in the door and through it Manuela watched Black’s bearded face and intense eyes lit by the dim lights of the compass binnacle. Like a bird of prey, she thought. He was watching the compass card, looking up occasionally at the sails and turning the wheel a few spokes at a time to correct the yaw. His calmness reassured her.

In the darkness at the foot of the companionway, Manuela’s thoughts were of him and not of the unknown aircraft. He seemed to her now such a strong determined character, so different to the good natured, feckless yet attractive man she’d thought him to be. The puzzle that he’d represented, the apparent aimlessness of his life, the unpleasant feeling she’d had that he lived by his wits, perhaps as an art thief—fears which seemed to have been so amply confirmed by the earlier happenings of the night—all were now explained. It was as if she’d been granted a reprieve from a sentence the nature of which she’d not dared contemplate. She sensed that he was in love with her, and she felt a deep contentment. There were difficulties still. The business with Kyriakou must
be finished. If Black wanted her then, she would begin a new life.

She started, her thoughts interrupted by Helmut’s voice. ‘It is close now,’ he said. Through the skylight she heard the noise of engines growing louder, the pitch rising, passing
overhead
, then fading into the distance.

Soon afterwards the cockpit lit up as if night had been turned into day. They couldn’t see the flares, but they knew they must be somewhere above the schooner, the parachutes descending slowly, the
Snowgoose
naked for all to see. They heard the aircraft pass overhead again, the noise of its engines this time so deafening that they knew it was flying low. Manuela, watching the cockpit, frightened and uncertain, sensed that something about the schooner was different. The external paintwork was no longer white but a bright blue, and the lifebuoy had
Mistral
and
Monaco
on it, not
Snowgoose
and
Pirœus.

She whispered to Helmut, ‘Aren’t we in the
Snowgoose
?’

For a moment he was silent, then he saw the point. ‘Sure we are.’

‘But she was a white schooner. And the name?’

‘Paint,’ said Helmut gruffly. ‘Just paint.’

The brilliance of the flares was fading, the cockpit looking like a stage with the lights going down. Darkness returned suddenly as if a switch had been thrown, and they heard the drone of the aircraft’s engines receding into the distance.

Helmut opened the doghouse door and they went back to the cockpit.

Black said, ‘They had a bloody good look. Came really low on that last run.’

‘What did you make of it?’ asked Francois.

‘Nothing. Couldn’t see a thing except the navigation lights. Might have been civil or military. Probably military. Must have had radar and flare-droppers. I don’t like the look of things. One—they’ve flown off in the direction of Ibiza. Two—they’re probably in radio touch with something seaborne, possibly
Nordwind
. If it’s her, she can do twenty-five knots to our sixteen. Depending upon where she is at this moment, it could be tricky.’

Helmut was gruffly optimistic. ‘Is it not for them confusing? The blue hull and change of name? And that we are steering for Ibiza?’

‘That’s what we’ve got to hope,’ said Black. ‘But those changes are more effective in daylight than at night. Anyway, an aircraft flying that fast couldn’t read our name, flare or no flare. What they’re looking for is a staysail schooner, Bermuda rigged, about thirty-five tons displacement. And that’s what they’ve just found.’

‘There must be others much the same,’ said Kamros stolidly.

Black ignored him. ‘We’ll stay on this course for another five minutes. Then, if there’s no sound of the aircraft
returning
, we’ll lower sails, start the diesels and get back on course for Rendezvous Gamma. We’ve lost valuable time and distance.’

Manuela, looking out over the sea, thinking of the
Nord
wind
, recalled the unsympathetic faces of Juan and Pedro, guns in hand, as they came into the gallery. She shivered.

Once again
Snowgoose
was heading for Africa, steering 138 degrees now to correct for the northerly drift she’d experienced while under sail. Helmut estimated that six miles had been lost in distance and about twenty-five minutes in time. Even with the extra revolutions from the diesels, the schooner was only logging fourteen knots in the freshening southerly wind. In the cockpit, the lamp under the chart-table screen reflected on the faces of Helmut and Black as they bent over the chart. Francois was at the wheel.

Black tapped the chart with his pencil. ‘Check our distance from Rendezvous Gamma at daylight.’

Helmut took the parallel rulers and dividers and checked the course and distance. ‘Thirty-six miles,’ he said.

‘Two and a half hours’ steaming.’ Black whistled. ‘No good. Daylight’s at six thirty-one. That means Gamma at about nine o’clock instead of eight-thirty. If there’s anything after us—and we must now assume there is—we’ll be steaming in daylight for two and a half hours. That’s not acceptable.’

‘Have we any option?’

‘We can try. Let’s plot a new rendezvous which we can reach half an hour after daylight. At 0700. Then we’ll ask ZID if Weissner can manage it.’

Helmut went to work on the chart again. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Twenty-eight miles west of Gamma. Fifty-eight miles due north of Pointe Shersel. That’s still in Algeria.’

Black looked at the new position. ‘We’re adding to Weissner’s problems. I wonder if he can make it?’

‘You’re worrying about that aircraft.’

‘Too bloody right I am. They weren’t doing night flips for tourists.’

Helmut regarded him thoughtfully. ‘The Spanish authorities wouldn’t assist if they knew who van Biljon was, would they?’

‘Probably not. But the protocol’s very dodgy. Until Weissner has
rescued
us on the high seas, Israel has no official
knowledge
of Gottwald. Officially he remains a wanted man, thought to be in South America, exact whereabouts unknown.

The Israeli Government will have no part in abductions on other people’s territory. You know that. That’s why ours is a private venture. Why ZID’s a private organisation.’

Francois called to them from the wheel. ‘After Weissner has picked us up, will the Spanish Government be informed immediately of the identity of van Biljon? Or will ZID wait for our arrival at Haifa?’

‘Haven’t a clue,’ said Black. ‘I can’t say. ZID must decide. Now. Quick! What’s the course and distance to the new rendezvous?’

Helmut looked at the deck-watch and log repeater before plotting
Snowgoose
’s position. Then he drew the course line to Rendezvous Delta, rolled the parallel ruler on to the compass rose, and with the dividers measured the distance against the latitude scale. ‘One-six-five degrees, fifty-nine miles.’

Black went across to the compass. ‘Steer one-six-five.’

Francois turned the wheel to starboard and steadied the schooner’s bows on the new course.

When they had agreed the signal to ZID, reporting the searching aircraft and requesting the new rendezvous, Helmut went off to the radio cabin to transmit it. Black straightened up from the chart-table and yawned loudly. ‘I’m going along to the galley to see how Dimitrio’s getting on with that coffee.’

‘Have a rest,’ called Francois. ‘You’re not as young as you were.’

‘Go to hell,’ said Black, as he went down the companionway.

Dimitrio came into the saloon unsteadily, balancing himself against the schooner’s pitching, and put the coffee and
sandwiches
inside the fiddles on the saloon table.

Manuela poured two cups and put aside some sandwiches, and Dimitrio went off with the rest to the cockpit.

‘Why don’t you try to sleep?’ said Black. ‘It’s just after four. You can get a few hours still.’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, no. It’s too stuffy and everything keeps jumping about. I would never sleep. I’m too excited. Have some coffee. It will chase away the tiredness.’ She passed him a cup. ‘Now tell me about Gottwald. And about what happened to you. Tell me,’ she said insistently.

‘Oh, it’s a hell of a long story. I could never tell it all.’

She drew her legs on to the settee next to him, wedging herself against the edge of the table. ‘Tell me a little,’ she coaxed.

He waved a sandwich at her, his mouth full, and pointed to his coffee cup. ‘First these.’

Later he said, ‘In Brazil, Gottwald led the life of a recluse. Concentrated on looking after his investments and collecting pictures. He had a lot of money in South Africa and South America. On three occasions he visited South Africa. Partly to support his claim to Boer descent, partly to make investments. One of our most valuable clues came from a Johannesburg stockbroker.’

‘What was it?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry. Those are things that will never be told.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Just my feminine curiosity.’

‘Well, after fourteen years of that sort of life he began to get bolder. He must have believed the world had forgotten Kurt Heinrich Gottwald. Probably he began to feel that he really was Hendrick Wilhelm van Biljon. I’ve been Charles Black for nearly eight months now. You know, you begin to believe that the part you’re playing is real. That you
are
the other man.’ He chuckled. ‘That’s how I fell for you.’

She made a face. ‘You say the nicest things.’

‘Gottwald’s undoing was his longing for Europe. He must have become obsessed with the idea of getting back. But he appreciated the risks, and I imagine that’s why he chose Ibiza. It’s an attractive place. Europe, yet not
in
Europe, you know. And island life is easier for a recluse. He settled there eleven years ago. Always had the same staff. They were highly paid by local standards. Very loyal. We believe they have no knowledge of his identity.’

‘Did he ever leave the island?’

‘Occasionally. At very long intervals. He would go to Paris, or London, or Madrid—never to Zurich, incidentally—to look at a picture a dealer had put him on to.’

‘Now tell me about
you
. And that Cézanne picture.’

Black smiled. The way she said
you
, as if he were something special, touched him. ‘My family was English,’ he said. ‘My mother Jewish. Her sister married a German, Johan Stiegel. When the war started I was on holiday in Germany staying with the Stiegels. I’d been sent over because Mother was having a baby—my sister. The Stiegels hadn’t been touched by anti-Semitism then because Stiegel wasn’t a Jew. He was
wealthy and had influential friends. About two weeks before the war started I got scarlet fever and was sent to an isolation hospital in Munich where the Stiegels lived. When I got back to my uncle’s house it was too late to return to England, the war was already on, so I stayed with my aunt. Everybody thought it was going to be a short war.

‘As anti-Semitism grew, the Stiegel family went
underground
—me with them. Eventually, in 1943, we escaped across Lake Constance. Gottwald met us that night on the Swiss side. I was only ten but—I can’t think why—I knew somehow that things were wrong. I didn’t trust Gottwald. I suppose I was terrified. Also my uncle seemed suspicious. He had a little compass with him and after we’d got into the van and started on the journey he made a great fuss because we were going in the wrong direction. But Gottwald explained why it was necessary. Said also that the compass was affected by the steel body of the van. Anyway, he pacified him. I should have explained that among the valuables my uncle brought over that night was the Cézanne picture of the water-mill.’

‘So it’s really your picture? I mean a family picture.’

Black stared into the corner, at nothing. ‘Yes. And it’s come back to the family. Temporarily. It’s in my cabin.’

‘I am glad,’ she said.

‘So will ZID be. It will pay for many things.’

‘Go on about that night.’

‘Oh, yes. Where was I? In the van. Well, after quite a journey it stopped. We were in a clearing inside a forest. It was dark. Gottwald took us a hundred metres or so along a footpath, well into the forest. He said we must walk about a kilometre down the path, when we would come to the main road into Zurich. There would be traffic on the road, he said. When we reached it, we were to turn right and start walking towards Zurich. After a few hundred metres we would find a blue Peugeot van waiting at the roadside. He gave my uncle the registration number and said it would take us into Zurich. He particularly stressed that if we were
questioned
at any stage we were under no circumstances to say how we had got out of Germany. Gottwald said it was vital not to compromise the escape route. It meant the difference between life and death for those who still had to come. There were, he warned, many German agents in Switzerland. Then he left us.

‘As we went up that path without him, I had a feeling of impending disaster. Something I couldn’t explain. The night was dark and violent. Lashing rain and wind, and although it was summer it was very cold. Gottwald had given my uncle a torch and he kept using it to keep us on the path. It seemed a long walk, and then, at last, the wind brought to us from somewhere ahead the distant noise of traffic. I remember my uncle saying to my aunt, “Stella. Do you hear that? It must be the Zurich road. We are safe.”

‘But I didn’t feel safe, though I was too ashamed to admit it. I hung back and they would call me to hurry. I remember there was a flash of lightning and then, with appalling suddenness, two black shapes stepped out from the trees ahead of me. They shone torches on my aunt and uncle and shouted to them in German. My uncle called out and my aunt screamed. They were about twenty metres ahead of me. When I saw the Germans come on to the path, silhouetted against the beam of my uncle’s torch, I slipped behind a tree. Then, when they shouted, I ran. I don’t know how far I ran, but I stopped only when I fell into a hole in a clump of bracken. It must have been an animal burrow. I was cut and bruised and half dead with fright. It was raining hard and that saved me. I could hear the hunt going on. Men running, shouting in German, dogs barking and howling, and once there were shots. But the rain had destroyed the scent and washed away my footprints. I knew they’d be back at
daylight
, so I moved while it was still dark. I had no idea of direction. Didn’t know whether we’d crossed the frontier or not. But I assumed we were in Germany or Austria, and I decided to keep to the forests. Luckily it was summer and I had warm clothing and a raincoat. I used to lie up in the forests by day and move only at night. Because of the mountains I followed the river valleys and always I tried to keep going east—to reach Italy. I didn’t trust Switzerland any more. I lived on wild berries and fruit I took from the orchards at night. On the tenth or eleventh day—maybe the twelfth, I’d lost count—a woodcutter found me asleep in the forest where he worked. I was in pretty poor condition by then. Must have covered about eighty miles, mostly in Switzerland as it happened. Afterwards we worked out that I’d followed the valley of the River Inn to near its confluence with the Adige. Then I must have crossed over into Italy.

‘Anyway, to shorten a long story, the woodcutter was the son of an Italian family—farmers in the mountains above Siladron—and they kept me until the end of the war. Even then they didn’t want to part with me. They were the most wonderful people. I’ve been back several times.’

‘How marvellous, Charles.’

He smiled. ‘
They
called me Bernardino.’

‘And then you went back to your family in England?’

‘Yes. It was quite a homecoming. They’d long since given me up. But we weren’t together long. In 1947 they were killed in a car accident, with my sister. That was the end of the Falks, but for me.

‘A spinster aunt tried to cope with me after that but it was a losing battle. I was pretty impossible and the war experience had done things to me. I was only half a Jew but I’d lost faith in Europe, in the Christian world, and I felt my Jewishness intensely. When I was seventeen I went to Israel and worked on a kibbutz. Near Beth Saida, by the Sea of Galilee. Later I became interested in fine art. Studied it in my spare time. Worked as an art critic in Israel, England and Canada at different times. My only other real interests in life were ornithology and sailing. I served in the Israeli army. Fought in 1956 and the June war. I was a paratrooper. Commando unit.’

Manuela pointed an accusing finger. ‘So that’s where you learned to fight. I mean like the night you attacked Kirry and Tino.’

His eyes narrowed, but soon the frown changed to a smile. ‘I thought they attacked me. Never mind.’

‘You know what I mean,’ she said.

He stifled a yawn. ‘Well, that’s about all. Except that some years ago I learnt that the ZID people wanted to hear from anyone who’d used Gottwald’s escape route. So I got in touch. A lot happened after that. It took three years’ work to get me to the moment in time when I had to rescue a damsel in distress on the steamer from Barcelona.’

She moved up the settee and leant against him, her head on his shoulder. ‘Oh, Charles,’ she said. ‘What a sad life you’ve had.’

‘Not especially sad,’ he said. ‘Just a life. Some of it grim. A lot of it dull. Some exciting. Some enjoyable.’

He put his arm round her and kissed her.

‘Tell me one thing,’ she said. ‘Why did you take off the old man’s shoes and socks in the gallery? Then put them on again?’

‘That was quite a moment for us,’ said Black. ‘Over the years ZID built up a dossier on him. Slowly and with
enormous
patience. Bits and pieces of evidence came in from various places. Contact was made with people he’d had dealings with in South America and South Africa. People he’d known in Zurich, some he’d been at school with. That sort of thing. The circumstantial evidence was strong. But the only way to identify him beyond doubt was to see his feet. He had no small toes.’

She looked at him strangely, half fearing to ask what was in her mind. ‘Now that you’ve got him, has the hatred gone? I ask that because they say the end of revenge is pity.’