Gold From Crete (8 page)

‘Loewenstein,’ the admiral was saying, ‘left Bordeaux on the thirteenth - that’s four days ago - with orders to operate on the Atlantic Coast. We know he has four other U-boats with him. Five in all.’

The shaggy-browed admiral leaned over the desk. ‘And Loewenstein,’ he added, ‘is out to get the
Queen Anne
.’

Captain Crowe blinked again.

‘The
Queen Anne
,’ pursued the American admiral ruthlessly, ‘that is due to clear very shortly with men for the Middle East and India. Men we can’t afford to lose. Not to mention the ship herself.’

‘What’s the source of your information, sir?’ Captain Crowe asked.

‘Brand here,’ said the admiral, ‘also left Bordeaux on the thirteenth.’

That piece of news stiffened Crowe in his chair and he stared more closely at the lieutenant in plain clothes. The news explained a lot - the seedy French suit, the hollow cheeks and the haggard expression. A man who had been acting as a spy in Bordeaux for the last six months would naturally look haggard.

Brand spoke for the first time and his pleasant Texan drawl carried even more than the hint that he had not only been speaking French but thinking in French for a long time.

‘This is what I brought from Bordeaux,’ he said, taking an untidy bundle of papers from the admiral’s desk. ‘It’s the code the German agents in this country use for communications with the U-boats.’

Crowe took the bundle from his hand and gave it a cursory glance. This was not the time to give it prolonged study, complicated as it was, and half the columns were in German, which he did not understand. The other half were in English, and were composed of a curiously arbitrary sequence of words. Crowe caught sight of ‘galvanized iron buckets’ and ‘canned lobster’ and ‘ripe avocados’. Farther down the column there were figures instead of words - apparently every value in American money from a cent to five dollars had a German equivalent, and the words ‘pounds’ and ‘dozens’ and even the hours of the day could convey certain meanings when put in their proper context.

‘With that code,’ explained Brand, ‘you can give time, courses, latitude and longitude - anything you want.’

Crowe braved a question he half suspected he should not have asked. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘It’s not the original,’ interposed the admiral. ‘The Nazis don’t know we’ve got this. There’s no missing original to give them the tip to change their code.’

‘A French girl got it for me,’ Brand explained.

There was a silence and then the admiral said, ‘Well, Captain, there’s the setup. What have you got to suggest?’

Captain Crowe looked down at the floor and then up at the admiral.

‘Of course the
Queen Anne
will be secured by convoy,’ he said. ‘I know you’re not thinking of letting her make her regular transport runs without escort. If Loewenstein is waiting for her with five submarines, her speed won’t do her any good. And if the Germans know the course and time out of your ports now, there’s no guaranteeing they won’t know any change in course or time you might give the
Queen Anne’

The admiral made a sudden gesture. ‘We can send the
Queen
out with half the fleet,’ he said. ‘But once we’re at - map, please, Lieutenant!’

Young Harley spread a map in front of the admiral. Captain Crowe hunched over it, following the line pointed by the top- striper’s finger.

‘Once there,’ said the admiral, ‘we’ll have to let the
Queen
go on her own. We can’t go past that point without neglecting our coastal duties. And Loewenstein is bound to trail along until the escort leaves. Then he’ll hit. Unless he can be drawn off.’

‘Yes,’ echoed Crowe absently. ‘Unless we can draw him off.’

‘Can we?’ the admiral demanded. ‘Or - I’m sorry - that’s an unfair question, thrown at you all at once, Captain. Think it over and tomorrow morning at’ - he glanced at his wristwatch - ‘ten we’ll talk it over.’

‘It wouldn’t break my heart,’ said the naval-intelligence agent, Brand, suddenly, ‘if something drastic happened to Loewenstein. I’ve seen some of the pictures he’s taken with his little camera from conning towers. Close-ups of drowning men - and one that’s the pride of his collection, a woman and a kid off the
Athenia
.’

‘Something drastic is going to happen to Loewenstein,’ said the admiral. He looked at Crowe, and the captain blinked.

‘Right-o,’ said Captain Crowe.

He found himself outside the office without clearly realizing how he got there. He wanted to walk; he was urgently anxious to walk, partly because long hours in planes had cramped his legs - legs accustomed to miles of deck marching - and partly because he wanted to think - had to think - and he thought best on his feet.

He had to draw Loewenstein off. But what could draw a sub commander off a prize like the
Queen Anne
? To sink the
Queen
would give any U-boat skipper the
Pour le Mérite
with oak leaves or whatever brand of decoration Hitler was giving out now. A man would have to be mad to forsake a prize like that. Mad or - but Loewenstein had been half mad that day he had seized the wheel from his helmsman at that Copenhagen regatta and had tried to ram the boat that had overhauled him and blanketed him, stealing the race at the last moment. That Danish club had disbarred Loewenstein for that. But the helmsman had been exonerated. Good man, that helmsman, Crowe thought. Braucht - it was something that started with a B. Broening. Yes, that was it - Broening.

Crowe looked around him, squinted at the sun, tucked his chin in his limp white collar and set off boldly in the direction of the British Embassy. He was remembering all he could about Korvettenkapitan von und zu Loewenstein. He called up the slightly pug nose, the cold blue eyes, the colourless hair slicked back from the forehead - he remembered all these. Then there was the ruthless boldness with which he would jockey for position at the start of a yacht race. He would bear down on another boat, keeping his course while the helmsman - Broening - yelled a warning until the other boat fell off. The protest flags fluttered on many occasions when Loewenstein sailed. And after the races, it always was Loewenstein and some beautiful harpy at their table, alone, except for the miserable helmsman, Broening. Now, Loewenstein was the boldest of all U-boat captains.

Crowe knew his lips were not moving, but his mind was speaking.
Draw Loewenstein off
, it said.
But how? Loewenstein is a believer in the guns, as shown by his record. He conserves his torpedoes to the last. The ideal method of attack, according to Loewenstein, is to rise to the surface at night, preferably when there is just enough moon, or shore-light glare, to give a good silhouette of the target. He times his rise so that the convoy is almost upon him. Then he uses his guns furiously, pumping shells into every hull he can see; his whole pack of U-boats firing together. Then, before the escort comes up, even before the deck guns of the freighters can go into action, his sub flotilla submerges and scatters on divergent courses that confuse surface listening posts so that the escort destroyers don’t know the exact spot over which to make their run. Damned clever - except he thinks the Americans don’t know how he works. And I - God help me - have been brought over here to show Loewenstein he guessed wrong. But what is it about Broening that’s so important? Why do I keep thinking about him?

It would be eight or nine days before Loewenstein and his pack could be expected off the American coast. In that time the moon would be past its full. Three-quarters, rising about eleven. So that it might be best to--

Crowe forgot the sweat that dripped down his face - everything except the problem at hand. It was something that even in his wide experience he had not encountered before, this opportunity of sending orders to an enemy in the sure and certain knowledge that they would be received and acted upon.

Broening
, he told himself.
Last I heard of him was that he’d become a Johnny come lately in the Nazi Party and Von Ribbentrop had sent him to some little Latin American country as a consul. Loewenstein must have loved that. Always hated the man, Loewenstein did, even though he won races for him. Now, despite all Loewenstein s Junker background, it seems that Broening is outstripping him in the race for prestige. I’ll wager Loewenstein would like nothing better than to-I believe I have it.

The shower bath offered him by a friend in need at the Embassy was something for which he would have given a month’s pay. He stepped under the cold rain and pranced about solemnly while the healing water washed away the heat and his irritation. A plan to deal with Loewenstein was forming in his mind, and as he cooled down, his spirits rose and he nearly began to sing, until he remembered that he was on the dignified premises of the British Embassy. But he still grew happier and happier until he was struck by a fresh realization. Then his spirits fell abruptly. He had not written either to Susan or Dorothy this week, thanks to the hours spent travelling from England. And today was nearly over, and tomorrow he would have to write to Miriam - three letters pressing on him, to say nothing of the official report he would have to write. Crowe groaned and stayed under the shower a minute longer than he need have done in order to postpone the evil moment when he would have to come out and face a world in which letters had to be written, and when he did he was cursing himself for a soft-hearted fool for not cutting off the correspondence and saving himself a great deal of trouble.

But outside, the assistant naval attaché welcomed him with a smile.

‘Here’s Miss Haycraft,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d like her assistance in writing your report. You needn’t worry about her - she knows more secrets than the Admiralty itself.’

Miss Haycraft was a pleasant little fair-haired thing with an unobtrusive air of complete efficiency. She sat down with her notebook in just the right way to start Crowe off pouring out his report of his interview with the admiral and Lieutenant Brand.

Halfway through his discourse, Captain Crowe stopped. ‘I wonder if the Embassy has any records on a man named Broening?’ he asked. ‘Nazi fellow. Believe he was consul or minister or something in a Central American state. I--’

‘Yes, Captain,’ said Miss Haycraft crisply. ‘Herr Broening is in New York, waiting to take passage on the diplomatic-exchange ship,
Frottingholm’

‘Ah?’ asked Crowe. ‘And when does the
Frottingholm
sail?’

‘It’s not definite,’ the girl answered. ‘There’s some trouble getting Berlin to assure safe passage.’

‘Umm,’ said Captain Crowe.

In another ten minutes the report was done. Crowe looked at Miss Haycraft and felt temptation - not temptation with regard to Miss Haycraft, however; she was not the girl to offer it.

‘Was the ANA really speaking the truth when he said you could be trusted with a secret?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Miss Haycraft, and her manner implied that there was no need at all to enlarge on the subject.

‘All right then,’ said Crowe, taking the plunge. ‘Take this letter - Dear Susan: As you will see, I have got hold of a typewriter and I am trying my hand at it. Please forgive me this week for being so impersonal, but I have had a good deal to do. I wish you could guess where I am now; all I can say is I wish you were here with me because--’

The letter to Susan ran off as smoothly as oil; it was even more impressive than the writing of the report. When it was finished, Crowe looked at Miss Haycraft once more. Well, he might as well be hanged for sheep as for lamb.

‘I’d like you,’ he said, ‘to do that letter over three times - no, you might as well make it four. Begin ‘em “Dear Susan”, “Dear Dorothy”, “Dear Miriam” and “Dear Jane” - no, not “Dear Jane”. You’d better say “Dearest Jane”. Have you got that right?’

‘Yes, Captain Crowe,’ said Miss Haycraft, and she did not even smile.

This was marvellous; his conscience was clear for a week, and Crowe felt more like singing than ever, but he had to restrain himself. He did not mind letting Miss Haycraft into the secret of his epistolary amours, but singing in front of her was another matter. Perhaps it was the mounting internal pressure arising from the suppression of his desire that led to the rapid evolution in his mind of the plan to discomfit Loewenstein.

All I need
, he told himself,
is an old hulk with a loose propeller shaft, a quick job of maritime face-lifting, and some cooperation from the newspaper and wireless Johnnies. I’ve a feeling the admiral ought to be able to get those things for me.

‘What can I do for you, Mr O’Connor?’ asked the manager of the broadcasting station, after he had offered his unknown visitor a chair.

Mr O’Connor displayed a badge held in the palm of his hand and passed an unsealed envelope across the desk to the manager.

‘Very glad to do anything I can,’ said the head of the broadcasting station, when he read the enclosed letter.

Mr O’Connor produced a couple of typewritten sheets of paper.

‘That goes on the air,’ he said, ‘at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, at Reitz’s usual time.’

The manager looked at the sheets. It was the usual kind of broadcast for which Mr Reitz paid twice a week, advertising the goods for sale in his store - galvanized buckets at sixty-nine cents. Grade A canned peaches at thirty-nine cents, and so on. The turns of phrase, the arrangement of the wording bore the closest possible resemblance to Mr Reitz’s usual style.

‘I suppose I’ll have to do it,’ said the station manager. ‘Glad to do anything to help, as I said. But what is Reitz going to say when he hears it?’

‘He may hear it,’ said O’Connor dryly, ‘but he won’t be in a position to object. He’ll be in a safe place, and I don’t expect it’ll be long before he’s in a safer place still.’

‘I see,’ said the station manager.

There was nothing more to be said on the subject of Mr Reitz’s objections; it had all been said in those few words and in the glance of Mr O’Connor’s hard eyes.

‘All the same,’ supplemented the FBI agent, ‘I would prefer it if you did not discuss Reitz with anyone else.’