“We’ll stop here for lunch,” Brank said.
The Hatteras was in turquoise water about five meters deep when they dropped anchor near a small deserted island with a white sand beach. Brank took off his shirt and folded it over the back of a chair on the aft deck. The blue shorts he was wearing were swim trunks. Brank raised bent arms, flexed his biceps and grinned. He was a hairy little ape wearing a gold chain with a gold horn on it, the mano cornuto, worn by superstitious Italians to ward off cuckoldry. And he was married to an erotic film star. It couldn’t have been more incongruous. Brank strode across the deck, climbed up on the transom, arced his arms and hands over his head, and dove into the ocean, swimming under water and then surfacing, floating on his back. “You’ve got to come in. It’s wonderful,” he said, kicking along the side of the yacht, grinning at Hess. Ernst was thinking he should fire up the engines and speed off with the erotic film star, leave Brank frolicking in the water.
Brank swam for ten minutes, climbed back in the boat, sucked in his stomach, dried off with a towel and went inside. Denise came out and set the small round table on the aft deck. First she put down a white tablecloth and then brought out napkins and silver, plates of shrimp salad with sliced tomatoes and grapes, and a bowl of apples.
The apples reminded Hess of shpil, a game the SS had played on the Jews of Miedzyrzec. He had been sent to Poland, arriving May 1, 1943. The next day all of the Jews in the Miedzyrzec Podlaski ghetto had been rounded up for deportation, and forced to squat in the marketplace for hours on a hot day. Hess thought of a way to relieve the boredom and entertain his men. He told guards to toss apples into the crowd. Any Jew hit was pulled out and beaten to death or shot. It was high drama. The Jews were terrified and the SS guards were having a wonderful time. Whenever a Jew was hit the guards erupted with laughter. The game went on all afternoon and continued at the train station. The dead bodies were then loaded into freight cars with the prisoners going to Treblinka.
Brank came out with a bottle of Blue Nun and three stemmed glasses, wet hair combed back, beach towel wrapped around his waist, no shirt. “You’re going to love this. Famous som-al-yer in Boca turned me on to it.”
He set a glass at each of their places and poured the wine. Hess was familiar with it, a mediocre Liebfraumilch he would have refused to drink in any other situation.
“Tony tells me you’re an actress,” Hess said to Denise, trying to shift the conversation into gear.
“And a good one,” Brank said. “Still is.” He winked at her.
“I quit when Tony proposed.”
“How long have you two been married?”
“Seven years,” Brank said. He raised his wine glass. “To seven more.”
They clinked glasses, sipped their wine and ate the shrimp salad that Hess had to admit was delicious. When they were finished Denise cleared the table. Brank and Hess smoked cigarettes and finished their wine.
“Where is Florida from here?”
“You kidding? That way.” Brank pointed at the horizon. “Due west about sixty miles. Latitude twenty-six degrees north, longitude eighty degrees west.”
Of course, Hess was thinking, follow the angle of the sun. Easy to do on a nice clear day like this. “Don’t you use the Loran?”
“Yeah, but you still have to chart your course. I thought you were a sailor.”
At one time Hess had an Italian yacht he kept in Nice. “I have a captain.”
“A captain? You pussy.” Brank grinned. “Kidding you, partner. Say, I never asked. What’re you doing in Freeport?”
Hess didn’t answer because Denise came back on deck in the orange bikini, breasts bouncing in the skimpy top, long legs, flat stomach, barefoot, carrying a striped towel.
“Ready?” Denise said.
“We’re going to explore the island,” Brank said.
“Come with us,” Denise said, throwing her towel on the chair next to Hess.
“No, I’ll stay here and relax, if you don’t mind. Maybe take a nap.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Brank said.
Denise climbed the stairs to the top of the transom and jumped. Hess heard the splash when she hit, got up and stood on the port side of the Hatteras, watching Denise floating on her back in the turquoise water. Brank removed his towel skirt, ran to the stern and dove over the transom, swam to Denise and the two of them held onto each other, treading water before swimming for the island. They made it to the beach, got out and started walking, stopping occasionally to pick up shells. When they were out of sight, Hess went to the bow, raised the anchor and felt the yacht start to drift.
He climbed the ladder to the flying bridge, glanced in the direction of the island. From this higher vantage point he could see Brank and Denise strolling, holding hands like young lovers, coming back toward the stretch of beach closest to the boat. Hess sat at the controls, started the engines, heard the rumble of the exhaust, looked back, saw Brank running, Denise trailing behind him.
Brank was in the water halfway to the yacht when Hess opened up the twin throttles and took off, the Hatteras picking up speed, and within a few minutes the island was fading in the distance. Hess went below and punched new coordinates into the Loran, and put the yacht on autopilot. His chest itched from the gunshot wound. He rubbed it and tried to relax.
Three hours later he passed a freighter creeping along the horizon, and a couple of fishing boats before he saw the Florida coastline, Hess using a telescope in the salon to identify the twin spires of the Breakers Hotel, confirming it was Palm Beach.
When he was five hundred meters from shore, Hess turned off the engines and lowered the boat, cranking it over the port side to the water. He went down the stairs, crossed the deck and stepped over the side into the dinghy. He started the outboard motor, unhooked the davit lines and cruised toward shore.
Seven
Kraut’s name was Albin Zeller. They said they’d meet him at a farmhouse on Crooks Road in Troy, the meeting arranged by Russell Gear of the American Nazi Party. Dink drove by in the pickup, Squirrel in the passenger seat, drinkin’ cans of Pabst like they were going to shutter the brewery, saw the white clapboard house set back from the road, cornfields surrounding it on three sides, barn in back, quiet and secluded for their purposes.
Dink pulled over on the shoulder, waited for a couple cars to pass, and did a U-turn. He went back to the farmhouse and parked behind a green Camaro on the gravel drive. Saw a dark-haired guy come out the side door and stand at the top of the concrete steps. Dink glanced at himself in the rearview, brown hair comin’ out from under the Cat Diesel cap, hanging on either side of his face to his jawline, word evil tattooed on both eyelids. Lower lip stuck out, swollen with tobacco. He spit out the window. “You just drink your beer, let me do the talking,” Dink said, turning toward his sidekick, whose face was partially hidden by the brim of a Red Man cap.
Squirrel met his gaze but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t much of a talker.
They got out of the truck and moved toward the house, Squirrel, stomach hanging over his belt in a tee-shirt that said The Devil Made Me Do It in white type on the front, greasy brown hair under the cap, carrying three cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon in a plastic tightener. Only guy Dink knew could drink all day and still function.
“How y’all doing today? You must be Mr. Zeller. I’m Dink Boone, and this scarry-lookin’ east Tennessee redneck is Aubrey Ponder, answers to Squirrel.”
“You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago,” Zeller said, German accent, sounding pissed.
“Yeah, well, what can I tell you?” Dink said, not explaining or giving the Kraut an excuse. He spit tobacco juice, a brown gob that splashed on the gravel stones at his feet.