Doenitz had not. All of his time was taken up with U-boat operations or the War Production Board trying to get U-boats built, or investigating the newest British antisubmarine measures, or trying to avoid the endless round of meetings that somehow required his presence. But he knew how to answer the question.
“I did not feel it appropriate to ask, Grand Admiral. I must confess it was constantly on my mind.”
Doenitz was relieved to see that Raeder was pleased with the response. The old man could be brittle and mercurial. The grand admiral patted Doenitz on the hand, as if Doenitz were the naughty student and Raeder the wise old schoolmaster. Raeder’s attitude irritated Doenitz, but it was one that he had to suffer. The most difficult of all of Raeder’s condescending manners to accept was that U-boats would always be greatly inferior to surface vessels. Raeder was of the old school — the unfinished business of Jutland when British and German coal-burning behemoths had tried to destroy one another and the old kaiser had dreamed of Mare Germanica. If Raeder had the same dreams, twenty years removed, he was a fool, Doenitz decided. But Doenitz knew that Raeder was a superb tactician and brilliant seaman and could not be easily cast as a fool. Perhaps a man who does foolish things, Doenitz said to himself, but we are all guilty of that.
“We are going to kill Winston Churchill,” Raeder said, and then he smiled at Doenitz’s shocked expression.
Mahlberg smiled with indulgence as the civilians and party officials found seats around the unadorned wardroom table. He had ordered that the decorations and other amenities be kept to a minimum so that the visitors would not forget that they were aboard a vessel of war. The only concession that he made was to have the heavy, dark blue blackout curtains over the portholes pulled back and held in place with white cotton rope. Raeder had insisted on an additional flourish — the Kriegsmarine and Nazi flags hung side by side on the bulkhead behind him. Mahlberg wondered if they stood in silent competition to one another.
As the group settled in, Mahlberg’s eyes fell on Ingrid May and he allowed himself a sliver of a smile. He saw that she, in turn, let her eyes casually signal that she knew he noticed her. It was difficult not to notice the only woman in the group — a woman whose blond hair, almost white against her black sweater and slacks, was pulled back in a ponytail. The look was casually provocative and not lost on the older men sitting around her who struggled to hold in their stomachs and look important. She ignored them as she laid two twin-reflex cameras on the table and took a reading of the room with a light meter.
She was known as the finest photographer in Germany, able to capture images of the Fatherland’s leaders that no one else could. It was because she slept with most of them, her competitors said, or the jealous wives of the leaders. And Mahlberg’s wife. Mahlberg was not sure of how many men she slept with — he knew of only one, and he found the experience delicious and decadent.
“I can help you, Wilhelm,” she had said as they lay in bed one evening, spent from lovemaking.
“Can you?” Mahlberg had replied, his hand playing over her flat stomach to her breasts.
She turned on her side and looked at him, allowing his wandering hand free rein. “I have the ear of many well-placed party officials.”
He remembered thinking to himself: you’ve had more than their ears. But instead he had replied, “How can you help me?”
She gasped slightly as his hand found the moist region between her legs. “Raeder has disappointed the Fuehrer many times. It is said that he will be replaced soon.”
“That’s common knowledge,” Mahlberg had said as he began to tease her, his fingers seeking her most intimate area.
She moved closer to him, her breath hot with passion, and said, “Is it common knowledge that Wilhelm Mahlberg might be the next grand admiral?” She had closed her eyes, savoring his touch. “You must know,” she had continued, the words escaping her in a rush, “that I was instrumental in that decision.”
Mahlberg returned to the present, scanning the wardroom.
“May I take photographs, Kapitan?” Ingrid asked, her manner entirely professional.
“Of course,” Mahlberg said. He looked over the assembled group. “Welcome to the finest ship, the largest ship in the Kriegsmarine.” Mahlberg began his presentation as he heard the shutter snap and the film advance. He found himself suddenly ill at ease as she moved about — it felt too much as if she were stalking him. “You reporters, and of course our lovely photographer, have been honored to accompany Sea Lion on her first voyage. A voyage, I assure you, that will live in the annals of the Kriegsmarine as the greatest of its kind. When we return, you will report our triumphs to the German people. From those reports will they draw inspiration to conquer the world.”
“But first, England,” a fat Nazi Party official reminded Mahlberg.
“Yes,” Mahlberg said, wondering how many such idiots filled the party ranks. “England first.” He felt Ingrid on his left, the camera lens centered on his face, and he grew warm. There was something oddly voyeuristic about her proximity. He nodded to a Leutnant zur See, who handed each man around the table a neatly bound leather folder embossed with the name of the ship, the date, and the recipient, in gold letters.
“Before you is statistical information about Sea Lion. In it you will find her displacement, dimensions, armor protection, armament, propulsion plant, complement… Well, I could go on but I have no desire to delay our departure, so I will summarize much of what is contained in the folder. She is faster than the King George V, Prince of Wales, and Rodney. Her guns have a greater range and power than those vessels. She can steam 11,320 nautical miles at a speed of sixteen knots, or 5,750 nautical miles at a speed in excess of thirty-five knots. If Sea Lion were called upon to defend the Fatherland against the American Navy, she could just as easily destroy the U.S.S. North Carolina, one of their newest capital ships. So would she treat the French battleship Richelieu, and with apologies to our Italian allies, the Vittorio Veneto.”
There was a polite round of superior laughter around the table for the inadequacies of anything Italian, except perhaps food and women.
Ingrid returned to her seat and snapped the lens cap on her camera.
“Kapitan?” one of the reporters asked. “Can you tell us when we sail?”
“All I can say is that it will be shortly. I cannot give you the exact date and time, for security reasons.”
“Well then,” another said, “can you tell us what the mission is? Surely we who sail with you cannot possibly disclose that information.”
“Regrettably,” Mahlberg said, “I cannot reveal that as yet. The mission and your other questions will be answered when we are at sea.”
“Kapitan Mahlberg,” Ingrid said, “should I have packed a wardrobe for winter or summer?”
Laughter again and Mahlberg felt it was directed at him. She was an expert at subtle humiliation, with either her words or her tone. He looked away from her to the opposite side of the table. He needed her because she could move subtly through the intrigues of Kriegsmarine High Command and the complexities of Nazi Party politics. But at times, he despised her.
“I can tell you this,” he said. “When we leave Leka we will proceed up the Kattegat, and enter the Norway fjord system through the Korsfjord. We will refuel in Grimsfjord, sail on to the Hjeltefjord near Kalvenes, and pick up our escort.” He was satisfied to see the reporters scribbling furiously, but he had revealed more than he had intended. That was Ingrid’s fault; her attitude had angered him. “Upon reaching the North Sea we have one of four options to enter the North Atlantic. We can run between the Orkney Islands and the Shetland Islands. That is the shortest but most dangerous route. We can attempt to slip through between the Shetland Islands and the Faeroe Islands. Although farther north, we are still within range of British patrol aircraft. We can drive between the Faeroe Islands and Iceland. Here we face minefields and surface vessels, but the weather is generally overcast or the sea is shrouded in fog.”