And Raeburn was travelling in odd company, indeed. To his right stood a short, shaven-headed Oriental in fluttering orange robes - perhaps the man of Peregrine's sketches. An unearthly shimmer in the air about the man's clasped hands drew Adam's attention to the Phurba he was holding before him, pointed toward the submarine's bow. It was not unexpected.
But it was the third man who caused Adam's blood to run cold, standing at Raeburn's back. The once-white submariner's cap marked him as the captain - which was not possible. But as Adam noted details of the uniform - fifty years out-of-date - and the pale fire glowing in the hollow eyes, he realized it was possible, indeed. He found himself bristling as the significance registered, and he slowly lowered his glasses.
"What is it?" Peregrine whispered. "What have you seen?''
"I very much fear," said Adam, "that U-636 is being crewed by dead men. And that tells me what kind of power we're going to have to deal with before this night is over - if we can even get to them for a confrontation. Technology fails in the face of sorcery. Noel!" His voice suddenly had more of an edge to it than Peregrine could ever remember hearing before.
"Aye?" came a response from one of the dinghies.
"Noel, we've got to get something moving here! They mustn't be allowed to escape!"
Up on the bridge of U-636, Raeburn watched with satisfaction as the waiting seaplane grew gradually larger in the moonlight ahead, now less than one hundred yards away. He had never really expected the torpedoes to rid him of Sinclair - he was surprised that even one had detonated - but he regretted that the rolag captain had not had at least the small comfort of a final kill. As something like compassion stirred within him for his unlikely ally - well-leavened with self-interest - a change of plan began to take shape in his mind.
He hazarded a sidelong glance at Nagpo, gazing impassively ahead as the submarine crept closer. He wondered whether it was Nagpo or Kurkar or the pair of them keeping the sub afloat, the crew animated; but it wouldn't really matter, once the treasure was safely transferred aboard. By the Widgeon's cabin lights, Raeburn could see the reassuring face of Barclay at the controls, staring in his direction, a microphone held to his mouth; and with him a tested lieutenant, much welcome on this present venture. Klaus Richter would well understand what was at stake here.
Hiding a secret smile, Raeburn retrieved his radio and lifted it to his mouth. Far astern, the cruiser was still drifting helplessly.
"Have Richter break out the inflatable," Raeburn instructed. "Stand ready to fetch the cargo across as soon as we heave to, and be prepared to repel boarders, if necessary."
Barclay acknowledged the order with a cheery, "Roger that," and signed off. Raeburn held back a moment longer, watching the distance dwindle to perhaps fifty yards, then turned back to the open hatch.
"Both engines, stop."
With only little delay, the engines subsided to a faint idle and the sub coasted to a standstill. Peering out across the moonlight, Raeburn spotted the snub-nosed outline of a rubber dinghy plumping into shape just outside the aircraft's cargo door. As the neat, compact form of Richter swung down into the boat and took to the oars, Nagpo stirred, his wizened ivory face evincing satisfaction.
"I am glad to see that your people know how to take their orders," he observed in his precisely accented voice. "Take the captain below, and have the crew begin bringing up the cargo."
Aboard the Lady Gregory, Peregrine had his binoculars trained on the now-stationary submarine. Magnus had come up out of the engine compartment in disgust, and he and McLeod were considering whether oars might be sufficient to get one of the dinghies to the sub in time to do any good.
"They're bringing wooden boxes up on deck!" Peregrine said indignantly. "They're stencilled with something. God, I've never felt so helpless!"
Adam interrupted his agitated pacing to commandeer Peregrine's binoculars and have a look for himself. A rubber dinghy from the seaplane had drawn alongside the sub on the side opposite from them, and two undead crewmen were in the process of handing its occupant a cubical wooden crate, which he stowed in the stern. There was no way of telling what might be inside.
"I see what could be German eagles and swastikas on the crate," Adam said, as McLeod came to listen, "but I couldn't tell you what's in it. We can only hope that it isn't the scrolls, that they're still to come."
"The mere fact that Raeburn wants something is reason enough why he shouldn't be allowed to have it," McLeod growled. "Damn it, Adam, isn't there anything we can do to get this tub moving again?''
In the control room of U-636, the third of the crates of diamonds had gone aloft and crewmen were lifting the chest of manuscripts into the hatchway that led into the conning tower. Raeburn was standing forward of the periscope with the submarine's commander. After a casual glance at Kurkar, still sitting entranced at the rear of the control room, he drew the captain closer to one of the duty stations.
"Listen to me," he murmured in German. "I can only imagine the kind of agony you and your men are enduring. I must warn you that there is no guarantee that my associates will release you from that agony when your task here is done.
On the contrary, the only way for you to liberate yourself and your men is with this."
With his body blocking his movement, Raeburn drew the Walther from inside his jacket. Thumbing off the safety catch, he pressed its grip into the captain's cold hand.
"The man who summoned you back from the peace of death - and who betrayed you unto death half a century ago - is aft, working his unholy sorcery to keep you bound here," he told the rolag. "His power over you will cease, once and for all, when he himself is likewise dead. Do you understand?''
The captain's head executed a stiff nod of comprehension, and his gun hand fell to his side, shielded behind his thigh as he turned away and started back toward the ladder where his men were preparing to hoist the last crate of diamonds aloft.
Beyond them, Kurkar sat cross-legged on the floor where his predecessor had sat, blind to his surroundings, still rolling his Phurba between his palms, in the throes of deep trance. He stirred as the captain's arm lifted, pointing directly at his forehead at point-blank range, eyes opening wide in mingled fury and alarm, but in that same instant, the captain squeezed the trigger.
The Walther went off with a bang that reverberated throughout the ship. Kurkar gave a convulsive jerk, now possessed of a bloody third eye, then crumpled forward, the Phurba tumbling from his hands and skittering across the metal floor. As it parted company with its master, the reanimated crew of U-636 collapsed in their places and Raeburn's pistol fell from the hand of a German naval officer half a century dead.
The sub's idling engines fell silent, but the lights merely dimmed and then stabilized, powered by the battery reserves. Pale eyes glinting, Raeburn made a dive to recover the Phurba, thought better of it, then scooped up the Walther instead. As he did so, he heard the swift slap of sandalled feet descending the ladder from the top of the conning tower.
Chapter Thirty-Three
RAEBURN faded into the shadows beside the main instrument panel, the Walther pointed in the direction of the ladder while his free hand began tripping switches. In that same instant, Nagpo dropped down off the ladder to the floor of the control room, Phurba in his hand.