The car crept past the deserted Warnemünde ferry dock, not yet back in operation to Denmark, and took a side road that led eventually past net-hung docks. In the distance behind them the faint lights of Warnemünde itself could barely be seen, throwing into shadow the few dock cranes that had not been damaged or destroyed in the war. The car edged along, its headlights dimmed, its driver looking anxiously about him. A sudden beam of a flashlight, instantly extinguished, gave him direction. A moment later they had pulled up before a small nondescript boat swaying against its stays at dockside. A man came from the shadows, examining them by the lights of the lowered headlights as they climbed from the car. The driver also got down and together with Schurz managed to get the heavy crate from the car’s trunk and across the narrow gangplank to the dock of the boat, while Petterssen stood helplessly by. This done, the driver returned to his car and with a brief wave of his hand and a whispered “Heil Hitler,” backed around and sped off for the main highway and the road south. Their contact beckoned. Schurz, trailed by a dazed Petterssen, followed the man to a tiny cabin located forward and below decks.
Inside the cabin, with its close-fitting door closed and the blackout curtains tightly drawn, the man lit a small lamp connected to a gas bottle, blew out the match, and then turned to face the two of them with a smile on his bearded lips. Schurz returned the smile.
“Hello, Captain Sneller. It’s been a while.”
“Hello, Major. It has, indeed.”
Schurz glanced around the small cabin and then sat down on a pivoting pilot’s chair set before a small table, swivelling about in satisfaction. Across from him Petterssen sank down on the cabin’s single bunk, holding his head in his hands. Sneller considered the tall man a moment and then looked at Schurz queryingly.
“A touch of nerves,” Schurz said disinterestedly. “It’ll pass.” He dismissed the question of Petterssen and smiled at Sneller. “How do you like being a fisherman, Captain?”
Sneller shrugged lightly. “I was a fisherman before I was a U-boat captain,” he said, and smiled. “And lucky for you, or you’d still be shoveling bricks in Berlin. And lucky for me, too. Our idiot conquerors can’t picture a U-boat commander working with his hands, or with fishing nets.” His smile faded. “Major—”
“Yes?”
“I could go with you, you know. Bring the boat back. It would be much cheaper for you—”
Schurz smiled a cold smile. “That wasn’t our deal, Captain.”
“I know, but do you think you can make it across in this boat with only—?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the tall man on the bunk. Petterssen was paying no attention to the men or their conversation. He remained, head in hands, staring disconsolately at the deck.
“I can do it alone,” Schurz said confidentially. “I’ve had experience with boats or I wouldn’t have chosen to go this way. I can read a chart and it’s a simple gasoline engine, isn’t it?”
“It is, but—”
“No buts, Captain.”
Sneller shrugged, as if refusing any further responsibility.
“If you say so, Major. Now, the controls are on the bridge” — he pointed to the overhead of the cabin — “up there. I’ll show you when we’re through in here. There’s enough gasoline to get you there, but none to spare. Fuel is hard to get. But there is a full tank of cooking gas here for the lamp or the stove, if you want to do any cooking—”
“We won’t.”
“If you say so, Major. Then I think that’s all. Now” — Sneller cleared his throat — “there’s the matter of the balance of the money...”
“No problem,” Schurz said expansively. He leaned over, taking Petterssen’s wallet from the other’s inner pocket without asking permission. Petterssen made no move. Schurz opened the wallet, extracted some notes, counted the proper amount, and handed it over.
Sneller also counted the money, and smiled as he tucked the bills into a pocket of his heavy pea jacket. “You have a walking bank with you, eh?”
“More or less.” Schurz tucked the depleted wallet into his own pocket and looked around. “Any schnapps on board?”
Sneller pointed. “There’s plenty in the locker, there. But I’d take it easy if I were you. It’s a long trip in a boat this small, and there are Danish patrols I know of, and undoubtedly Swedish ones as well.”
“It isn’t for me—” Schurz tilted his head toward the silent figure on the bunk. Sneller nodded in understanding. Schurz dismissed the subject and looked at Sneller calmly. “Now, what were you saying about patrols?”
“Let’s go up on the bridge—”
The two men left the cabin, closing the door behind them. In the cabin Petterssen raised his head to stare after them a moment, and then put his head back in his hands.
The two men climbed to the deck. A short companionway took them to the small bridge mounted above the single cabin. Blackout curtains had been strung over the glass before the wheel. Sneller pulled them shut and flashed his flashlight around in the blackness. It stopped on a button.
“There’s the engine starter. Next to it is a choke if you need it.”
“Good. Now, about those patrols—”
“The accelerator, there. It pulls in and out. Too far in for slowing and it stalls.”
“I’m impressed,” Schurz said, trying not to sound savage. “Now, about those patrols?”
Sneller bit back a superior smile; his flashlight moved to the chart table at the left of the wheel. Captain Sneller leaned over it, pointing.
“Here’s where we are: Warnemünde. Now, the Danes have a small fleet of patrol boats, at least four that we know of, or that is to say, four that patrol in this area. They come every six hours, right on schedule. You’d think they were German the way they stick to routine! Anyway, one comes from the north every six hours, and another from the west. They all turn at Gedser lighthouse — here” — his finger rested on a small spit of land almost directly across the narrow arm of the Baltic from the estuary where they were — “and then go back the way they came.”
Schurz frowned. “They meet here? At the Gedser lighthouse?”
“No.” The captain smiled, a rather grim smile. “They’re foolish, but not all that foolish. They arrive at alternate periods, three hours apart. Somehow they seem to feel that covers all possible conditions.” Sneller sounded as if he wished the ships that had come under the scan of his periscope during the war had been that accommodating.
Schurz looked at him. “You know their exact schedule?”
“Of course.” The captain sounded disdainful. His finger went back to the chart. “The one that comes from the Lille Baelt — here, to the west — comes around Lolland and reaches Gedser very close to one, seven, thirteen, and nineteen hours.” He glanced at his watch, and then verified the hour with the chronometer mounted at the binnacle. “He would have already turned at Gedser lighthouse and is on his way back by now. But he wouldn’t have been any danger to you in any event. You’ll be too far east for him to have been any threat. It’s the boats from the north, the ones that come around Falster, that you would have to worry about.”
“And what are their schedules?”
“As I said,” Sneller said patiently, “there is three hours’ difference in the times they get here. In other words, the patrol boats from the north show up roughly at four, ten, sixteen, and twenty-two hours. And at four hours again, of course.” He checked his watch again, even though he had checked it a moment before. “It’s a little after one, now. Figure it will take you an hour or so to be off Gedser. If you leave now you should easily be out of sight of any patrol boat that is due to turn at the Gedser lighthouse at four hours. You should be well on your way by then.”