“Not very fucking good,” was Beauchene’s report to the remainder of the crew in the mess hall. A bandage was plastered to his forehead, his eyes puffed with pain. “We’re alive and afloat, but when this fog clears we’re dead, plain and simple. We’ve got three lifeboats left. I’m telling you that anyone who wants to strike out on their own can go. You can take some food and water. If you’re going, dress warm and get out now. Maybe you’ll be picked up by another freighter and you’ll live to tell the tale. All right, then. God be with you.”
The three lifeboats stayed where they were.
The night moved on.
Crewmen stood watch in their fields of fog. They listened for the throb of engine noise, but if Javelin was out there she was gliding.
They had no doubt Javelin was out there.
Beauchene did have a plan, of sorts. Every so often he ordered the engine room to provide enough power to creep forward a few hundred meters, then Sofia was allowed to drift again. The intent was to keep the noise down, keep the bow aimed toward England, and maybe—maybe—get out on the other side of this fogbank before Javelin could find them. In the meantime, the radio jamming continued and no messages could get through.
Around midnight, as some of the crew came to fill their cups from the bottomless coffee pot, Michael sat at a table with Olaf Thorgrimsen and Billy Bowers. The cook had supplied some raspberry pie which actually tasted of raspberries, showing that pressure was good for the kitchen. Currents of cigarette smoke moved slowly in the air, and all conversation was hushed.
A gaunt, pallid man who entered the mess hall immediately became the center of attention.
Paul Wesshauser, in his black trousers and gray sweater, poured himself a cup of coffee. His eyes were dark-hollowed beneath his glasses. He looked like a man bearing a heavy burden. He sat down at a table by himself, spooned a half-cup of sugar into his joe, lit a cigarette and inhaled to the roots of his lungs.
Michael left his own table and walked the few paces to Wesshauser’s. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”
Wesshauser shrugged, and Michael sat down.
“You holding up?” Michael asked; it was a stupid question, from the look of the man.
“I’m all right.” Wesshauser drew the smoke in again and let it slowly seep from his mouth. “How many died for me today?”
“Five.”
“Five,” Wesshauser repeated. He examined the burning end of his cigarette. “My God. I never meant for this to happen.”
“Of course not. And you’re not to blame for the deaths.”
“Yes, I am.” Wesshauser’s eyes flashed. “If I hadn’t taken it in mind to leave Germany, then…everything would be as it was.”
“That’s right,” Michael agreed. He took a sip of his own black coffee. “You’d still be in Germany, and you’d be working for the Nazis. A fine future that would be. Making weapons for them? You do make weapons, correct?” Michael hadn’t been told exactly what Wesshauser’s area of expertise was.
“I’m a designer,” said the man.
“You make that sound very elegant.” Michael watched the smoke drift from Wesshauser’s mouth. “I think you did the right thing. The only thing. If you feel the Nazis would misuse what you design then you had no choice but to get out. And it took a lot of courage to get this far.”
“Yes, I should be proud of myself for killing so many men, and for ultimately killing my wife, daughter and son.” Wesshauser smiled without humor. “Because that’s what I’ve done.” He bit down on the cigarette. “I went to see Captain Beauchene. To ask him to give us up. Do you know what he told me?”
“No, what?”
“He said he would not allow his crew to be killed like sheep. He said they would die as men, and that those who had already sacrificed their lives would not be dishonored. So, he said…no, he would not give us up. I stood before him and begged. And he told me to get out while I could still walk.”
“Good advice,” Michael said. He knew what part of it was: Gustave Beauchene the garbageman versus Manson Konnig the aristocrat. Michael found himself staring at the place on the floor where Enam Kpanga had died. A mop had soaked up the blood and the canvas-shrouded body had been consigned to the sea. “My daughter told me you’ve spoken with her.” Wesshauser adjusted his glasses as if to view Michael from a different angle. “That story about Vulcan. She found that very interesting. You know, she keeps to herself quite a bit.”
“Does she?”
“Oh, yes. It’s the leg, of course. And the shoe. She’s terribly shy about it. She doesn’t wish to stand out in that way. Her mother and I…we do our best to keep her from feeling so bad about herself, but…you know…she is crippled.”
“Hm,” Michael said.
“It’s difficult,” Wesshauser went on, “to hold such standards of perfection and have a daughter who…is afflicted. My own father was a perfectionist. He was the great shining example of the German engineer. Everything should fit together just so. And I have led my life the same way. So…it’s difficult…when—”
“Everything doesn’t fit together just so?” Michael interrupted.
“Yes. Difficult,” said Wesshauser. “And difficult for Marielle also.”
“I’m sure.” Michael finished off his coffee. He was ready to rejoin Olaf and Billy.
“But my high standards have suited me well,” Wesshauser told him. He drew deeply again from his cigarette. “That’s why they want to stop me from getting to England. I know what’s coming, very soon. They don’t want the British Navy to have access to my knowledge of torpedoes.”
“Hm,” Michael said once more, for want of a better comment. He thought this man was probably a self-important prick. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Thank you for your time,” he said, with a chill in it. He took his empty coffee cup back to the big stainless steel dispenser to fill it up again.
But before he got there the words my knowledge of torpedoes hit him. He stopped abruptly, with an idea lodged in his mind. A man behind him—one of the engineers—bumped into him and went around.
“Wesshauser,” Michael said when he returned to the man’s table. The eyeglasses peered up at him from behind the pall of smoke. “Could you…make a torpedo?”
“Make a torpedo,” Wesshauser repeated, without inflection.
“That’s right. You’re the specialist. Could you make one? Put it together from…well…whatever’s on this ship.”
“I have no idea what’s on this ship. It goes without saying that I’d need high explosives. There would have to be a steel casing and a detonator.” He frowned and dropped the cigarette butt into his cup. “What are you carrying?”
“Machine parts, ball bearings, hardwood logs and fertilizer.”
“Fertilizer,” Wesshauser said.
“That’s right. About three hundred oil drums full. Just common stuff, I understand.”
“Made with ammonium nitrate?”
“I don’t know.”
“And of course you have diesel fuel?”
“Yes.”
Wesshauser nodded. His eyes looked shiny. “Do you realize that amount of ammonium nitrate could detonate and blow this ship into outer space? And that combined with diesel fuel, the explosive compound is made certain to blow?”
Michael swallowed. “I…suppose…you’re saying—”
“I’m saying if the fertilizer is made with ammonium nitrate, you are carrying many hundreds of high explosive devices on this freighter. My God! Are you people insane? What are your conditions to prevent oxidation in the hold?”