Sleep came by stealth. He awoke with a start, shivering, unsure at first what had roused him. He heard a snort and a jingle of harness, and raised his head to find a decrepit farm wagon pulled by a pair of graying mules drawn up beside the verge.
A hunched figure wearing a woolen cap perched on a hard wooden seat high above the wagon’s great iron-banded wheels. “You all right, boy?”
Stefan scrambled to his feet, ready to run. “How’d you know I was here?”
The man laughed. “I saw you. What’d you think? I may be old, but there’s never been anything wrong with my eyes. I bet I can see better at night than you.”
Stefan wiped the back of his fist across his nose. “You must have eyes like an owl.”
The man laughed again. “How’d you like a ride?”
Stefan dropped his hand to the pup’s head. “And my dog?”
“The dog’s welcome, too.”
He lifted the pup up onto the floor of the wagon, then swung himself up using an old iron step. The farmer made a clucking sound and danced the reins on the backs of the mules. Stefan breathed in the pungent, earthy smell of potatoes, and sneezed.
The old man laughed. “Where you headed?”
“Chkalovo,” said Stefan, naming a hamlet just beyond Yasnaya Polyana.
“You can go back to sleep, if you want. I’ll wake you when we get there.”
Stefan shook his head.
“What’s your dog’s name?”
“He doesn’t have one.”
“Everyone should have a name. Man or beast.”
“So what’re your mules’ names?”
“Karl and Marx.”
Stefan laughed so hard he had to grab the side of the wagon seat to keep from falling off.
The old man shrugged. “They’re old mules.”
They talked for a time about mules and farming and the price of grain. They were easing down a dark wooded slope when they came around a bend and saw the glow of flares. Against the dancing flames of a fire stood two silhouettes in uniform.
The dog sat up and gave a low growl. Stefan put a warning hand on its head. “Ssshh, boy. What’s that?”
“Looks like the militia’ve set up a roadblock. I went through another checkpoint just like this one, maybe ten miles back. They were looking for a young man. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”
Stefan curled his hand over the edge of the seat, ready to jump. The old man said softly, “You jump now, they’ll see you.”
Stefan drew in a quick breath, trying to ease the sudden pain in his side, but it didn’t help. “What do I do?”
The old man pursed his lips. “Get in back. You’ll find some empty gunnysacks beneath the seat you can pull up over you.”
“And if they search the load?”
The old man was silent for a moment. “Then I’ll take care of your dog.”
41
Crouched in a narrow space between the seat and the mounds of potatoes, Stefan pulled the scratchy pile of dusty sacks over his head and shoulders, clutched his lucky piece of amber in one tight fist, and tried not to breathe.
As the wagon drew up at the checkpoint, he heard the old farmer shout, “Another roadblock? Don’t you young men have wives whose beds need warming?”
One of the militiamen laughed. “What you doing out so late, old man?”
“Axle broke. This wagon’s getting too old. Like me.” Stefan heard the clink of glass against wood, then smelled the strong familiar pinch of alcohol. The farmer said, “Like a drink to chase away the chill?”
“Well…I guess a swallow won’t hurt.”
Through a crack in the slat back of the wooden seat, he caught a glimpse of firelight on a man’s ruddy face. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, afraid the militiamen might somehow sense that he was watching them.
“Who’re you looking for?” said the farmer.
“A boy. Sixteen. Dark. Skinny.”
“What’s he done?”
“Murder. Up near the Vistula Lagoon.”
From his place beside the farmer, the dog began to whine. Stefan thought his heart would stop.
“I’ll be sure to keep a lookout for him,” said the farmer, reaching out to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Can’t be too careful these days.”
The militiamen pulled the barrier out of the road. “Watch yourself, old man.”
The farmer gave a cluck-cluck, and Stefan felt the wagon jerk as the mules leaned into their collars.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” said Stefan, emerging from beneath the sacks when the checkpoint had been left far behind.
“I didn’t think you did.”
Altenbruch, Germany: Wednesday 28 October
7:05 P.M. local time
“I wish I could have been of more help,” said Marie Oldenburg as she followed them out to the sidewalk. The setting sun had slipped beyond the horizon, taking with it the lingering warmth of the evening.
“You’ve been very helpful,” said Tobie. A strengthening breeze rattled the dying leaves on the trees and made her wish she’d pulled on her jacket before they left the car.
Jax said, “Any idea where we might find this Wolfgang Palmer?”
Marie Oldenburg eased the door of the archives shut behind her and turned the key in the lock. “Actually, I gave him a call when Professor Herbolt told me you vere interested in U-114. He says he’s villing to meet vith you this evening, if you like. At a Gasthaus to the northeast of Bremen. A place called Mumbrauer, near Breddorf. At half past seven.”
“We are very interested. Thank you.”
“Good. I’ll tell him to expect you.” Slipping the archives key into the pocket of her skirt, the old woman moved to where a sturdy green bicycle leaned against the trunk of a nearby elm. “You should know that Herr Palmer’s vork is very controversial. He has made many enemies, both here in Germany and in America.”
“Is he reliable?” said Jax.
Marie Oldenburg mounted her bicycle, her gnarled hands gripping the widespread handlebars. “Oh, yes. No one questions what he has found. It’s his conclusions that are debatable.”
“Do you believe him?”
She thrust out her lower lip and glanced downward in a characteristically German gesture of thoughtfulness. “I believe the true story of those six tragic years of war has never been told, and probably never vill be.” She nodded her head briskly and shoved off. “Auf Wiederschen.”
Tobie watched the slight figure pedal into the gathering gloom. “Wow. I hope I’m that alert and agile when I’m her age.”
“How good are your genes?”
“Not that good.”
“Mine neither.” Turning toward the car, Jax took out his phone and punched in a number.
“Who are you calling?” she asked, watching him. “Matt?”
He shook his head. “Andrei.”
“You know Andrei’s number? Right off the top of your head?”
“Yeah. Why?”
She went to lean against the side of the Jetta. “And you say he’s not your buddy.”
“He’s not my buddy.”
She watched him frown. Andrei obviously wasn’t answering. She said, “And why exactly are you trying to call the Russians?”
He put his phone away. “Because I want to know if they ever checked that damned U-boat for radiation.”
She felt her heart lurch uncomfortably in her chest. “Oh, Jesus. I never thought of that. And you were crawling around in there forever. Do you think you could have been exposed to radiation?”
“Don’t you mean, ‘we’? You think you were that much safer standing on the wharf?”
When she simply stared at him in horror, he said, “Come on. Unlock the car. There’s no point in worrying until we’re sure exactly what kind of material we’re talking about. You never know-it could have been well shielded.”
She fumbled for the Jetta’s key and hit the remote button twice to unlock all the doors. “I don’t think they knew too much about shielding that stuff sixty years ago, did they?”
He opened the door. “No.”
As she tossed her bag onto the backseat, he made another call. “Hey, Matt,” he said, sliding in beside her. “You know that shipment of Nazi gold? Well, it wasn’t gold.”