Pirate

Chapter Thirty-four

Bad Reichenbach

FRAU IRMA WORE JACKBOOTS UNDER HER LONG BLACK skirt, Stoke was pretty sure. Shiny black ones, right up to her chubby, pink little knees. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in Bavaria. She had her wispy grey-blonde hair pinned up in two big doughnuts on each side of her head. She had a square, flat face with a beaky nose right in the middle of it. She wore some kind of heavy white face powder, although she was already quite white enough, in Stoke’s humble opinion. She had a short, compact body, and one good thing you could say about her, she looked very strong for a woman.

“Zo,” Irma said to Jet, looking down at her registration book, “we had no idea you were coming.”

“We’re hiking,” Jet said, repeating what she’d already said twice when they were still standing outside, hot and thirsty in the blazing sun at the front door. The Frau was obviously very surprised to see Jet without her boyfriend the baron. And when Jet had introduced Stokely Jones as her personal trainer, she’d looked at him as if he were some giant alien specimen of another life-form. Stoke had smiled and said Guten Tag, but she didn’t seem to understand his German too well. GOO-ten TOG. Had to work on that one.

“Ach. Hiking,” Frau Irma Winterwald said, but not in a warm, welcoming way. The way she said it, Stoke thought maybe hiking was strictly prohibited in these mountains. The gasthaus, Zum Wilden Hund, was a little spooky inside. Thick velvet drapes kept out most of the sunlight. The carved furniture was heavy and dark and there were a lot of shaggy heads with beady glass eyes mounted high up on the walls. Dead stags and deer and bears all staring down at the huge man in hiking shorts as if it were him who should be up on the wall and not them.

The guest house, Stoke decided, was a Bavarian version of the Bates Motel.

Another weird thing was the music. There was very loud piano music coming from a great big grand piano at the far end of the room. The guy playing, Herr Winterwald, was too old to be Irma’s husband so Stoke figured it must be her father. He was blind and wore dark glasses and a dark green felt jacket with buttons made out of bone. His white hair stuck straight out from his head as if he were permanently undergoing electrocution. The music he was now playing sounded like new-wave Nazi marching tunes, if there was any such thing.

Irma noticed Stoke staring at the guy and said, “He is a genius, no?”

“Yes,” Stoke said, “I mean, no.”

“Zo,” Irma was saying, “It will just be for the one night, ja?”

“One night,” Jet said with her best actress smile.

“Und, ein Zimmer? You will need only one room?” the frau was looking not at Jet but at Stoke when she said this. She gave him her most suggestive look. Lascivious was the word. Stoke gave her his biggest smile and held up two fingers.

“No,” Jet said, “We will need two rooms, Frau Winterwald.” Stoke could tell it was taking all of Jet’s considerable acting skills not to jump over the counter and rip this ugly toad of a woman’s head right off. You can tell when two women don’t like each other much. It’s not pretty.

“Zo, zwei Zimmer. One for Fräulein Jet, und one for Mr.—”

“Jones,” Stoke said and she wrote it down with her big fat ink pen. Real ink, Stoke noticed. These people didn’t mess around.

“Jones,” she repeated, drawing the word out as she wrote it. “Such an American name, ja?”

“I’m an American,” Stoke said, shrugging his shoulders. Jet gave him a quick wink.

“Zo, alles gut. No luggage at all?” Irma asked. She stood on tiptoes and peered over the desk as if luggage was about to magically appear. She had fishy eyes, Stoke noticed, man-eating fish eyes.

“No luggage,” Jet said.

“Still no luggage,” Stoke said, unable to stop himself.

“Und, tell me, how is Baron von Draxis, dear girl? We have not seen him much since the skiing is over,” Irma said. “Have we, Viktor?”

Viktor shook his head and kept playing his piano. It suddenly hit Stoke who he looked like. Albert Einstein. Just goes to show you that a bad haircut can make anyone look dumb.

“He is very well,” Jet said. “He and I have been traveling in the Mediterranean aboard Valkyrie. You’ve heard perhaps, Frau Winterwald, that Baron von Draxis and I are getting married in September?”

It was a very different Frau Irma Winterwald who looked up and answered that question. “Nein, my child, I had no idea! How splendid! I am delighted for you, dear girl. He is the most marvelous man! And so rich! What a catch, you lucky girl! Would you and your friend like to have lunch in the garden?”

They ate in a fenced-in garden on the sunny side of the house. Frau Irma, now a smiling, benevolent creature, brought them each a glass of cold white wine with their menus. Stoke ordered the Wiener schnitzel since it was the only thing he recognized and he thought he liked it. Jet, no surprise, ordered a green salad, and Frau Winterwald bowed and scraped her way back inside the house. You could hear Viktor banging out his neo-Nazi marching tunes even out here in the garden.

“Irma La Not So Douce,” Stoke whispered to Jet after she’d disappeared back inside.

Jet smiled. “Yes. That old bitch has always hated me. I think we’re okay, though. You did well.”

“I’m great as long as I don’t talk. You know what’s funny? They’ve got one page of food on this menu and thirty pages of wine list.”

“You should see the wine cellar,” Jet said, looking at him carefully. “Maybe tonight when they’ve gone to bed.”

“I knew there had to be a reason you brought me here,” Stoke said, smiling at her. “Other than the hospitality.”

“She reads to him after supper. They usually go to sleep at ten,” Jet said. “I’ve brought a little something to put in their tea. I’ll make sure they’re out and knock on your door sometime after midnight.”

“They don’t keep the cellar locked?”

“I know where she hides the key.”

It was sometime after two in the morning when Stoke and Jet descended into the funky-smelling gloom of the gasthaus cellar. The steps leading down from Frau Irma’s kitchen were old worn stone and slippery, and he had to hold Jet’s arm to get them down without falling. He had the little Swiss army flashlight he’d put in his knapsack and he kept it aimed at Jet’s feet so she didn’t slip.

On the wall at the bottom of the steps was an iron fixture with a candle, and Stoke found a box of matches on the shelf under it. He lit the candle and took a look around. He’d never seen so much wine in his life. The little room they were in had shelves up to the ceiling full of dusty bottles and there were corridors leading off in every direction, both walls lined with shelves full of wine.

“Schatzi’s pride and joy,” Jet said. “The largest collection of prewar Bordeaux in Germany. Come on, it’s this way.”

“How come you know about all this stuff?”

“We came here. A lot. To ski. What you’re about to see is Schatzi’s favorite getaway after the boat. Like I said, the gasthaus is just a front. Only about five people know this place even exists. Believe me.”

“Show me the money.”

Stoke gave her the flashlight and followed her down the long dark corridor on the right. They came to a dead-end, a small circular room with an old oak table with two chairs pulled up to it in the center of the stone floor. There was a candle standing in the center and Stoke lit it. A large leatherbound book lay on the table. Jet sat down and opened it, flipping through the gold-edged pages, running down the entries scrawled there in red ink with a ballpoint pen.

“What’s that?” Stoke asked.

“Wine registry. You have to sign out every case with this pen. These case numbers here in the margin are the key.” Jet was adding and subtracting a series of numbers in the palm of her hand. Stoke noticed she was writing down only the last digit of the last seven entries.

“Key to what?”

“I’ll show you,” she said and closed the book. She stood up and said, “Help me shove this table out of the way.”

They moved the table to one side. There was a loose stone in the floor where the table had stood. Jet pulled a small penknife from her pocket as she knelt to the floor. She inserted the tip of the blade in the crack on one side of the stone and pried it up. Stoke aimed the flashlight at the square hole revealed in the floor. There was a black steel panel with a digital readout window and a keypad. Jet looked at the numbers written on her palm and they appeared on the readout as she entered all seven. She pressed another button and the numbers began to flash.

“They change the code every week,” Jet said. “It’s a good system.”

“Flawless,” Stoke said as the wall of bottles started to rattle and shake, “Obviously.”

Then the whole floor-to-ceiling wall of wine began to sink into the floor. Behind it was a stainless-steel wall. Set into the steel wall was a burnished bronze elevator door.

“I get it. He keeps the really, really good wine on another floor, am I right?” Stoke said.

“Pretty good,” Jet said, looking up at him and smiling.

They stood quietly and watched the last shelf of priceless wine disappear into the floor. Despite his own worries, and Hawke’s misgivings about Jet, he knew now he’d never have gotten this far without her.

“Okay,” Jet said. “We’re almost in.”

She placed her right hand flat against a matte black panel to the right of the doors. A bar of red light passed under her hand as the bio-metric scanner read her palm. Instantly, a small light above the panel began flashing green. Stoke could hear a faint rumble and knew an elevator car was descending behind the steel doors. It took the cab a long time to get down to their level.

Stoke suddenly saw the whole thing.

“This elevator shaft goes up inside the mountain right behind the guesthouse, doesn’t it?” he said. Jet nodded.

“Welcome to the Schloss Reichenbach,” Jet said as the doors slid silently open. “One of the most secure and exquisite private residences in the Alps.”

“Cool,” Stoke said.

They rode up in silence. The interior walls of the elevator were lined with highly polished brass. Stoke looked up. There was a strange light fixture in the ceiling, a bronze eagle with spread wings holding an illuminated glass globe in its claws. It took ten minutes to get to the top of the mountain. When the cab stopped the doors slid open he and Jet stepped out into the most awesome space he’d ever seen.

“Glorious, isn’t it?” Jet said, studying his face.

“I can’t talk,” Stoke said.

Stoke simply stood there, taking it all in. They must have been at six or seven thousand feet. One whole wall opposite them was a massive stretch of curving glass. Beyond, a series of moonlit snow-capped mountains marched off into the distance under a black and starry sky. A massive chandelier hung from the peak of the soaring ceiling above them. Jet touched the button that illuminated it.

There was very little furniture in the room. No rugs or carpet on the floors, just vast areas of polished wood in various intricate inlaid designs. A few low leather chairs were arranged around a great open-hearth stone fireplace to Stoke’s left. Above the carved mantel hung a large oil portrait. Two men on horseback in the snow, high up in these mountains. Even from a distance, Stoke recognized one of the two men as von Draxis. He was wearing some kind of funky uniform. Very heroic-type painting.

“Who’s the other guy?” he asked Jet, moving toward the fireplace to get a better look.

“That’s Luca Bonaparte,” she said. “Schatzi’s best friend.”

“Bonaparte, huh? So that’s him. I should have guessed by the way he’s got his hand stuck inside his overcoat. Well, I’ll be darned. Wow. What’s that neat outfit Schatzi’s wearing?”

“Alpenkorps. The uniform of the German Alpine Corps. World War II vintage. He has quite a collection of military uniforms at Tempelhof.”

“There’s that word again. What’s Tempelhof? You mean the airport?”

“The old aerodrome at Berlin. Designed by Albert Speer and built around 1937. A huge crescent building about five kilometers long. After Hitler conquered the world it was going to be the continent of Germania’s main airport. A few years ago, the city of Berlin was going to tear it down but Schatzi bought it out from under their noses. It now houses all of the von Draxis corporate offices and shipbuilding and aircraft design studios.”

“Is that right? Germania. That’s what he planned to call the world, huh? I never knew that.”

A single crescent-shaped table with one chair stood facing the great window. On its highly polished surface stood only a black and white photograph in a large silver frame and the model of an old three-masted sailing ship. The hull was some kind of black stone and the sails were all made of ivory so thin you could see starlight right through them.

“So this is his desk?” Stoke said, approaching a semicircular table of walnut with carved eagles for legs. Behind the desk and the curving glass wall, the top of the world unfolded and rolled out below.

“Yes. Sit in the chair.”

“You don’t think he’d mind?”

“I’m sure he would. Go ahead.”

Stoke did as she said. Sitting here, it was hard not to feel like the man who owned the world. It was a very uncomfortable sensation.

“Who’s that in the silver frame? Daddy?”

“Kaiser Wilhelm.”

“You don’t say. My, my, my. Isn’t that something?” Stoke placed both of his hands palm-down on the desk and spread his fingers, quiet for a few seconds, just thinking about the whole thing. After a few long moments he looked up at her and said, “Tell me, Jet. What exactly does your boyfriend do for a living?”

“He’s a shipbuilder. The most successful and powerful in Germany. His family has been in the business for four centuries. The Krupp family built the guns. The von Draxis dynasty built the ships that carried the guns across the sea. The family shipyard in Wilhelmshaven is where they built the Graf Spee.”

“Right. Germany’s ultimate pocket battleship. The Brits cornered her down in Uruguay, right? It took three Royal Navy ships to sink her.”

“The Brits didn’t sink her, Stokely. Hitler ordered her scuttled in the Montevideo harbor. To prevent the British from learning the secrets of von Draxis’s construction and Krupp’s experimental weapons systems. The Graf Spee was designed and built by Schatzi’s grandfather, Konrad, for the Kriegsmarine. Launched in 1937.”

“Kriegsmarine, huh? Does our little Schatzi still build boats for the German navy?”

“Not so much now.”

“German navy hasn’t got the big-bucks budgets it used to have. So, what kind of boats does he build these days?”

“Come with me and I’ll show you.”

“Where are we going?”

“Schatzi’s residence includes a marine design studio where the modelmakers first create what he creates and then do real-time simulations of sea trials. The boats are flawless before the real hulls ever splash.”

“What’s he building now?”

“The greatest ocean liner ever built.”

“For Germany? Is he planning to put guns on this one?”

“No. He’s building her for France.”

“France. Isn’t that some fascinating shit? France and Germany. I guess they finally decided to kiss and make up. Let’s go take a look.”

“Are you okay? You’re acting funny.”

“I feel good. This is just how I get when I’m impressed.”

They had to pass through a number of interesting rooms to reach the studio. There was a dining room with a table long enough to seat a small town. They came to a door marked Kriegsmarine and entered a model room where Stokely could have spent a week. Beneath the domed ceiling painted to look like a stormy sky was a sea of glass cases. Each one contained exquisitely detailed models of ships the von Draxis family had designed or built for the German navy.

Stoke paused for a moment to admire a few of them. There were the massive battleships Tirpitz and Bismarck. But also Stoke’s personal all-time favorite, the Schnellboote. It was arguably the fastest and best-designed PT boat ever built during World War II. Maybe ever.

A steel-and-bronze door with intricate carving barred the way to the next room. On it were depicted all the epic sea battles the Kriegsmarine had fought in the last few centuries. Stoke felt he was getting to know Schatzi better. And he was beginning to feel like Hawke’s decision to send him to Germany had been a good one. He couldn’t get the portrait over the fireplace out of his mind.

Jet worked her electronic magic with the door and they entered the test model studio. The ceiling was a glassed dome and stars twinkled high above their heads. Jet was reaching for the light switch when Stoke touched her arm and said, “Don’t. Let’s just leave it like this a minute.”

He walked inside ahead of her. There was only one model in this room and it stood in the center of the inlaid marble floor. It was encased in a closed glass structure at least thirty feet in length and fifteen feet high. Inside was the most gorgeous ship Stoke had ever laid eyes on. The name of the giant ocean liner was on her stern in gold leaf.

Leviathan.

“Leviathan?” Stoke said.

“The sea beast,” Jet said. “Biblical. It’s Schatzi and Luca’s idea of a joke.”

“Got it,” Stoke said, although he didn’t. He guessed this new French monster was maybe half again as large as the world’s current largest liner, the Queen Mary 2, built by Cunard. That would make her about fifteen hundred feet in length and about three hundred feet high. If Stoke had to guess her gross tonnage he’d put it at three hundred thousand. Jesus.

“It’s a working model,” Jet said, handing him a remote control pod.

“What do you mean, ‘working’?”

“Everything works. Here, I’ll show you.” She pressed one button and the ship lit up from stem to stern with a thousand tiny interior and exterior lights along the entire length of her superstructure. The red and green running lights on either side of her bow were as big as golf balls. She hit another button and the tiny anchors started to drop.

“Holy shit,” Stoke said. The thing was truly beautiful.

“That’s nothing. Watch this,” Jet said. She hit a button and the interior of the glass case began filling with clear blue water illuminated from below. It rapidly rose up the walls of the case until it reached Leviathan’s waterline.

“You can simulate all kinds of sea conditions,” Jet said, “There are wave paddles hidden at the bottom of the case. And sensors throughout the tank to monitor the parameters of wave action on the hull. Want to see a Force Five gale? A tsunami? Seas of fifty feet?”

“Not right now.”

“Would you like me to start her engines?”

“Yes, that I would like to see,” Stoke said, transfixed as Jet fingered the remote. There were propulsion pods hung from the stern. As she pushed the joystick, the pods revolved 360 degrees and the minature bronze props began spinning, creating whorls of white water around them.

“There you go. Four propulsion pods. She carries two fixed, and two azimuthing. This model is an exact replica of the real thing, down to the most minute detail.”

“What’s that big bulge in the keel? Weird looking.”

“That? Bulb keel. Lowers the VCG. The vertical center of gravity.”

“You know a lot about this stuff, Jet.”

“Enough.”

“How come she doesn’t have any smokestacks?”

“That’s an easy one. She’s nuclear.”

“Holy shit,” Stoke said, “Nuclear? An ocean liner?”

“Hmm.”

“Is the baron actually building this thing?”

“Oh, she’s already built. Her maiden voyage is coming up soon. She’s sailing from Le Havre to New York.”

“Le Havre,” Stoke said, “That’s in France, isn’t it? I’d like to be at that launching. But first I think we ought to go back to Berlin and poke our noses around that Tempelhof aerodrome. Do it at night like this, you know, so nobody will bother us.”

“Hmm,” Jet said, looking at her watch. “Look, it’s getting late. We’d better get down the mountain and back in our beds before we’re missed.”

“You ever read ‘Hansel and Gretel’?” Stoke asked, “No? Just curious.”