The Gold of Troy

Chapter Four

Berlin — April

“The Schliemann treasurer?” Captain Sudikoff said. “No, I’m quite sure I never heard of it.” He smiled at the elderly sergeant. He was fond of his quartermaster, even if the old boy’s head was up in the clouds half the time. “Should I have?”

Sergeant Kolenko also smiled. He took a deep breath, bringing himself back from the euphoria the amazing discovery had brought to him. He was aware of the captain’s background and had a profound respect for the younger man despite the other’s lack of university education.

“No, I suppose not,” he said.

“And exactly what about this treasure of yours? “What is it?”

“One of the most valuable collections in the world,” the sergeant said, his voice unconsciously taking the tone of a professor at his lectern.

The captain slid from his hammock and took a seat on the corner of a bench that had been added to his quarters; the sergeant also sat down. The captain was pleased with the interruption. As sleep had avoided him, it had been replaced by a feeling of frustration at the many problems peace would bring to the occupying forces, and particularly to their officers. War, whatever its other faults, was relatively simple, the end clearly understood. Still, while war was also horrifying, the discussions he and his quartermaster had often had on many odd subjects had tended to lessen that horror. The captain had no notion of what Sergeant Kolenko had in mind with all this talk of a treasure of some sort, but the conversation, at least, had the advantage of postponing thoughts of peace and the problems that came with it.

“Yes?” the captain said in his most encouraging tone.

The sergeant paused to pack a battered pipe with tobacco. He waited until it was burning to his satisfaction, then he crossed his legs comfortably and began.

“The Schliemann treasure,” he said, “is supposedly the treasure accumulated by Priam, King of ancient Troy at the time of the war with the Greeks. Homer—” He paused. “You know who Homer was?”

“We’re not totally ignorant in the provinces,” the captain said dryly, and smiled. “I know who Homer was.”

“Good,” the sergeant said, not at all abashed by the captain’s response, and once again was the professor. “However, what you may or may not know, was that Homer apparently lived — I say apparently, because there is no definite proof of exactly when he did live — in the eighth century before the modern era, that is, before the birth of Christ. Scholars base this fact on references to Homer and his writings in the seventh century B.C. — Archilochus credits Homer with authorship of the Margites at that time — and the fact that the Greek alphabet is considered to have been invented about the ninth century B.C. The oldest inscriptions found to date written in the Greek alphabet are those that were found on the island of Thera in 1896, and these are thought to date from the eighth, or at most the ninth century before Christ. Since Homer wrote in the Greek alphabet, it is therefore assumed he lived in the eighth century B.C, give or take fifty years.”

“And this has something to do with that treasure?” the captain asked.

“I’m coming to that,” the sergeant said in a slightly chiding tone. “As I was saying, prior to the time of Homer, history, or legends, or stories, or poems, were handed down from generation to generation, from father to son, or by professional storytellers, all by word of mouth. Homer, in his Iliad and the Odyssey, was relating events that took place five or six centuries earlier, and the history of which could only have come down by word of mouth. Many people, therefore, believed the stories to be pure fiction, products of Homer’s admittedly brilliant imagination, and that while there probably was a city in the Troad that had had a war with a city in what is now Greece, the facts of that war, or the personalities, were not facts, but merely legend.”

“Interesting,” the captain said, because to him it was interesting. He always learned something in these conversations with his sergeant quartermaster, and he wondered briefly if, after he was finally released from the army, he might be too old to apply to the university. But he knew it was a dream; the work necessary at home would be even more demanding than the work in Berlin. He brought his attention back to the sergeant.

“Yes. Very interesting,” the sergeant said, and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “However, there was one man who believed completely in Homer, who believed that Homer, while undoubtedly a man with a great imagination, was still basing his poems on hard fact, even though that fact had undoubtedly suffered somewhat in being repeated as it was being handed down all those hundreds of years by word of mouth. That man was named Heinrich Schliemann, and he dedicated the last quarter-century of his life, and a considerable fortune, to prove that Homer’s tales were historical, and not fictional.”

“And?” the captain asked, pleased that at last the name Schliemann had come into the story.

“And Schliemann proved it.” From the sergeant’s triumphant tone one would have thought it was Professor Kolenko who had made the discovery. “He not only discovered the site of the ancient city of Troy, but he found weapons conforming to Homer’s description, found the city walls where Homer had said they were, and in general proved — at least to his own satisfaction, as well as to the satisfaction of many others, while others still doubted — that Homer had been writing fact.”

“And the treasure?” the captain asked.

“Ah, yes. He also discovered the treasure — Priam’s treasure — the part that was left after Priam had ransomed the body of Hector and brought it back to Troy for proper burial.”

“He found a treasure, eh?” the captain said. “And when did he do all this?”

“In 1873, over seventy years ago.”

“And what happened to it?” The captain’s initial enthusiasm for the story was waning a bit. He thought the conversation, while certainly educational and interesting to a point, was going no place. It wasn’t like the philosophical or even practical discussions he had had in the past with his quartermaster, nor did it seem like a conversation to delay thoughts of future distasteful duties for very long. His mind began to wander to thoughts of burial details and other unpleasant subjects.

“What happened to it was that Schliemann donated it to a German museum,” the sergeant said, and now he was beginning to feel pleased at how neatly he had worked the story up to this point. “The museum was here in Berlin. And when the bombing began to destroy museums as well as other government — not to mention private — buildings, it was apparently decided it would be safer hidden under good, strong concrete. In a bunker.”

The captain’s eyes widened, his attention now fully caught. The sergeant continued, a faint smile on his lips.

“Under the zoo...”

Now the full import of what he had been hearing suddenly struck the captain. “What! No—!”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, and grinned widely. “It’s outside your quarters right now.”

“I can’t believe it.” The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Is this some sort of a joke, Sergeant?”

“No, sir! I don’t joke about—”

“Well, if it isn’t, bring it in and let’s have a look at it!”

“Yes, sir!” The sergeant went out and returned dragging the trunk easily by one handle. The door was closed, the lid thrown back. Captain Sudikoff stared as the sergeant carefully, almost reverently, unwrapped each bundle, placing their contents on the tissue paper along the bench. The captain frowned.

“That’s gold?”

“Yes, and almost pure, too. To make the fine wire they had to work it very soft. They didn’t have the tools or the techniques for doing delicate work in metals in those days unless they were very soft. They could work metals like bronze — copper and tin — for larger and harder pieces — spears, shields, weapons — but for the fine wire used in some of the delicate gold ornaments, they had to work it almost pure.”

The captain was still staring at the bench, loaded with bracelets, beads, masks, buttons, ornamental singlets. He seemed dazed by the enormity of the discovery. He also looked as if he hadn’t heard a word of the sergeant’s explanation, as indeed he hadn’t. He looked up, staring at his quartermaster.

“What do we do with it?”

“Captain?”

“I said, what do we do with this... this... this stuff, now that we’ve found it? Incidentally, who did find it?”

“Two of our troops. I had them looking for food, and they came up with this trunk.”

“Do they know what’s in it?”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant suddenly understood the possible import of the question. “But they have no idea of what it is. They were going to destroy it, or hand it out for souvenirs to the others. They won’t think anything about it.”

“So what do we do with it?” The captain thought a moment and then shrugged. His first reaction at seeing the treasure was abating. “Maybe the two had a good idea. Handing it out to the troops for souvenirs, I mean.”

Sergeant Kolenko was shocked. He looked at the captain, aghast.

“Captain! You can’t be serious! You can’t do that! It’s a world-famous collection, one of the most valuable that exists! Break it up? Hand it out piece by piece like... like—” Comparisons failed him. He was rescued by a remembered fact. “In any event, it’s not ours to hand out or to do anything else with. We have instructions to turn it over.”

The captain frowned. “Turn it over? To whom?”

“To the Allied Art Commission. You remember the order. All recovered art treasures are supposed to be reported and turned over to the Commission for final disposition after the war.”

Captain Sudikoff snorted. “Nonsense!”

“But our government agreed to it,” the sergeant said, and now that he was at least in what could be construed as partial disagreement with his superior, he added, “sir!”

“Nonsense!” The captain shook his head in cold determination. “Turn something this valuable over to who? To the Americans? Who held up helping us in the war until we had almost bled to death? Who pushed Germany into the war against us in the first place? And now give them the spoils? Because, you know, this Allied Commission of yours will never give it back to Germany. No, sir!”

“But — what will we do with it then, sir?”

“I don’t know...” The captain thought a moment and then suddenly smiled. “Or, rather, I do know. I’ll do what every good army man would do in the same circumstances,” he said. “I’ll pass the decision up the line...”

Berlin — May

Hitler was dead, the peace had finally been signed. Those Germans in uniforms, or those whose papers looked too recent to be true, or those recognized by former camp inmates, were on their way to prison camps. The others had been commandeered into clearing the rubble from the shattered streets of Berlin. Even some restaurants and bars had been permitted to open, bringing from their dungeon cellars hidden foods and bottles. The war was over.

But for some the war could never be over, and among them was Hans Gruber. Hans Gruber was an old man, but he was a dedicated German and devoted to Adolph Hitler and his cause, dead or alive. Gruber was uneducated and he knew nothing of politics, but he did know that only under the Nazis had he known a feeling of self-fulfillment, of being part of something he sensed was important.

Before the beginning of the bombings, when the zoological station in the Tiergarten was still in normal operation, Gruber had been a porter there. When the need for bunkers beneath important buildings was evidenced by the increased death and destruction that were beginning to rain upon the city despite the promises of Reichmarshal Goering, Gruber willingly helped in the construction of the one that had been constructed in the area of the elephant cages, poking its bulk in the air. And when the Schliemann treasure had been brought to the bunker and stored in its little niche for safekeeping, Hans Gruber had helped, and had even been the one to cover the hole in the wall with plaster to hide any evidence of its location. And when the final hour had come before fleeing with the others before the Russian advance, it was Gruber who had hastily piled rubbish against the niche. The bombardment had shaken the walls and brought down the thin shell of plaster that had protected the cavelike opening. It was a poor attempt and Gruber was aware of it, but one could scarcely go running down the rubble-strewn streets with a trunk in one’s arms. Carrying one’s life down those dangerous streets was task enough.

Now, as one of the workers pressed into the gargantuan job of clearing some of that rubble, Gruber was aware that the treasure, while it had been discovered, still remained in the quarters of the Russian captain. Each day, as he lined up with the others to receive his shovel, he would peer past the issuing quartermaster and see the trunk still in the corner of the captain’s room. Its hasp had been repaired and rope had been wrapped around it in profusion, but there it was. Gruber did not understand why the trunk remained, why it had not been removed to a safer place. Still, it never occurred to him that he might do something about it.

Until one day, while piling broken building stone into a truck, he noticed that a new member of the work crew was Major Schurz. Gruber walked over, amazed to find the other man alive, and not only alive, but free, not in prison as a war criminal. Still, Gruber knew when he stopped to think about it that hundreds, no, thousands of SS had simply changed clothes and were now utilizing identity cards they had prepared long before.

“Major!” he said, but before he could say more, the other man had glared him to silence. He dropped his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Don’t you remember me? Hans Gruber. I was a porter at the zoo. I was there in the bunker, when you brought that trunk. Don’t you remember? I was the one who plastered over the hole.”

“I remember,” Schurz said shortly, and began to turn away. He didn’t remember at all, nor did he want to. Idiots who called out his former rank in the SS with Russians all over the place, were people he could do without.

“Maj — I mean, what do I call you?”

Schurz was on the point of telling the old man he would rather not be called anything at all by the old fool, but one of the Russian troops overseeing that portion of the clean-up operation was staring at them. It would not do to start a discussion or an argument at this moment.

“My name is Kurt. Now, leave me alone.”

“But, Kurt—”

“Later!” Schurz said savagely, and walked away.

Gruber looked after him, sighed and went back to his job. But after work, when they had turned in their equipment and been given chits for their labor, he followed the major down the street and caught up with him a short distance away.

“You said, later—”

Schurz shook his head in irritation. Was he going to be plagued by this maniac leech all his life? He looked around. At least if he had to talk to this incredible cretin, they were alone and unobserved.

“What do you want?”

“The trunk, you remember? The one you brought to the bunker for hiding? The one I helped hide?”

“What about it?”

“It’s still there. Oh, they found where it was hidden, I don’t know how, but it’s still there. In the captain’s quarters. It’s all tied up with rope.”

“So?”

Gruber looked around and then wet his lips. “I thought maybe—” He paused, realizing how absurd his thought had been.

“You thought what?”

“I thought — maybe you could figure a way to get it away from them.” Even as he said it he knew he sounded ridiculous and tried to give the main reason he had attempted such a foolish comment. “It’s valuable, isn’t it?”

Schurz laughed, a short, humorless laugh.

“It’s more than valuable. It’s invaluable. What do you suggest, old man? That I just go in and ask for it? Say it’s an old trunk that has sentimental value for me? Or ask for it instead of a work chit? Say I could use it to keep my extensive wardrobe of old uniforms in?” He shook his head in disgust. “You’re a fool, old man. Go home.”

“I just thought—”

“Don’t think,” Schurz said harshly. “Go home.” He turned and walked away. Gruber looked after him a moment, sighed, and also started slowly walking toward his room.

But while he had admonished the old man for thinking, ex-Major Kurt Schurz could not help but think, himself. It would be a great coup to get the treasure from under the noses of the Russian pigs! Was it possible they didn’t know the value of what they had in their possession? And if they knew it, why was it still sitting in the bunker? Why hadn’t it been shipped east with all the other things, captured arms, the factories that were being dismantled and piled on freight cars for Russia, the tons of other goods that left the city for the east each day? One thing was sure; the treasure wouldn’t remain in the bunker forever. The Russian troops were being rotated. It was only a matter of time, and probably very little time, before the crew in the bunker would be relieved and sent home, and it was almost positive that when that day came, the trunk would go with them. If it didn’t go sooner.

And it was pointless, and even stupid, to think the Russians might not know the value of what was in the trunk. Otherwise why would it be in the captain’s personal quarters, all bound up with rope? Certainly not for the trunk itself — it wouldn’t serve as a portmanteau to carry anything very heavy, the bottom would fall out. No, the trunk still contained the treasure, and the Russians were waiting — for what? Orders, probably, Schurz thought with a grim smile, remembering his own army days. Which could come any day. Would it be possible to take it by force, to hijack it, say on the way from the bunker to the train when those orders finally came through? Schurz smiled sourly at the thought of himself, possibly aided by Gruber and others of the shovel brigade, attacking a troop-carrier full of armed soldiers. Ridiculous. No, the only way to get the trunk would be by guile, not by force.

Assuming the Russians were merely waiting for orders to move the trunk, when would those orders come? If they should come — Schurz stopped dead in his tracks. If they should come from us! If the orders should come from us! But then the euphoria occasioned by the daring idea began to fade as the practicality of the situation took hold. First there was the matter of locating the man he needed before the real orders came through. He put aside all thoughts of supper and hurried toward the small bar where he and others of his friends met for an occasional drink, and to speak — softly — of plans, or, rather, hopes for the future.

The bar was fairly busy. It was one of the few permitted to operate by the occupation forces as a means of reducing the pressures of the horrendous task facing the remaining residents of the battered city. It was a place where food chits could be traded for whiskey or beer or vodka or even cigarettes, although these were never smoked, being more valuable for their barter worth than for the remembered pleasure of tobacco. It was a place where the spoils of barter could be exchanged for articles which the Allied troops held dear; German helmets, bayonets, even pistols, even though pistols were not supposed to be in the hands of any German except the police; anything that might serve as a true souvenir of the city and its fall. Schurz pushed through to a corner, leaning over the occupants, and then slid in beside them as being less noticeable. He spoke in a low tone.

“Petterssen,” he said. “Is he still around?”

“I think so,” someone said, and shrugged. “It’s almost impossible to leave.”

“And getting worse,” another voice said gloomily.

Someone else laughed. “You’d think Petterssen would have no trouble. That Swede could write his own exit permit with his eyes closed, using a nail and piss for ink, and the border guards would pass him through like royalty. Why do you want him?”

“Important business,” Schurz said, and wondered with a sudden touch of panic if possibly Petterssen had already left the city. But there was no point in thinking of that. If Petterssen was gone, or could not be located, the entire scheme was up the chimney in any event. He waved aside the offer of a drink from one of the men. “How do I get in touch with him?”

“You mean, if he’s still here. I haven’t seen him.” The man shrugged. “Well, we can pass the word, that’s about all we can do. Where are you living?”

“I have a room in the Goeringstrasse” — Schurz smiled grimly — “what was the Goeringstrasse. It’s probably the Trumanstrasse, or the Stalinstrasse by now. Number 18, first floor in the back on the right. Make it fast, can you? It’s very important.”

“Important for you? Or for the party?”

“For both,” Schurz said, and started to stand up. He thought a moment and then sat down again. There was also the question of money. The people who had formed ODESSA, the organization dedicated to helping keep the party alive, were all big industrialists and had plenty of it, but it might be difficult to contact them. And there would be need to contact someone trustworthy in Wismar, or Barth, or any one of the Baltic ports — but he could be doing all this while waiting for Petterssen. He stood again, this time to stay on his feet. “Very much for both,” he repeated, almost to himself, and walked from the bar.

It was three nights later, when Schurz had about abandoned hope and was cursing Gruber for ever having put the idea in his head, that Jan Petterssen appeared at Schurz’s room. He was a very thin, extremely tall man with a horselike, long, sad face, and a shock of bright yellow hair that needed cutting badly, tucked out of sight under a ragged stocking cap. Schurz could hardly conceal his relief at sight of the man; by now he had been sure that Petterssen was either dead or long gone from the country. He sat his guest down, brought out a bottle of vodka traded for a genuine Nazi officer’s peaked cap, lightning insignia and all — his own, but the drunken Russian soldier had had no idea of that, of course — and asked Petterssen why he was still around. Petterssen shrugged sadly.

“My face,” he said wearily. “My height. My hair. They must be looking for me. It is easy enough to forge papers” — Petterssen had forged all the pound notes and the dollar bills printed in Germany, he spoke five languages fluently in addition to his native Swedish, and could handle any one of them on a bit of paper so that one would swear it was authentic — “but at every border crossing they are looking for me. They must be looking for me! They will want me for a war criminal, can you imagine? Me? An artist?” He shook his head at the patent unfairness of it all and took a healthy drink from the bottle. “I almost didn’t come here. I go out very little. But it’s only a question of time before I’m caught, I suppose. Very unfair... anyway, they told me it was important, so I came. Bent over to look like an old man to look short. It hurt my back.” He shrugged again and took another drink from the bottle.

Schurz was quite sure the occupying forces had more important people to search for than Jan Petterssen, but he could see no advantage in telling the Swede that. At least it had kept the forger in Berlin.

“It is important, very important,” he said and leaned forward, gently removing the bottle from Petterssen’s fingers. He wanted the man sober, at least until they had discussed the matter thoroughly. “I can get you out of the country with me. We’ll have to take a small case with us—”

“A small case? What will be inside it?”

“A treasure in gold.” Schurz did not feel it necessary to explain that it was not bullion, not something readily transferable into cash. “All you have to do is to forge some papers. In Russian. Can you do it?”

The vodka had taken a bit of the lugubrious expression from the narrow equine face. The sadness there was replaced with the pride of the artisan.

“Of course.”

“You still have your pens?”

“Not on me, for God’s sake! They’d shoot me on the spot if they ever caught me with those in my possession.”

“But they’re safe?”

“Yes.”

“And paper?”

“I have enough if you don’t want a book written.”

“Good!” Schurz took a deep breath and then thought a moment. He had long since thought of the possibility that Petterssen might also be useful in the matter of the financing of the project. “Do you also still have some of that counterfeit money — pounds or dollars, or whatever?”

Petterssen shook his head. “No. Not even samples.” Schurz bit back his disappointment. It would mean trying to locate one of the industrial members of ODESSA, and that would take valuable time. He should have been doing that before, but his time had been taken up with the matter of the boat, and besides, he hadn’t really believed in the true possibility of the project. Damn!

Petterssen reached over and took the bottle of vodka from Schurz’s hand, drinking deeply.

“But I’ve got plenty of good money, real money,” he went on. The vodka had relaxed him completely, made him expansive. He grinned. “I insisted upon payment in American dollars before I forged the foreign currency. Otherwise I would have been working for myself, if you see what I mean.” The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced by a thoughtful frown. His eyes narrowed as he studied Schurz. “But if you’ve got gold — bullion—”

“We need a boat,” Schurz said flatly. “It’s the only way to go and take the gold with us. I have someone who can travel from here to the Baltic without suspicion. He arranges the purchase of fish for the commissaries. He can arrange a boat for us for when we need it. But he says he knows the fishermen up there. They won’t rent or sell a boat for gold. Most of them have no way to tell if the gold is genuine or not. They’ve never seen any in their lives. They want American dollars or English pounds. I thought—”

“You thought they might be taken in by my counterfeit. They would have, too, with my stuff,” Petterssen said with pride, but then his face fell. “Only I have none.”

“You have dollars,” Schurz said and his voice was cold. “I want enough of them to arrange the boat. You’ll be paid. With interest.”

Petterssen looked at him. “How can I be sure?”

“Because I say so.” Schurz was beginning to get irritated. “Besides, you want to get out of Germany, don’t you? As you say, it’s only a question of time before they pick you up, and then—” He made a gesture, his hand across his throat and then swiftly raised in the air. Petterssen winced. There was a profound tone of truth in Schurz’s tone of voice, as there should have been since the threat was true for himself whether or not it was for the tall Swede.

“I know,” Petterssen said. The sadness had returned to his face. He raised the bottle; Schurz made no attempt to stop him. The tall Swede drank, put the bottle down and pushed it to one side, ready to properly discuss the matter. “Where will we be going?”

“Sweden,” Schurz said with assurance. “Your home.” In the past few days he had done a good deal of planning, even if most of it was ephemeral, depending as it did on locating Petterssen. “ODESSA has members there, and there is still sympathy for us and our cause among many influential people there. We can both be safe there.”

Petterssen wet his lips. “And rich.” He made it a statement, not a question.

“And very rich,” Schurz said, agreeing, and wondered that a man as clever with his hands as Jan Petterssen could possibly not realize he would never get off the boat in his country. “And very rich,” Schurz repeated.

The tall Swede nodded and leaned back, narrowing his eyes, concentrating on the paper he was about to begin forging in his mind’s eye.

“All right,” he said, once again the artisan. “What papers will you need, and what do you want them to say?”

Chapter Five

The Russian soldier-messenger was on the verge of descending the few bunker steps when he turned at a tap upon his shoulder, one hand automatically falling to the butt of his service revolver, staring suspiciously at the ragged, cringing figure who had stopped him.

“What is it?”

The man smiled an obsequious smile that clearly indicated he did not understand the other, and held out a small bundle of official-looking papers, neatly tied with ribbon. “You dropped this.” He pointed to the dispatch bag and then to the ground.

“Oh.” The soldier understood the gesture if not the language. He shoved the papers into the dispatch bag. “Thanks.” Without another word he turned and trotted down the bunker steps. Behind him Schurz watched him turn a corner and disappear, then with a shrug he returned to his shovel. Now all he could do was to wait. And hope the real papers for the disposition of the treasure did not come through in the next two days. A sudden chilling thought came — if the real papers did come through before then, he hoped the soldier-messenger would not be able to remember who had given him the bundle of dropped papers. Possibly they should have included in the instructions an order to disregard any other directives... but that, too, could have been risky, inviting suspicion. Ah, well, Schurz thought with a rueful smile, stealing something this important could scarcely fail to involve risk of some sort.

“And about bloody time!” Sudikoff said aloud with a combination of relief and irritation. “My God, how did we ever manage to win this war, anyway? With all the bureaucracy? Three weeks to get a simple answer to a simple question!” He studied the orders again. They were written in a crabbed longhand, and signed with a scrawl that was impossible to decipher, although the neatly printed title of Colonel General L. Schvicheva was easily seen below, as well as the title and command printed on top of the sheet. Fortunately the instructions themselves were clear and understandable. The captain nodded and called out to the sergeant in the outer office. Sergeant Kolenko hurried in.

“Close the door,” the captain said. He leaned back, smiling broadly. “We’ve finally gotten our orders to ship out that treasure of yours, Sergeant. Thank God! I was getting nervous about having the stuff here.”

“Oh,” the sergeant said, interested. “To the Allied Art Commission, I suppose?”

“You suppose wrong,” the captain said, and laughed. “To Russia.”

“But—”

The captain’s smile faded, replaced by a frown. “Would you care to go against the orders of General Schvicheva? Who apparently agrees with me about who the treasure should belong to? And who is going to get it? Eh?”

“No, sir!”

“I thought not,” the captain said dryly. He tapped the instructions. “Now, the orders are clear enough. And will require a little hustle on your part. They want the treasure handled with extreme care, to be protected against any contingency. They want it placed in a case made of thin welded sheets of steel. This case is then to be fitted inside a wooden box of approximately the same size, and in addition to being securely nailed shut, they want it banded about with steel bands for shipping. Is that all clear?”

“... bands for shipping...” the sergeant said, and busily scribbled the instructions on a bit of paper he had taken from his pocket.

“And tear up that paper!” the captain said testily. He had already decided to destroy the instructions themselves once they had been carried out. While such orders had not been included in the General’s crabbed handwriting, Captain Sudikoff imagined he could read between the lines. He looked at the sergeant with authority. “This matter is to be kept completely secret, no notes, nothing in writing. There’s been too much loose talk among our men and the other Allied troops as it is. Camaraderie is all well and good, but it’s no way to keep secrets. Which means that all information about the treasure and the shipment is to be kept from our troops and our officers, as well. There are to be no telephone calls regarding the matter, and no telegraphed inquiries or questions. Nothing! Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant had been tearing the paper he had been writing on into shreds; he dropped those into an ashtray and lit it with a match, watching the flames. He then tucked his pencil into his sleeve pocket. “But I’ll have to get one of the men to make up the steel case—”

“You get the steel sheets cut to the right size, and get the welding equipment from the engineers,” the captain said, “and I’ll make the case. We do learn something in technical school,” he added with a smile, “even if we don’t learn when Homer was born.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant paused. “And when the crate is ready for shipment?”

The captain referred to the instructions again, and nodded.

“The case is to be marked ‘Captured Medical Equipment’ and is to be shipped out on the train that leaves around six tomorrow afternoon from the Stuttgartbahnhof for Leningrad. It is to be placed in the guard’s van — not in any of the regular freight cars — and it is to be released only to a Colonel Major Boris Golobev or his representatives, on written identification, at whatever point the major cares to take delivery. Those instructions are to be given to the train officials verbally, understand? But impressed upon them.”

“Yes, sir. Impressed upon them. Verbally. Golobev or his representatives.”

“Colonel Major Golobev,” the captain said reprovingly.

“Yes, sir.”

“And now,” the captain said, pleased to be nearing the end of his custodianship of the treasure, and happy that it was not being sent to the Allied Art Commission, “get a move on having the proper steel sheets cut to size, and getting the welding equipment in here. And start looking for wood for the crate.”

“Yes, sir!” said Sergeant Kolenko, and left the room to get on with it, secretly pleased, despite his previous objections and also despite the Allied agreements, that the treasure was actually going to his country.

To Kurt Schurz, the scene at the Stuttgartbahnhof with its appearance of total confusion, was very reassuring. Lorries of all sizes had violated the once-privileged platforms where only passengers had been allowed, and were drawn up before the gaping doors of freight cars discharging into them every imaginable type of matériel; men and women were busy on the different platforms hoisting smaller bundles into similar cars; soldiers being recycled were milling about before the trains roughly marked in chalk as being destined for Moscow, for Kiev, for Leningrad, trying to locate their units; officers with lists were frantically attempting to keep track of the various items being crammed into the cars. Above, the sun’s final rays crept in through the open spaces where the glass cover of the station had long since been blasted to bits. On the platform for the six o’clock train for Leningrad, Kurt Schurz walked slowly along, hoping that in that atmosphere of kinetic anarchy, he and his tall companion might pass relatively unnoticed.

At his side Petterssen shuffled along resignedly, almost as if he were walking into assured capture and execution. Had the Russians really been actively looking for the man, Schurz thought dourly, that look of guilt on the horselike idiot face would almost be enough to guarantee capture. The stocky ex-major also thought how happy he would be when his association with the tall Swede was finally ended — and the tall Swede ended as well. While forging the necessary letters, releases, passes, and other papers Petterssen had been fine, but once that work had been completed, the big man’s nervous fears had come close to driving Schurz to distraction. Well, Schurz thought as he approached the train, one way or another it will soon be over. He didn’t know if that was a comforting thought or not.

Both men were dressed in neat dark suits, black polished shoes, white shirts and dark neckties, and each wore upon his head a black homburg. The outfits, purchased on the black market and tailored by an ex-corporal in the SS, had cost nearly as much as the boat Schurz had arranged in Warnemünde on the Baltic coast, almost as much as the car he had gone to so much trouble to arrange to meet them in Bad Freienwalde; the members of ODESSA, while dedicated, still wanted as much as they could get for taking chances. Still, Schurz was certain, the clothing was vitally necessary; the men they wanted to look like wore just such identifying clothes. And if the ploy failed, what difference did it really make what the clothes cost, or the boat, or the use of the car? In the first place the money had been Petterssen’s; and in the second they would not require money in the place where they would end up. The dead spent little.

Freight doors were being slammed; troops were hurrying into the nearest cars. An official was standing looking at a pocket watch, almost as if the trains ever departed on time. Schurz frowned. Where was the crate? Had it been loaded into the guard’s van before his arrival? But he had been there for some time, walking about looking very official himself, and had not seen it. He swallowed. His appearance with the abnormally tall and tragic-looking Petterssen on the rapidly-emptying platform was beginning to become noticeable. Should they board the train in the hope that the crate was already in the guard’s van? And if it wasn’t? Then everything would have been lost; the crate would leave on a train while they were being carried to a different place. Plus the fact that their masquerade could well be discovered when they came to the guard’s van to collect a crate that was not there. Damn! Where the devil was the verdamnt crate?

The official was looking rather pointedly in their direction; he made a gesture clearly indicating that the train was about to leave and that they should board. Schurz put one foot on the lower step of the car and then paused. The official began walking purposefully in their direction. And then, at last, a lorry came charging through the makeshift entrance of the Bahnhof with a roar, blasting its horn. The official paused and turned in the direction of the disturbance. The horn blasted again, echoing in the huge domed hall, directing him to pay attention. He moved toward the large truck. There was a conference at its side, and then Schurz saw three men descend from the cab. Two of them began to drag a heavy crate from the tailgate of the lorry, while the third, a sergeant with a pipe, spoke to the official. A few minutes of conversation and the official nodded. The crate was shoved into the guard’s van and the door closed. Schurz tried not to show his relief. He tugged at Petterssen’s sleeve and the two men climbed aboard.

It was almost unnecessary to show their identity cards; the soldier-guard easily recognized the black suits and homburgs for what they were supposed to be, and glanced at the cards perfunctorily. He led them without words to a crowded compartment. The sight of the two men was enough. The soldiers within knew authority, and dangerous authority, when they saw it. They got up, wearily dragging their gear from the overhead racks and filed out to search for other accommodations elsewhere on the crowded train.

If the guard thought it strange that the two men had no luggage, he said nothing but was about to leave when Schurz cleared his throat loudly and pinched Petterssen painfully through his sleeve. The tall man looked surprised for a moment, and then remembered his instructions.

“Bad Freienwalde,” he said, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “Advise us when we’re near.”

“Right,” the guard said, and backed out, sliding the compartment door shut. Shurz waited tensely for an outcry, for some action from the officials who would have been advised by the guard that the two men were fakes, probably spies, but nothing happened. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and sat down at the window. Petterssen sat across from him for a brief moment, and then got up to sit beside him as being more conducive to quiet conversation.

“Now what?” he asked nervously.

“Now we keep to the plan,” Schurz said in an equally low voice. “We get off at Bad Freienwalde and take the crate with us. And try not to look as if you were climbing a scaffold—” It had been the wrong thing to say; Petterssen looked even more frightened than before. Schurz tried to make amends; Petterssen was still necessary. “Look,” he added in a conciliatory tone, “everything is working fine! When we get to Bad Freienwalde, just say what you were told to say. Understand?”

“It’ll never work...”

“What do you mean? It is working, damn it!” God, if only he spoke Russian and didn’t need the services of this monstrous idiot any longer! “It’s working fine. You’re on a train heading out of Berlin, aren’t you?”

“Heading toward Russia...”

“Except we’re not going to Russia! Good God!” Petterssen knew as well as he did exactly what the plan was, but the maniac insisted upon acting as if there wasn’t any plan at all, or as if it hadn’t been working fine up to then. If the idiot managed to ruin things at Bad Freienwalde, Schurz promised himself, he would see to it that the bastard hanged, if he had to occupy the adjoining gallows himself! Schurz brought his temper under control. One undisciplined conspirator was enough — was too much. “When we get to Bad Freienwalde,” he said quietly, “just say what you were told to say. Don’t embellish. Don’t invent.” Petterssen opened his mouth; Schurz spoke again before the big man could say anything. “And keep quiet now,” he added coldly, “until we get there.”

The two leaned back, with Petterssen trying his best to block from his mind the terrifying thought of facing the Russian train official in the guard’s van, wondering how he could possibly say his little piece without stammering and giving the whole show away. What was he doing here, anyway, dressed up like a Russian security man? He was not an actor. He was an artist, one of the finest engravers in the world! The Americans, or even the Russians, should have welcomed him with open arms, as they did Von Braun and the other scientists that the two countries had divided up like a loaf of bread. What had he done that was so bad in comparison to what the scientists had done against the Allies? It was all very unfair...

Outside the train window the shadows darkened across the battered city and its outskirts, throwing jagged ruins of buildings in stark silhouette against the fading sky, and with a light every now and then from some room, high up in some destroyed building, rehabilitated by some energetic or adventurous — or desperate — soul who had not only managed access to the aerie, but who had also managed to run an electric line from some main somewhere. Survival! Schurz thought, and felt proud of his fellow countrymen. In time, with the help of finances from treasures such as the Schliemann gold, they would come back. It would take time, but time was the one thing that never ran out.

The soldier-guard put his head in the compartment. “Bad Freienwalde in five minutes.”

The two men nodded and came to their feet. Petterssen took a deep breath and at Schurz’s urging, led the way through the crowded train toward the guard’s van. Soldiers lined the corridors, drawing back from the dark-suited civilians unconsciously, as if contact with them might somehow contaminate, or at least compromise. Card games were in progress in the compartments, the air was full of smoke. The advantages of victory, Schurz thought bitterly; the ability to smoke cigarettes rather than the need to hoard them, or trade them for food, or use them for currency! He put the unproductive thought aside and reached past a paralyzed Petterssen to rap sharply on the door of the guard’s van, a peremptory knock that advertised authority. The inquiring face of the train official peered out. He recognized the two men from the platform and his expression froze into one of polite immobility.

Schurz poked Petterssen sharply in the back. The tall man seemed to waken, as from a dream, wetting his lips nervously. “A crate...” he began, and swallowed the next words, pointing instead to the box near the outer door.

The official, fortunately, found nothing wrong. He had been expecting to be approached regarding the mysterious crate, and he was only too happy to be rid of it and any responsibility it might represent. And also to be rid of the men from the NKVD, as these two were bound to be. Still, there were the necessary formalities.

“You have the proper papers?”

Petterssen managed to find them in a pocket and hand them over. The official checked them carefully and then nodded. He made a move to tuck them in his pocket but Schurz reached around his taller companion, picked them from the official’s hand, and put them in his own pocket, instead. For a moment the train official thought to object, but then he shrugged. Let them take their “Captured Medical Equipment” and be damned to them, although the official knew very well that while the contents of the strange crate had undoubtedly been captured, or at least liberated, they were certainly not medical anything. More probably they were things taken from a chalet or castle and were about to decorate the apartment of some NKVD official, or more likely the apartment of his mistress. Although why, in that case, they would be getting off in Bad Freienwalde only a short distance from Berlin, was a mystery. Still, to ask too many questions of the NKVD — or any questions at all — was to invite disaster. And, after all, they did have the proper papers, which was the important thing. His skirts, at least, were clear. The official nodded at the other two and began to wrestle the heavy crate to the door sill itself, while beneath their feet they could feel the strain as the train began to brake.

The three stood, swaying with the motion of the slowing train, and then almost lost their balance as the train came to an abrupt stop. The door slid back. A dark sedan, very official looking, seemed to appear out of the blackness as if by legerdemain. Behind it, four or five railway cars back, the faint lights of the small station could be seen flickering uncertainly in the night. The car came to a stop across from the open van door. Its lights were extinguished and a man, also dressed in dark clothes but with a peaked cap instead of a homburg, stepped down and approached the train. Petterssen hurried down the steps, eager to be done with the affair, and went to pull the heavy crate from the platform of the van. Schurz gave him another sharp and painful poke in the kidneys. Petterssen turned, surprised and a bit angered by the unwarranted blow, and then found that in the meanwhile the trainman and the chauffeur between them had managed to get the crate down and were carrying it toward the car.

“Idiot!” Schurz said beneath his breath, and walked quickly to the car, climbing into the rear seat. Petterssen finally seemed to realize his near-gaffe and followed Schurz to the car, getting in and closing the door after him. Behind them they could hear the sounds of the crate being stored into the large trunk of the car. There was the slam of the trunk lid, the chauffeur returned to the front seat of the car, his headlights came on revealing the small flags of a general officer mounted on the front fenders. His motor started; the car slid into the darkness. Behind them they could hear the tortured scream of the engine’s whistle as the train began to move again.

In the car there was silence for a moment, then Schurz burst into laughter, clapping his hands in glee. They had done it! They had actually done it! He looked over at Petterssen sitting in one corner of the seat, squeezed there as if to hide from his own thoughts, and punched him lightly on one arm.

“Well?” he demanded triumphantly. “Well?”

“We’re not there, yet...”

“Oh, my God!” At least, Schurz thought, there was the satisfaction of knowing that before long he would be finished with this pessimistic clown. Once the lights of Trelleborg in Sweden could be seen from the boat, one stab and the chains he had asked to be put aboard would be used to weight down the idiot’s body. And for Jan Petterssen there would be no more worries, no more fears. Schurz knew it would be work getting the big man’s body over the rail, especially with the chains, but it would be a labor of love. He leaned forward, pushing back the glass between the driver’s seat and his own, speaking in a low voice.

“Heil Hitler...”

“Heil Hitler.”

“Any trouble?”

“No. Only the car must be back before dawn. Lucky you weren’t too late.” The man smiled, a mischievous smile, etched by the lights of the dashboard. He spoke over his shoulder. “The General will be bouncing up and down on his girl friend till then. Any trouble at your end?”

“Not so far.” Schurz could not help but glance at Petterssen as he spoke. The tall man was staring from the car window into the night as if totally oblivious to the conversation. Schurz turned back to the driver. “You spoke to the captain?”

“Sneller? Yes. He came through two days ago with a load of fish on his way to Berlin. He’ll meet us at the fischer landungsplatz; the boat’s called the Linderndsee.”

“The Balmy Sea, eh? A good name,” Schurz said. “Let’s hope it’s an omen.”

“Yes,” the driver said, and added, “You have the balance of the money?”

“We have it.”

“Good. As I understand it, the boat has enough fuel, but nothing extra, so I don’t imagine you can be joy-riding on your way there.” The driver glanced over his shoulder at the still figure in the corner of the rear seat. Petterssen had closed his eyes. There was a grimace as of pain on his equinelike face. The driver lowered his voice even more, as if Petterssen might be asleep and he did not want to disturb him. “Has he been all right?”

“He’s been fine,” Schurz said expressionlessly. “No problem.”

“That’s good,” the driver said, and turned his attention back to the road. They sped through the darkness toward Warnemünde on the Baltic coast, four hours away.

Chapter Six

The Baltic — May

The outskirts of Rostock rose about them in the dark; they sped through the cobbled streets, past the university and the darkened dormitory buildings, so recently barracks, and took the road that headed along the estuary to Warnemünde, eight miles away. Their trip had been undisturbed by road checks, although Schurz with his false identity papers had been fully prepared for them; the war was too newly over for the Allied forces to be able to organize the proper controls at any but the accesses to major cities. Both Schurz and Petterssen had napped during the journey. Now they both came awake, Schurz refreshed by the brief respite, Petterssen seemingly made more dubious as to the success, or even the fitness, of their venture the closer they came to the sea.

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.”

Schurz nodded. “In that case we’d better be off.”

“I would say so. I’ll help you cast off.”

He turned off his flashlight, pulled back the blackout curtains, and led the way down the narrow companionway. Spurning Schurz’s help he dragged the gangplank from its hold on the dock and dropped it onto the deck. He stepped on the rail, prepared to jump the small distance to the pier, and waved a hand.

“Good luck. Heil Hitler.”

“Heil Hitler!” It was said in a whisper.

Sneller jumped down lightly to the dock. He unwound the ropes that held the boat both forward and aft from the dock bollards tossing them lightly toward the Linderndsee already drifting from the dock, waving a hand in a last good-bye. Schurz waved in return and then dragged the ropes aboard, tossing them in a heap against the rail. He then hurried up the companionway to the small bridge, Sneller already forgotten. He pulled the blackout curtains farther to one side and studied the binnacle a moment. Then he pressed the engine starter, pleased to hear the engine catch at once. He brought the speed to SLOW and headed the boat for the entrance of the estuary to the sea. As the first slight wave of the Baltic lifted the prow of the Linderndsee, Schurz raised the speed and headed the ship toward Gedser, across the narrow arm of the Baltic. Then, for the first time that long, long day, he took a deep shuddering breath, feeling himself begin to tremble.

He had done it! He had actually gotten away with it! And he had done it alone. There was no point in even counting Petterssen, who not only had been more of a handicap than a help, but who would shortly be dead. He tried to control the trembling, but it seemed to be a thing outside of himself. For a moment he wondered if he should lash the wheel long enough to go below and take a stiff drink of schnapps to settle his nerves, but he knew this was no answer. He also felt a sudden desire to sing at the top of his voice, or to yell his exultation, but he knew how sound carried over water. And he still had seventy miles or so to go to reach Trelleborg in Sweden, and in this boat that would mean at least six hours at sea. Time to sing or yell when he had beached the boat at his final destination.

The trembling slowly abated under the constant need to keep an eye open for the sign of any ship, or any light; the steady burbling sound of the engine’s exhaust had a hypnotic effect that also needed to be fought against. No, schnapps was the last thing in the world he needed. He settled himself at the wheel, forcing his mind to forget the successful events of the day, even forcing himself not to think of the future. All there was, was the present, the boat and the sea and the many miles to go. The Linderndsee headed steadily out across the waters.

Below in the small cabin, Petterssen raised his tragic-looking face at the sound of the engine starting. The rumble of the gasoline motor, transmitted through the small boat in vibrations as well as sound was, he knew, a knell for him. There was no doubt in Petterssen’s mind that Schurz had no intention — had never had any intention — of allowing him to live to share that treasure in that crate on deck. Why, then, had he come along? Petterssen did not know. He only knew that he was tired of hiding, tired of running, tired of being afraid, tired of everything.

Should he turn the tables and kill Schurz before Schurz killed him? But to what end? He could not go back to Germany, and Sweden held no future for him; to his family and his friends he was a traitor. And what would he do with the treasure if he had it? He would have no idea where to go to dispose of it, to turn it into kroner, or any other currency. Besides, he didn’t want the treasure. If it hadn’t been for the treasure he wouldn’t be here now, waiting to be killed. Yet, maybe it was better to let Schurz kill him. Maybe that was the answer. He wondered exactly how Schurz planned to kill him. By gun? But the German had not had a gun on the train, he was sure of that; unless, of course, the captain had given him one when the two of them had gone up to the bridge. By knife? The thought was distasteful. He felt a shiver go through him. He hoped it was not by knife, although that was a distinct possibility. Certainly the German could not be considering attempting to throttle him, since he could break Schurz in two if he had a mind to. Still, by whatever method, he was sure that Schurz was fully prepared to handle the matter as efficiently as he had handled everything else in connection with getting the treasure.

And after he was dead?

Then Schurz undoubtedly planned to dump him overboard. That, at least, was not distasteful. The sea would be warm this time of year, and soft and comforting. Yes, letting Schurz till him was one solution to the pain he was feeling, a pain that had no source and therefore no cure. In fact, it was undoubtedly the only solution.

But it would certainly go better all around if he had some of that schnapps the captain had mentioned. Otherwise he might resist, might even avoid being killed, and that would never do. He came to his feet, bending a bit under the low overhead, and suddenly staggered as the ship dipped. They had entered the Baltic, then. He only had a few hours left of life. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that. How many people, he suddenly wondered, would have been relieved to know the exact hour of impending death? Probably more than one imagined.

He crossed the room and opened the lockers there one by one until he found the one the captain had referred to. He nodded as he considered the many bottles within. Yes, there was certainly enough schnapps there to drink oneself to death if one cared to, he thought a bit sadly, or if one had the time. Unfortunately, he always either got sick or fell asleep before he had had anywhere near enough to cause death. It was a pity in a way. It would have been the ideal way to cheat Schurz of the satisfaction of killing him. Still, one could always try. And in any event, enough schnapps to numb the thought of death when the moment came could do no harm. He took a bottle back to the bunk with him, opened it, and drank deeply.

The schnapps was of top grade, and it occurred to Petterssen that possibly in the past he had gotten sick or fallen asleep because he had never been able to get his hands on liquor of such fine quality. Maybe with this he could get enough down to never wake up. But the bottle was not even half-finished when he had to suppress a deep yawn and knew he would never make it to death in this fashion. It was such a pity; life was so unfair! He felt a lump in his throat and felt tears begin to roll down his cheeks. What a shame! A man of his talents, and he couldn’t even choose his own way of dying!

He looked around the cabin with reddened, swollen eyes, taking in the effects one by one. If he had gone to sea as a boy, as many of his friends had done, he would not be in the position he was in. Maybe he would have ended up the owner of a boat such as this, not big but big enough. In the evenings, after a hard day’s work, he could have come to a cabin such as this one, and instead of waiting for death could have rested, or read by the light of the lamp... the lamp! The lamp! He set the bottle at his feet and moved unsteadily to the table with the lamp on it. He studied the bottle of gas and then watched the steady flame of the lamp burning within the glass enclosure. He smiled and then began to giggle. He reached over to the tank and slowly turned the valve, watching the lamp begin to flicker and dim. One final twist and the light disappeared completely, leaving the curtained cabin in total darkness. Now Petterssen opened the valve fully, sniffing at the aperture over the glass enclosure. For a moment he felt a touch of panic — there was no smell! But the sudden wave of dizziness that washed over him convinced him that the gas was pouring out, smell or no smell. He groped his way back to the bunk and sat down, feeling for the bottle on the deck. He found it and raised it to his lips. Just one more drink and then to sleep, he said to himself. Just one more drink and then... He lay back on the bunk, inhaling deeply, and smiled at the thought of Schurz’s surprise and undoubted disappointment.

Before the war, and even during the early years of it when the enemy to the south pretended to respect its neighbor’s neutrality, Eric Hansen had been captain of a Danish destroyer — the Hval, the Whale, and it was a bitter day for Captain Hansen when, together with other naval commanders, he was ordered to scuttle his ship to prevent it from falling into the hands of the Germans. But Hansen was a man who believed in obeying orders, and he did not hesitate. Opening the sea cocks of his beloved vessel and watching it slowly sink did nothing to further endear the hated Germans to him, nor did the years he spent in internment as a result of the sinking. Only his escape when the building in which he was held was bombed by the British air force in March of 1945 made the outraged mariner feel there was any justice in the world at all.

Now, a mere two months later, the war was over and Captain Eric Hansen was once again the master of a ship. It was not a very large ship, and while it was supposedly a naval vessel of sorts, it was merely a coast-guard cutter, and the only weaponry it carried was an old 40-mm Bofors cannon mounted forward at the narrow prow, plus the rifles issued to the crew when the necessity for them arose.

The mission of the cutter was a simple one, to attempt to prevent any smuggling, or — and more important to Captain Hansen — to prevent the illegal entry of the hated tyskerne wishing to escape a country devastated through their own insanity, to the far more stable and prosperous Denmark. It was not the same as commanding a destroyer, of course, but far more satisfying. In the one month Captain Hansen had commanded the Elritse he had seen more action than in the eight years he had had the bridge of the Hval.

The area patrolled by the Elritse — the Minnow, named by Captain Hansen in a rare moment of black humor, for he was basically a humorless man — was along the eastern shore of Sjaelland Island, leaving Copenhagen from its base on the Öresund, then around Amager to skirt the shores of the Køge Bugt, past Mø and Falster to the lighthouse at Gedser, and then to return. When not stopping and searching suspicious-looking ships, Captain Hansen was proud of maintaining a rigid schedule of patrol. But tonight it was certain that no schedule was going to be maintained. A bit of flotsam off Øbylyng in the Køge Bugt had caught the ship’s propeller, twisting it badly. The inspection and attempted repair by the ship’s engineer, sent below with scuba gear and a light, took an hour from the schedule, and the slow speed required to avoid damage to the propeller-shaft bearings, brought the Elritse around Falster a good two hours late. Captain Hansen had just about decided to abort his patrol and return to the base for definitive repairs, when there was a whistle from the speaking tube on the bridge. Hansen moved over, picking it up.

“The captain here.”

“Lookout here, sir. A small boat, two points off the starboard bow, distance between three and four miles. Running without lights, sir...”

Hansen picked up his night glasses and trained them in the indicated direction. The small boat that came into his sights seemed to be the perfect example of a smuggler’s vessel, undoubtedly expecting the patrol would have already been well on its way on its return trip. Hansen had always known holding a rigid schedule was foolish, but orders were orders. And now when he was sure he had a smuggler in his sights, he had to be with a crippled ship! Still, the smuggler couldn’t know that. He picked up the speaking tube.

“Lookout—”

“Sir?”

“Signal that ship to lay to and await our boarding party.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The flasher on the lookout platform went into action. The captain turned to his mate.

“Have a gunner stand by the Bofors.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The mate hurried out. Captain Hansen trained his glasses on the ship running at a slight angle to his own course. Was it possible it was not a smuggler, even though running without lights? Certainly there seemed to be no fear of the cutter, well-illuminated though it was. Nor did the other ship make any effort to take any evading action. On the other hand, there was no reply to the order to lay to nor any effort to do so. The small ship was clearly visible now in the brilliant arc of the Gedser lighthouse as it swept around on its steady path. Captain Hansen frowned and swung the wheel a bit, setting a course to intersect the other’s path, reaching with one hand for the speaking tube.

“This is the captain. Fire a shot across his bow!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

On board the Linderndsee Schurz had been dozing. The steady drone of the engines, the even vibrations of the ship, the soothing hypnotic rising and falling of the ship as it easily breasted the slight waves of the calm sea, together with the fact that he had not had any decent rest for several days, all combined to induce a lethargy beyond his ability to control. His head rested between two spokes of the wheel, unconsciously holding the ship on course. He had been dreaming of his days as a lieutenant in barracks, trying to sleep, when suddenly some schlaumeier started to play a flashlight across his eyes to try to wake him up. He turned his head a bit to avoid the irritating clown, and bumped his forehead on one of the spokes. He started to come awake and then sat erect, frightened by the loud boom of a cannon. Ahead of him a spout of water incredulously rose in the air.

Schurz stared, trying to get his confused senses to explain to him what was happening. There, approaching him all lit up like a Christmas tree, with a flasher working like crazy from somewhere above the bridge, was what had to be a coast-guard cutter! He glanced quickly at the chronometer, awake at last. He was less than an hour from Warnemünde! How did the damned patrol boat happen to be here when it should have been halfway back to its base by now? Damn himself for falling asleep at the wheel, but double damn that lying traitor Sneller! Schurz promised himself that if he came out of this alive he would personally see to it that information went to the Russians telling them exactly where they could put their bloody hands on Captain Ernst Sneller of the Unterseedienst!

He thrust the throttle to the maximum, turning the ship away from the cutter, and then knew he was wasting time. He forced himself to think clearly. The cutter was no more than two miles away, fifteen or twenty minutes between them at the most. If he turned and ran they could easily send him to the bottom with a well-placed shot from their cannon. As if to prove the point another waterspout rose even closer to him, the echo of the boom reverberating over the water. He pulled back the throttle and reached for the switch controlling the deck lights. What happened to him was unimportant. What was vitally important was that the treasure not fall into the hands of the enemy. He hastily lashed the wheel to keep the ship from swinging and presenting a broader target if they decided to sink it despite his surrender, and ran down the companionway. He paused at the chest containing the treasure, looking about him wildly, seeking some sort of orientation. There! The lighthouse itself gave one direction! He swung about, frantically searching for some other marker to give location to his instant triangulation. There were a few lights from the village, strung along what seemed to be a dock of sorts. It would have to do. Someday, somehow, he would recover this chest, but the most important thing was that the treasure must not fall into enemy hands! Not now, not after all the work and risk and fears and triumphs — or at least near-triumphs! No, not now!

He bent to the Herculean but urgent task of raising the heavy crate to dump it over the rail, but the strain was too much. The patrol was now only a mile or so away, and while it seemed for some unknown reason to be merely creeping, they were still only minutes away. He bent to the task again, but he could barely budge the heavy case. Damn! Damn, damn, damn! Why had he demanded the treasure be put in a steel case? Did he subconsciously know that it might have to be dumped? But what if it had? Gold didn’t suffer from salt water. No, it was just one more thing to frustrate him!

He paused, panting, thinking furiously, and then looked up. Petterssen! The big ox was useless, but one final task he would be given — to help put the crate overboard. And if he refused? Schurz promised himself that Petterssen would not refuse, not with a knife in his ribs! He abandoned his efforts with the crate and glanced up. The patrol was even closer; there was no time to be lost. He dashed down the companionway to the cabin below decks, and shoved open the door.

No light! So Petterssen was sleeping, eh? Well, he’d wake the big ox in a hurry, and there would be no nonsense from him, either. Or he wouldn’t live to die later! A sudden dizziness seemed to bother Schurz, but he put it down to his lack of sleep and the shock of awakening to find the patrol cutter bearing down on them. No time now for ailments! he told himself sternly, and reached into a pocket for a match, lighting it.

From the log of the Danish cutter Elritse, entered by her captain, Eric Hansen: