Night Sky (80 page)

T
HE CAR CAME
to a halt. It wasn’t difficult to see why. The road was blocked by fallen debris. A row of tall buildings had been almost totally destroyed. The ruins were smouldering in the dawn light, the heavy smoke in strange contrast to the pink blossom on the one surviving cherry tree.

Doenitz said suddenly, ‘I’ll walk from here.’

The driver leapt from his seat and opened the rear door. Doenitz stepped out and walked briskly away, picking his way round the piles of stone and mortar, his staff officer on his heels. The Hotel-am-Steinplatz was only just round the corner. Doenitz noted that the hotel was still standing: one of the few in central Berlin that still was.

He strode into the hotel and went down to the basement. But instead of going straight to the tracking room as usual, he turned into his office and closed the door behind him.

He needed time to think.

It was the day of decision.

The figures had been placed on his desk. He eyed them as he slowly and methodically pulled up the chair, sat down, and straightened his tunic. He picked up the sheet of statistics. It was now 23rd May. In the first twenty-one days of the month the U-boat arm had managed to sink 200,000 tons of Allied shipping – a lot less than in any of the previous three months but still a commendable total, considering—

He brought his eyes down to the paragraph marked ‘U-boat Losses’.

Thirty-one boats lost in just twenty-one days.

It was an unprecedented rate.

It was a disaster.

Thirty-one …

Boats had been disappearing everywhere – while hunting in the open Atlantic, off Iceland and, as ever, on passage across the Bay of Biscay.

Nowhere was safe any more.

Thirty-one …

He gritted his teeth and tried not to imagine how it had been for the men … And, in particular, for one of them, the special one so close to his heart …

With effort he turned his thoughts back to the problem. What was the answer to it all? No-one could tell him exactly what system or secret the Allies had hit upon. No-one had offered a countermeasure. Maybe the British had spies in the Kriegsmarine itself, maybe they had broken the German ciphers, maybe …

Maybe that Rotterdam device which Schmidt and his scientists were still trying to rebuild held the key to it all …

Doenitz had the feeling it did.

But nobody could tell him one way or the other. Not with certainty.

Meanwhile his men died.

The men had a name for what was happening. They called it the Thunderbolt. This month of May was becoming known as the Month of the Thunderbolt.

The question was, what could he do to prevent it? He had been asking himself that question all night. And most of the previous day. And the answer was always the same.

Nothing, not directly anyhow.

He looked up at the safe neutral walls of his underground office. Head of the German Navy and powerless to protect his men. He had done his best – but it had not been enough.

He sighed. He was left with only one possible decision and he must make it now.

He must withdraw all his wolf packs from the North Atlantic.

He had been brooding on it all night; now he was certain. He couldn’t go on sending his men to their deaths. Nothing could be worth that.

The consequences of the withdrawal would be grave. It would give the Allies the freedom to plan their invasion of Europe. It would also give them the means of achieving it. Once their convoys could get through from North America unimpeded, they would quickly stockpile weapons and supplies. Then there would be no stopping them.

He had told Hitler this, he had explained it all. Doenitz wasn’t sure whether the Fuehrer had understood the implications fully, but Hitler had been sufficiently worried to summon Goering and ask for a progress report on the Rotterdam Device. Goering had brushed the matter aside, as he usually did, saying that radar probably wasn’t at the root of the trouble anyway …

In the meantime the disaster gathered momentum. He must withdraw the wolf packs.

There was no choice. Not for the moment.

Later perhaps there might be a chance … There might be an opportunity to get the boats back into the North Atlantic when the scientists had discovered a counter-measure … Yes, one never knew. There was always a chance.

He sat forward in his chair and picked up the telephone. ‘A meeting of senior staff in five minutes, Henker.’ The Staff Officer acknowledged the order. Doenitz asked, ‘What else must be attended to this morning?’

‘Special meeting with Herr Scheer at eleven. That’s to discuss the shortfall in the U-boat programme, Herr Gross-admiral. Then some general correspondence. Oh, and some bereavement letters.’

‘How many?’

‘Five, Herr Grossadmiral.’

‘Right.’ He replaced the receiver.

Bereavement letters. Doenitz was in the habit of writing to the families of missing U-boat commanders personally, even though his present rank did not demand it. He’d always done it in the past, and he liked to continue the practice.

Five. He’d already done ten this week. He would do them directly after the staff meeting.

He must write another letter. To his wife. He’d written to her when the news of his son’s loss had first come through. Somehow it hadn’t been too bad then. But time was making it worse, not better, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to find the right words.

He covered his face with his hands. In the past he had always managed to avoid thinking about the boys. He had been careful to close them out of his mind so as to show no favour. One could not let emotion enter into one’s judgement; one could not ask about a particular U-boat just because it carried one’s own flesh.

Now – now he wished he’d thought about them more often. He wished he’d
seen
them more frequently.

Now one was lost.

He must write to his wife again. It would be impossible to find the right words.

He sat upright and breathed in sharply. In a sense, all the crews were his sons and now he must do his best to prevent any more of them from dying.

There was a knock at the door. Doenitz started slightly. He reached hastily into his pocket and, taking out a handkerchief, rubbed his eyes where some dust seemed to have got into them. The Staff Officer appeared in the doorway. ‘The meeting is assembled, Herr Grossadmiral.’

Doenitz nodded, got to his feet and, straightening his tunic, marched from the room.

‘It’s here in Paris, the job.’

‘I thought Paris was too dangerous for me.’

Kloffer shrugged. ‘You worry too much. Time has passed. People forget.’

Vasson thought: They never forget.

They were sitting in the back of Kloffer’s Citroën, parked in a side street near the Etoile. Vasson viewed the scene with annoyance. It seemed to him that there was an atmosphere to the city which hadn’t been there before. The people were more optimistic, more defiant. The sullen desperation had gone.

‘Yes,’ Kloffer went on, ‘it’s the students again. Communists, agitators … Usual stuff—’

‘Look, before we talk about this,’ Vasson interrupted firmly, ‘there’s the matter of payment. I haven’t had the second payment for the Brittany job.’

Kloffer turned his head and stared hard at him, his eyes gleaming angrily. He said, ‘You never give up, do you? You never learn!’ He tutted and sighed heavily. ‘The job was a mess, remember? And you were the one who messed it up. I strongly advise you not to mention the money again. Otherwise – even I will lose patience!’

Vasson was so angry that he couldn’t speak for a moment. Eventually he said deliberately, ‘I’ve told you before, it was nothing to do with me. It was that disgusting queer, Baum.
He
made the mistakes!’

Kloffer shrugged. ‘So you say, Vasson, but in Berlin it’s
your
name that’s got the mud all over it. Nothing will change that.’

Vasson clenched his teeth. He hated Kloffer using his name. He said with difficulty, ‘So am I to understand that I will never be paid?’

‘That’s correct.’ Kloffer spoke matter-of-factly, but there was an edge of impatience in his voice.

Vasson said stiffly, ‘I see.’ He stared straight ahead, his face impassive. It was the one thing he couldn’t forgive. Not being paid.

Kloffer gave a small sigh of relief. ‘Good. Now, where were we?’

‘One more thing,’ Vasson interrupted. ‘Am I to be paid for
this
job?’

There was an infinitesimal pause. ‘Of course.’

He was hiding something, Vasson could tell. ‘What are the terms?’

‘The best available, given the circumstances.’

Vasson’s pulse quickened. The bastard was going to try and screw him. ‘Tell me.’

‘No more gold. There’s none available.’

Vasson said nothing.

‘Also this is going to be a simple job for you. It shouldn’t take more than a week. The payment will be a single payment of five thousand. On completion.’

It was chicken-feed. Vasson let his rage rise and subside again. ‘Tell me,’ he said carefully, ‘is it that I’m worth less than before … Or that you now regard me as expendable?’

Kloffer considered for a moment. ‘Your price has gone down.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

‘I see.’

‘You’d be blind
not
to see, Marseillais. You have to realise that things have changed. You’re not as – Well, we don’t need you so much as before … We’ve got other methods. And other people – people as good or better than you.’

It was a lie about the other people, Vasson knew it. There wasn’t anyone better. As for the other methods – they were cruder, that was all. And less effective.

There was a silence.

Kloffer glanced at him. ‘Shall we get on, then?’ He waited a moment, then began listing information and instructions.

Vasson pretended to listen, but his mind was already elsewhere, planning his moves, working out times and, most important of all, calculating how best to cover himself so that Kloffer would never find out the truth.

When Kloffer had finished, Vasson asked casually, ‘Fougères. Is he dead?’

Kloffer said irritably, ‘Fougères? Who’s he?’

‘The Meteor line. Based here. I used his identity in Brittany.’

‘Ah …’ He thought for a moment and shrugged. ‘Dead. Yes, I’m almost certain.’

‘And the other man? The one who swore to my identity?’

‘Yes, yes! Dead too! Why do you worry about such things?’

Vasson managed the glimmer of a smile. ‘I just like things neat and tidy, that’s all.’

‘You mean, you’re frightened!’ Kloffer looked amused.

‘Not at all.’

‘But you should be.’

Vasson smiled grimly. ‘I thought you said it wasn’t dangerous for me in Paris.’

‘It’s dangerous for you everywhere.’ He removed a piece of fluff from his sleeve. ‘But don’t worry, we’ll protect you.’

It was a lie. Vasson knew they would never protect him.

‘All right? Are you clear about the job? Any questions?’

Vasson shook his head. ‘No questions.’

‘Oh? Well, well. Quite a change …’ Suspicion flashed into Kloffer’s eyes. ‘You’re not planning anything stupid, are you?’

‘What?’

‘Running for it.’

Vasson snorted with amusement. ‘No, Kloffer. As you always tell me, there’s nowhere to hide.’

Kloffer nodded slowly. ‘Yes, and don’t you forget it, Paul Vasson.’

Vasson smiled at him, and thought: Goodbye, you bastard. May you rot in hell.

As soon as he reached the apartment near the Porte d’Auteuil he set feverishly to work.

He took the three suitcases down from the top of the wardrobe and left them open, two on the bed and the third, which was rather shabby, on the floor.

From the wardrobe and the chest of drawers he took his best clothes and packed them hurriedly in one of the better cases. The cheaper working clothes which he’d used in Paris he placed in the second. The oldest clothes and the ones he’d worn in Brittany he threw into the third, shabby case.

Then he pulled out a drawer and, turning it over, tore off a small flat package which was stuck to the underside. Inside there were two sets of identity papers. He took one set of papers, which he’d never used before, and slid them into his wallet. The second set, which were in the name of Fougères, he placed in an ashtray. With a shaking hand he put a match to them. When they were burning nicely he added another set of papers – those he’d been using since his return to Paris – and watched them as they curled in the flames. When both sets of papers were burnt he tipped the ash into an empty cigarette packet and threw it into the bin.

He closed all the suitcases and, picking up two of the cases, carried them to the ground floor. He left them just inside the street door. He returned and, taking a last look round, picked up the third case and closed the apartment door behind him. When he reached the ground floor again he was slightly out of breath. He knocked on the
concierge
’s door.

When she appeared he said, ‘I’m going. Urgent business. I won’t be back. Are we up to date?’

The old woman shrugged. ‘I suppose so!’ Which meant they were up to date and he didn’t owe her anything.

‘Here. Take this.’ He handed her the third suitcase. ‘It’s full of clothes I don’t need. For a worthy cause.’

He picked up the two remaining cases and walked round the corner and across two streets until he came to the car.

He put the cases in the boot, got in and sat still for a moment until he felt calmer.

He started the car and took the familiar road to Sèvres and Number 22, Rue du Vieux Moulin.

He drove slowly past the house to take his customary look, then turned round and drove past again, just to be on the safe side. Then he parked two streets away and, leaving the cases in the boot, walked briskly back to the house.

The villa was deathly quiet, shrouded by its air of slow decay. Vasson hurried up the drive, his footsteps sounding horribly loud on the loose gravel. He ran the last few feet on tiptoe, then paused at the basement door and listened.

Nothing.

He let himself in and went to the bed-sitting room. From the underside of the shelf he took one of the two sets of papers that Kloffer didn’t know about and slid them in his pocket. This particular set of papers was incomplete: no photographs, no thumb prints, only a name. The name belonged to a boy who’d been born and brought up in the French West Indies but had died just before the war, shortly after coming to France to work. The authorities didn’t know he was dead. The identity was a marvellous one: it had taken a lot of research to find it.