Читать книгу Storm Warning - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 4

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Barquentine Deutschland 26 August 1944. Eleven days out of Rio de Janeiro. At anchorage in Belém. Begins hot. Moderate trades. Last of the coal unloaded. No cargo available. In ballast with sand for run to Rio. Hatches battened down and ready to sail. Rain towards evening.

As Prager turned the corner, thunder rumbled far out to sea and lightning flashed across the sky, giving for one brief moment a clear view of the harbour. The usual assortment of small craft and three or four coastal steamers were moored at the main jetty. The Deutschland was anchored in midstream, distinctive if only for the fact that she was the one sailing ship in the harbour.

Rain came suddenly, warm and heavy, redolent with rotting vegetation from the jungle across the river. Prager turned up the collar of his jacket and, holding his old leather briefcase under one arm, hurried along the waterfront towards the Lights of Lisbon, the bar at the end of the fish pier.

There was the sound of music, muted yet plain enough, a slow, sad samba with something of the night in it. As he went up the steps to the verandah he took off his spectacles and wiped rain from them with his handkerchief. He replaced them carefully and peered inside.

The place was empty, except for the bartender and Helmut Richter, the Deutschland’s bosun, who sat at the end of the bar with a bottle and a glass in front of him. He was a large, heavily-built man in reefer jacket and denim cap, with long, blond hair and a beard that made him look older than his twenty-eight years.

Prager stepped inside. The bartender, who was polishing a glass, looked up. Prager ignored him and moved along the bar, shaking the rain from his panama. He dropped the briefcase on the floor at his feet.

‘A good night for it, Helmut.’

Richter nodded gravely and picked up the bottle. ‘A drink, Herr Prager?’

‘I think not.’

‘A wise choice.’ Richter refilled his glass. ‘Cachaca. They say it rots the brain as well as the liver. A poor substitute for good Schnapps, but they haven’t seen any of that since thirty-nine.’

‘Is Captain Berger here?’

‘Waiting for you on board.’

Prager picked up his briefcase again. ‘Then I suggest we get moving. There isn’t much time. Has anyone been asking for me?’

Before Richter could reply a voice said in Portuguese, ‘Ah, Senhor Prager, a pleasant surprise.’

Prager turned quickly as the curtain of one of the small booths behind him was pulled back. The man who sat there, a bottle of wine in front of him, was immensely fat, his crumpled khaki uniform stained with sweat and bursting at the seams.

Prager managed a smile. ‘Captain Mendoza. Don’t you ever sleep?’

‘Not very often. What is it this time, business or pleasure?’

‘A little of both. As you know, the position of German nationals is a difficult one these days. Your government is more than ever insistent on a regular report.’

‘So, it is necessary that Berger and his men are seen by you personally?’

‘On the first day of the last week in each month. Your people in Rio are most strict in this respect.’

‘And the good Senhora Prager? I am given to understand she was on the plane with you.’

‘I have a few days’ leave due and she has never seen this part of the country. It seemed the ideal opportunity.’

Richter slipped out without a word. Mendoza watched him go. ‘A nice lad,’ he said. ‘What was it he used to be? Chief helmsman on a U-boat. Obersteuermann, isn’t that the word?’

‘I believe so.’

‘You’ll have a drink with me?’

Prager hesitated. ‘Just a quick one, if you don’t mind. I have an appointment.’

‘With Berger?’ Mendoza nodded to the barman who poured brandy into two glasses without a word. ‘When does he leave to go back to Rio? In the morning?’

‘I believe so.’ Prager sipped the brandy, on dangerous ground now. He was sixty-five, an assistant consul at the German embassy in Rio until August 1942, when the Brazilians, enraged by the torpedoing of several of their merchant ships by U-boats, had declared war. Little more than a gesture, but it had presented the problem of what to do about German nationals – in particular the increasing number of sailors of the Kriegsmarine who found themselves washed up on her shores.

Prager, having spent twenty years in the country, and being acceptable in high places, had been left behind to cope with that. There were, after all, five thousand miles of ocean between Brazil and Germany so no need to set up expensive internment camps. The Brazilian government was content with the monthly reports he presented on his fellow citizens. As long as they were gainfully employed and not a charge on the state, everyone was happy.

Mendoza said, ‘I’ve been harbourmaster here for two years now and for most of that time the Deutschland has been coming in regularly. Say every couple of months.’

‘So?’

‘A boat of that size usually manages with a master, mate, bosun, probably six foremast hands and a cook.’

‘That is correct.’

Mendoza sipped a little of his wine thoughtfully. ‘According to my information, Berger has a crew of something like twenty this trip.’

He smiled genially, but the eyes in the fat face were sharp. Prager said carefully, ‘There are many German seamen in Rio.’

‘And more each day. The war, my friend, does not go well for you.’

‘Berger is probably trying to employ as many as possible.’

Mendoza smiled beautifully. ‘But of course. That explanation had not occurred to me. But I mustn’t keep you. Perhaps we’ll have time for another drink tomorrow?’

‘I hope so.’

Prager went out quickly. Richter was waiting on the verandah by the steps. Beyond, the rain hammered relentlessly into the ground. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.

‘Not really,’ Prager told him. ‘He knows something’s going on. But how could he possibly suspect the truth? No one in his right mind would believe it.’ He clapped Richter on the shoulder. ‘Now let’s get moving.’

The bosun said, ‘I didn’t get a chance to tell you inside, but there was someone asking for you.’

There was a movement behind and, as Prager turned, a nun in tropical-white habit stepped into the light. She was a small woman, not much over five feet tall, with clear, untroubled eyes and a calm, unlined face.

‘Sister Angela,’ Richter said.

‘… of the Sisters of Mercy from the mission station on the Rio Negro. Introductions are not necessary, Helmut. Sister Angela and I are old acquaintances.’

He took off his panama and held out his hand which she clasped briefly in a grasp of surprising strength.

‘It’s good to see you again, Sister.’

‘And you, Herr Prager. I think you know why I’m here.’

‘Why, yes, Sister.’ Otto Prager smiled warmly. ‘I believe I do.’

An anchor light hung from the Deutschland’s forestay, as required by marine regulations, and this they saw first as Richter worked the dinghy across the harbour. Then suddenly she was very close, her masts and spars dark against the sky.

Prager looked up with conscious pleasure as he climbed the Jacob’s ladder. She was a three-masted barquentine built by Hamish Campbell on the Clyde in 1881 and built with love and understanding and grace, with an elegant clipper bow to her and an extended jib-boom.

She had spent a lifetime in trade; Newcastle-on-Tyne with steam coal for Valparaiso; Chilean nitrates for America’s west coast; lumber for Australia; wool for Britain … an endless circle, as sail died in a doomed attempt to combat steam, one owner after another through three changes of name until, finally, she had been bought by the Brazilian firm of Mayer Brothers, a family of German extraction, who had rechristened her Deutschland and put her to the coastal trade. Rio to Belém and the mouth of the Amazon – just the craft for such waters, having a draught of only eight feet fully loaded.

Prager went over the bulwark and extended his hand to Sister Angela. Richter was close behind on the ladder. Three seamen by the main mast gazed in astonishment as the little nun came over the side, and one of them hurried forward to take her other hand.

She thanked him, and Prager said to her, ‘I think it would be better if I spoke to Captain Berger alone to start with.’

‘Whatever you think best, Herr Prager,’ she said tranquilly.

He turned to Richter. ‘Take the good sister down to the saloon, then wait for me outside the Captain’s cabin.’

Richter and Sister Angela descended the companionway and Prager went aft towards the quarterdeck. Berger’s cabin was underneath. He hesitated, then braced himself, knocked on the door and went in.

The cabin was small, spartan in its furnishings – narrow bunk and three cupboards and not much else except for the desk behind which Berger sat, making a measurement with parallel rulers on the chart spread before him.

He glanced up, and there was relief in his eyes. ‘I was beginning to get worried.’

He was at that time forty-eight years old, of medium height with good shoulders, his wiry, dark hair and beard flecked with grey, and his face weathered by sea and sun.

‘I’m sorry,’ Prager said. ‘We ran into a bad electric storm on the flight from Rio. The pilot insisted on touching down at Carolina until the weather cleared. We were there for four hours.’

Berger opened a sandalwood box and offered him a cheroot. ‘What’s the latest war news?’

‘All bad.’ Prager sat in the chair opposite and accepted a light. ‘On the fifteenth of this month American and French forces landed on the Mediterranean coast. Two days ago French tanks entered Paris.’

Berger whistled softly. ‘Next stop the Rhine.’

‘I should imagine so.’

‘And then Germany.’ He stood up, crossed to one of the cupboards, opened it and took out a bottle of rum and two glasses. ‘What about the Russians?’

‘The Red Army is on the borders of East Prussia.’

Berger poured rum into the glasses and pushed one across. ‘You know, Otto, we Germans haven’t had to defend the soil of the Fatherland since Napoleon. It should prove an interesting experience.’

‘Brazil might be the best place to be for the next year or two,’ Prager said. ‘A hell of a time to go home.’

‘Or the only time,’ Berger said. ‘It depends on your point of view. Have you got the papers?’

Prager put his briefcase on the desk. ‘Everything needed and I’ve checked again on the barquentine you mentioned when you first spoke of this crazy affair, the Gudrid Andersen. She’s still in Gothenburg harbour. Hasn’t been to sea since the first year of the war.’

‘Excellent,’ Berger said. ‘Plain sailing from here on, then.’

‘You are fully prepared?’

Berger opened a cupboard and took out a lifejacket which he dropped on the desk. The legend Gudrid Andersen – Gothenburg was stencilled on the back.

‘And this, of course.’ He produced next a Swedish ensign. ‘A most important item as I’m sure you’ll agree.’ He smiled. ‘Everything is ready, believe me. The official change of name we’ll make once clear of the coastal shipping lanes.’

‘And the log?’

‘I’ve already prepared a false one in the name of the Gudrid Andersen for use with our friends from the other side if we should be so unlucky as to run into them. The true log of the Deutschland I shall continue to keep privately. It would not be correct to do otherwise.’ He put the lifejacket and ensign back in the cupboard. ‘As for you, old friend, what can I say? Without your hard work during these past few months, the information you have obtained, the forged papers, we could not have ever begun to contemplate such an enterprise.’

Prager said carefully, ‘There is just one more thing to discuss, Erich.’

‘What’s that?’

Prager hesitated, then said, ‘Seven passengers.’

Berger laughed harshly. ‘You must be joking.’

‘No, I’m perfectly serious. You’ve carried them before, haven’t you?’

‘You know damned well I have.’ There was something close to anger in Berger’s voice. ‘I have accommodation for eight passengers. Two cabins on either side of the saloon, two bunks to each. I should also point out that this ship is amply crewed by ten men including myself. At the moment, we are twenty-two, as you very well know. Seven passengers would mean that the additional crew would have to bunk elsewhere. An impossible situation.’

‘But you’ll be in ballast.’ Prager said. ‘No cargo, and surely genuine passengers would only strengthen your cover story?’

‘Who are these passengers?’

‘Germans, like you and your men, who want to go home.’ Prager took a deep breath and carried on. ‘All right, you might as well know the worst. They’re nuns. Sisters of Mercy from a mission station on the Negro. I’ve been visiting them regularly for the past two years, just like all the other Germans on my list. Every three months; a special dispensation from the authorities as the place is so difficult to get to.’

Berger stared at him in astonishment. ‘For God’s sake, Otto, am I going out of my mind or are you?’

Prager got up without a word and opened the cabin door. Richter was standing outside smoking a cigarillo. Prager nodded and the bosun hurried away.

‘Now what?’ Berger demanded.

‘I brought one of them on board with me. The others are waiting on shore. At least hear what she has to say.’

‘You must be out of your head. It’s the only conceivable explanation.’

There was a knock at the door. Prager opened it and Sister Angela stepped inside. He said, ‘Sister, I’d like you to meet Fregattenkapitän Erich Berger. Erich, this is Sister Angela of the Little Sisters of Mercy.’

‘Good evening Captain,’ she said.

Berger looked down at the tiny nun for a moment, an expression of astonishment on his face, then he grabbed Prager by the arm and pushed him outside into the rain, pulling the cabin door behind him.

‘What in the hell am I going to do? What am I supposed to say?’

‘You’re the captain,’ Prager told him. ‘You make the decisions and no one else, or so I’ve always been given to understand. I’ll wait for you here.’

He walked to the mizzen shrouds on the port side. Berger cursed softly, hesitated, then went back in.

She was standing behind the desk, leaning over the chronometer in its box under a glass plate. She glanced up. ‘Beautiful, Captain. Quite beautiful. What is it?’

‘The seaman’s measure of the heavens, Sister, along with a sextant. If I can check the position of the sun, moon and stars then I can discover my own exact position on the earth’s surface – with the help of tables as well of course.’

She turned to the desk. ‘A British Admiralty chart. Why is that?’

‘Because they’re the best,’ Berger told her, feeling for some reason incredibly helpless.

‘I see.’ She carried on in the same calm voice. ‘Are you going to take us with you?’

‘Look, Sister,’ he said. ‘Sit down and let me explain.’ He pulled another chart forward. ‘Here we are at the mouth of the Amazon and this is the route home.’ He traced a finger up past the Azores and west of Ireland. ‘And if we get that far, there could be even greater hazards to face.’ He tapped at the chart. ‘We must pass close to the Outer Hebrides in Scotland, a graveyard for sailing ships, especially in bad weather – which is usually six days out of seven up there. And if we survive that, we only have the Orkneys passage, the run to Norway, then down through the Kattegat to Kiel,’ he added with heavy irony. ‘Five thousand miles, that’s all.’

‘And how long will it take us?’

He actually found himself answering, ‘Impossible to say. Forty, maybe fifty days. So much depends on the weather.’

‘That seems very reasonable, under the circumstances.’

Berger said, ‘Tell me something. When you first came out here, how did you make the trip?’

‘A passenger liner. The Bremen. That was just before the war, of course.’

‘A fine ship. Comfortable cabins, hot and cold running water. Food that wouldn’t disgrace a first-class hotel. Stewards to fetch and carry.’

‘What exactly are you trying to say, Captain?’

‘That on this ship, life would be very different. Bad food, cramped quarters. A lavatory bucket to empty daily. Salt water only to wash in. And a blow – a real blow under sail – can be a frightening experience. In bad weather we can spend a fortnight at a time without a dry spot in her from stem to stern. Have you ever strapped yourself into a bunk in wet blankets with a full gale trying to tear the sticks out of the deck above your head?’ He rolled up the chart and said firmly, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t see any point in prolonging this discussion.’

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Tell me something. How does a German naval officer come to command a Brazilian trading vessel?’

‘I was captain of a submarine supply ship, the Essen, camouflaged as the US fuel ship George Grant. We were torpedoed in the South Atlantic on our third trip by a British submarine, which wasn’t taken in by the disguise. You may consider that ironic in view of the fact that I intend to try and pass the Deutschland off as a similar ship of Swedish registration.’

‘And how did you manage to reach Brazil?’

‘Picked up by a Portuguese cargo boat and handed over to the Brazilian authorities when we reached Rio. The Brazilians have been operating a kind of parole system for any of us who can find work. The Mayer Brothers, who own the Deutschland, are coastal traders, Brazilian citizens but German by origin. They’ve helped a great many of us. We make the run from Rio to Belém and back once a month with general cargo.’

‘And you repay them now by stealing their boat?’

‘A point of view; for which I can only hope they’ll forgive me when they know the facts. But we don’t really have any choice.’

‘Why not?’

‘The Brazilians are starting to play a more active part in the war. Last month they sent troops to Italy. I think things could get much more difficult for us here.’

‘And the other reason?’

‘You think I have one?’

She waited, hands folded, saying nothing. Berger shrugged, opened the drawer of his desk and took out a wallet. He extracted a snapshot and passed it across. It was badly creased and discoloured by salt water, but the smiles on the faces of the three small girls were still clear enough.

‘Your children?’

‘Taken in forty-one. Heidi, on the left, will be ten now. Eva is eight and Else will be six in October.’

‘And their mother?’

‘Killed in a bombing raid on Hamburg three months ago.’

She crossed herself automatically. ‘What happened to the children?’

‘Herr Prager got word about them for me through our embassy in the Argentine. My mother has them in Bavaria.’

‘Thank God in his infinite mercy.’

‘Should I?’ Berger’s face was pale, jaw set. ‘Germany is going under, Sister, a matter of months only. Can you imagine how bad it’s going to be? And my mother’s an old woman. If anything happens to her …’ A kind of shudder seemed to pass through his body and he leaned heavily on the desk. ‘I want to be with them because that’s where I’m needed, not here on the edge of the world, so far off that the war has ceased to exist.’

‘And for that you’ll dare anything?’

‘Including five thousand miles of ocean dominated completely by the British and American navies, in a patched-up sailing ship that hasn’t been out of sight of land in twenty years or more. An old tub, that hasn’t had a refit for longer than I care to remember. An impossible voyage.’

‘Which Herr Richter, your bosun, is apparently willing to make.’

‘Helmut is a special case. The finest sailor I’ve ever known. He has invaluable experience under sail. Served his time as a boy on Finnish windjammers on the Chilean nitrate run. That may not mean a lot to you, but to seamen anywhere …’

‘But according to Herr Prager there are another twenty men in your crew who are also willing to make this so-called impossible voyage.’

‘Most of them with a reason roughly similar to mine. I can think of at least seventy men in Rio who would gladly stand in their shoes. They held a lottery for the last ten places in a German bar on the Rio waterfront two weeks ago.’ He shook his head. ‘They want to go home, Sister, don’t you see? And for that, to use your own words, they’ll dare anything.’

‘And my friends and I are different, is that it? We too, have families, Captain, as dear to us as yours. More than that, because of what lies ahead, home is where we are needed now.’

Berger stood staring at her for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. In any case, it’s too late. You’d need Swedish papers, that’s an essential part of the plan. Prager’s arranged them for all of us.’

She got to her feet, opened the cabin door and called, ‘Herr Prager!’

He moved in out of the rain. ‘What is it?’

‘My papers, please. May I have them now?’

Prager opened his briefcase. He searched inside, then took out a passport which he dropped on the desk in front of Berger.

Berger frowned. ‘But this is Swedish.’ He opened it and Sister Angela stared out at him from the photo. He looked up. ‘I wonder if you’d be so kind as to step outside for a moment, Sister. I’d like a few words with my good friend here.’

She hesitated, glanced briefly at Prager, then went out.

Prager said, ‘Look, Erich, let me explain.’

Berger held up the passport. ‘Not something you can pick up at twenty-four hours’ notice, so you must have known about this for quite some time. Why in the hell didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because I knew you’d react exactly as you are doing.’

‘So you thought you’d leave it until it was too late for me to say no? Well, you made a mistake. I won’t play. And what about this mission station they’ve been operating? Is it suddenly so unimportant?’

‘The Brazilian Department of the Interior has changed its policy on the Indians in that area; moving them out and white settlers in. the mission was due to close anyway.’

‘They’re a nursing order, aren’t they? Surely there must be some other outlet for their talents up there.’

‘They are also Germans, Erich. What do you think it’s going to be like when those first Brazilian casualty figures start filtering through from Italy?’

There was a long pause. Berger picked up the Swedish passport, opened it and examined the photo again. ‘She looks like trouble to me. She’s been used to getting her own way for too long.’

‘Nonsense,’ Prager said. ‘I knew her family from the old days. Good Prussian stock. Her father was an infantry general. She was a nurse on the Western Front in nineteen-eighteen.’

Berger’s astonishment showed. ‘A hell of a background for a Little Sister of Mercy. What went wrong? Was there some sort of scandal?’

‘Not at all. There was a young man, I believe. A flier.’

‘… who didn’t come back one fine morning so she sought refuge in a life of good works.’ Berger shook his head. ‘It’s beginning to sound like a very bad play.’

‘But you’ve got it all wrong, Erich. The way I heard it, he simply let her think he was dead. She had a breakdown that almost cost her life and was just coming out of it nicely when she met him walking along the Unter den Linden one day with another girl on his arm.’

Berger held up both hands. ‘No more. I know when I’m beaten. Bring her back in.’

Prager went to the door quickly and opened it. She was standing outside talking to the bosun.

Berger said, ‘You win, Sister. Tell Richter to have you taken ashore to collect the rest of your friends. Be back here by two a.m. because that’s when we leave, and if you aren’t here, we go without you.’

‘God bless you, Captain.’

‘I think he’s got enough on his plate at the moment without me.’ As she moved to the door, he added, ‘Just one thing. Try not to let the crew know before they have to.’

‘Are they likely to be disturbed by our presence?’

‘Very much so. Sailors are superstitious by nature. Amongst other things, sailing on a Friday is asking for trouble. Taking any kind of a minister along as a passenger, the same. We should certainly pick up all the bad luck in the world with seven nuns sailing with us.’

‘Five, Captain. Only five,’ she said and went out.

Berger frowned and turned to Prager. ‘You said seven passengers.’

‘So I did.’ Prager rummaged in the briefcase and produced two more Swedish passports which he pushed across the desk. ‘One for Gertrude and one for me. She, too, is waiting on shore with our baggage which includes, I might add, that wireless transmitter you asked me to try and get you.’

Berger gazed at him in stupefaction. ‘You and your wife?’ he said hoarsely. ‘Good God, Otto, you’re sixty-five if you’re a day. And what will your masters in Berlin say?’

‘From what I hear, the Russians are far more likely to get there before I do, so it doesn’t really matter.’ Prager smiled gently. ‘You see, Erich, we want to go home, too.’

* * *

When Berger went up to the quarterdeck just before two it was raining harder than ever. The entire crew was assembled on the deck below, faces pale, oilskins glistening in the dim glow of the deck lights.

He gripped the rail, leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. ‘I won’t say much. You all know the score. It’s one hell of a trip, I’m not going to pretend any different, but if you do as I tell you, we’ll make it, you and I and the old Deutschland together.’

There was a stirring amongst them, no more than that, and he carried on, a touch of iron in his voice now. ‘One more thing. As most of you will have observed, we’re carrying passengers. Herr Prager, once assistant consul at our embassy in Rio and his wife, and five nuns from a mission station on the Negro.’

He paused. There was only the hissing of the rain as they all waited. ‘Nuns,’ he said, ‘but still women and it’s a long journey home, so let me make myself plain. I’ll personally shoot the first man to step over the line, and so enter it in the log.’ He straightened. ‘Now everyone to his station.’

As he turned from the rail his second-in-command moved out of the darkness to join him. Leutnant zur See Johann Sturm, a tall, fair youth from Minden in Westphalia, had celebrated his twentieth birthday only three days earlier. Like Richter, he was a submariner and had served in a U-boat as second watch officer.

‘Everything under control, Mr Sturm?’ Berger enquired in a low voice.

‘I think so, Captain.’ Sturm’s voice was surprisingly calm. ‘I’ve stowed the wireless transmitter Herr Prager brought with him from Rio in my cabin, as you ordered. It’s not much, I’m afraid, sir. A limited range at the best.’

‘Better than nothing,’ Berger told him. ‘And the passengers? Are they safely stowed away also?’

‘Oh yes, sir.’ There was a hint of laughter in the boy’s voice. ‘I think you could say that.’

A white figure appeared out of the darkness and materialized as Sister Angela. Berger swallowed hard and said in a low, dangerous voice, ‘Could you now, Mr Sturm?’

Sister Angela said brightly, ‘Are we leaving, Captain? Is it all right if I watch?’

Berger glared at her helplessly, rain dripping from the peak of his cap, then turned to Sturm and said, ‘Haul up the spanker and outer jib only, Mr Sturm, and let the anchor chain go.’

Sturm repeated the order and there was a sudden flurry of activity. One seaman dropped down the forepeak hatch. Four others hauled briskly on the halliard and the spanker rose slowly. A moment later there was a rattle as the anchor chain slithered across the deck, then a heavy splash.

Richter was at the wheel but, for the moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then Sister Angela, glancing up, saw through a gap in the curtain of rain, stars pass across the jib.

‘We’re moving, Captain! We’re moving!’ she cried, as excitedly as any child.

‘So I’ve observed,’ Berger told her. ‘Now will you kindly oblige me by going below.’

She went reluctantly and he sighed and turned to the bosun. ‘Steady as she goes, Richter. She’s all yours.’

And Richter took her out through the harbour entrance, drifting along like some pale ghost, barely moving, leaving a slight swirl of phosphorescence in her wake.

Fifteen minutes later, as Captain Mendoza sat playing whist in his booth at the Lights of Lisbon with a young lady from the establishment next door, the man he had assigned to keep watch on the fish pier burst in on him.

‘What is it?’ Mendoza demanded mildly.

‘The Deutschland, Senhor Capitan,’ the watchman whispered. ‘She is gone.’

‘Indeed.’ Mendoza laid his cards face down on the table and stood up. ‘Watch her, José,’ he called to the barman. He picked up his cap and oilskin coat and went out.

When he reached the end of the fish pier, the rain was falling harder than ever in a dark impenetrable curtain. He lit a cigar in cupped hands and stared into the night.

‘Will you notify the authorities, senhor?’ the watchman enquired.

Mendoza shrugged. ‘What is there to notify? Undoubtedly Captain Berger wished an early start for the return trip to Rio, where he is due in eight days from now, although it would not be uncommon for him to be perhaps one week overdue, the weather at this time of the year being so unpredictable. Time enough for any official enquiry needed to be made then.’

The watchman glanced at him uncertainly, then bobbed his head. ‘As you say, Senhor Capitan.’

He moved away and Mendoza looked out over the river towards the mouth of the Amazon and the sea. How far to Germany? Nearly five thousand miles, across an ocean that was now hopelessly in the grip of the American and British navies. And in what? A three-masted barquentine long past her prime.

‘Fools,’ he said softly. ‘Poor, stupid, magnificent fools.’ And he turned and went back along the fish pier through the rain.