Authors: Antony Trew
“I wonder,” Rohrbach had said. Beneath the cold exterior he had seen marks of strain, of bottled-up emotion. It showed through unexpectedly: the restless brooding eyes, the long fingers clenching his fists into a ball until the knuckles were white. Once Widmark was telling him about the sinking of a liner eighty miles south of Cape Point: “There were a lot of women and children on board. Service families coming back from the Middle East. It was blowing hard. Some of the boats capsised as they were lowered.” There was a pause and he could see the veins standing out on Widmark’s temple. “Women and children in them. Can you imagine it? What it must have been like? In the dark, I mean. So many helpless people. Those children.”
Rohrbach saw that he was tormenting himself. “No good thinking about it, Steve. Doesn’t help, you know,”
Widmark turned on him, white faced and shocked. “For Christ’s sake! What d’you want me to do? Pretend it didn’t happen? Look the other way?”
Johan and Rohrbach experienced no difficulties at the border posts at Komatipoort and Ressano Garcia. They produced their passports and the documents for the car, and were identified and accepted as South African civilians visiting Lourenço Marques on holiday. They declared their cameras, testified that they had no firearms, and filled in the customs and immigration forms. The luggage and the car were cursorily examined, and they set out on the last lap of the journey; some eighty miles across the Lebombos, abundant with acacia thorn, wild fig and the tangle of African bush, and then on through the fever trees of the lowlands to Moamba and Lourenço Marques. At six o’clock that evening, they reached the Cardoso Hotel, tired and dust streaked. After a bath they
changed and went down to a dinner throughout which, covertly, they searched the room for familiar faces. There weren’t any and they sighed with relief and decided to make an early night of it. But they were more effectively disguised than they knew, because Rohrbach had started growing his beard only two months before, and Johan had just lost his.
That night they slept soundly.
Next morning, in shorts and open-necked shirts, sandals and sunglasses, they took their bathing bags and drove down to the beach at Polana. They had a camera with them, and binoculars in one of the bags. They changed in the kiosk, swam in the shark-netted enclosure, lay on the sand in the sun,
photographed
each other and, for good measure, played leap-frog. It was a hot day, the sun burning down from an empty, quivering sky. Rohrbach wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and shook his head. “No weather for a beard.”
Johan said: “If we don’t look like a couple of tourists, man, then I don’t know.”
Rohrbach looked at his watch. “Now for the job. It’s after ten o’clock.”
“What’s next?”
“Let’s drive into town and park somewhere near the City Hall. Then wander down to the harbour.”
“What’s that road with the name like a gun? The one passing the Cardoso. From that park next to the hotel we can see over the harbour.”
“Avenida Miguel Bombarda?” Rohrbach stumbled over the words.
“That’s it.”
“We can see the harbour from the terrace in front of the hotel.”
“Yes. But we can’t use binoculars there without attracting attention.”
“Okay! Let’s go.”
They changed, got into the car and followed the steep winding road up the cliff, then through the Avenida do Duque
de Connaught to Bartolomeu Dias and along it to Miguel Bombarda where Rohrbach stopped the car. But for a few Africans, sweeping and cleaning, the park was deserted when they got out and walked across to the edge of the cliff. Below them lay the casuarinas and blue gums of the Aterro do Machaquene; on the right the reds, yellows and greys of the town buildings, on the left the older buildings: the Port Captain’s office and its precincts, the Old Fort, the dry dock and boat harbour, a cluster of tugs, two Portuguese sloops, and then the sheds and warehouses along the Gorjao Quay where the bent heads of the cargo cranes looked like monstrous birds feeding from the ships alongside. Beyond them the Espirito Santo, a mosaic of blues, browns and greys, shimmered in the sunlight, stretching across to the sandy beaches and scrub of the far bank where barges lay offshore. Small boats and lighters were moving among the ships at anchor.
They’d been there for a few minutes when Rohrbach said: “Don’t turn round but there’s a policeman watching the car.”
Slowly Johan put the binoculars back into their case. “Not to panic,” said Rohrbach quietly. “We’re in a parking
prohibido
zone. It’ll take him two or three minutes to reach the car.”
“Which are the Jerries, David?” Johan was looking down the river to the oil sites where, beyond a three-masted barque, her bare poles high and tapering, four merchant ships lay at anchor.
“Those over there. Down towards Matola.”
“They look pretty harmless. Third from the right must be the
Hagenfels
. No boiler-room ventilators. Low, thick funnel.”
“Did you see her name with the glasses?”
“No. Too far.”
Rohrbach looked back towards the street again. “The Portuguese cop’s coming this way. Let’s shove off.”
They drove into the town, parked the car and walked across to the fishing harbour where they mixed with the tourists, hangers-on and fishermen. There was something restful about the place, reflected Rohrbach. The boats with their atmosphere
of hiatus between a task completed and one about to begin. Some fishermen, leather faced, were squatting on the quayside repairing nets, talking in monosyllables; near them a man lowered a bucket over the side of a boat, slowly recovered it and sluiced the deck, steam rising from the sun-hot planks. Beyond him a youngster in blue denims, a black cigarette drooping from his mouth, gutted a fish while he talked to an old man who was working on an engine, his hands and face smeared with grease. On the far side of the harbour, the motor ferry for Catembe was filling with Africans who chattered gaily under their load of babies and bundles.
Rohrbach beckoned to Johan and they moved on, making their way across to the Gorjao Quay, past the tugs and sloops and the sheds beside the big ships where the bustle of cargo work, the shouting of stevedores, the whirr of electric cranes and the puffing of shunting engines, shut out other sounds. They went down the line of ships, walking between the railway trucks, the heavy lift cranes and the cupola, past the coaling berths and cold store. The quay was clear here and they could see up river towards Matola. The German merchantmen were within half a mile. The ships looked bigger, darker, more menacing, thought Rohrbach, probably because they were the enemy. Men could be seen moving about their decks.
There were four steamships and beyond them a sailing ship. The steamers’ names had been painted out, but they knew from the list Widmark had given them that one would be the Italian ship, the
Gerusalemme
, and the others the Germans. The old four-masted steamship was the
Aller,
the newer vessel with two masts and a single funnel the
Dortmund,
and the largest of the three, the only motor ship, was the
Hagenfels
. They watched her with curious unbelief. They’d talked about the ship so often, conjured up endless mental pictures of her and here she was at last.
“Lucky they don’t know what’s cooking,” said Johan.
“Come on,” Rohrbach started across the quay, “let’s see what these blokes know.”
Some handline fishermen sat on the quayside, their legs reaching down towards the water. Rohrbach and le Roux made for them, walking at a leisurely pace, and once among them asked about the fishing.
At the first three they drew blanks; either dumb stares or head shakes and “
Nāo
falo
inglés
”; but number four paid off. Eyeing them mournfully, spitting into the water with slow deliberation, he shook his head: “Bastards no bite.”
Johan was sympathetic. “Must have plenty patience, hey?”
“Have got. Have got.” The Portuguese lifted his shoulder in a gesture of hopelessness. “Bastards no bite.”
“Too bad!” said Johan.
They sat down next to the Portuguese and found that he was friendly, his dismal appearance notwithstanding.
Cautiously they chatted about this and that: the weather, the prospects of rain, the beauties of Lourenço Marques, its excellent food and wine, its fine buildings, shops and
avenidas,
and the charm of the Roman Catholic cathedral.
They exchanged first names—his was Fernando—and worked the conversation towards their subject, via the futility of war and the hardships of those who went down to the sea in ships. Fernando had been a sailor. Spitting for emphasis, he said: “Sea no good. Worka lika sheet. For what?” His eyes rolled. “For what?”
“Couldn’t agree more,” said Johan. “Sea no good.”
Fernando nodded gloomily, resigned to this shared truth.
Slowly but purposefully they steered the conversation to what they wanted. Rohrbach pointed to the German ships. “Lucky, those ships. No war. Stay here all the time. No torpedo. O.K., hey?”
Fernando looked out over the Espirito Santo. Once again he shrugged his shoulders. “For heem, all right. Plenty food. Plenty wine. Plenty women. No sea. For heem verra good.”
Diffusely, they led him on. Were there many sailors on board? Did they go ashore often? What were their habits
generally? Did people from the shore go off to the ships? If so why, and how, and who were they?
Colourfully, and with appropriate gestures, Fernando answered them. No! Not plenty men on board. Yes. Come ashore three times a week. No spik Portuguese. The launches which took them to and fro belonged to the Catembe ferry service and were manned by Africans. Sometimes the agents went off to the ships. Sometimes boats took them food and stores.
Visitors? Yes. Sometimes. Ladies? Of course! Fernando squinted, the tired eyes a mixture of browns and reds. Holding up his hand, he pressed the thumb against the second finger. “Sailor like women too much. Must have.” Soberly he repeated his belief. “
Must
have.”
From him they learnt that the launches berthed in the boat harbour and worked to a simple timetable. With expressions of mutual esteem and a promise to look him up again before long, they went on their way.
“This afternoon,” said Rohrbach as they walked back towards the dock gates, “we’ll visit the boat harbour and check on Fernando’s timetable.”
Johan spat on the road. “Worka lika sheet! For what?”
Otto Stauch was a middle-aged man of generous proportions due to an appetite for food and beer which he had indulged without restraint for thirty of his forty-five years. A pink face above a thick neck on rounded shoulders led down to the balloon of his stomach. Towards the ground he tapered off, ending with feet which seemed too small for their load.
Small deepset eyes and a low hairline gave him a dull, peasant-like expression which was misleading, for he was quick witted and observant. Working at the desk he breathed heavily, mopping at the perspiration which ran down his face in spite of the electric fans. With stolid concentration he
deciphered
the message, writing with one hand and turning the leaves of the cipher book with the other. A thin angular woman
with steel-rimmed glasses came in from the outer office.
“Will you be needing me again this evening, Otto?” she asked in German.
Without raising his head he replied: “No. That is all, Paula. I’ve nearly finished.”
She stood looking at what he was doing. Undecided,
“Is it good news, Otto?”
“It is not bad news.” He was guarded. “They say we must put the ship on twenty-four hours’ notice from Tuesday. That she must be fully oiled, watered and provisioned, which she already is as I have twice told them.”
“Is it still the
Hagenfels
?”
“Of course! She is the only motor ship.” His speech was laboured, as if the heat and his exertions were too much.
“When does the Freiherr arrive?”
“I am not sure. In a few days, perhaps.”
“Nothing can happen until he arrives?”
“Nothing, Paula. He is in charge of the operation. Though why it falls under the Abwehr and not the Wilhelmstrasse I cannot understand.”
“Probably because both Intelligence and the Navy are concerned. The Freiherr is a naval officer, but he reports to the Abwehr because his duties until now have been Intelligence. The Chancellery, the Wilhelmstrasse, the Abwehr, the High Command—they are all mixed up in these things.”
“Possibly. But here the brunt of the organisation, the responsibility, the risks, fall upon me.” Stauch sighed. “I hope the Wilhelmstrasse will give credit.”
She knew this was his Achilles heel. The fear that others might get the kudos. “Of course, Otto. Of that you may be sure.”
“I hope so.” With a podgy forefinger he loosened his collar. “Don’t wait for me, Paula. Kleinschmidt will give me a lift.”
“Where is he?”
“In the transmitting room.”
Frau Stauch bent over the fat man and kissed him on his moist forehead. “
Auf wiedersehen
, Otto.”
“
Auf
wiedersehen,
Paula.” It was not necessary within the family, but from long habit he raised his right hand. “
Heil
Hitler
!
”
She replied “
Heil
Hitler
!
” but didn’t trouble to raise her hand.
Downstairs she locked the door of the shipping agency her husband had managed for so many years.
Frau Stauch was thoughtful as she drove home. She hated the British, the Jews, the Portuguese and the Africans; but above all she hated Lourenço Marques and its humid heat. She longed for Munich and the Walchensee. Yet once Germany won the war, she must stay here for Herr Stauch was high in the party hierarchy and though not
Landeskreisleiter
designate of Mozambique, an office he coveted but had no hope of getting, his knowledge of the territory was such that, come the victory, he would certainly be needed here.
Two days later the Newt arrived by train and booked in at the Polana. The pointed beard had gone, but not the moustache, which was of such elegance that he might have been R.A.F. In the hotel register he wrote the address of his family’s house in Oporto and to the receptionist he made it known in fluent Portuguese that he was an English wine merchant from Portugal who had been in South Africa when the war started and had decided to stay. Now he was in Lourenço Marques on business but intended taking things easy. In the afternoon, he went down to the beach and sipped iced tea in the kiosk. It was a Sunday and there were many people about; mostly
Portuguese
because the weather was too hot for tourists. Near him, two girls with dark eyes and scarlet lips ate sticky cakes and whispered and giggled. Talking about men, thought the Newt, looking at them wistfully. The bathing enclosure was full of swimmers and the Newt watched a youth make a high dive, arching into the sea, then coming up, white teeth flashing as he
shook the salt water from his face. The Newt heard the scrape of chairs behind him and familiar voices.
There was no recognition but he looked at his watch.
Four-thirty
, exactly. They were punctual.
When they got up and walked downstairs, the Newt followed, keeping his distance, first into the roadway and then along the promenade, past the grey walls and green roof of the Yacht Club. Beyond the club they sat on a bench, the sea lapping the wall below them.
The Newt stopped a few feet away, his back to them, looking out to sea, leaning on the concrete balustrade.
Congratulations on changed appearances were exchanged, and then Rohrbach reported progress. Where the ships lay, the habits of their crews, the launches’ timetable, and much else. The two British ships, due to sail about the twenty-third, had been located: the
Tactician
and the
Clan
McPhilly
. Both were discharging at the Gorjao Quay, and had not yet started loading. They gave him the position of the
Hagenfels
:
about five cables to the south-west of the far end of the Gorjao Quay.