Marriott thought of the boy the others had told him about. There were usually ways.
Meikle regarded the tall German coldly. 'For your information, the Military Government ordered the execution by firing-squad of two looters yesterday!'
Verner took a pace back. 'My Gott.'
Meikle added, 'They were Poles, displaced persons, and may have had cause for grudges against Germany. Well, you put it about,
Herr
Verner. It's the firing-squad, not a game of cricket. We can be tough too!'
He led Marriott from the room and said, 'Useful man, that Verner. If I want something to go round this command like the wind, I tell him to keep it secret. Never fails.' He turned, his head cocked as yet another telephone rang from one of the offices which had once been luxury cabins.
'Still fretting about that ML?' He studied him keenly. 'You're an odd fellow in some ways.'
'Is that all, sir?'
Meikle's guard fell across his eyes. 'For now. If you're going out with that lunatic Kidd, don't get yourself killed, OK? Not until I've found a replacement.' He shouted. 'I'm
coming!
Can't be everywhere at once!'
Beri-Beri was waiting for him in the car, but with Cuff already seated beside the driver where his bulk was less noticeable.
'Hard time, Vere?'
Marriott looked at him. He could ask him anything. About the young girl he had just seen. And she
was
young, seventeen or eighteen at the most. He was being plain, damn stupid, even if fraternisation was allowed.
'No. Just the same as ever. I'll bet Hitler never realised there was Meikle waiting to take over from him!'
The car roared away in twin trails of hot dust and through the gates.
Cuff said cheerfully, 'I brought a couple of bottles along.'
Beri-Beri chuckled. 'Why, aren't
you
having any?'
Marriott joined in the laughter. Just the three of them.
At journey's end. Almost.
Acting-Petty Officer Townsend held his arm up to a bulkhead mirror and studied his reflection, then smiled approvingly. 'Nice job your tailor did, Ginger.' The crossed anchors and crown on his left sleeve were like keys to another world. The next real step.
Ginger Jackson grinned broadly and looked around their temporary quarters in the converted steam-yacht.
'This'll do me. Like the bleedin'
Mauritania!'
Craven entered and waited to catch Ginger's eyes. Then together they walked out on to the perfectly scrubbed deck and leaned on the wooden guardrail. It was certainly not what they were used to.
Craven said uneasily, 'Jack Rae's ready for the shore, Ginger.' He glanced sideways at a painted rope barrier which separated the temporary accommodation from the HQ's section. There were a bored-looking sentry beyond it, and some German workers busy with pots of paint on the sleek superstructure.
Ginger said, 'Makes a change not to 'ave some of us doin' that job! It's yer fruits o' victory, that is. Quite right and proper.' He watched the leading seaman and added, 'Wot's up? Cold feet, then?'
'I was just thinkin'. I don't want to end up in the brig. Not for a few bloody Kraut watches.'
'There'll be more than that, mate. You'll see.' Ginger considered the tins of coffee he had secreted in a locker, a few packets of cigarettes and some chocolate. It would do for starters, he thought.
Craven sighed. 'Well, let's get on with it.' They both stared at two young women in overalls, carrying mops and pails, and Craven added bitterly, 'No fratting either! I'll bet the officers do all right, just the same!'
Ginger chuckled. The battle was almost won. 'Sure they do. But don't give up 'ope.' He tugged down his skintight jumper and adjusted his cap. 'From what I 'ear all their young blokes are either in the bag in Russia, or still tryin' to get 'ome.' He picked a thread from his friend's sleeve. 'You didn't say nuthin' to our new PO, did you?'
'I'm not that simple, Ginger. 'E's one o' Them now.'
Ginger grinned. 'Right then. We'll meet my
whiter-than-white, never 'eard of 'itler
Nazi, and find a suitable place to barter.'
They walked along towards the ratings' gangway where an unknown sub-lieutenant was staring gloomily at the filthy water between the hull and the jetty.
In one of the offices below deck and just level with the brow, Petty Officer Evans paused and looked out of a scuttle as he heard their voices. Craven and Jackson. Up to no good if he was any judge. He found it hard to accept that none of them was any longer his responsibility. He returned to some open files on the desk. Meikle had put him in the screening and security section. It might be a long search. But he had the rest of his life to do it if need be.
He peered at each photograph in turn, as if to stare the face into submission. It was the first file he had found which gave known details of the unsmiling photographs. Physical abnormalities, name, rank, serial number, allegiance to the party or not, where he had served, which unit; the work was painstaking and endless. Army and SS, security units and a few, a very few, known members of the Gestapo. It would be easy enough to slip into another man's identity, once you had the means to purchase it. It was said that many senior enemy officers who had not yet been captured had already fled to South America, even the United States.
His heart felt as if it had stopped. But the empty face in the photograph meant nothing to him. It was the wording of service details which stood out like letters of fire.
Served in the Channel Islands, Security division St Helier, Jersey.
The face he longed to discover was not this one; he might not even still exist. But after leaving the Channel Islands he had been reported first in Copenhagen and then in Lübeck. Evans pounded his fist on the desk until he drew blood.
Lübeck was only about fifty miles from here. Furthermore, Kiel had been listed as a suitable place for vetting prisoners and suspects before sending them to transit camps and eventual release.
Evans felt trapped.
Release.
For what they had done to his family they deserved far worse than death. But to find that one face would be a beginning.
Meanwhile, outside the main gates, Ginger Jackson and his two companions, smart and jaunty in their best uniforms and gold badges, paused to study their surroundings.
There were signposts everywhere. Some pointed to the various divisional or battalion headquarters, others directed you to individuals, like Town Major, or Provost Marshal, Hospital or NAAFI Canteen. There were boards which pointed to Lübeck and Hamburg, Eutin and Schleswig, with the distances carefully recorded. At the top of one post some wag had fixed a sign which announced sadly,
To Canada
–
3,000 Miles!
A jeep containing several redcapped military policemen idled against the pavement, and a corporal called, 'Watch yer step, lads. Don't go into the Out-of-Bounds parts or you'll be in real trouble!'
Ginger had been used to dodging coppers in Kentish Town since he could walk, and asked innocently, 'Why's that, guv? Is that where the officers go?'
Surprisingly the redcaps laughed and roared away in a cloud of dust.
'Red light district, eh?' His eyes twinkled. 'That's where we make our meet with my new pal, as it 'appens!'
Craven fell into step with the others and said fiercely, 'Just my luck to get nabbed by the redcaps on my first run ashore!'
Ginger strode forward. 'Stop drippin'. 'Ere's our geezer!'
A tall, hollow-cheeked man in a shabby but well-pressed suit stepped from a doorway.
Rae and Craven hung back while Ginger conversed with him in low tones.
'This 'ere is Oskar. Used ter be with the 'amburg-Amerika Line, chief steward, so 'e speaks our lingo a treat. My tailor bloke arranged it.'
The man named Oskar gave a furtive bow. 'You bring the goods?'
Ginger held up one hand. 'Teh, teh, that don't sound like you trust us!'
Oskar tried to smile. His teeth were quite yellow. 'I am
sorry,
Herr Ginger. It is difficult.' He looked round as if expecting to see the police. 'But I trust
you
of course.'
'Good.' Ginger winked at his companions. 'Take us where we can talk, right? Maybe get a drink or two?'
The man considered it. He must have seen from the tight 'tiddley-suits' that they were certainly not carrying anything for bargaining.
'Come.' He stepped into an alley and pushed open a sagging gate. They followed him across some back-gardens, now covered with roof-slates and charred timber. Practically all the houses were completely gutted and open to the sky.
The three sailors trod carefully, almost daintily, to keep their best uniforms from scraping against the filth.
Rae muttered, 'I'd have dressed up if I'd known it was going to be this formal!'
Past another doorway where the inner rooms had been shored up with heavy timbers and corrugated iron, a few odds and ends of furniture pulled together to make a pretence of home.
A woman sidled into the doorway. She had bleached blonde hair, and wore so much make-up it looked as if it had been put on with a brush. She smiled at them and said,' 'Ello! You want good fuck, Tommy?'
Oskar snarled something at her and she retreated into the building.
Craven exclaimed, 'Christ, I wouldn't screw her with
your
wedding-tackle, Ginger! She must be knocking sixty!'
Ginger glared. 'What'd you expect, a bleedin' nun?'
Rae pointed.
'Civilisation!'
It was the last dwelling in the row and Oskar gave a half-bow by the door.
'My home. Please to enter.'
Craven slipped his hand inside his jumper to touch his seaman's double-bladed knife. Just in case.
But there was no need. A pleasant-faced woman in her thirties was sitting at a table, smiling gently and playing with a battered teddy-bear.
Oskar sat down and said bluntly, 'I will send word where we meet next. I take many risks. You must bring the goods next time!' He spoke openly at some length, eager to get it settled.
Ginger looked at the woman. 'Your wife?'
Oskar nodded, his eyes vacant. 'It is all correct to speak in front of her.'
Craven shifted uneasily. 'I'm not too sure about that, Ginger. If he's taking so many risks why does he let
her
stay?'
Oskar took his wife's hand and held it for a full minute.
Then he said, 'The bear belonged to our
kleine Kinder.''
He watched her empty face as if he still expected to see the return of something. But nothing happened and Oskar held up a framed photograph of a small girl. The bear was in the picture too. He shrugged wearily. 'She waits for her to come home. But she died here when the bombs came down.'
Ginger stood up awkwardly and touched his shoulder. 'Never mind, Oskar old son, we'll take care of you. Just you give the word when you want the stuff.'
Oskar walked to the door and called,
'Ich komme später zurück!'
But only the bear moved.
He led the sailors back to the main road and then left them.