begin a job.
‘They mope around and worry about freshwater currents and whether to remove a bulkhead door. He’ll be O.K. when we complete diving.’
I looked at the diagram of the U-boat. Giorgio had cross-hatched the sections he had worked and there was a small red blob where the empty canister had been found under the control-room floor.
The marked area seemed very small compared with the size of the U-boat. I wondered how long it would be before we found the currency or logbook, or London gave us permission to cease operations, or Mr Smith appeared on the scene.
It was when Joe was locking the plan of the submarine back into the writing-desk drawer that he noticed it.
We checked, sat down and thought about it, but Joe found the broken woodwork and then there was no doubt at all. The empty canister was exactly as we’d left it, still locked into the wardrobe, but someone had stolen the photos of it.
There is no alternative in situations like this. It wasn’t something that every young intelligence worker finds enthralling. It was a sordid little job of the sort that constitutes much of our work. Joe and I began to search everyone’s room.
Apart from the usual personality insights that these searches always provide, there was only one remarkable thing. Among the several articles in Charly’s room that a young single girl shouldn’t know how to buy were twenty-five rounds of 7.65 parabellum ammunition.
Joe had called London and they brought a light civilian plane down to Algarve for me. It was a fine clear night when I went out to the airfield via da Cunha’s house.
There were lights on, and outside the front door was a black Mercedes and a Seat car. Each had an E-plate and Madrid registration. * Farther alongunder the almond trees was H.K.’s little deux-chevaux. I knew that, as surely as a tickbird follows a rhino, a two-stroke motorcycle would be somewhere near by. It was. I remembered the Portuguese proverb that says, ‘From Spain, neither fair wind nor good marriage.’
A bell jangled deep in the interior and echoed back like a belly laugh. I rang again. Finally da Cunha opened the door himself. A gold tooth glinted in the lamplight, and he passed me the package from under his velvet smoking jacket. It was still wrapped in brown paper and string and was as heavy as good advice. Joe had the motor running when I got back to the car.
The little villages were dark except for the doorways. Low-wattage bulbs shone yellow amid the black furniture and rough whitewashed walls. Here and there a sharp glint of light reflected from a bottle.
Inevitably there were the laden burros, bicycles, and unlit carts wobbling along the black roads. I drew up at the place marked on my map; palm leaves cut jagged pieces of darkness from the stars. The trees were heavy with olives and the warm night air held their aroma. From near by came the purr of a light aeroplane engine. I got the green canister from the boot and scrambled aboard.
We were skirting the Bilbao air traffic control zone before I discovered the note that da Cunha had tucked into the package. I showed it to Joe.
Dear Smith,
During April 1945 the body of a German sailor was washed ashore a few kilometres to the west of here. I arranged that the body should be afforded a decent Christian burial and the accompanying package, which was the only thing found on the body, was buried with it. Since the fishermen who first discovered the body are now anxious that the package should be given to you, and since in my opinion the British Government has an obvious claim of ownership, I have pleasure in restoring it to you.
Your obedient servant,
DA CUNHA
By 3 a.m. Gatwick airport was grudgingly clearing us for landing among all their big boys. In our little cabin the instruments glowed numbers and with a sudden leap the landing lights, cut through the winter’s rain. I began to worry whether Brown’s Hotel would have a room for Joe.
19 Never say this
Dawlish
‘They mope around and worry about freshwater currents and whether to remove a bulkhead door. He’ll be O.K. when we complete diving.’
I looked at the diagram of the U-boat. Giorgio had cross-hatched the sections he had worked and there was a small red blob where the empty canister had been found under the control-room floor.
The marked area seemed very small compared with the size of the U-boat. I wondered how long it would be before we found the currency or logbook, or London gave us permission to cease operations, or Mr Smith appeared on the scene.
It was when Joe was locking the plan of the submarine back into the writing-desk drawer that he noticed it.
We checked, sat down and thought about it, but Joe found the broken woodwork and then there was no doubt at all. The empty canister was exactly as we’d left it, still locked into the wardrobe, but someone had stolen the photos of it.
There is no alternative in situations like this. It wasn’t something that every young intelligence worker finds enthralling. It was a sordid little job of the sort that constitutes much of our work. Joe and I began to search everyone’s room.
Apart from the usual personality insights that these searches always provide, there was only one remarkable thing. Among the several articles in Charly’s room that a young single girl shouldn’t know how to buy were twenty-five rounds of 7.65 parabellum ammunition.
Joe had called London and they brought a light civilian plane down to Algarve for me. It was a fine clear night when I went out to the airfield via da Cunha’s house.
There were lights on, and outside the front door was a black Mercedes and a Seat car. Each had an E-plate and Madrid registration. * Farther alongunder the almond trees was H.K.’s little deux-chevaux. I knew that, as surely as a tickbird follows a rhino, a two-stroke motorcycle would be somewhere near by. It was. I remembered the Portuguese proverb that says, ‘From Spain, neither fair wind nor good marriage.’
A bell jangled deep in the interior and echoed back like a belly laugh. I rang again. Finally da Cunha opened the door himself. A gold tooth glinted in the lamplight, and he passed me the package from under his velvet smoking jacket. It was still wrapped in brown paper and string and was as heavy as good advice. Joe had the motor running when I got back to the car.
The little villages were dark except for the doorways. Low-wattage bulbs shone yellow amid the black furniture and rough whitewashed walls. Here and there a sharp glint of light reflected from a bottle.
Inevitably there were the laden burros, bicycles, and unlit carts wobbling along the black roads. I drew up at the place marked on my map; palm leaves cut jagged pieces of darkness from the stars. The trees were heavy with olives and the warm night air held their aroma. From near by came the purr of a light aeroplane engine. I got the green canister from the boot and scrambled aboard.
We were skirting the Bilbao air traffic control zone before I discovered the note that da Cunha had tucked into the package. I showed it to Joe.
Dear Smith,
During April 1945 the body of a German sailor was washed ashore a few kilometres to the west of here. I arranged that the body should be afforded a decent Christian burial and the accompanying package, which was the only thing found on the body, was buried with it. Since the fishermen who first discovered the body are now anxious that the package should be given to you, and since in my opinion the British Government has an obvious claim of ownership, I have pleasure in restoring it to you.
Your obedient servant,
DA CUNHA
By 3 a.m. Gatwick airport was grudgingly clearing us for landing among all their big boys. In our little cabin the instruments glowed numbers and with a sudden leap the landing lights, cut through the winter’s rain. I began to worry whether Brown’s Hotel would have a room for Joe.
19 Never say this
Dawlish
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