The Passenger by F. R. Tallis Page B

continued, ‘that you were hoping for a daughter.’
    â€˜Yes, I was.’ Hoffmann looked at Juhl. ‘How did you know?’
    â€˜You told me.’
    â€˜Did I?’
    â€˜Maybe not explicitly: on the bridge.’
    â€˜I don’t remember that.’
    Lorenz filled two glasses and handed one to Hoffmann. ‘To your daughter, may she enjoy a long life of unprecedented health and spectacular happiness.’
    â€˜Thank you, Herr Kaleun,’ said Hoffmann. His eyes glittered with emotion.
    After touching glasses they downed the rum.
    Werner emerged from the galley and made a lewd remark about Hoffman’s potency, which provoked laughter and quick exchanges of competitive vulgarity.
    â€˜Have you thought of a name?’ Lorenz asked.
    â€˜My wife likes Dorothea,‘ said Hoffmann.
    â€˜And so do I,’ said Lorenz. ‘Congratulations.’
    The men parted, giving him enough room to leave. On returning to his nook, Lorenz observed, with considerable attendant regret, that his bottle of rum was now almost empty.

    T HE LIGHTS HAD BEEN DIMMED in all compartments. Lorenz stepped out of the forward torpedo room and made his way between the occupied bunks. He passed the officers’ mess, the sound room, the radio shack—climbed through the forward compartment hatchway—and arrived in the control room. Grafwas standing by the periscope and Müller was studying charts. The crew looked at Lorenz but their expressions were curiously untenanted. Lorenz crossed the control room and ducked into the petty officers’ quarters where the bunks were also fully occupied with sleeping men. As he passed though the galley Lorenz saw Werner at his stove. The cook was beating a thick red mixture with a whisk. His skin shone with a porcelain glaze, and the ticking revolutions of his wrist made him resemble a clockwork dummy. Lorenz continued, along the narrow gangway between the motionless diesel engines, and then into the motor room. Because the motors were relatively small and mostly concealed beneath the deck, this part of the boat appeared spacious and uncluttered. The lights flickered into darkness, and when they came on again they emitted a weak glow: a slow luminescence that diffused through the air like an expanding ink blot. Beyond the panels of the motor room Lorenz could see the rim of the rear torpedo tube. He paused and found that he was reluctant to go forward. Why was this part of the boat empty? Where had everyone gone? The sound of Werner’s whisk suddenly stopped. Its abrupt termination created an odd impression, like stepping off a precipice. Everything seemed wrong, misaligned, disturbed by subtle discords. He tried to remember what he had been meaning to do, the purpose of his nocturnal wandering, but his memory was opaque—misted over with undefined anxieties. Unease made him turn on his heels, and the next instant he was looking into the eyes of the British commander. Sutherland’s hands came up quickly and closed around Lorenz’s neck. Weakness and terror made retaliation impossible. Lorenz tried to call for help but his windpipe was being crushed. Sutherland swung him around, pushed him against one of the electric motors, and tightened his grip. Their noses were almost touching.
    â€˜Destruction is your purpose,’ said Sutherland, repeating the words that Lorenz had used during their brief parley. ‘Destruction is your purpose as much as it is mine.’ His voice was fortified by anecho, the final iterations of which survived the dissolution of the dream. Lorenz stared at the overhead. He was breathing heavily but he could still hear waves breaking against the conning tower.
    â€˜Herr Kaleun?’ Brandt sounded anxious.
    Lorenz’s answer was poorly articulated. ‘Bran— . . . Brandt?’
    â€˜Did you call for something, Kaleun?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Lorenz improvised. ‘I’ve got a murderous headache. Go