The Passenger Read Free

tub!’
    â€˜Do you have any idea what all this is about?’ Falk asked. ‘Surely you can say now?’
    â€˜Your guess is as good as mine.’ Lorenz’s breath condensed in front of his mouth. ‘The message contained very little information. Anyway, we’ll all know soon enough, won’t we?’ He gestured ahead, ‘Almost there now.’
    It was cold, but not freezing. The temperature had risen, and there were no longer any ice floes on the water. Everything seemed muted, preternaturally still.
    U-330 halted alongside the rusting hulk, an old cargo ship with two derricks and a dilapidated superstructure. Figures silently watched the maneuver from above. One of them leaned over the rail and shouted: ‘Kapitänleutnant Lorenz?’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Obersturmbannführer Hans Friedrich—permission to board.’
    â€˜Permission granted.’
    The men on the bridge glanced at each other. The SS? What the hell are they doing here?
    A Jacob’s ladder was lowered and the SS officer clambered down. The skull-and-crossbones insignia on his cap was conspicuously illuminated as he stepped into the moonlight. ‘Heil Hitler,’he said, raising his arm. Lorenz responded with the military salute. ‘Welcome aboard U-330, Obersturmbannführer.’
    â€˜An honor, Kapitänleutnant.’ The SS man studied Ziegler—who was holding the ladder—and spoke softly to Lorenz, ‘If I may—a word in private?’ Lorenz led Friedrich away from the tower. Friedrich lifted his lapels and in doing so exposed his death’s head ring: not a national decoration, but an award bestowed in recognition of the wearer’s personal devotion to the brotherhood’s ideals. ‘Forgive me. We have very little time and I must be brief. I have two prisoners for you to transport: one a British naval officer, and the other a gentleman whom we believe to be in possession of some extremely sensitive intelligence. They must be taken to your flotilla base immediately. Neither you nor any of your crew members are authorized to question the prisoners. Indeed, I would suggest that you avoid all but essential conversation.’
    â€˜Who are they?’
    â€˜The naval officer is Lieutenant Commander Lawrence Sutherland—a submariner like you.’
    â€˜What happened to his boat?’
    â€˜I’m afraid I can’t say.’
    â€˜Does he speak German?’
    â€˜A little.’
    â€˜And the other prisoner?’
    â€˜Professor Bjørnar Grimstad—a Norwegian academic.’
    â€˜He’s a long way from Oslo.’
    â€˜Indeed.’
    â€˜What’s his subject?’
    Friedrich grimaced. ‘Herr Kapitänleutnant, I must stress that this is a special operation . Your orders . . .’ Leaning closer, he whispered, ‘Your orders originate from a source close to the Führer. It is essential that they are obeyed to the letter. Get these prisoners to Brest safely. Nothing else need concern you.’
    â€˜Of course,’ said Lorenz.
    Friedrich marched back to the ladder, where he improvised a megaphone with his cupped hands: ‘Send them down.’
    The British naval officer was the first to land on the deck, a tall, lean man wearing a cap, greatcoat, and tattered uniform. His trousers were torn at the knees, his beard was unkempt, and one of his eyes was bruised and swollen. Even in the half-light it was obvious that he had been severely beaten, possibly tortured. He limped slightly when he moved. The second prisoner was small and elderly, perhaps in his late sixties or early seventies. His grey-blond hair was combed back and myopic eyes squinted through round spectacles. He was spry for his age and appeared to be unharmed. Neither of the captives showed any sign of emotion, their faces were fixed masks of impassivity.
    Friedrich stood squarely in front of the British naval officer, feet apart, hands on hips, and