“All right. Let me get the bag.” Haber ducked back into his stateroom, pulled the medical kit from beneath his bunk. “Where to?”
Kurt led the way back. He pointed. Haber dropped to his knees, felt Lindemann’s wrist, bent and placed his ear against the man’s back. Kurt dropped down beside him. Other officers crowded around, waiting expectantly. “He’s dead.”
Silence. For minutes, perhaps.
Kurt slowly raised his eyes until his gaze crossed that of de I’Isle-Adam, standing behind the others. His hand stole toward the hilt of his knife.
Von Lappus’s fingers settled on his shoulder, lightly but sobering. Kurt glared a moment, then let his hand fall. The anger went the way of his panic. His motions became mechanical, his verbal responses zombie-like. His eyes locked on a small pool of blood a half meter from the corpse, shifting back and forth with the roll of the ship. Von Lappus’s grip on his shoulder tightened painfully, lifted. Kurt rose, but his eyes did not leave the blood.
“Mr. Heiden, take care of this,” von Lappus ordered. His voice was a monotone as he carefully controlled his emotions. “Ranke, Heinrich, go to my cabin.”
De I’Isle-Adam asked something plaintive, speaking in a tongue no one understood.
Von Lappus glared at the Political Officer. “I have nothing to say to you, sir.” Again the hard, carefully controlled tone. He followed Kurt and Haber down the ladder to officers’ country.
The Captain became less unimpassioned once they entered his cabin. Kurt grew more zombie-like.
“What happened?” von Lappus demanded, his sagging face reddening with anger. With much of his bulk now gone to worry, his loose skin made him appear half empty.
“I don’t know,” Kurt replied dully. “Tell what you know.”
“I was on my way to my compartment. I heard a cry. When I arrived, he was on the deck, bleeding.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Just that Marquis had moved quicker than expected.’ “Why?”
“Sir?”
“I want to know why he expected the attack.”
“He was carrying a notebook that belonged to Beck. A diary. The other Political Officers have been trying to get a hold of it.”
“I know. Why was he carrying it? To force things?”
“Yes.”
“Heinrich?”
“He did it on his own authority.” Haber was now pale, shaking worse than usual. He was trying to take notes, but could not keep a grip on his pencil. “In fact, I specifically forbade it when he asked earlier.”
“I wonder. Why is it that Ranke’s always first to these murders?”
Kurt, mind dulled, did not catch the implication. “Ranke, give me the knife!” Numbly, he handed it over. Von Lappus examined it closely. “Ah, well. I didn’t think so. Too logical. Or illogical. If they wanted the book and Kurt was their man, there’d’ve been no need for the killing. All right, Ranke, why was the notebook important? What was in it?”
“You don’t know, sir?”
“No, I don’t.” He sounded exasperated.
“He has the translation in his stateroom, sir. But there wasn’t much to it.” He was too numb to feel the pain that notebook had cost him. “He thought they wanted it back because they weren’t sure what it said.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Just a diary.” He was coming to life, the shock receding. “The only thing important was a description of an identification tattoo they wear, here on the left arm. A skull and a number, but they only show in a special light. Marquis’s mark is supposed to be scarred.”
“That would be important to someone looking for him.”
“If I were Marquis,” said Haber, “I might kill to keep that secret.”
“Yes sir,” Kurt replied, “except how could he have known what was in the notebook?”
“Does anyone have this scar?” von Lappus demanded.
“Not that we could find, but we didn’t get a chance to check everybody. Gregor was afraid to be too open. Said we’d have a whole battleship load of Political Officers here before we could get started....”
“He knew more than you. We’ve more trouble with the Political Office than you think. They know damned well Beck’s death was no accident. This Deal Adam told us in so many words that if we so much as raise a hand against another Political Officer, we’ll be blown out of the water. I expect that includes their undercover man.”
“We can’t do anything, even if we find out who killed Gregor?”
“Right. From the Political Office viewpoint, he’s not a murderer. He’s a man doing his duty. Duty’s always been a shield for abominations.”
Kurt had been caressing a coffee cup sitting on the Captain’s desk. He hurled it across the cabin.
“Ranke”
“Sorry, sir. It’s just... well, like... like being in a cage with an open door, but you get shot if you step out.”
“An apt description. We have to divert the gunman’s attention. You and Lindemann kept lists of suspects?”
“Yes sir.” Nervously, he took the list from the pocket of his jumper, handed it to von Lappus. He wondered what the Captain would think on seeing Haber’s name underlined. Kurt noted that, as von Lappus examined the four names, sweat ran down his sagging jowls. He finally realized the man was as angry as he, but better controlled. Much better controlled.
“Explain what you two were doing tonight. Everything.”
Kurt talked for fifteen minutes, telling all he could remember. Speaking made him feel better, as if all rage and sorrow departed via his mouth. He finished. Von Lappus extended the list to Haber. Kurt, staring into nothingness, missed a bit of silent byplay. Von Lappus indicated a name with his thumbnail. Haber nodded.
The Captain turned back to Kurt. “Ranke, move your gear into Lindemann’s quarters. This Marquis, once he discovers what’s in the book, may assume you know too much. You’ll be safer in officers’ country. Heinrich, stay with him when he goes above. We’ll commission him Ensign, Navigator.”
“Sir....” Haber was to protect him? He felt the first light caress of the high terror Gregor must have endured for months.
“Be quiet. Heinrich, help him all you can. Between you, you should get Lindemann’s work done. You should be capable, anyway, Ranke. You’ve had the experience. Who’ll replace you?”
“Horst Diehn? He doesn’t write well, but he knows the simpler things, log keeping and weather reports.”
“Fine.”
“Wiedermann won’t like this,” Haber said softly. “He’s wanted Obermeyer’s commission for two years, and we haven’t promoted him....”
“To hell with Wiedermann’s ambitions,” von Lappus rumbled.
“A thought, Sepp,” said Haber, looking thoughtful. “Suppose we release the word that the killer has this scar. There’d no longer be a secret for him to save. Kurt’d be safe.”
“That’ll start a witch-hunt.... Uhm, do it. Might flush the man. But take care the men don’t get carried away. No more trouble with Political Officers. That’ll be all for now. Help Ranke move.”
Later. The sun was well up. Time to be up and about ship’s work, Kurt thought. The ship was abuzz with talk about Lindemann’s death and his promotion. Still somewhat dazed, he ignored the questions and congratulations and Hans’s bitter stare as he moved.
Once the move was finished, he stretched out on his new bunk and stared at the overhead, wrestling with himself. Illogically, based on little evidence, he had decided that Haber was the killer — only two suspects had known Gregor had the notebook in time to move so swiftly. But he had no proof beyond emotional certainty. He fought an urge to vengeance.
To divert himself he sorted Gregor’s effects, put the intimately personal aside, the useful out to be distributed where they could be used — such was custom in a world where once common items were so difficult to obtain.
Gregor’s uniforms he passed over, certain they were to be given to him. His cousin’s footlocker contained little memento
s, the most noteworthy being a pine cone — from Telemark, Kurt thought. The desk held only what one would expect, things a navigator would need. Only when he began on Gregor’s safe — which had been left open — did he receive a surprise.
In prominent view was a sheaf of papers, punched, tied into a volume with twine. A letter was straight-pinned to the first page.
Kurt, it said, if you read this, I will be speaking from. the grave. I am frightened. Marquis is getting close, as I am getting close to him. Our courses will converge, and only one will survive. If he kills me, you have to take over. Trust the Captain. He is on our side. He has promised to take Jager out of the fleet when he can. Attached are notes I have kept. They will tell you something about the resistance. Do not let the Political Officers get them.
I am sorry we have not gotten along better. I knew when I left Norway that there would be a Marquis aboard. For too long I thought you were he, trying to take advantage of our relationship. I apologize. Be careful.
Your cousin, Gregor
Kurt went on to read Gregor’s notes. They were not unlike Beck’s; rather personalized accounts of the activities of a small human cog in a large, impersonal human machine. He got very little from them except the names of some underground leaders, the names of trustworthy men aboard ship, and confirmation of his theory that Hans was Brindled Saxon.
He did not know what to make of that. If Hans was angry that he had not gotten a commission first, how would he feel when he learned he was still second-best in the ship’s underground?
Gradually, Kurt sank to the depths of a great despair, mourning Gregor, Otto, and Erich. Again he fought himself on a battlefield of pain, wanting revenge so badly, not certain who should suffer the arrows of his hatred. Haber, he thought, but Heinrich was so hard to hate. Too many childhood happinesses stood as a shield before him....
Time passed, the seconds, minutes, hours. Each second was a bitter assassin, thrusting cruel knives into his guts and twisting. The minutes were great angry birds, and he Prometheus bound, feeling their beaks and talons ripping the flesh from his soul. The hours had the mocking humor of the universe, black and eternal....
He was so engrossed in himself he did not hear the knocking till the knocker shouted, “Kurt!”
Haber, he realized. He opened the door. “Sir?”
“Chow. Have you tried the uniforms yet?” Kurt shook his head slowly. “Makes me feel like a vulture.”
“He doesn’t need them. You do.” He leaned closer, searching Kurt’s face. “Snap out of it. We haven’t time for self-pity.” Ensign Heiden passed. “Hold it,!” Haber growled. “Commander?”
“Have you spare insignia to loan Ranke?”
“Yes sir.”
“Bring them around, will you?” Haber turned back to the stateroom.
Kurt had disrobed and was about to step into a pair of Gregor’s trousers. “It seems like someone’s trying to cut me off from the world.” He buttoned the trousers. “Loose around the waist, but the length’s right.”
“Use the belt. What do you mean, trying to cut you off?”
“Oh, nothing. Just a wild notion. The three people killed were about the closest to me, here on the ship. Which made me think you or Hans may be next.”
“The shirt fits well enough. Try the cap. I don’t know if I should feel that’s a compliment. Anyway, the dead were all underground. I’m not.” Haber’s shakes increased visibly while he spoke.
“Not a serious theory. All three gave reason for Political Office action.” He pulled Gregor’s battered hat down on his head. “Too tight.”
“Loosen the band.” Sotto voce, he added, “I pray your theory’s stardust.”
After fumbling a moment, Kurt got the hatband loosened. “There. How do I look?”
“Like a sloppy edition of Lindemann. Ah. Heiden. Thank you. Kurt, put these on, then come to the wardroom.”
“I’m not hungry,” Kurt said as he tamed to the mirror. “I don’t care. You’ll eat anyway. Get a move on. We go on watch soon.”
Kurt frowned thoughtfully as the door closed behind Haber. They were not going to let him ease out of Sger’s affairs. And there was nothing he wanted more than to drop out of everything, to escape — especially Haber.
Then he realized how much better he felt because of Haber’s visit. In fact, he was ready to plunge back in. He decided, as he was pinning the last piece of insignia in place, that he was hungry after all.
Dinner in the wardroom was singularly quiet. Kurt had no familiarity with wardroom procedure, but was certain the stillness was not the normal state. The point of the rapier-silence seemed directed at de l’Isle-Adam. And the quiet accusation bothered the old man. Kurt could see his agitation, suspected he was as shocked by the murder as anyone else.
Kurt wondered how it would feel to be completely surrounded by hating men. He tried to picture himself aboard the High Command battleship, in a position comparable to de L’Isle-Adam’s. A bad vision. He considered himself a loner, but that much alienation would soon have driven him mad. Perhaps such had helped make Beck the cold man he had been.
Kurt’s first watch as an officer, understudying Haber, proved socially awkward. His old watchmates were uncertain how to treat him, were more than cautiously respectful. The bridge remained silent, with none of the soft joking and easy reminiscing which had characterized Gregor’s watches. Kurt, still somewhat withdrawn, did not notice. He tried to teach his replacement, and to pay attention to Haber’s advice. Hans he let be as much as possible. The Boatswain seemed extremely sullen about the promotion.
Jager moved steadily eastward, never increasing speed, never slowing, each minute closer to that point where her course intersected the path of Fate.
XVI
INDIAN coastline lay off the port beam. Kurt stared at it, in a mood for contemplation. He had recovered from his depression, had almost forgotten Gregor’s death — in the way evil memories are hastily abandoned, dread lumber to be shed — and had temporarily laid his suspicions to rest. Now, though, he sometimes shook like Haber. The Meeting... it could not be far in the future.
The watch had recovered too. Kurt was an officer much like his cousin. As long as the men did their jobs, he paid them no heed. That is all he felt he could expect.
India had been on the left hand for three days. Behind laser lay the Rann of Cutch, the Gulf of Cutch, the Gulf of Cambay. The ruins of Bombay could not be far ahead. Kurt’s eyes continually sought the dark line where land met sea, searching — for what he did not know. Perhaps some of the wonder gone the way of the tales of innocent childhood. Somewhere behind that coast lay the northern end of the Western Ghats, but he never could find their purple breasts.
“Quartermaster,” he called into the pilothouse, “have you got that fuel estimate yet?”
“Yes sir,” the new Quartermaster replied. “Mr. Czyzewski estimates thirty hours minimum. Should last longer. He’s steaming maximum economy.”
“Very well. Boatswain.”
“Sir?” Kurt felt warm inside each time Hans called him “sir.” Their feud was a thing almost forgotten, yet he still got a wonderful feeling of power.... Hans was very polite, though his jealous anger was never entirely concealed. He avoided speaking of Karen more carefully than ever. “Send the messenger to the wardroom. Ask Commander Haber when he’ll be up.”
“Yes sir.”
Karen. Kurt felt guilty when his mind turned to Karen, because he thought of her so little. No matter that he had little time for thought. His mind should be on her often.
Yet he knew others had the same problem. Wives, home, children, childhood, were things no longer real, had gradually become dulled silver images of memory. Faces were rose nebulosities, memories with the fuzzy quality of dream. The bad times had been forgotten and the good romanticized into more than they had ever been.
In the early days, with memories fresh and the battle distant, men had talked of home and plans for the future. No one had looked beyond the h
orizon to that grim reckoning called the Meeting. But now the days, weeks, and months of waiting were gone. The Meeting loomed tall, a few days, a week, surely no more than a month away. Each man, from Captain to lowest seaman, grimly knew. No longer did they speak of the future, nor often did they speak. When they did, they talked of the present, as ship’s work demanded, and of the past. Rosy, rosy pasts, with childlike dreams and fantasies, half-forgotten adult hopes, haunted the ship, phantoms from. fairyland minds.
And yet, poised on the borders of battle, each man insisted there was no time for dreams — no time for the dreams of others. The ship must be made ready. A specter stalked the metal passageways, invisible, but known by all: Fear. Kurt hit the rail with his fist, hard enough to hurt. He turned, hitched his trousers, strode into the pilothouse. He glanced at the log and charts of his replacement, complimented the man, recrossed the bridge, climbed into the Captain’s chair. He leaned forward, chin on fists, rocked as the ship rocked, watched the green seawaters part around the bow, and thought.
The messenger returned. “Commander Haber will be up shortly,” he said.
“Very well,” Kurt replied. He turned back to his problem.
Nothing was happening. As had been the case after the first two murders. Marquis bode bis time, waiting for the anger, indignation, and caution to die. Or, perhaps, there was nothing more he needed do.
Why should the man do anything? Kurt asked himself. The notebook had been recovered. Its only secret was common knowledge. If Marquis had half the brains Kurt believed, he would now do nothing unless directly threatened.
The watch ended, with Bombay still below the horizon, and the Indian forests farther, lager could exhaust her
fuel in as little as twenty-eight hours. The situation, he knew, was as bad on other ships.
Next noon fuel estimates were more optimistic, but the bunkers were emptier than ever. Twelve hours’ steaming. Other ships were paired for highlining, sharing the remaining fuel. The carrier Victoria had launched a recon flight an hour earlier, looking for a forest. Signals between ships told of desperation.
Imagine, Kurt thought, an entire fleet dead in the water in the middle of nowhere, able to do nothing but drift like so many wood chips, at the mercy of wind and sea — and of their crews. Life depended on fuel, fuel to heat the boilers providing steam to the turbines driving the ships, fuel to make steam to drive the generators of electric power so necessary aboard Jager and her like, fuel to heat the water in the fresh-water evaporators. Kurt pictured two hundred derelicts, two hundred Flying Dutchmen, patrolling the Malabar Coast.