Chapter 2: Sea Serpent
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Henrik made little attempt to imitate the confident stride of a German officer as he wandered slowly down the quiet Jewish ghetto. It no longer mattered to him whether his cover held up under the suspicious scrutiny of the shifty onlookers in the shadows of broken doorways. If Esther would not come with him, all was for naught. He had one thought on his mind now.
Would Ober wait?
He must wait. Henrik would make him wait. He had to. The thought gave Henrik new purpose and he quickened his pace as he turned onto the Prince’s Canal walkway. He had one last card to play, and he would run up the pot until it broke the bank.
After twenty minutes of brisk walking, he reached the IJ, Amsterdam’s busy waterfront. Commercial traffic had diminished greatly in the harbor since Germany’s invasion, but the navy more than filled the extra space. Amsterdam’s strategic importance as a Baltic seaport was the main reason Holland was invaded in the first place.
It certainly wasn’t the tulips.
While the increased military presence made it difficult for Henrik to insert himself back into the country, it also provided a surefire route for his escape, especially for a man with his connections. The port wardens would undoubtedly take note of an unusual merchant vessel coming or going out of the harbor, but not a military vessel. They were like sand on the seashore. Henrik counted 21 at Dock 17 alone, and those were just the ones he could see—the tip of the iceberg. Others, he knew, lurked below the surface.
Henrik turned down a shady alley filled with empty warehouses and broken-down shacks. By now, the sun was well on its way to reaching its apex over the Netherlands, but the sunlight did not seem to find its way into this dingy, forgotten alley without a name. It was damp, dark and musty. In corners, mold clung to the underside of railings and vacant barrels. Even the rats seemed to avoid the place, choosing busier, more profitable nooks and crannies by the docks. Henrik cast a furtive glance up and down the alley one last time, but it was just as desolate now as it had been three years ago when he’d first discovered it.
The perfect hiding spot.
He descended a rickety, wooden staircase that led down to a cellar beneath the dingiest of the dingy clapboard shacks that lined the alley. He kicked open a half-rotting door. The rusted iron lock snapped immediately and the ancient door creaked open on its rust-red hinges, threatening to crumble completely.
Nothing had changed in the little crawlspace. The two-way radio was still packed in its dusty wooden crate in the corner, the travel documents, change of clothes, and stash of canned rations still hidden beneath the floorboards, untouched. But most importantly, the tunnel entrance remained undiscovered, sealed behind a makeshift wall of redbrick and mortar. All the rest could be replaced, but if this secret were discovered, there would be no escape for anyone.
Henrik pried open the wooden crate and dusted off the two-way radio. He gave the little built-in generator a few vigorous spins and cranked up the volume. He was receiving a signal. The thing still worked. He tuned into the predetermined frequency, 32 megahertz. It was nothing but static and probably would be for quite some time.
No one used this bandwidth in this part of the world. That’s why Henrik had chosen it. But someone would be using it today, or at least he hoped so. There was always the chance that Ober would turn tail. He was prone that way. Henrik cracked open a can of peaches with his Sheffield knife and settled down on the empty crate for what would most likely be a long wait.
It was nearly evening before Henrik heard anything over the radio, and by then he was struggling to keep his ears and eyes open. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours and he’d walked nearly twenty miles that morning. He was tired and needed sleep. But no one could have slept through the piercing, high-pitched wail that sounded over his radio. Henrik rolled off the crate and fumbled for the volume control. All he needed now was for some passing junior sentry to hear the noise outside and wander in on him. And then, as the British would say, the game would be up.
After a few minutes, the signal became less erratic. With his ear pressed to the receiver, Henrik listened to what might have been the inklings of German words, or just random static. It was hard to tell. The ears sometimes played tricks on you, let you hear what you wanted to hear. It was a phenomenon well known to radio operators. Flying over the pacific in a B-2 bomber, an American Navy gunner in Henrik’s old squadron once heard Handel’s Messiah broadcasting from his radio set as clear as a bell. He’d even sung along with the baritones for a few bars. Of course, he’d lost a lot of blood from a bullet wound to his thigh, and his damaged engine was pumping carbon dioxide directly into his lungs, but weeks later in the hospital he still swore he heard what he heard.
Henrik fiddled with the reception a little and the static became less pronounced. There was definitely someone on the other end of this bandwidth. But was it Ober? Henrik tried a tentative hail and waited. “Little Fox to Sea Serpent.” Static answered. He tried again. “Little Fox to Sea Serpent, do you read me?”
“Serp—”
Did he hear that, or was it just the libretto from the Messiah? Henrik waited. He dared not say too much over the airwaves. Germany had thousands of ears monitoring communications over the Baltic. They probably wouldn’t pay much attention to the odd hail in German on an unstable bandwidth, but it didn’t hurt to be cautious.
“Sea Serpent to Little Fox. Sea Serpent to Little Fox, I read you.”
Now Henrik was certain his ears weren’t just playing tricks on him. It was Ober. The scoundrel had more steel than he’d given him credit for. Or maybe it was just greed. He wasn’t doing this for free after all. Henrik turned up the volume and keyed the mike.
“Little Fox to Sea Serpent, I am reading you. I am reading you.”
Static.
“Sea Serpent to Little Fox, is the package in the hole?” Just like Ober. Abrupt and to the point. Henrik took a breath before responding.
“Negative. I say again. Negative.” This was the moment Henrik had been waiting for with dread. How would Ober take the bad news? He was no saint and surely no martyr. Henrik waited but there was no answer. Ober was going yellow. “Does the Serpent have faith? Remember Christ’s return after the millennium.”
Static.
“I say again. Watch for Christ’s return after the millennium. Reply.”
No answer.
Henrik waited ten seconds, a minute. Nothing but static. That was it. Ober, that spineless old sea serpent had turned tail. He wouldn’t answer, but he might still be listening. Henrik had his final card to play. He cranked up the wattage. He wanted his last words to be heard.
“The double-headed snake better watch his six,” he yelled over the mike, “or Little Fox tells all. Do you hear me, Ober? Little Fox tells all.”
Static answered. Henrik swore angrily and threw the microphone onto the floor. Dust rose up from the splintered floorboards in silent protest.