That all changed with a small clipping from a local newspaper, arriving by internal post in a plain brown envelope.
The clerical officer read it quickly and understood its importance instantly; his traditional mid-morning cheese and bacon bagel was forgotten for now.
The Medusa has been found.
The clerical officer knew what to do.
There was a protocol to follow; a protocol originally written with a fountain pen sixty years ago, and again on a typewriter ten years later, and when the ink on that had finally faded, rattled off on a dot matrix printer . . . and that too was fading now.
The clerical officer read through it and finally located in faint grey dots the name he was after.
He dialled the number, hoping that it was still current. If not, he wasn’t sure whom he would have to call next . . . there was no one else’s number to dial.
He tapped in the number, surprised at how edgy he was. After so long, file n-27 had come back to life.
Chapter 7
McGuire
It had been raining all day.
Chris finally decided to venture out of the coffee shop and head back to the motel as the dull grey of the afternoon was darkening with the approaching evening. Normally he would have grumbled and cursed the mean-spirited weather, as the fresh wind pulled at his clothes and the rain stung his cheeks, but right now his mind was on that aborted phone call to the museum and the very odd way it had ended.
The shortcut from the coffee shop led him down from the coast road, through dunes of sand peaked with wild grass, to a small, deserted cove. Across the cove he could see the bright quayside lights of Port Lawrence.
There were numerous boats at rest on the shingle, many of them little more than dinghies or just the stripped-down remains of larger vessels. All of them eroded by the elements, many worn away to exposed ribcages of ageing timber. Littering the ground between these dead and dying hulls like scattered body parts were ropes, tackle, anchors, cleats . . . the loose detritus of several dozen boats. A man could make a fortune selling this sort of junk in the right place to the right kind of people. A trendy little boutique in Greenwich Village, catering for dim-witted rich people seeking a slice of ‘traditional’ to slot inappropriately into their modern homes.
The shower was easing now, nothing more than a few wilful spots.
It was then that he heard a cough behind him. Not an honest, out-loud bark, but a short, brittle grunt that sounded smothered.
He spun round. Amongst the dimly lit silhouettes of dead hulls around him, he could make out nothing. He debated whether to call out a challenge. But he knew his own voice would unsettle him even more. He held his breath, and listened intently for any noise other than the tide on the pebbles and the occasional clatter of wind-borne debris. A few seconds passed, and Chris was prepared to believe it was his over-active imagination playing the devil when he heard the clatter of pebbles and the crunch of a clumsily placed foot.
‘Okay, who the fuck is that?’ he growled in a voice he hoped sounded menacing.
He heard another footfall, and then, his eyes growing keener, he picked out an indistinct form moving slowly between two of the beached vessels.
‘You’re the news man, aren’t you?’ said a voice coming from the dark shape; an old man.
News man? Chris found himself grinning in the dark. The natives were gossiping.
‘Yeah, I’m the news man.’
Chris heard the crunch of feet drawing closer, and the dark form grew until he could make out a lined and weathered face framed by the hood of an old canvas raincoat.
‘My name’s McGuire,’ he said. Chris could see by the fading light of the overcast afternoon that he was holding out a hand.
He grabbed it awkwardly. McGuire’s grip was surprisingly strong.
‘You’re here about that plane out there, aren’t you?’
Chris wondered whether to play it dumb, but then Port Lawrence was a small town. Undoubtedly old Will must have been spreading the news about his two passengers, like some old dear in a salon.
‘Yeah, you got me.’
‘I can tell you a story or two about that,’ said McGuire as he pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and offered one to Chris.
‘No thanks. I’m five months quit.’
The old man laughed, a wheezy cackle that degenerated into a rattling cough. It sounded like something loose and leathery rattling in a cage. ‘Five months quit, eh?’ he said finally. ‘Not bad, but you know, you’re never “quit”, you’re just resting between smokes.’
Resting between smokes just about summed it up perfectly. Chris was tempted, but resisted the urge to reach out for one.
‘Don’t mind if I poison myself, then?’
‘No. Poison away.’
McGuire sheltered his cigarette and lighter from the wind and lit up. From the flickering glow of the flame Chris could see his face. It was long and narrow and weathered. He suspected the old man looked ten years older than he was.
The wind gusted and Chris shivered.
‘So? You going to tell me what it is you know about that plane, then?’ asked Chris.
McGuire took another long pull on his cigarette. ‘We found the pilot of that plane out there, on the beach just along the way from here. Found him on the sand rolling in the waves . . . pretty much in the last week of the war that was, if I recall correctly.’
‘How do you know it was the pilot of that plane?’
‘Well, it was Sean who got a good close look. Sean said he was an airman, one of ours. I went off to town and found Sean’s dad and told him we’d found the body of one of our boys down on the beach. Then, within only a few hours, they arrived.’
‘Who?’
‘Goddamned near everyone by the look of it. Army first, then later on some navy ships and still more army. They closed off the beach and spent several days out there looking for the plane that poor lad had come from. They never found it, though. Those navy ships trawled this way and that way out to sea for near on a week. Then overnight, in fact, the night before VE day was announced, they just disappeared. Ships, army, barbed wire, everything . . . just vanished into the night.’
‘And you’re certain they were looking for the plane?’
‘Yessir, that’s what it looked like. They sure as hell wanted to find that plane out there. And I figure I know why.’
Chris nodded. ‘Go on.’
McGuire smiled. ‘You planning on putting this in a book or on the TV or something? Cos if you are, I guess I’ll be due something, right?’
‘Sure, if I quote you, you’ll get something. That’s how it works,’ replied Chris with a reassuring smile.
McGuire seemed satisfied with that. ‘I’ll tell you, I think there was someone real important aboard the plane that pilot was flying; maybe a general, a government man or something. I mean, there was a lot of top brass and big hats heading over the sea at the end of the war, you know? All heading over there to see what beaten Nazis looked like, and slice up that country with the Ruskies.’
‘And the British,’ muttered Chris quietly.
‘Oh, yeah, you Limes were in it at the end too, weren’t you?’
‘I’m sure we had something to do with it.’
McGuire nodded. ‘Maybe you did. Anyway, so I think it was top brass who crashed out there, and they were looking for his body. And he must have been real important, because I never heard nothing on the radio or read anything in the papers about it. I reckon it was someone too important, if you know what I mean? Too important to tell everyone he’d been lost in a plane crash.’
‘And you think I might find out who it was out there on that wreck?’
McGuire cast a long glance out at the grey sea and raised his hand to point. ‘They were right out there, where that trawler snagged her nets. Just out there, a few miles out. I’ll bet the barn, the wreck out there is the one they were lookin’ for.’
Chris stood silently for a moment, following the
old man’s gaze. Then he turned back to McGuire. ‘This body . . . you’re sure it was one of yours? An American airman?’
‘Hell, yeah. Didn’t look like a Limey to me. Sean got a better look, though.’ ‘Sean?’
‘My friend, he was a little older than me, he got a closer look; turned the body over an’ all. He was looking for a name on the body.’
‘Could I speak to him?’
McGuire shook his head. ‘Doesn’t live here any more. Shit, I don’t know if he’s still alive any more. He moved away with his dad not long after the war. Never seen him since.’
‘What was his surname?’
‘Grady, Sean Grady. His dad was . . . Tom Grady, I think,’ McGuire smiled, ‘it’s been a long time. The old memory ain’t what it used to be.’
‘Do you think Sean found out the pilot’s name?’
McGuire shrugged. ‘Don’t know, didn’t get a chance to speak with him again. He took all the damned credit for finding the body when the army came. I don’t think he bothered to mention once that I’d found it too. The army and government men made a big fuss of him while they were down there in the cove. Then, not long after, Sean and his dad moved away.’
McGuire spat a plug of phlegm on to the beach. ‘Sean and his dad got some kind of reward. That’s what happened. Or maybe you might want to call it go-keep-it-to-yourselves money . . . either way, all of a sudden, Tom Grady didn’t need to carry on scratching a living round here any more. No, sir.’
Chris cursed under his breath. If he had a name, it would go a long way towards making some sense of this story.
‘You didn’t speak to this friend of yours? Not ever again?’
‘No. I was too angry with him at the time. I know the bastard never mentioned me. I never got any goddamned money. To be honest, I never gave him, nor the body, nor all those ships and people a second thought until the other week when that trawler found the plane wreck. Then I figured that was the plane those ships had been looking for all that time ago.’
‘Right.’
‘You find out who it was on that plane out there, and you got yourself a story. That’s what I reckon.’
Chris nodded. Maybe this old boy was right. Maybe there was a body out there in that plane that was going to make sense of what he knew so far.
‘And you get some money for this,’ McGuire continued, ‘then you come looking for me, ’cause you’ll owe me some. I ain’t missing out on this story two times round. You understand?’
Chris nodded. ‘Sure. Presuming there is some money to be had, where would I find you?’
‘The Fisherman’s Club in town. Just ask for Danny McGuire.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll do that,’ said Chris.
The last of the pale afternoon light was rapidly fading, and the old man was little more than a dark silhouette. Chris saw the old man raise his arm again. McGuire was pointing up the beach towards a small cove.
‘You know, I went back to the cove some weeks later, after all the soldiers and ships had gone. I went back to where me and Sean found the body, and I made a cross out of driftwood, you know, out of respect an’ all for the dead pilot. I guess that cross would be still there if you looked for it, back in the dunes.’
Chris nodded. I might do that . . . might make a good photo.
‘Okay, I’ll have a look for it.’
McGuire nodded. ‘I’m getting cold.’ He studied Chris intently for a moment. ‘Don’t go forgetting that money, now,’ he muttered, before turning away and disappearing amongst the dark forms of the beached hulls around them.
Chris shook his head. ‘Now this is just getting silly.’
But he knew this was something he might have to follow up. If this friend, Sean, had indeed been bought off somehow, then he surely had something interesting to say on the matter. That is, if he was still alive after all this time. Chris made a mental note of the name: Sean Grady, son of Tom Grady.
That was a lead he could think about following up later, after he’d had a chance to take another look around the wreck of Medusa.
But this next time, despite Mark’s inevitable over-zealous cautionary warnings, he wanted to go right down inside the bomber. He knew the answer was there. It had to be.
Chapter 8
The Second Dive
They descended along the buoy’s rope in silence, the last flickering rays from the trawler’s floodlight quickly dwindling to nothing. Once again, at about fifty feet down, their torches picked out the wing tip of the B-17.
‘There’s Medusa. You beautiful thing, you,’ said Chris. This time around he didn’t want to waste any precious dive-time - straight inside was what he wanted; straight inside, hopefully to find something, or perhaps the remains of someone. Either way, he was almost certain he’d stumble across a find of some sort in the next half an hour.
Mark pointed his torch towards the front of the plane. ‘Let’s not hang about, then. You want to make straight for the cockpit, right? I’ll go in first this time, okay?’
‘Thanks. You can shoo out any critters in there for me.’
‘And like I said to you this morning, this time we’re staying together. Okay?’
‘You’re the boss, Mark.’
Mark swam towards the cockpit and Chris followed him down to the seabed beside the nose of the bomber. He shone his torch at the open belly hatch. ‘Right, Chris, gently does it this time. Okay?’
Chris nodded as he floated beside him.
The big American stuck his head up through the hatch into the observation blister and shone his torch round before pulling himself in carefully.
‘Okay. No eels in here. I’m going up the ladder into the cockpit.’
He moved slowly up the short ladder, feeling the edges of the hatchway catch on his air cylinder. He backed down, leaned forward and rose again slowly, listening unhappily to the gentle metallic scraping sound of the cylinder on the hatchway as he pulled himself up inside the cockpit.
He shone his torch around, coming to rest eventually on the body.
‘I’m in the cockpit, no eels here either,’ said Mark. ‘You can come up.’
‘Roger that.’
‘I’m going to move to the back of the cockpit to the doorway, there should be room for you to enter. Be careful on that hatch from the observation bit into the cockpit, it’s much tighter than the first hatch.’
Chris pulled a face, remembering the damage he’d done to Mark’s equipment.
‘I’ll go slowly. Promise.’
Chris eased himself up inside the plane with extra care this time, and then climbed the ladder and squeezed tentatively through the even tighter hatchway into the cockpit.
Mark was waiting beside the bulkhead leading back into the fuselage. ‘Hi there.’
Chris nervously shone his torch down through the opening, half expecting a rerun of his ghostly hallucination. The beam of light picked out the navigator’s desk and the bomb bay.
He then turned his torch on the body. ‘Okay, I want to make sure this guy wasn’t just a souvenir-wearing Yank, sorry, no disrespect, Mark.’ He reached out and peeled back the leather of the flying jacket. It tore like tissue paper and a cloud of soft debris billowed out.
‘Gross,’ said Mark, curling his lip in disgust.
The debris took its time to settle. Chris stared at the tattered shreds of the dark tunic beneath. The silver eagle on the right of the tunic was remarkably untarnished thanks to the leather that had been covering it for the last sixty years.
‘Okay, he’s either a German or he’s someone who took souvenir-wearing a little too far.’ Chris took a couple of shots of the exposed remains of the Luftwaffe tunic.
‘Seems like you really have got a genuine story on your hands,’ said Mark.
‘Let’s go in further. Somewhere back there we’ll find the story, the reason why this plane’s here.’
‘I’ll take point again.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Chris with a jittery, anxious grin.
Mark pulled himself through the bulkhead with an agility that reminded Chris of this man’s impressive experience in wreck diving. He followed through behind him, flippers clumsily disturbing a cloud of silt from the floor.
‘Go easy on the flipper action, Chris. There’s over half a century of undisturbed sediment sitting on every surface in here.’ He was right of course. The less motion they produced, the less time they’d waste waiting for it all to settle.
Mark panned his torch around the navigation booth. The beam picked out a small desk. He reached out a hand and very gently swept the silt off a corner of it. It billowed up into a small mushroom cloud that took a dozen seconds to settle to the floor.
‘See how I did that? If you sweep it off gently it settles down really quickly.’
‘Gotcha.’
Mark looked down at the corner of the surface he’d exposed.
‘There’s a map here.’
Chris glided over. He reached out to sweep away some more of the silt.
‘Gently . . . if that’s paper it’ll shred with the slightest touch. Here, let me.’
Mark lightly wafted his hand above the surface of the table. The sediment began to rise into a cloud. He stopped moving, and gradually it settled elsewhere, revealing a large section of the map detailing the coastline of New York State.
Chris looked up from the map. ‘They were heading for New York . . . or on their way back from a trip there?’
‘Jeeez.’
‘Mind your eyes.’ The camera flashed brilliantly as he took a couple of shots. ‘Do you know the story of Rudolf Hess?’
Mark shook his head. ‘No. A Nazi, I guess.’
‘Yes, a pretty senior one. I forget when it was, sometime after they’d kicked our arses out of France, near the beginning of the war . . . but this guy sneaked over to Scotland without Adolf’s permission to negotiate a peace deal with Churchill. He came over by plane.’
‘You think we might find the body of some other high-ranking Nazi, uh? Doing the same thing? Doing a Hess?’