He woke up aching, cramped and with a crick in his neck. Newman was lying in a foetal position, curled up inside the dinghy. His first thought was that the Wroclaw was moving, its engines ticking over with a steady hum. The sea had to be very calm – the vessel seemed to glide over the surface.
His second thought was the time. He checked his watch by the illuminated hands. 7 p.m. It couldn't be. He switched on the torch resting against his hand. It was 7 p.m. He recalled that the last thing he'd done before he must have dropped off into deep sleep was to wind up the watch. Then it had registered 7 a.m. He had slept for twelve hours.
That worried him – until he realized he was ravenously hungry. He made himself sandwiches with the rye bread and the cheese. As he ate, pausing occasionally to drink some mineral water, he tried to think what to do next, to work out the likely position of the Wroclaw. He realized very quickly it was impossible – he'd no idea when it had sailed from Rostock.
His next problem was to decide whether to eat all the food or whether to keep some in reserve. Instinct told him to curb his appetite. Then he remembered what Falken had said. Eat, sleep, pee – when you can. Something like that. He devoured all the bread and cheese, but drank only half the water. He didn't touch the vodka. It might dull his senses, make him light-headed.
Finishing his meal, he found the enamel jug, crouched to relieve himself, then put back the lid firmly. It had a rubber ring which made it practically watertight. Just as well – in case of spillage. He began to feel quite normal, but he ached in every limb.
Despite his confined space, he managed to do some exercises, stretching his arms, his legs, flexing and unflexing his fingers. Then, kneeling, he reached up and gently pushed at the lid of the cable locker. It wouldn't move, solid as concrete. This gave him a claustrophobic feeling and he recalled experiencing the same sensation in milder form when he was travelling inside Stahl's truck. God, he was going to be glad to get out in the open, to be able to move around again.
The vessel continued steadily on course, moving incredibly smoothly. The seaman who had shared the but with him inside Rostock docks had been right in his forecast. Smooth as a millpond. The Baltic, from what he had heard, was rarely like this. That was, if he was still in the Baltic. Could the vessel have turned north, passed Copenhagen, and moved up into the Kattegat between Denmark and Sweden?
There was no way he could calculate his present location. He had no data to work on. The time of departure from Rostock. The speed of the vessel. He began to feel disorientated. No idea where he was. Trapped inside this box. He took a deep breath as he had a moment of panic. That was when he heard someone moving the heavy object off the lid.
He did two things instinctively. Switched off the torch. Grasped the marlin spike, which he now realized Anders had left him as a weapon. He crouched, ready to spring, staring up. The lid was lifted.
The evening sky was a brilliant azure. Silhouetted against it was the wide-shouldered Anders. He dropped a folded sheet into the locker. He spoke quickly, his voice low.
`The ship will be stopping shortly – to make a transhipment. I don't know what it is – something to do with the bloody Russkies. Keep very quiet. I've arranged with my Chief Engineer to fake engine trouble when they've finished their business. That's when you leave. I'll be back..
`Where the hell are we?'
`In the Bight of Lubeck. In DDR coastal waters. Be ready to move fast when I come back. I must go..
The lid was swung closed on its hinges. Very quietly. Newman waited for the thud! of the heavy object being replaced. Nothing. Anders had either forgotten (unlikely) or someone had appeared and the Pole had not wished to draw attention to the cable locker.
Newman experienced a curious mix of sensations. The claustrophobic feeling disappeared – now he knew he was no longer entombed inside the locker. But he felt trapped, in great danger. That reference to the Russkies. Anyone could lift the lid, discover him.
From the brief words Anders had spoken Newman gathered they were in charge of this -secret transhipment operation, whatever that might be. He had little doubt that, if caught, he'd be treated as a spy and shot – to keep his mouth closed.
To take his mind off his new fear he switched on the torch and examined the sheet of paper Anders had dropped inside the locker. His palms were moist. He wiped them on his trousers and studied the sheet.
It was a section of a chart. He'd been astounded, perplexed, when Anders told him they were in the Bight of Lubeck. Geography had always been one of his good subjects. He'd felt sure that the direct route from Rostock to the Kattegat and across the Atlantic to Cuba was a course which would have taken them north of Fehmarn Island. The map confirmed his deduction.
Emerging from Rostock into the Baltic, the Wroclaw had sailed west and then south-west – instead of north-west – into the Bight, the great bay, of Lubeck. Why? Could the consignment of Skorpions be due to be landed secretly in West Germany – near Lubeck? It didn't make sense.
It was 9 p.m. by his watch when the Wroclaw, moving slowly, reduced speed even more, then – at precisely 9.30 – stopped. It was suddenly very quiet without the vibration of the engines. He heard feet clumping along the deck past the locker. Voices in the distance. He looked up and round three sides of the lid was a thin bar of light. That had kept the air inside the locker fresh. He eased himself up into a crouching position.
He raised the lid slowly, barely three or four centimetres. Five seamen, standing at the ship's rail with their backs to him, stared out across the sea. Now the Wroclaw was stationary it was rolling slightly. A sky like porridge, dense with grey clouds, had replaced the azure blue.
As the vessel rolled, Newman had glimpses of the Baltic. A large white power cruiser which seemed familiar was heading full speed for the Wroclaw, leaving behind a white wake. It was about half a mile away. Newman used his knuckles to hold up the heavy lid.
The ship continued its gentle roll, giving Newman further glimpses of the approaching cruiser. It reduced speed as it came close. Behind the glass of the wheelhouse Newman could just make out the head and shoulders of the man steering the cruiser. He wore a balaclava helmet, reminding Newman of his days training with the SAS. He lowered the lid carefully, sat down on the edge of the dinghy, which provided a cushion for his aching backside, and rubbed his sore knuckles.
The activity on deck soon increased. Feet clumping quickly. Orders shouted. Muffled by the locker walls, Newman couldn't be sure, but he thought they were talking in Russian. He waited half an hour before he risked lifting the lid again. He was very puzzled – that power cruiser, big as it was, could never take on board the Skorpion load Stahl had brought from Leipzig.
The cruiser was lashed to the side of the Wroclaw. Loading was well under way. But it wasn't the Skorpion boxes they were transhipping to the cruiser. He watched as seamen, organized in a chain, transferred small sacks to the cruiser.
More seamen were now aboard the cruiser, taking the sacks handed down to them from the freighter. Newman couldn't see inside the cruiser, but he had the impression the sacks were being carried below decks. No sign of Anders. No sign of the man in the balaclava helmet. And it was impossible to see the name of the power cruiser. He lowered the lid carefully and sat down again. What the hell was going on?
Newman drank more mineral water, ignored the vodka. He was scared again. One of those seamen might take it into his `head to peer inside the locker. Life was like that. You relaxed, thinking the worst was over – and the worst was to come. It just needed one of those Russian-speaking seamen to find him and he was dead. He shivered with the cold.
The events of recent days passed through his mind like film shots. Crossing the border under the watchtower after he'd left Peter Toll. The first confrontation with Schneider inside the mist-bound forest. Cycling with Falken – with Gerda behind them. The lock-keeper's cottage. Schneider bursting in on them. Gerda shooting him with a short burst from the Uzi… The road-block… Radom's farm… The zigzag… Karen Piper… Hiding inside the camper under the bridge… Driving the camper through the water-filled gulch… His last sight of Falken diverting the Intelligence men… of Gerda bundled into the patrol car. Not now, dear God. Not now.
He switched on the torch and double-checked the chart. A cross showed the position of the Wroclaw – with the vessel's name neatly printed. The position where it was stopped now, presumably. A line showed the south-westerly course he must follow…
He stopped looking at the chart. He could hear the engine of the power cruiser starting up, fading rapidly away. He realized the clumping of feet, the sound of voices, had stopped. He checked his watch. 10.30 p.m.
He hurriedly stowed everything away inside the dinghy -including the enamel jug. He stuffed the folded chart inside his belt. He'd just finished doing these things when the lid was lifted. He tensed, looked up. Anders stared down. It was night.
`Time to go,' Anders said.
`I'm ready…'
`Get out then. This side…'
The starboard side of the deck was deserted. In the dark the freighter's lights glowed, bow and stern and on the bridge. Anders hauled out the dinghy, coiled the rope, lowered the dinghy down the side of, the hull. The heavy outboard touched the calm water first, then the rest of the dinghy settled.
Newman was glad he'd stowed away everything inside the compartments lining the interior. The dinghy bobbed up and down against the hull as Anders held on to the other end of the rope.
`You understood the chart?' he asked.
`Perfectly. And I know Lubeck.
`Listen carefully. I've posted lookouts forward but not aft. You found the paddle? Good. You're going down this rope into the dinghy. I'll hold on until you're inside and then drop the rope. Coil it inside the dinghy. Wait! You must wait – until the Wroclaw starts moving. There's a risk.' His voice was grim. Tut it's the only way you can leave unseen by a lookout. The moment the ship starts moving push yourself away from it with the paddle. Then paddle like hell away from us – the risk is you'll get caught up in the screws. You'll end up as mincemeat if that happens. The outboard would get you clear in good time – but you can't start that until we are well away. The motor would be heard. If it wasn't, you'd be seen. Do you understand?'
`Perfectly. I'd better go…'
`You say you know Lubeck?'
`Yes…'
`Then you might make it.'
Newman swung himself over the rail, grasped the rope, began the descent. He understood now why Anders had knotted the rope at intervals. He grasped the rope just above each knot. Without the knots he could have slid, endured agonizing rope burn. He used his feet like a mountaineer, bouncing out from the hull with each phase, then planting the flat of his shoes against the hull. It seemed to go on forever. His arms were weak from hours of enforced confinement inside the truck and then cooped up in the locker. He felt at any moment he'd let go. Then he remembered Anders, taking the whole brunt of his weight. The Pole had the strength of a lion. He gritted his teeth, kept moving. If Anders could stick it, so could he.
When he was least expecting it, his feet landed in the dinghy, which rocked all over the sea. He paused, still holding the rope, then gingerly lowered himself inside the dinghy. He looked up for the first time since he'd come over the side. Anders, feeling the rope slacken, was peering down. He dropped the rope, disappeared.
Newman began hauling in the rope which had dropped into the sea. A loose rope was dangerous – just the thing which could get tangled up with the ship's screws. He worked fast, coiling the rope. Then began the nerve-wracking search for the paddle, the one thing he'd missed when examining everything inside the locker. He couldn't locate it. Anders must have arranged some signal with a crewman on the bridge – he'd had no time to return to it. The crewman had contacted the chief engineer. In a frighteningly short period of time the Wroclaw's engines came to life, throbbing with increasing power. Where the devil was the bloody paddle?
He found it seconds before the Wroclaw's hull began sliding past him, bringing the screws at the stern closer every moment. It was strapped to the starboard side of the dinghy. He pulled it free, took a firm grip on the handle and pushed against the hull with all his strength. The dinghy drifted a few feet away. Not far enough. He paddled furiously, dipping into the water, now choppy from the forward movement of the freighter. The dinghy bobbed, fell, bobbed, fell again over the waves. He seemed to be as close to the freighter as before.
Now he could see – hear above the beat of the engines – the churning wash of the great screws slicing through the water, a powerful gushing sound as the Baltic was threshed into a foaming wake. The undertow! If he wasn't clear of the vessel, the undertow swept up by the revolving screws would sweep him back, take him straight into the mincing machine Anders had warned him against, chopping him to pieces.
He thought of the blonde girls who'd been savaged by some maniac in Travemunde, the horror Kuhlmann had described. They'd been scratched compared with what would happen to him if those screws sucked him in.
The hull continued to slide past. He forced his weary arms to continue paddling. With fearful slowness the dinghy seemed to drift away from the Wroclaw. With fearful speed the stern came closer, the thrashing roar of the screws grew louder. He glanced over his shoulder.
The stern was abreast of him. The maelstrom curdled round the dinghy. He could feel the insidious pull of the undertow, dragging the dinghy to destruction. He paddled madly in the frothing sea. The dinghy rocked furiously, almost tipping him overboard. Water slopped inside it. He could no longer tell what was happening. He looked quickly over his shoulder again, stared.
The stern of the Wroclaw was receding. The water was less choppy. The ship sailed on, turning due north for the Fehmarn Belt, the stretch of the Baltic dividing Denmark from West Germany. Newman stopped paddling. He collapsed, leant forward, utterly exhausted.