The Bell and the Blade, page 9
“He would’ve had to collect his diamonds while wading ankle-deep through his crew’s blood,” Rheinhardt said. “We’ve had a four-man rotating guard posted at La Fortuna since Saturday. No one’s getting anywhere near that ship without our knowledge and authorization.”
Hubner acknowledged this was so.
“I don’t need you to concur with me, Hubner,” Rheinhardt said, acutely aggravated. “Do I have to spell out everything? Stash the crates in the warehouse across the quay. We know it’s empty. Break the padlock. Anyone questions you, send them to me. Leave the cargo there, but spread out, so our men can go through it—crate by crate, if need be.”
“But if it’s not diamonds,” said Hubner, “what are you worried might be on that ship?”
“If I knew what was on that ship,” said Rheinhardt, “tell me, would I be risking my position, and yours, and involving Port Authority, whom you know I can’t stand, to learn what’s on it?”
“No, mein Herr. Of course not.”
“No, mein Herr. Of course not.” Rheinhardt mocked him. “You really are an imbecile, Hubner. You don’t find it at all suspicious that Silva has cut and run?”
“It could be a coincidence . . .”
“Hubner, are you my aide or my punishment? There’s no such thing as coincidence. There is only enemy action. Maybe Silva got wind of the impending invasion. No, no—don’t interrupt! We don’t know exactly where the Tommies are going to breach the Führer’s Atlantic Wall,” Rheinhardt said. “Could be right here in Antwerp. Why not? Maybe Silva discovered something and ran. Don’t shake your head at me, Hubner! It would make a lot of sense. We’re a vital port. And we’re not prepared. La Fortuna could be—I told you, do not shake your head at me!”
“Mein Herr . . .” Hubner was whispering. “The Allies attacked at dawn this morning. French coast. Normandy. Not here.”
“How do you know this!” Rheinhardt shouted, leaping out of his chair.
“Everyone knows. That’s what I came to tell you.”
“Then why didn’t you lead with that?” Rheinhardt roared.
“We got sidetracked with La Fortuna, and—”
“La Fortuna is not a fucking sidetrack,” Rheinhardt said through his teeth. “It should be the point of your daily existence! Are you sure about Normandy?”
Hubner nodded. “One hundred percent. The Allies are in France.”
It’s finally happened, Rheinhardt thought, grabbing his coat and cap and bolting into the street, the mystery of La Fortuna sidelined for a moment. They had waited on the invasion for so long. Now, at last, the wait was over. The enemy was here. Finally, the war would begin to end—one way or another.
And men like Rheinhardt would decide how it ended.
13
MINUS ZERO
FLETCHER WAS BURNING EVEN as he was drowning, drowning in a sea of blood.
Except it wasn’t his blood. It was Lucas’s. He’d been shot in the throat.
This wasn’t Alamein. This wasn’t Anzio. Lucas never even got a chance to aim his rifle. He was cut down clutching it in his wet hands, a blade of grass by a scythe. And Fletcher was still hip-deep in the sea.
No drop zones. No flashing lights. No beacons. No guidance. Just the rat-tat-tat of gunfire.
They both ran from the landing craft into the low tide, ran headlong into the bursts of flak, Lucas first.
Lucas was always first.
The Germans knew we were coming, Fletcher thought, lying in the cold water as if dead himself, his arm over his closest friend.
Two men, soldiers, Rangers, elite, best of the best. Fletcher and Lucas had been shivering together in the troop carrier for nine hours. The waves were so high, they smashed over the deck from one side to the other, washing away the putrid odor of vomit, though the eye-tearing smell of diesel oil remained. Lucas had been trying not to throw up—again—but it was too late for Fletcher. Everything that was once inside was now outside. He was so sick, he could no longer throw up. They’d been preparing for this moment since Tunisia in 1942, but they didn’t expect the seas to be so rough. Maybe Rafael was right. Maybe they should’ve waited another week, another month. But it was too late now for should’ve, could’ve. They were in a steel drum, thrashing from side to side in the roiling dark, spinning clockwise, then counterclockwise. Fletcher listened to the high whistling wind, the water slapping against the sides of their landing craft with every deafening wave.
They were F Company, 2nd Rangers, frontline strike force. Lucas was captain, Fletcher team leader of the 1st Rifle platoon. They were understrength in Company Fuck, only ninety men instead of one-fifty.
Just before they jumped off the boat, Lucas said, Get going, I know you can, because Fletcher was having trouble getting going. Our fate lies across that beach, Lucas said.
Maybe that was the problem.
Fletcher and Lucas, strapping young bucks. Wyoming, Colorado. Born two months apart, brothers from other mothers. They’d met at OCS, trained hard together, graduated together, got selected into 1st Rangers together, went to North Africa together, to Italy together, Anzio, Monte Cassino, Aquila. Got wiped out in Italy, regrouped to become 2nd Rangers. Travelled to England together, spent months preparing for the invasion of Normandy. Went on liberty to London together, drank together, met girls together. Now they were here. Everything they did, they did together.
Except die together.
Fletcher must’ve been in shock—what else could explain why the only thing going round and round in his head, as he lay behind the hedgehog being pummeled with fire, was a Creole tune from childhood his mother used to sing to him called “Stella Pellerin.” The bayou always remember, the bayou never forget that her father murdered her mother while Stella Pellerin slept in her bed.
Fletcher glanced up. Planes overhead. Contrails crisscrossing the sky like chalk lines. Amber lights blinking Morse code through the hulking clouds,
three dots one dash,
three dots one dash,
three dots one dash,
for victory.
14
LOST HOPE
“HE’S NOT THE ONE,” Louise said in the woods. They were talking about Fitz; why Louise couldn’t be with Charlie’s brother. She’d brought more bandages and sulfa drugs for Ngomo, and with Zeus assisting, the women cleaned and re-taped Ngomo’s wounds—a deep one in the chest, smaller ones on the arms and shoulders. She brought the boys drink and bread, and now the girls perched on a nearby stump watching Ngomo gently play red hands with Zeus.
“How do you know? He could be,” Charlie said. “I thought I’d met the one and look what a flaming disaster that turned into.”
“It might be too early to tell for me,” Louise said. “I’m only twenty, not old like you. Maybe when I meet the one, I’ll know. How’s Fitz doing? Is he feeling better?”
“He’s fine.” Charlie didn’t want to tell Louise that Fitz was in jail. She didn’t want Louise to blame herself, even though it wasn’t her fault. “We’ve got to get Ngomo out of these woods, Lou,” she said. “We just have to.”
“Why couldn’t they stay with your father?”
Charlie didn’t want to go into the mess at home. Alder was a good father, but a poor husband. He kept trying to get Gretchen to come back, but she’d dug in her heels and said she wouldn’t return until Elke left for good. But Elke was due to give birth, and Alder could not throw her out. There was nowhere for her to go in Herentals, a single unwed mother with a new infant. The Germans could take the child from her and send her to Breendonk for vagrancy and dissolute behavior. Gretchen didn’t care. Hence the continued drama—to add to all the other strife.
“I got us into terrible trouble, Lou,” Charlie said, her mouth bitten bloody from anxiety. “I didn’t mean to. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Louise shook her head. “Even when you’re not asking, you’re asking,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Go get the Berceau. I’ll get these two packed up.” She sighed. “Don’t overreact, but . . . I talked to Omloop. We found a place for them.”
“You did?” Charlie jumped up. She wanted to cry. “Where?”
“They can’t keep them for long,” said Louise. “But once a week, I bring your flowers and my peaches to a tiny priory outside Vorselaar. Onze-Lieve-Vrouw van de Verloren Hoop.”
“Our Lady of Lost Hope? I know it. Omloop fixes their bells.”
“Charlie, that convent hasn’t had bells since the First World War,” said Louise. “Omloop doesn’t fix their bells, he runs his secret work from there. Ten Augustinian nuns live there like paupers, the youngest of whom is eighty. They’re too frail to ring bells. They can barely carry their bibles. But Omloop said there’s a little space under the rafters.”
Gratefully Charlie hugged Louise. “Loosha . . . you’re such a good friend. The best friend.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m a real gem.” Louise hugged her back.
The two men were deep in conversation and weren’t ready to leave.
“So why do you have to be smuggled out of the country like a bar of gold, little man?” Ngomo asked. He looked more spry now that the rain had stopped—and he had more morphine. Mostly it was the morphine.
Zeus shrugged. “I don’t know. No one ever gives me a straight answer.”
“What do they say?”
“Charlie, what did you tell me?” Zeus asked. “She said there were good people and bad people, and the bad people wanted me dead.”
“Why?” asked Ngomo.
“Why, Charlie?” said Zeus.
“Because they’re bad people,” Charlie said, as if it were self-evident.
“That’s the whole reason?”
“That’s what Charlie says.” Zeus slapped Ngomo’s huge hand lightly with his own smaller one.
“But why you especially?”
“Because I’m Jewish,” Zeus said.
“That can’t be right.”
“That’s what I said!”
Ngomo looked questioningly at Charlie. “That’s about right, Ngomo,” Charlie said.
“We don’t have Jews in the Congo,” Ngomo said. “I know nothing about this.”
“You have tribes in your country, though, don’t you?” Charlie said. “Hating each other, warring with each other?”
Ngomo gave a pained, reluctant nod. “Yes, brutal violence in my country too,” he said. “Some tribes like to eat people. And the people who don’t like tribes that do that go to war and kill them. Some tribes like to pray to a hundred gods. And others, who pray to just ten gods, slice them up with machetes. Some tribes in the Congo still keep slaves. It’s not allowed anymore, slavery, so they go up high in the mountains and keep slaves there, and then other people come and kill them—for keeping slaves and eating people and praying to a hundred gods.”
“To be honest, Ngomo, some of those things don’t sound very good,” said Zeus.
Ngomo laughed, grabbing his chest. “Don’t make me laugh, Zeus, I have a near-fatal wound near my heart.” He patted the boy’s hands. “Tribal warfare is not good,” he said. “But the weather is hot and sunny. The music is wonderful. The food tastes great. There’s strong drink and beautiful women.” Ngomo almost smiled.
“Do you have a beautiful woman?” Zeus asked.
“I did, yes. A long time ago.” Ngomo looked into the moss. “My wife and daughter were members of a tribe that was attacked by another tribe, and everyone in our village was killed.” He didn’t look up.
Charlie exchanged a mute glance with an equally quiet Louise. She kept watch on Ngomo’s bowed head. He had lost everything, and still he spoke gently. How did he do that? She and Fitz had been on a warpath for two years. Did it take a lifetime of violence for Ngomo to become this gentle?
And now, how did she get those two to safety? Did sanctuary even exist for Ngomo and Zeus?
Zeus reached out and took Ngomo’s hand.
“At the time it happened, I was far away in Kinshasa, helping the King,” Ngomo said. “I was in the royal service, so my job took me away from my wife and family for months at a time.”
“You have a king in the Congo? We have a king too.” Zeus smiled.
“Yes, Zeus,” Ngomo said. Profound emotion seeped into his eyes that Charlie couldn’t quite name. Affection, tenderness, amusement? “We have the same king.”
“No!”
“Your King Leopold is my King Leopold. I serve your king.”
“You know King Leopold?!” Zeus gasped.
Well, that explained a few things, Charlie thought.
“You’re lying to me,” Zeus said. “You think I’m . . . what’s that word?”
“Gullible? Naïf?” Ngomo shook his head. “I’m telling you truth, little man. When the King was still a prince, he spent many years in the Congo, studying, working, hunting, learning how to be king one day. I was chief of his security detail. My job was to protect him.”
Zeus’s eyes were pools of wonder. “That sounds like the greatest job in the world,” he murmured. “What was he like? Did you like him?”
“I loved him,” Ngomo said. “Still do.”
“But what was he like?”
“He was disciplined and devout,” Ngomo said. “He was very strict with himself and he loved God. I haven’t seen him in many years. I hope he’s still like that.”
“Who is Robert Capelle?” Charlie asked.
“Don’t ask,” Louise whispered. “What if he tells you?”
“Count Robert Capelle is the King’s chief of staff and closest advisor,” Ngomo replied. “We worked together for many years all over the Congo.”
The mystery around La Fortuna was deepening.
Zeus pulled on Ngomo’s arm to redirect the man’s attention from Charlie to himself. “Who tried to kill you, Ngomo?” he whispered. “And why?” He lowered his voice even more. “Because you eat people?”
“Zeus, I told you, don’t make me laugh. But yes, yes, I do. Only small people, though. Small delicate Jewish people.”
Now even Zeus laughed. Charlie, feeling like a real joy-killer, told them to keep it down, in case there were real cannibals in the woods.
“But who tried to kill you, Ngomo?” Zeus repeated.
“I think the same people who want to kill you, little man.” Ngomo smirked. “You and I have the same enemy now.” He rocked his head. “But also . . . who says they wanted to kill me?” He gave a small gallows-humor smile. “Maybe it was the other way around.”
Zeus never took his wide eyes off Ngomo’s face. “Okay,” the boy said slowly. “Why did you want to kill them?”
“Now you’re asking the right questions. Maybe because they were busybodies, snooping where they weren’t supposed to.”
“Were you hiding something on the ship, Ngomo?” Zeus smiled.
“I was, yes.”
“Was it small boys to snack on?”
“How did you know?” Ngomo ruffled Zeus’s hair. “It was some rocks from the Congo.”
“They don’t have rocks in Belgium?”
“You’re good, little man. You’re real good.”
“Zeus, leave Ngomo alone,” Charlie said. “He’s exhausted from your questions.” Both men ignored her. “I’m exhausted from your questions, Zeus,” she muttered.
“Charlie doesn’t like questions, Ngomo,” Zeus whispered.
Ngomo smiled thinly. “I bet Charlie likes answers, though.”
Zeus tugged at Ngomo again, eager for more. “Who’s guarding your rocks now?”
“No one.” Ngomo stopped smiling.
There was a tremble to Zeus’s mouth. “What if the bad people find your trappe secrète?”
Charlie locked eyes with Ngomo. A shiver ran through her. There was terror in his dark eyes. “Zeus! Enough already. I blame you, Ngomo. You allow too many questions. God! Get up. Let’s go. Lost Hope is waiting for you two.”
15
THE EMPTY SHIP
IT WAS NEARLY TWO days of frenetic activity after the Normandy invasion before Rheinhardt could convene a crew to offload the cargo from La Fortuna.
A thousand new German troops poured into Antwerp to shore up its defenses. All merchant ships coming and going were stopped. Mines were carried to the edge of canals in preparation for submersion, weapons were tested, ammunition delivered.
Rheinhardt’s concerns about the ship intensified. Yes, he became less worried that La Fortuna might be a bomb in waiting. But he grew more certain there was something else on that ship of extraordinary value to someone.
He paced Glaskaai and smoked incessantly, watching the men unload the ship. His field-gray overcoat dragged through the puddles and his porous leather boots seeped wet misery into his cold feet. The stiff SS visor on his head was dripping. He sighed as he squinted through Antwerp’s depressing June rain. It never ended.
“There is nothing on that ship, sir.”
It took all of Rheinhardt’s strength to remain outwardly calm as he listened to Hubner’s excuses. Now they both paced the top deck of La Fortuna after the lower holds had finally been emptied out.
“We counted every crate and checked them against the manifest. We combed every cabin and storage closet. We searched in the engine room. Every nook and cranny on this ship has been thoroughly inspected.”
“Did you open every crate?”
“Sir, there are nearly 800 crates!”
“So how do you know there’s nothing there, then?”
“Every crate has been checked against the . . .”
Minutes and minutes of this dullard tripe!
“I don’t know what more can be done . . .”
“There’s always more that can be done, Kriminalkommissar,” Rheinhardt said with icy contempt. The heavy heel of his boot pounded against the wooden slats of the deck, punctuating every word.
“Please . . .” Hubner said beseechingly. “Don’t get yourself into more trouble with—”
