162
THE VOYAGES OF THE SWALLOW
By Alexander Morriss
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Alexander Morriss
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Preface : Part One
Congo. 1957
Koenig peered to the South, towards and mentally beyond the point where the dirt road passed between the neat prefabricated bungalows of the site offices. Just for a second, he fancied that he caught the faintest suspicion of a protesting engine, on the still, humid air.
Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. For sure, it soon would be.
He could picture the beaten up, ex U.S. Army, trucks of Lumumba’s advance guards, bouncing and swerving along the rutted, dusty tracks. Grinning and shouting black faces would be crowded together in the backs. Knives and guns would be waving.
He had seen it before, just a few weeks earlier, when Lumumba had occupied Brazzaville. He had cut his leave short and hadn’t stopped to see what followed, but he had certainly heard. The massacres, the looting, the inhuman tortures, had become infamous throughout the world, in just a matter of days.
He didn’t intend to let it happen to him.
Koenig could see that his black drivers felt the same way. The “Liberation Army” had no racial prejudices. They were truly cosmopolitan in outlook. They would slaughter anyone, regardless of race, colour, or creed.
He took one last look at the great yellow excavators. Pity they hadn’t time to take those and all the other big and expensive pieces of mining equipment. There was a fortune tied up here. Still, it wasn’t his money, and the Company was rich and powerful enough to wait out the storm then come back for what was theirs. Such as the black destroyers hadn’t completely ruined in the meantime.
Well, he’d done his bit. The Company couldn’t say otherwise. Last white man out.
Five runs his little convoy had made. And, as fast as they replenished them, the pile of red drums diminished, on the quayside at Borondura, as they were slung into nets and hauled aboard the ship. Now, he had got the last of the drums onto the trucks and there was damned little ore left in the seams either.
He’d done his bit.
There was no doubt now. He could hear the thrashing revs, as racing rear wheels left the ground, over a hump.
He leapt onto the metal half step, on the passenger side of the cab, and shouted into the sweating face of the driver.
“Don’t just sit there, Dumkopf! Raus!”
Leaning outwards, he clung to the lip of the opened window and looked back at the other four trucks. One by one, they lumbered into motion and followed the big Dodge, up the incline to the Port road.
His eyes remained fixed upon the furthest point to the rear of the tiny convoy until, after about three hundred yards, the road wound gently to the left and the jungle closed across his view of the receding mining encampment.
Koenig swung his weight around behind the cab, leaned over, opened the cab door, and swung inside onto the black Rexene seat.
They would be all right now. By the time that Lumumba’s Scorpions had checked out and ransacked the site, he and the barrels would be safely aboard the ship and bound for home.
He twisted in the seat and regarded the cargo, vibrating and rattling on the trailer behind him. There was six months’ work in those innocuous steel drums. Six months of sweat, sores and dirt. Six months without a white woman. Six months for what?
He pondered briefly on the future of the Uranium Ore, that he was saving for the free world, by personal risk and toil.
What would happen to it now?
What the Hell! That was the Company’s worry.
He settled back in the seat and closed his eyes. His head was aching.
They were just barrels of rocks.
Who the Hell cared about lousy drums of Uranium Ore anyway?
Preface: Part Two
Haifa 1969
“So. We are ready?”
The old man’s soft voice and the rumpled modesty of his simple light cotton shirt and trousers contrasted with his air of authority, the fierce hook of his nose and the hard gleam of his eyes.
Across the desk, the man with the crowns of an Army General on his shoulders nodded.
“Stock is already on his way,” he affirmed.
“He is the right man? I do not know his family.” The bright eyes searched and probed for uncertainties.
“They are no longer alive. He is of a different generation. His beliefs are not always as ours. He does not keep the old ways. He is, by the nature of his work, an internationalist. He is at home in several of the world’s great cities. But he is a patriot and a very shrewd operator. He will work discreetly and well.”
The old man nodded.
“And the Captain? Bunyan? An unlikely name!”
“The name is real and very useful for this purpose. His grandfather’s family took the name, to ease the way when they moved to South Africa, in the 1900’s. It worked well for them. The grandfather married the daughter of a German settler. A Teuton! Our Captain has the blondest hair in Israel. But, make no mistake. He is one of us. As a boy, with his father and grandfather, he was one of the first to come here, after Partition. He is an able and ambitious Naval officer. In the Army, he would be one of my staff officers. But, for a Naval officer, the opportunities to prove oneself are more limited. Bunyan wants to be Chief of the Naval Staff, one day. He has the ability as a seaman and the will to succeed.”
The old man’s piercing eyes detected hesitation.
“What are you holding back?” he pressed.
“Nothing really. Just that we have a small naval force, of small craft. They rarely have great demands put upon them. The pressures that Bunyan will experience on this mission are new to him.”
“Then why do we use him?” The question cracked like gunshot. “This is too important for us to take chances.”
The General stiffened. He was a proud man and did not like to be criticised, even by association. Yet the old man was in command and the fiery stare was stern and unyielding.
“Bunyan is the most able seagoing officer we have. He has performed well in all of his duties so far. We have no man more qualified than him that we can trust. We are, after all, not a nation with a great seafaring tradition to draw upon.”
“Does he have a good crew?”
“We have collected together seamen from our Navy and have also drawn upon several good Jews, with the right knowledge and commitment to Israel’s future, even though one or two still have their homes in other countries. Yes. He has a good crew.”
The General flicked a fly from the back of his hand and continued.
“The ore is contained in drums, stacked on a neglected back lot, in Hamburg docks.
We have procured a vessel, sufficiently decrepit to avoid attention. We plan for it to make two runs. The first, which will enable a nucleus of our men to learn the running of the ship from its present crew, will take place while Stock sets up the purchase of the ore. He will need to get clearance from the necessary authorities to move the ore from Hamburg on the understanding that it will be going to Naples, for processing. Stock’s arrangements will be done through third parties, of course, with utmost secrecy. No one must suspect our involvement, or that its destination is outside Europe. Such a movement would be subject to the closest scrutiny and controls and would be disastrous for us. On the second run, the remaining members of the old crew will be released and the rest of our men will join the ship. Their cargo will include the ore. Euratom should release it from Hamburg, as long as they accept the front that Stock will set up and believe that it will re-enter Europe at Naples. It will not, of course. We will transfer it to another ship, either at sea or in a North African port. Suitable cover will be provided at Naples, so that no-one will know that the ore did not arrive.”
He leaned back and sighed.
“That, in essence, is all there is to it. The trick lies in making sure that a number of people, some of whom do not know what it is that they are doing, perform as we wish, when we wish. That is Stock’s job.”
The old man stabbed out a bony finger.
“There are many risks in this enterprise, General. If we make a mistake, it will be very costly. You know that, if we can secure this ore, without the knowledge of our enemies – or indeed of our friends – we have the opportunity to begin the process, which will make Israel a nuclear power. If we can achieve that goal, the enemies that surround our borders will at last be forced to respect us. For the first time in two thousand years, Israel will be able to stand in the world, as a secure sovereign nation. This is the prize, if we succeed.”
He paused, but held up a hand as the General began to reply. He continued.
“If we fail to bring the ore to Israel, we lose a golden opportunity to grasp this prize. But worse could result. If we get the ore and our friends learn that we have it, or even if we fail and our friends learn that we tried, then we lose our friends. And then, we may lose Israel.”
The General drew himself up. His tone was icy.
“The risks are high. The rewards are high. It is for you and the Council to decide, whether we go ahead. I can only provide the best available men, the best available resources and a workable plan. That, I have done. I repeat. The decision is yours.”
The old man smiled, a thin, humourless smile.
“We go ahead,” he said simply.
The Voyages of the Swallow
Chapter One.
Hamburg 1969.
Mueller took another pull at his glass of thin beer and sighed with exasperation.
The sun shone invitingly through the window glass, upon the blue-green twinkle of the small indoor pool. The flowers, set into tubs on the concrete slabs of the terrace outside, were bright and varied and at their best during this short summer season. The double glass doors were open and two white slatted loungers were positioned between them, to allow Irma and him to make the most of the sun’s rays. The beer was cold and refreshing.
It was altogether too annoying.
He stood up.
“Do you have to go, Konrad?”
His wife, although no longer young, retained a strong sensual attraction for him. He sucked his teeth and cursed inwardly, as he looked down at her. The one- piece bathing suit flattered her mature figure and her breasts still pushed at their restraint, as she slipped the straps from her shoulders.
The thought of his dingy office seemed even less appealing.
“It is unfortunately necessary, yes. Without this client, our small business would struggle to survive.”
“But, on a Sunday, Konrad!” Her voice was petulant.
“With such important business, I cannot argue the time or place, my dear. These are busy men. They fly in. We do business. They fly out. It pays well.”
His wife closed her eyes again, settled back onto her lounger, and said no more. There was no point in arguing. She had lost interest in the matter.
Mueller tried to retrieve a crumb of consolation, as he turned to go.
“I shall hurry, my dear. Then, when I return, we shall be together here in the sun. Just you and I.” His tone was, he thought, seductive, low and appealing.
She reached out for the Ambre Solaire and began to smooth it slowly over her shoulders and arms. She did not reply.
He breathed a heavy sigh. There would be no welcome on his return. She would not even notice him. The promise, that he thought he had detected as she slipped loose the shoulder straps, had gone. It might be days before the right moment would occur again. Maybe longer, until he could recapture the languorous intimacy of these hours in the sun that he had hoped would lead to so much more.
For a second he hesitated. But there, it was too late. The moment had gone and he was late for his appointment.
The Audi whispered smoothly along the wide straight road, through the forest and down toward the sprawl of the city. Even under stress, Mueller prided himself upon being a smooth, methodical driver.
He thought of the coming meeting and promised himself that, this time, it would be different.
These people were arrogant. They expected him to jump to their bidding, just whenever it suited them.
True, they spent quite a bit of money with his company, but they were not the only fishes in the sea. The surging demand for agricultural chemicals was opening many markets to companies like his. Then, there was the new contract with the grocery chain, for washing up liquids. That was quite a nice little sweetener. True, he could not live on that alone and the margin of profit was pitifully narrow, but it was an indicator of other product lines that he could look into. There was business to be had. He would go out and get it, as soon as he had the funds to invest in new plant and equipment.
Just a little more time, cashing in on these people, and then he would have the capital that he needed, to set him up for life. Then, the boot would be on the other foot, when it came to who needed whom.
In the meantime, he would make a gesture. Show them that he was no lapdog, to be summoned to heel. He would take them to task today. Show them his mettle.
The open country gave way to residential districts, neat well-ordered estates with the houses more closely spaced as he penetrated further into the city. Then, the houses gave way to factories and warehouses.
The Audi purred past the glass and concrete of thriving new enterprises in lawned settings, before moving on into the older industrial district. Here, the glass was more limited and often cracked or dingy. Instead of newly poured concrete, grimy bricks supported corrugated roofs. The wide, tree and shrub lined, roads narrowed, until they were little more than alleyways between run-down buildings.
Halfway down one such alley, Mueller stopped before a particularly rickety looking building, of black painted corrugated metal construction. To the right and left of the building, the corrugated metal continued into a fence, which was, maybe, one hundred metres long. Above the fence, the tops of silver metallic pipes and tanks were visible beyond.
Hardly wider than the triple garage at Mueller’s home, the building he faced had two storeys. The upper had two windows let into it. The lower was almost covered by a pair of red painted sliding doors. Above them was a red plastic signboard, with white lettering. It read ‘Mueller Chemical Company.’
Set into one of the big doors was a small, locked personnel door, which swung inward, as Mueller’s key freed the brass mortise lock. He stepped inside and left the door open behind him.
The interior was rather larger than the exterior suggested.
Storage vessels, of varying sizes, from 20 litre drums to vats of three metres diameter each, were strung in tidy formation along the long left-hand wall. To Mueller’s right, a short flight of varnished wooden stairs, with a single balustrade, led up to two offices set upon a mezzanine floor over the entrance doors. The offices had large inner windows, to enable Mueller to watch his employees at work on the floor of this, the bottling plant.
Mueller walked the length of the floor, to another set of doors in the back wall. He crossed to a box on the wall beside these doors, opened it and withdrew a key from its hook within. Using the key, he unlocked the big doors, rolled one slightly to one side and viewed the works beyond.
The large yard outside was concrete covered and was flanked by bulk storage tanks, pipes and, at the further end, five large, dusty hoppers, with open four-wheeled trucks stationed under each. A conveyor track led to another building, the agro-chemical plant. The whole area looked well worn, but tidy in the sunlight.
He grunted acceptance to himself and turned back into the relative gloom behind him.
The main production area of the bottling plant was not likely to have impressed a Krupps or a Benz, but Mueller was proud of it. Three mixing vats, set on low metal cradles, reflected the poor light from their lovingly polished copper surfaces. From each, flexible hoses led away from small wheel-operated valves to a multi-valve manifold. Only one outlet of the manifold was connected up. The pipe leading from it terminated at a huge carousel bottling machine, Mueller’s pride and joy. The bottler fed its output onto a short metal roller track, which led to a tall pile of flattened cardboard boxes. Standing scales, two hand trucks and an assortment of carefully arranged minor sundries completed the scene.
The whole area was neat and clean, down to the swept and washed plastic-sealed surface of the concrete floor.
There was no one at work on the Sunday.
Mueller crossed the floor and examined the gauges on the storage vats. Each showed a satisfactory level of contents. There would be more than adequate stock for Monday’s production of the new washing-up liquid.
He bent his knees slightly and looked upward at the bottom of the second vat. Just where the outlet valve met the tank, there was a smear of damp on the metal. Mueller sucked his teeth and touched the spot with the tip of his index finger. The valve connection was seeping slightly.
That fool, Meyer, should have seen it, before he left yesterday. Seen it and tightened the connection. But that was labour today. No pride. Well he would teach him to have some pride, tomorrow.
Just as he would teach these people something, today.
He ducked his head to one side, away from the valve, and stood upright facing the entrance.
A man was standing in the open doorway.
The newcomer was not very tall, maybe one point seven metres or so, slightly chubby, neatly dressed in a three piece suit. His dark hair, brushed flat and oiled, receded at the forehead. He wore heavy, tortoiseshell-framed, spectacles. Laugh lines spread out from under the edges of the frames and a confident smile split the rotund face.
Mueller did not know him. He said nothing, waiting for the other to speak.
“My name is Stock. I am a colleague of Kuhn.”
Despite the economy of the words, their tone conveyed an easy, almost conspiratorial, warmth. As he spoke, the man turned, pushed the personnel street door closed behind him and began to walk towards the stairs to the offices. His movements were assured and authoritative.
Instinctively, Mueller made to follow. Then he flushed, halted and called after the retreating back. He intended his voice to be commanding, but somehow it emerged a little querulously.
“Just a moment. Where is Kuhn?”
The man continued for a few more paces, to the foot of the stairs. Then he stopped and turned. The smile again creased his face.
“He will not be coming, today. The contract that we have to discuss is rather more valuable than Kuhn is authorised to handle. That is why I am here. Would you like to come and unlock the door?”
He did not wait for Mueller’s reply, ascending the steps in the lead and then waiting.
Uncomfortable, Mueller fished a little ham-fistedly amongst his keys, before opening the door to the little outer office.
As he led the way through to his personal inner sanctum beyond, flicking the light switch as he went, Mueller composed himself. He crossed directly to his desk and stood behind it, waiting for the man to pull up one of the two chairs, that were positioned against the wall, beside the light brown metal filing cabinet.
There was no mistaking the sincerity of this man Stock’s smile, as Mueller’s extended hand was firmly grasped and shaken. Now, at close quarters, the twinkle behind the lightly tinted lenses of the spectacles could be seen.
“Kuhn has spoken very well of you, Herr Mueller.” The tone was enthusiastic and the gesture, which waved Mueller into his own chair, was courteous. “He has been most impressed by the efficiency with which you have supplied our requirements, to date.”
“Let me see.” A slim silver notecase was taken from an inner pocket and opened. “Sacks of nitrate and phosphate fertilisers. Twenty thousand sacks, I see to date. Then, there were also disinfectant and domestic cleaners. Some one hundred thousand cases last year, I believe.”
“That is correct. I am obliged, by Herr Kuhn’s good references.”
“Of course. As I say, the arrangement, to date, has been most satisfactory. In particular, we are pleased with the tact with which you have handled things and your willingness to show discretion. Even if it means turning out on Sundays, so that we can talk without being disturbed.”
Mueller waved his hands self-deprecatingly. Perhaps he had approached this meeting in the wrong spirit. After all, business was business.
“No trouble,” he insisted. “No trouble. For a good customer, nothing is too much trouble.”
“Of course. Nevertheless, for us discretion is not just an ethical nicety. It is a matter of survival. As long as we are mutually discreet, we have a very rewarding relationship. Let that discretion once falter and there are certain people who would react most unpleasantly to the idea of you supplying us. Certainly, they would apply great pressure at many levels, to prevent you from supplying us, or anyone else, with anything. They would ruin your business.”
Mueller understood that the reference, to ‘certain people’, meant the Arab nations. They had been incensed by the partition of the Arab state of Palestine to form the new state of Israel. It was common knowledge that they did not hesitate to use the economic power of oil money or, it was rumoured, even threats of violence to interfere with any transactions that would aid the fledgling Israeli state. Mueller’s business had been in dire straits when first he had received approaches for supplies. All billing was done through intermediaries and he had always avoided direct questioning but, of course, he knew. And in a strange way he was glad. Not only for the money, perhaps. Because of the past. Those bad, bad years that he tried not to think about.
“Herr Kuhn discussed this with me, many times. I supply my goods to a haulage driver and charge them to a number of agencies. Where they go beyond that, is not my business. I do not need to know. Although, we can all speculate…”
The last words were accompanied by a knowing smirk and a wink. The answering smile was like a beacon, lighting the gloom of the little room, although never quite reaching the shadows that lay behind the lenses of the tortoiseshell spectacles.
“Of course. And it does not bother you?”
“Why should it? You pay me well, in advance. You cause me no trouble. Why should it bother me, that you are….” He paused, his voice became uncertain. “….who you are. Business is business, isn’t it?”
“Of course.” The radiance never dimmed. “Tell me. Do your workers know, where the goods go?”
“Of course not!” Mueller was affronted. “I do not encourage my employees to meddle in my affairs. They do a job and are paid for it. They see many vehicles, in the course of things. Wholesalers, agricultural merchants and grocery chains, for instance. They probably assume that your goods go to a similar market as the many others that we supply.”
It would do no harm, he thought, to let them know that there were others on the books. They must not feel that they had the whip hand.
Another beaming smile.
“Oh yes. Such as your new washing-up liquid contract. That is very good. Helps, as you say, to provide convincing answers to unwanted questions.”
Mueller started. How did they know about that? It was only just arranged.
Stock rose from his chair and walked over to the outside window. Through the smears on the other side of the glass, he could see the deserted alleyway outside. He returned to the chair and settled back easily. His lips were still smiling, but his voice, when he spoke, was brisk and businesslike.
“Herr Mueller. I have decided that we shall place a very useful contract in your way. One that will make a very substantial amount of money for you.”
Mueller’s heart gave a little leap, but he gathered himself and managed to look only mildly interested.
“I am obliged by your confidence in me, Herr Stock. If you will give me the specifications and quantities involved, I will prepare the estimates without delay. Subject, of course, to the availability of production capacity.”
Stock shook his head.
“There is no production to be undertaken. We do not wish to avail ourselves of your manufacturing or processing capabilities, on this occasion. Rather, we require your services as a discreet agent, in purchasing some materials for which we have a need. Your status, as a respected chemical processing company, will greatly assist in the necessary arrangements involved.”
Mueller, despite himself, reacted with visible pleasure to the implied compliment.
Stock continued.
“As I said, your co-operation and expertise will be rewarded with a very substantial amount of money. I am authorised to offer you a fee of two hundred thousand dollars, American, plus twenty-five percent of any savings that you can achieve, on the anticipated purchase price. I believe that this could realistically add a further two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I am sure that you will appreciate that we are talking of a total of four hundred and fifty thousand Marks equivalent.”
Mueller had indeed appreciated the point. He could feel a sheen of sweat, on his upper lip.
Four hundred and fifty thousand American dollars! He could retire on that. Spend his days by the pool with Irma, instead of here, in this gloomy hole.
But, so much money! Why? A nervous cramp tugged at his stomach.
“What must I buy?” he managed at last. His tongue felt thick and dry, against the roof of his mouth. “For so much money, what must I buy?”
Stock’s smile seemed broader than ever. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers across his stomach. His voice embraced Mueller in the conspiracy of a great joke.
“Uranium ore, Herr Mueller. Just a small quantity of Uranium ore.”
Chapter Two.
Hamburg Docks 1969.
“It has begun. Stock has selected his front man for the purchase,” the General reported. “A little man, who knows nothing, but he has a chemical company and he is clean to the authorities”
“What about the ship?” the old man asked. “Do we have the ship?”
“Oh yes. Selected personally, by Ibrahim Kessler, to sail for us under his flag.”
“Ibrahim Kessler? Our old friend serves us again, then. No doubt that will cost us dearly!”
________________
“Well, Captain, there she is. The Swallow. Different, perhaps, to your last command, but I venture to believe that you should find her interesting, for all that.”
Paul Bunyan could not fault Kessler’s assessment. The ‘Schwabelschip A’ was certainly a departure for a naval officer, used to exacting naval standards of spit and polish.
She lay at the quayside, like an overblown piece of tide tossed flotsam.
The dismay in his eyes, as he surveyed her rust-streaked grey hull and the chipped paint of her once white superstructures, must have communicated itself to Kessler. The tall, heavily built ship owner laughed, a full deep eruption of pleasure. Chuckling to himself, he patted Bunyan consolingly on the shoulder.
“She will stay afloat, my friend. For all her looks, she comes of a tough breed. She was built for the passage of men and general cargo to the Middle East, in the years before the last war, when the oil business was building up. She has large holds; a sturdy hull and you will find her accommodation startlingly comfortable. I doubt that your Chief of Naval Staff has better quarters than your cabin. I guarantee that you will be impressed. The Swallow is a surprising bird, beneath those rather unkempt feathers. I bought her very cheaply.”
“I can at least believe that.” Bunyan was not greatly consoled by the thought.
“My friend, I have made a great deal of money, by buying ships cheaply and well and applying them to unusual trades. I know my business.”
There was no doubting that point. Ibrahim Kessler, descendant of a Prussian officer killed whilst serving as an adviser to the Turkish Army during World War One, bought his first vessel, a wooden hulled Mediterranean fishing boat, as a youth of just sixteen years. In 1934, with seven boats plying Mediterranean ports, the twenty- year- old Ibrahim had taken his Turkish mother and moved operations, to the Kessler family house in the German port of Hamburg. Banking friends of the family had supported him and he had rapidly established himself with three merchant ships, working out of the thriving port. The cosmopolitan circle of friends, acquired by the gregarious young man, were influential in helping to establish an invaluable network of international shipping contacts. His experiences over the next three years, as Hitler’s National Socialist movement held sway and valued members of his circle, who happened to be Jewish, disappeared overnight or were moved to ghetto areas, scarred his conscience. In early 1938, he quietly embarked on one of his own ships for the North African port of Tangiers with thirty- seven Jewish passengers aboard. Now, at fifty-five, he was a very wealthy man indeed. His ships turned up, without fanfare, wherever and whenever there was a cause that attracted him and the rewards made the risks attractive. Frequently, when local conditions made the better known fleets turn away, it was Kessler who stepped in to keep supplies going – at a price. In Cuba, Haiti, Cambodia, Kessler’s ships slipped in and out, under various flags. He once again had made his head office in Germany and, through the years, he had quietly remained a friend to the Jews. Quietly too, he had prospered from the association.
When Stock had asked the Director of Mossad’s transportation division to nominate a specialist, to discreetly purchase a ship and set up the necessary local shipping arrangements, enlisting Kessler had seemed the natural procedure. The only question had been how much would he want? The answer, as usual, had been all that they were prepared to pay and then a little more. After all, there was no harm in friends providing a profit was there?
Gold cufflinks flashed as Kessler waved in the general direction of the old ship.
“You will find that Niels Dorning has been aboard for two days. He has been most active, checking out all the things that matter. We had to replace most of the charts and reinforce the communications equipment. He reports, however, that she is watertight and that the mechanisms are in good order. She has apparently had the benefit of a good Chief Engineer. He is still there with the ship, of course.”
“Does the Chief know that he is to be transferred?”
Kessler shook his head. His smile was wry.
“Not yet. Time has been short. I shall come aboard with you, to introduce you to Dorning. I shall make the necessary arrangements with the crew, whilst I am there.”
Bunyan responded quickly, almost curtly.
“No. That is my job. There must be no representative of the owners aboard, when I talk to the men. That way, we will limit the opportunity for questioning and discussion. I will leave you here. I can introduce myself to Mister Dorning.”
Kessler spread his arms and shrugged.
“Very well. You will find Niels an excellent First Officer. He has been with me, on various ships, for some years now. You will find his knowledge of the Merchant Marine complete and dependable. He is my close confidante and is, apart from myself, the only person in my organisation to know what this is all about. It has been agreed, with Stock, that Niels will stay with you, through both voyages. Lean on him.”
Bunyan nodded and pushed open the car door. He stepped out, then leaned back inside, to lift out his canvas personal bag.
Kessler held out his hand and Bunyan accepted it.
“Good luck, Captain, on your first trip. I shall ensure that all is ready for your return.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Bunyan’s clear blue eyes were steady. “If we all do our jobs well, luck shouldn’t enter into it.”
There was a speculative look in the ship owner’s narrowed eyes, as he watched the tall, fair- haired, neatly uniformed figure stride off along the quay. Eventually, he leaned forward and tapped the glass screen that separated him from the chauffeur.
The engine purred into life and the silver limousine slid off, past the cranes, timber stacks and warehouses, towards the dock gates.
As it went, it splashed through a water-filled rut in the cracked tar macadam. A gout of greasy rainwater squirted sideways, to smear the highly polished shoes of the slightly chubby man who stood in the shadows, at the side of the dock office.
Stock surveyed the smear with resigned distaste. In the grimy, oily surroundings of the docks, he was less expensively clad than in Mueller’s office a month earlier, but the shoes had been meticulously polished that morning.
He waited until the Rolls was out of sight, then stepped forward, to get a better view of the Captain’s receding figure.
Bunyan was on time. Exactly according to schedule.
Stock grinned happily. It was no more than he had expected. Attention to detail, professional competence and painstaking care. They shared the virtues. He recognised them, as he had recognised the man, or at least his type, as soon as he had read his dossier.
They shared a commitment to their country. But there their common ground ran out.
In most other ways, they were very different. Opposites. And their common purposes and their different personalities summarised the strengths and weaknesses of Israel. Its promise and its threat.
Bunyan was typical, despite his fair hair, of the dominant Jews of the new Israel, forcing its way into the world. He was able and ambitious and openly aggressive, in the pursuit of his ambitions. His pride was worn as a challenge. His faith in the righteousness of the cause was unshakeable. He carried the centuries of persecution, the Inquisitions, the Nazi holocaust, the Arabs’ implacable hatred, as fuel for his belief in the invincibility of his people. Still a young man, he was a broadsword, its sharp edge not yet dulled by the clash of real combat, its gleam not yet tarnished by the corrosive damp of uncertainty and experience. He was a fiercely threatening weapon that might be very dangerous, if wielded indiscriminately. But he was also a weapon that was yet to have its mettle tested.
And if Bunyan was the new Israel, Stock was, despite his moderate age, the other, quieter, face of the Jew.
Stock’s pride was a deeper, more personal thing. A belief in himself forged in experience, held privately and not worn on his sleeve.
He too was determined that Israel should secure its fragile hold on life. That was no more than simple justice. But Stock’s ambitions for his country and for himself, were humbler than Bunyan’s.
Where Bunyan wanted power and glory, Stock wished only for survival and a quiet life. Where Bunyan saw every day as a new challenge, Stock saw each day as a prize, to be savoured. Bunyan fought life. Stock gloried in it, enjoying every moment. In any crowd, Bunyan would set out to dominate it. Stock would merge in and look for the best way to extract value from whatever the crowd was doing.
If Bunyan was a slashing broadsword, Stock was a dagger, securely sheathed and worn under a warm and colourful cloak. And he was the more deadly and effectively directed, for it.
Stock watched Bunyan come up alongside the rusty red hull.
Satisfied, he turned up his raincoat collar against the damp air.
There was no point in hanging about here. Bunyan had arrived. He would be in touch, in due course. For now, it was best to leave the man to make his first impressions, in his own way.
Chapter Three
The Swallow: Hamburg Docks
The Old Man rubbed the back of his neck wearily. Most of his bones seemed to ache incessantly these days. Arthritis he supposed. He needed a rest. He would get one soon, he reflected. One way or another.
“You say that only a few of our crew will be with the ship for the beginning?” He repeated a point from the report that the General had given him. “Has Captain Bunyan met them yet?”
The General shook his head.
“No. There was no time. Some have had to travel from different parts of the world. They are assembling aboard the ship even as we speak. Mostly key officers and a number of the general hands. Bunyan will meet them today, when he joins the ship.”
________________
The Quay was long and afforded Bunyan the opportunity to study his ship carefully, as he approached.
The Schwabelschip ‘A’ was about five thousand dead-weight tonnes. Like most general cargo freighters of the pre-war and immediately post-war periods, she was broad beamed and high prowed, with a tall mid-ships superstructure which was fronted by the bridge and surmounted by her one black-painted funnel. A heavy mast on each of the fore and aft decks carried the cargo handling tackle. A minor forest of aerials, to the rear of the centre structure, marked the original position of her radio shack. Every inch betrayed the ravages of a long working life and neglect.
Occasional figures moved about the decks. They showed no interest in the approach of their new captain.
Only one pair of eyes watched him striding up the ladder that connected ship to shore. They belonged to a man positioned at the upper end of the ladder: a tall man, as tall as Bunyan himself and duplicating his crop of fair hair. Like Bunyan’s, his hair was tucked beneath an officer’s peaked cap, worn with slightly less precision than his captain’s. He was very heavily built and the strength of his frame was accentuated by a seaman’s chunky sea-coat. His whole presence was immensely powerful. He held out his hand, as Bunyan cleared the top of the ladder.
“Welcome aboard, Captain.” The voice was deep and resonant. “I am Niels Dorning, your First Officer.”
He took in Bunyan’s puzzled look at the indifferent backs of the working crewmen.
“No formality in this Navy, Captain,” he chuckled. “But that doesn’t mean that they won’t do their jobs and respect you, in their own fashion.”
Bunyan smiled briefly in return and took the proffered hand.
“I will ask no more than that, for the moment – nor any less. I will ask you to introduce me to my ship, very shortly. First, I will need to put my bags in my cabin and I could use a cup of coffee. I’ve been travelling since early this morning.”
“All arranged, Captain. Coffee is ready and waiting, in your day room.”
The big capable hands plucked the bag from the deck. Bunyan followed as Dorning led the way through the nearest access-way.
Despite Kessler’s earlier claims, the sheer glow of the captain’s quarters left Bunyan open mouthed. Mahogany and rosewood covered every surface, including the bulkheads, and blended richly with polished brass fittings. A worn, but still springy, pile attested to the quality of the carpet. Quality shone from every corner.
It was not an interior decorator’s cabin, like those that adorned many a luxury passenger vessel. It was a seafarer’s cabin, executed with consummate craftsmanship.
No ornate carving or excessive flashing marred the smooth clean line of the fittings.
No gimmicky cocktail cabinets used up the valuable space. Yet, here was everything that a captain needed to eat, sleep, keep clean and direct the operation of his ship.
“Something to be seen, eh?” Dorning put the bag through into the sleeping quarters and crossed to pour a steaming cup of coffee, at the highly polished table. “The Owner’s Staterooms and, on a smaller scale, the officers’ quarters are the same. The crew are slightly less fortunate, but they are still adequately served.”
Bunyan gathered his thoughts and dropped into a leather-covered chair, in front of a brass trimmed chart table. His lean features were immobile, as he regarded Dorning in silence for several seconds.
The big man showed little sign of discomfort under the scrutiny. Eventually Bunyan spoke.
“It seems a pity, that the rest of the ship does not live up to this cabin. We have much to do, Mr. Dorning, before I shall be ready to set this hulk loose upon the open seas.”
Dorning nodded agreement.
“She is a weary old lady, right enough,” he concurred. “We have been very busy, for the past two days, and I believe that you will find the bridge and the quarters clean and tight. The hands are now working on the deck gear. Ideally, she should have a repaint. No, I correct myself. Ideally, she should be sent to a dry dock, for a complete refit. As it is, we will have to settle for tidying up and leave the real work for another voyage.”
The cup of coffee in Bunyan’s hands concealed his features from Dorning, as the captain drank it down. He finished it, replaced the cup in its clip on the metal tray, and rose. He walked across and opened the door to his sleeping quarters. As he studied the interior, he addressed the First Officer, over his shoulder. His voice was flat and firm.
“The deck gear will be in ship-shape order by tomorrow mid-day, Mr. Dorning. I shall now inspect my ship with you, and we shall identify the work that needs to be done, to make her safe and reasonably efficient. That work will then be completed by sunset tomorrow. We shall begin to take on cargo on the following day. That is when the crew will begin to paint. The ‘real work’, as you put it, will not wait for another voyage. Not on my ship.”
Dorning raised one eyebrow. There was puzzlement in his eyes, as he studied Bunyan’s back. Finally he voiced the question that was exercising his mind.
“Captain. Is it worth it? In the circumstances.”
Bunyan swung around and his face was set and cold.
“There is only one way to run a ship, Mr.Dorning. The right way. I will have no other way. I will also remind you, that this is the Swallow’s first voyage under her new owners. It is a matter of public knowledge that they would wish her to be a credit to them. Is that not so? I have seen other ships belonging to Herr Kessler. They are clean and efficient. Will not everyone expect this one to be the same? Appearances are important to us. Are they not?”
The inflexion of the words did not invite debate.
Dorning nodded. The speculation in his eyes was replaced by understanding.
“You are entirely right, Captain. I should not have needed to be told. We can do little about the hull, of course. That needs a dockyard and a lot of time. But, given some good weather, we can certainly give her a facelift, on and above decks.”
A wry grin spread across the First Officer’s leathery features.
“It will mean a lot of extra work, of course. I think that we should make the most of our tour of inspection, Captain. This just may be the last time that anyone on this ship will talk to us!”
Bunyan smiled in response, but it was a token only. There was no answering camaraderie in his musing reply.
“Command carries no promises of friendship, Mr. Dorning. I do not expect my crew to like me. I do not need it. They will, however, learn to respect me.” He hesitated a second, then added. “Given the time…”
It took Bunyan half an hour to tour the ship.
He began on the bridge, where he gave grudging approval to Dorning’s tidying up work. The navigation equipment was dated and worn, but it was all in working order and, since Dorning’s taskforce, smelled of metal polish and wax. He studied the charts and found them to be new and complete for their needs. The certificates of overhaul, left by the Decca engineers, were examined along with those from Phillips and Westinghouse. For several minutes, he sat in the high-set, swivelling captain’s chair and looked through the bridge screens, along the fore-deck and out over the prow.
Then, he moved out onto the bridge wings and peered both fore and aft. He picked absently at the faded and cracked cedar planking that adorned the exterior of the bridge structure, below the heavy frames of the screens.
“Wood,” he pondered. “So much wood.”
They met and briefly chatted to several of the crew, as they progressed. In each case, Dorning introduced the Captain, a few phrases were exchanged and they moved on again.
Frequently, as they went, Bunyan pointed out chipped and rusting ironwork that needed paint, but noted, with some surprise, that cargo-tackle, hatch-cover clamps and winches were all greased and appeared to be in good working order. In response to the captain’s comments, his big First Officer nodded and made notes on a small pad that he kept in the pocket of his chunky coat.
They checked the Galley and the crew quarters, which were, as Dorning had intimated, modest but quite comfortable. They marvelled at the Owner’s Staterooms, a vast cabin that was even more impressively fitted than Bunyan’s.
They passed by the officers’ cabins. There were six, but only five showed signs of habitation. When the Swallow was built, she would have needed a radio officer. Now, the compact equipment that had been newly installed on the bridge made the function redundant.
Bunyan did not enter any of the officers’ cabins. Their occupants were not due to report on board until sixteen hundred hours. There was time enough then to meet them.
Finally, they moved back past the galley and passed through a big, cream-painted hatch, onto a grid metal platform, at the head of a dizzying plunge of a near-vertical
ladder way. At the base of the ladder, some twenty feet below, they could see the sprawl of pipes and valves that characterised the forward part of the ship’s engine room. Now, at rest, only the slightest hint of a hum from the standby generators broke the silence. Under way, this metallic mineshaft would vibrate with the beat of the ship’s big marine diesel engines and the whine of the twin steel propeller shafts, as they spun within phosphor-bronze bearings.
Dorning led the way down the ladder.
The engine room was not particularly large, being thirty feet long or so and twenty wide. Every square foot was crammed with machinery and pipe-work, with only narrow catwalks between the motors, pipes, valves, shafts, pumps and assorted paraphernalia.
Bunyan was no stranger to shipboard mechanics, but there was equipment here that he had never seen before in his life. It was a below-decks reprise of the magnificence of his cabin. Cream paint provided an immaculate background for the warm glint of burnished copper and brass and the dull sheen of well-oiled steel.
“Another surprise, Captain?” Dorning’s question preceded an appreciative chuckle. “These engines are almost unique. They are one example of only three installations made by a Swedish company – Hovana. This was the second. The first outlasted its application. It was in a cruise liner that was broken up, two years ago. The third never did run properly. The owner of Hovana bankrupted himself, trying to complete satisfactory trials, and finally committed suicide by putting a series of explosives around the engines, then sitting on one. So we have, as it were, the last survivors of a brief, but special, breed.”
Bunyan ran a hand over a polished casing.
“Quite a sight,” he agreed. “And I do not believe that I have ever seen such immaculate house-keeping.”
Dorning chuckled again.
“Ernie Stone. Mr. Stone is our Chief Engineer. Until this voyage, he was the only engineer in fact. I fancy that you will find him quite an experience in himself.”
“Ah yes. Mr. Stone. I was told that he is a very capable engineer.”
There had been a slight hesitation, before Bunyan’s response. Dorning noticed and identified it.
“It will be difficult, Captain,” he ventured. “With Stone. He has been with this ship for eight years. He may take it badly,”
“He must adjust to it. The offer is very generous. Put into context, his unhappiness is of little importance. What matters is that we retain his services, for this one voyage. Whilst it may be desirable to keep a number of the old crew aboard, to give a nucleus of my own men time to get experience of the Swallow, it is here, in the engine room, that the matter is most critical. Is there a likelihood that he might refuse the offer and leave immediately?”
Dorning thought carefully, then shrugged.
“I don’t know. But, I think not. I would think that he would wish to stay on, as long as possible. To be with his engines. He treats them like children, you know. No, I think not.”
“I will see him in my cabin. I expect his successor, Mr. Rose, to be aboard later. You will show him to my cabin, as soon as he arrives. I will also wish to see Mr. Kroll and the Navigating Officer, Mr. Durand. The rest of the crew should assemble on the mess-deck at nineteen hundred hours, when I shall brief them all together. Any difficulties?”
“No difficulties, Captain.”
“Good. Then I shall return to my cabin and wait.”
Bunyan paused for a second, at the foot of the ladder, and looked around him again.
“A pity,” he muttered to himself. “A waste.”
It was twenty-three minutes later that the first tap came on the door of Bunyan’s cabin.
He was seated at the chart table, studying a plan of the Swallow’s holds. He was in shirtsleeves, comfortable in the warmth of the cabin. Before answering the knock, he checked his tie in the small mirror that backed the door of the cupboard near his bed and donned his black uniform jacket. Then, he crossed to his desk again and called for entry.
A rather podgy young man stood in the doorway. His cap was in his hands and he had an anxious look on his face. There was a faint shake in his voice when he spoke.
“Kroll, Captain,” he offered. “ Second Officer Regis Kroll.”
For a moment, the young man seemed about to continue, but instead lapsed into an uneasy silence.
After a pause, Bunyan rose and offered his hand.
“Mr. Kroll,” he acknowledged. “My pleasure. Take a seat, will you? We need to get to know each other. I knew your father, you know.”
The young man visibly relaxed and a relieved smile sent a thousand creases fanning, to break the tension alongside his lips and eyes.
“Yes, Sir,” he breathed gratefully. “Thank you, Sir.”
Bunyan spent a little over five minutes with Kroll and in that time the conquest was complete. The steely formality of his exchanges with Dorning vanished. He was avuncular. Supportive. He enquired approvingly into the young man’s training as an apprentice deck officer with a respected Danish cargo line. He was suitably enthusiastic about the excellent results that the boy had obtained in his rating examinations and he was only mildly embarrassing in his fond recollections of the Kroll family.
However, once the youngster had left the cabin, glowing with a newfound idolatry, Bunyan’s warmth faded and he stood for a while, staring unseeingly out of the port.
He would need the youngster’s unquestioning faith. He would need his eyes, during the days to come, around the ship.
He had slight twinges of distaste for the ‘old friend of the family’ routine that he had used, but he was able to live with that. He had, indeed, known the Krolls in earlier years. Regis’ father had been his gunnery instructor at college –a strong reliable patriot, whose wife kept an excellent table despite the distractions of raising a small child.
There was little harm, he thought, to his use of the family connection. It was necessary.
He returned to his reflections on Kroll the elder, after he had briefly interviewed Josef Durand, the Navigation Officer.
The interview was a formality, for the eyes of others. Josef Durand was another old acquaintance of Bunyan’s, a dependable grey haired patrician. They had served together, years before, and had shared an interest in classical music. Bunyan had not allowed that acquaintanceship to colour his thinking in choosing Durand for the job in hand. He was selected, in consultation with Stock, because of the man’s seagoing experience and the unflappable precision of his professional expertise. Nonetheless Bunyan knew that he would benefit from having someone on board that he could fully confide in. But he would only benefit from it as long as no one else knew of it. They exchanged notes on the Swallow’s charts and parted.
As Durand opened the cabin door to leave, Bunyan called loudly after him.
“I shall wish my reports to be frequent and accurate, Mr. Durand. Do you understand?”
A raised eyebrow and a slight quizzical grin accompanied Durand’s reply.
“Yes, Captain. I understand. You will have no cause for complaint.”
Had any member of the crew been passing, they would not have harboured a suspicion of any warmth of relationship between the Captain and the Navigating Officer. The hauteur in Durand’s tone would dispel that.
Josef’s father was an extremely wealthy banker in Zurich. The young Durand had left the cloistered security of the family financial empire in 1947, to help to create a new nation. The passage of the years had failed, however, to erase the natural air of aristocratic assurance.
Bunyan flushed involuntarily and had to force himself to smile at the closing door. His reaction to the indifference in Durand’s tone, carefully fabricated for the occasion and prompted by himself, was a reminder of a flaw in his make-up, he knew. The recognition sent his thoughts slipping back over the years, to Simon Kroll, father of his Second Officer, and to Bunyan’s first acceptance of that flaw.
Bunyan was a very junior officer in those days and was on a gunnery course.
Simon Kroll was a Chief Petty Officer instructor; a non-commissioned rank, of course, but very much a man in charge of his subject. For several days, he had led the young officers, on the course, a merry dance. He ranted, he railed, he chided and he cajoled. Not once did he allow them to doubt that he was the master and they the pupils.
Finally, one day on the firing range, he had been in the middle of an attack on Bunyan, for not paying attention to the usual pre-practice safety instructions. Suddenly, the younger man’s control had snapped. His hands had balled into fists at his side and he had suffused with anger.
“Be quiet, man,” he had bellowed. “Who do you think you are, to talk to me like that? You will call me Sir and stand to attention when you speak to me. You will show me respect. Do you hear?” His voice had been shaking with temper.
There had been an intake of breath from the class, then a stunned silence.
Bunyan remembered Kroll’s reaction with absolute clarity, despite the years.
The Chief Petty Officer had been impassive. He had turned to the Oerlikon, without a word, and started to work.
His hands flew over the gun. In seconds, he had stripped the breech, and reassembled it .He had flicked a glance at the safety flag at the far end of the range, reached out and pressed the switch on the ‘Range Clear’ klaxon. Then, he had stepped into the harness behind the gun. Without a pause he swung the long muzzle down and fired.
Even at the extent of the range, they could see the target disintegrate, as a salvo of shells slammed into it.
Kroll had stepped back from the harness and turned. He took the stunned Bunyan by the arm and led him a few paces away from the group. His voice was low pitched and controlled.
“Now you strip down that gun and re-assemble it. Take all day, if you like. Then you put just one round into the target, Then I will call you ‘Sir’. When you have earned it. Do I make my point?”
Over the intervening years, Bunyan sat looking at the door, recalling the sting of those moments. He pursed his lips ruefully.
Kroll had made his point. He made it again later, when Bunyan had become a regular visitor to the Kroll home.
“You are a shrewd and decisive officer,” he had said. “But you must learn to control your arrogance, if your men are to follow you without reserve, when the pressure is really on. I think that there must be a touch of Aryan in you, polluting that good Jewish blood!”
They had laughed together.
“Seriously, my boy. You must learn to wait until you earn respect. You may know your worth. The rest of the world will need time, to learn it for themselves.”