Assignment - Lowlands (17 page)

Yet he felt excitement build in him.

A third fact was that Piet Van Horn had developed a theory about the location of the bunker laboratory. He had tried to tell Durell about it before he died. He had pointed to the auto-tourist map of Friesland and Groningen.

The map had to mean something. At the moment, it was taped to the back of the heavy wardrobe chest in his room at the Gunderhof, unless it was already in Inspector Flaas’ pocket. In any case, he had already studied it, and there was nothing to be seen that might yield a clue to the bunker’s location.

Obviously, Piet had not had time while here to doctor the road map in a way that would require laboratory analysis—use of ultra-violet light or special techniques to bring out any written messages. Whatever was on the map, Durell decided, was in plain sight, to be seen by anyone with the eyes to recognize it.

Durell threw another pebble into the sea.

Or maybe there was nothing at all on the map, after all. Maybe there was nothing special to see. Maybe it was the map itself, taken as a whole, that meant something. Maybe Piet had tried to tell him something with the idea of an old map.

Durell sat up straighter, startled by this thought.

The idea of an old map? The tourist map had a prewar date, in the late Thirties. Before the war. It showed the location of villages, farms and roads that had been under the surface of the sea ever since the Nazis’ sabotage of the dikes.

That must have been what Piet had tried to get across before he died—the idea of consulting old maps.

And what had he said about a church and a light?

Groote Kerk Light.

Then, sitting on the beach not far from where he had been with Cassandra last night, when the rhythm of the lighthouse out at sea had given impulse and brilliance to her spasm of passion, he suddenly saw the answer as clearly as that forgotten beam of light.

Even the fisherman of Doorn, dying, had muttered in his delirium about a light upon the sea. A lighthouse. A submerged lighthouse named Groote Kerk Light? Had it been marked on Piet’s map, after all? Durell could not remember. But suppose that, at low tide, part of the ruins of an old lighthouse showed above the surface of the sea. And the Wilde brothers, in the
Moeji
, had waded around the ruins and out of sight of the fishermen; and, when hidden by the bulk of the ruins, had opened the sealed entrance to the Cassandra laboratory bunker.

Durell stood up suddenly and stared hard at the sea.

It was out there. It had to be.

At ebb tide, at a certain place and a certain time, it could be reached and destroyed.

He was already running toward the steps to the top of the dike as his mind jumped to the next move. He remembered the rolls of hydrographic charts in the construction shack atop the Wadden Zee Dike. If any chart existed to show the Groote Kerk Light as it had once been, it would be there.

Then he paused at the top of the stone steps where he had left his bicycle.

A uniformed Dutch policeman stood beside it, thumbs hooked patiently in his belt, waiting for him.

The policeman saluted. “Mynheer, is it your cycle?”

“Yes,” Durell said.

“I must warn you, then— by the way, you are English? American? Yes. Well, I must warn you that you are to use the
rijwielpad
south to Amschellig from here without option and according to the signs.” The policeman pointed to a metal standard down the road. “Bicycles must use the path wherever the signs are round and blue in shape and color. Optional use is permitted only where the signs are oblong and black. You left your bicycle illegally standing out of the lane.”

“I am sorry,” Durell said. “Is that all?”

“It is very important for your safety, mynheer.”

“Of course. I appreciate your courtesy.”

“Very good, sir.”

The patrolman saluted and drove away. Whatever Flaas’ efficiency rating might be, Durell thought as he pedaled toward the Gunderhof, it did not include alerting the local highway patrol.

He found a public phone booth near the hotel and used his supply of guilders to get the information operator. He asked to be connected with the Wadden Zee project, and specifically with Heer Moejiker, the construction engineer in charge. The telephone hummed through a short delay. Beyond the glass booth, he watched the tourists stroll and laugh and enjoy the sunshine. Somewhere in the same sunshine a man named Julian Wilde walked about with sudden death in his pocket, knowing he was trapped, perhaps coming to realize the desperate futility of his solitary challenge to the whole civilized world.

The phone clicked.

“Yes? Yes?”

It was the fat man’s impatient voice. Durell introduced himself quickly and was gratified that the engineer remembered him; he asked his questions about charts that might show where Groote Kerk Lighthouse had been once.

“Eh? Eh? What’s this all about it, anyway? Why is it so popular suddenly, eh?” Moejiker shouted into the phone. 

“Has anyone else been inquiring about it?” Durell asked. 

“Hah! Naturally! Quite a charmer, too.”

“The girl I was with yesterday? Miss Van Horn?”

“No, no. I’m talking about the widow. Haven’t you heard? General von Uittal was killed last night, and she’s sailing around on his yacht like a queen. Looks like one, too.”

Durell said thinly: “Then Frau von Uittal has been to see you about your old charts, too?”

“Of course, of course. Only half an hour ago. A charming lady. Absolutely charming.” The Dutchman chuckled his fat man’s rumbling, belly-shaking chuckle. “She charmed me out of several of my old maps.”

“Did any of them show the location of Groote Kerk Light?”

“Some, yes. That’s what I said. Haven’t you been listening, man? Quite useless, you know. And I could see no reason not to oblige her, since she wants to cruise these waters safely, and has had several narrow squeaks, as she says, with the tidal channels. It doesn’t seem she plans to go in for lengthy mourning, eh? Hah! If at all. Women today are not quite respectful, I must say—”

“Listen,” Durell interrupted anxiously. “Do you know where Groote Kerk Light used to be located?”

“Certainly I do. What do you take me for? She didn’t ask about it specifically, you understand. Only for the area charts ten miles south-southeast of Scheersplaat, quadrant twelve.”

“Well, where is that?”

“Mynheer, I thought you knew. At low tide, you could have seen it yourself, yesterday. Due south of where we found Marius Wilde’s body at the end of the dike, eh? In three hours, you’ll see the ruins of the Groote Kerk Light when the tide ebbs just right. But look here, what is it all about? If you can help me to help the widow, I’d be eternally grateful, you know—”

“You say she was there half an hour ago?”

“Right here, yes, but—”

“Thanks,” Durell said. “Goodbye.”

He hung up.

He took the Gunderhof Hotel station-wagon bus to Amschellig in order to conceal himself in the crowded traffic from Inspector Flaas’ men. In Amschellig he got off at the municipal pier and walked to where the
Suzanne
was berthed. Wherever she had been earlier, she was back again.

Several anglers in shorts and knitted shirts were fishing from the end of the stone pier. An ice-cream vendor with a bicycle cart jingled by, followed by a troop of hungry children. It was hot in the afternoon sun. The
Suzanne
was now moored opposite the ferry shed, but the Scheersplaat ferry was gone, and there was no activity in the area. The scars on the sloop’s side had been painted over, her deck tidied, her sails neatly furled. There did not seem to be anyone aboard when Durell stepped over the rail.

“Trinka?” he called.

The busy harbor echoed with the rattle of an outboard motor, the hum of voices carried over the water, the pulse of traffic. But the sloop seemed to be wrapped in an isolated silence.

“Jan?”

There was no answer.

He turned to the cabin door, let himself down the narrow ladder, and stood in the center cabin that served for dining purposes. The light from the small portholes was tinged with green from the reflections off the harbor waves. It made ripples on the curved overhead and the shining, polished mess table. He went forward through the tiny galley and saw that the door to the forward cabin, which was Trinka’s, was closed.

“Trinka?” he called again.

The silence persisted.

He tried the brass door handle, pushed it down, shoved against the door, gained an inch, and felt it jam against something that yielded another inch and then stuck solidly. He stepped back. The boat rocked in the wake of a passing craft. He started to call Trinka again, then suddenly drove hard at the cabin door with his shoulder. It yielded a little more, but not much. Just enough to let him see the man’s hand on the deck between the doorjamb and the casing.

He applied his weight in earnest, shoved hard, and heard a long-drawn groan as the door yielded enough space for him to slip inside. He almost stepped on Jan Gunther as he did so, and then recovered his balance with another quick stride and turned to consider Trinka’s cabin.

She was not here. He looked at Jan Gunther’s enormous bulk that crowded the door passage, then moved through the greenish daylight that came through the tiny ports and opened the narrow door to the head. Empty. No one was in the shower stall, either.

“Jan, can you hear me?” he asked gently.

The big Hollander was badly hurt. His eyes were open but unfocused, and there was a deep gash on his forehead and another on the back of his head that still bled heavily. He groaned and tried to sit up, but failed. He wet his lips.

“Do you know me, Jan?” Durell asked.

“Yes, mynheer.”

“What happened to you?”

“I don’t—know—”

“Where is Trinka?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was she with you when you were attacked?”

“Yes, mynheer. My head—feels so—strange—”

“Don’t move,” Durell said. “You’ve been hurt.”

“I am so ashamed—”

“You were hit by an expert. Nothing to be ashamed about.”

“But he took Trinka—”

“Who took her? Julian Wilde?”

“Yes. It was he. I remember now. Like a madman. I promised to protect her—it is my job, mynheer—and I failed. My head—my eyes—I cannot see clearly.”

“Lie still. You need a doctor.”

But Jan struggled to sit up. “No, I must find Trinka. He took her away.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“To the—bunker—”

“And where is that?”

There was silence. Jan sat with his mouth open, and the raw effort of his breathing filled the cabin with its unnatural sound. Blood ran down his neck and stained his singlet. He raised his big hand before his face and stared at it and then a strange sound came from him. His face convulsed, and it was a moment or two before Durell realized he was weeping with shame.

“Can you walk, Jan?”

“Forgive me. I—yes, I can.”

“Let me help you to the deck.”

It was an effort. Jan fell, crawled, hauled himself up the ladder and fell face down on the deck in the sunlight. Almost at once someone on the pier saw him and cried out in alarm. Durell called for a doctor and then helped Jan over the side to the stone pier. It was not easy. Jan still objected to leaving the
Suzanne
.

“I must go after Trinka—he took her away—he will kill her—”

“Why did he take her, Jan?” Durell asked.

“I think—for a hostage—”

“How did he leave?”

“A boat. He—came alongside in a boat.”

“A launch?”

“Ja. Small, but very fast.”

“Good enough for the open sea?”

“Oh,
ja
. Today it would be—all right. Calm enough. No trouble.”

“All right, Jan. I think I know where to find them. Here’s the doctor,” he said, seeing the elderly medical man from the Gunderhof Hotel pushing authoritatively through the small crowd. At the far end of the pier, fifty yards away, a uniformed policeman was walking quickly toward them. Durell said, “I’m going to leave you now. I need the
Suzanne
, Jan. Do you understand?”

“Help her. Help Trinka—”

“I’ll get her back, don’t worry.”

Durell jumped back into the cockpit and thumbed the sloop’s motor. The engine responded instantly. He cast off the lines, aware of the hostile, startled glances of the onlookers, and shoved off. The policeman was running, but Jan was talking to the doctor and waving the policeman away, and Durell did not look back. He heard a whistle skirl, and there was a shout sent after him, ordering him to return the boat to the dock. He threw the tiller over and the
Suzanne
swept out through devious passages among the moored craft in the harbor, and in a few moments it was clear of the breakwater and out on the open sea.

The tide was ebbing. He used as a landmark the thin line of the Wadden Zee Dike on the north horizon of the calm sea. There was no wind, and he ignored the sails, pushing the small engine to the utmost as he steered among a maze of channels that appeared now where they had sailed in safety on an apparently open sea yesterday. The ebbing North Sea tide had transformed this area into a tangled labyrinth of sand bars, buoy-marked channels and canals, and reedy areas where land and sea merged in an unsure alliance.

The run toward the Wadden Zee Dike took less than an hour, but it seemed endless. The ebb flow helped shove the
Suzanne
along at a dangerous pace through the channels, and when he could make out the end of the dike where he had found Marius Wilde’s body yesterday, he changed course to a more westerly direction.

Now the tangle of channels, reed-grown islands and brackish salt-water pools made it difficult to pick out any distinctive landmark. From the deck of the sloop he could see little that was different in any direction. The tidal channels had fallen very low, almost at complete ebb. He consulted the tide table tacked to the cockpit near the wheel and saw he had about an hour before the tide turned. He wished he could have brought a lookout to stand up forward to spot the channel turns and openings, since from the wheel he could see very little above the tall reeds and low mounds of sandy dunes that obstructed his view of the twisting water routes.