The Company of the Dead (14 page)

The first officer had his back to them, but turned as the crewman announced his arrival. Hardas was puzzled to note that Fordham had nothing of the sea in him. His skin was sallow. Thin wispy hair swiped across a narrow brow. His eyes were too pale a shade of blue, as if covered by a thin film.

Hardas waited till the crewman departed, then flashed his Bureau identification. Fordham appeared bemused when Hardas told him that he worked with Major Kennedy, and nodded politely. Then Hardas mentioned the composer. Fordham eyed him appraisingly and said, “I’ve never met the major but I’m hardly surprised that he enjoys the works of Wagner.”

He turned abruptly, indicating that Hardas should follow. He led him past the Grand Staircase to the elevator, allowed Hardas to enter first, and withdrew a small key from one of his pockets. As the lift doors hissed shut, he placed the key in a narrow slit beneath the control panel and gave it a sharp twist.

“Now I remember,” Fordham said. “You commanded the
Schlieffen
.”

Hardas nodded. “Briefly, yes.”

“That was done well.” Fordham leaned against the elevator wall, appraising him. “But tell me, when did the CBI start enlisting submarine commanders to do their dirty work?”

“Maybe around the same time the Germans began placing agents in the White Star Line.”

“I am no spy,” Fordham said with distaste. “I’m a military man, like yourself. It just so happens, however, that Wagner is my favourite composer.”

Hardas said nothing. He counted the levels of their descent, marking the floors through the frosted window of the elevator door.

“E deck,” Fordham announced. “Here, let me show you something.” The doors slid open to reveal a narrow corridor. There was no sign of any fire damage, recent or otherwise. “On the original ship, Thomas Andrews designed a single passageway that ran the length of the vessel to accommodate the movement of crewmen and certain passengers. Those in first class referred to it as Park Lane; the crew called it Scotland Road.”

Hardas nodded.

Fordham guided him to a rectangular door at the corridor’s end. He opened it to reveal a wide, brightly lit avenue that vanished into the distance.

“Below decks, we have rechristened this pathway
Wilhelmstrasse
.” Fordham continued. “We like to think of it as the Kaiser’s variation on a theme.”

The
Wilhelmstrasse
cut through the heart of Berlin. Hardas had seen it back in 2002, whilst on furlough. Every year, on the anniversary of Armistice, the German army paraded down its length as part of the victory commemoration.

Hardas stood watching doorways open and shut. He caught brief glimpses of the contents of the vast chambers that lay to either side of the passageway. He felt the blood draining from his face.

“When is it going to happen?” he asked.

“Maybe tonight, maybe never,” Fordham said, his palms in the air. “It all depends on what the Japanese do next.”

“It’s going to happen,” Hardas said. “This cost you too much for it all to be thrown away.”

“It was far less expensive than waiting for Camelot to produce any results.”

“We just needed more time,” Hardas murmured. With Saffel’s report confirmed, there was just one more detail he required. “Does Captain Lightholler know anything about this?” he asked.

“Why should he?” Fordham gave him a meaningful look. “The Kaiser did not want any interference with the peace process.”

Hardas could think of a few choice replies but chose to remain silent.

Back in the gymnasium, Fordham led him to an antique exercise device. “Recognise this, Commander?”

“I’ve seen the original.”

The machine had been hazy in the diluted beams of the submarine’s floodlights, lying on its side and adorned with the rust of eighty years’ exposure to the Atlantic’s icy grasp. His memory of the drowned ship merged with his presence in the reconstructed room. Briefly, Hardas felt the unsettling experience of standing upon the wreck itself.

“Of course you have, and what a sight she must have been.”

“She was,” Hardas replied.

“Astounding, isn’t it?” Fordham continued. “I come here and look at it often. A riding machine made up to look like a camel. So exotic, so unnecessary. What
were
they thinking?”

“Who?” Hardas was still caught in his reverie.

“The British. What dreams were they dreaming when they conceived of this monstrosity?”

Hardas placed a hand on the warm leather of the machine’s saddle. “Dreaming of an empire. One on which the sun was never supposed to set. It was a different time, I guess.”

“Yes, it was. 1912. A twilight dream to enjoy, with a terrible war on the horizon. Look around you, Commander. Look and think of it as it must have been. An unsinkable ship for an unconquerable nation.” Fordham raised an eyebrow, awaiting a response that wasn’t forthcoming. After a moment, he sighed. “And now a century has passed and all that was Britain’s belongs to us. All that was Alexander’s, Caesar’s, and Bonaparte’s. Sometimes I wonder if we shall fare any better. The fall of Troy only foreshadowed the rise of Rome, and she too fell. That brings me little comfort. Tell the major what you have seen; that his work and career have enjoyed my sympathies.” Fordham was looking again at the map he’d been examining when Hardas arrived. “If you or your companions should encounter any of my men, name the crowning achievement of dear Wagner’s work,
Twilight of the Gods
, for it is surely what you will witness.”

Hardas took a deck of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit up. His hands, almost dry now, cupped the glowing tip.
Twilight of the Gods
, alright. A lightning strike from Germany into the heart of the Japanese Occupation. It was bold and it was insane, but it was
possible
.

He finished his cigarette and tossed it into the swirling brown waters. He made his way to the gangway and stomped down the irregular wooden planks to the pontoon. As he looked up at the immense ship from the gently swaying platform, it seemed like the only solid object in the world. He turned away without another glance and strode the long expanse of the pier to the shore.

He walked along 23rd Street till it intersected Broadway, then turned downtown, contemplating the journey to come. He recalled the many hours he’d spent with Kennedy and the others, the seeds of their wild speculations evolving into a complex plan. A plan that relied more on hope than strategy, more on mania than method.

He walked the streets with his face set in a hard grimace that parted the scanty crowds before him.

Shine reassessed his orders. Kennedy had said,
Keep a sharp eye out
. Nothing more.

The two agents had burst through the door to find Shine standing in the hallway, an empty suitcase in his hands. They’d gone through the motions, searching the rooms of the brownstone and finding it otherwise empty. One of them caught a glimpse of the pre-Secession flag furled in the corner of the room. He snorted and said, “Where’s your boss, nigger?”, lowering his gun.

The other was reaching for his two-way radio. “Where’s Kennedy?”

“Can’t say where he is, sir,” Shine said, adopting a slight curve to his back and staring at the floor. “He just told me to pack his bags, like he always does. I don’t ask questions—none of my business.”

Shine approached the gunman deferentially, as custom required. Letting the suitcase drop to his side, he reached for the sheath by his bootstrap. They ignored him as expected. He slipped the blade between the agent’s ribs, slicing upwards, then back out. Nothing fancy. A quick pirouette and he triggered the knife’s grip. The blade shot across the room, embedded itself in the other agent’s throat.

Clawing at his lapels, the second man collapsed back. Shine crossed the room, knelt beside him and withdrew the splattered blade. The agent tried to say something. Shine replaced the blade in its grip and severed the arteries that coursed along his torn throat. He leaned over the body as the spray of blood slowly diminished. He turned of the two-way, rifled through the agent’s wallet, and produced a handful of false IDs, a CBI badge and a much-folded photograph of Lightholler. Shine pocketed them all, as well as the small Colt automatic tucked beneath the dead man’s armpit.

He looked up to find Kennedy and Hardas standing in the doorway.

“Just two of them?” Kennedy asked, surveying the carnage.

“Looks like two is all they sent, Major,” Shine replied. He realised his breath was coming in ragged gasps and stilled himself.

Kennedy inspected the bodies. “Reilly,” he said, looking at the dead gunman. “And that one’s Birmingham. What happened?”

Shine told him.

“Webster’s concerns must have gotten the better of him,” Kennedy said, finally. “They’re Wetworks.”

“They weren’t very good.”

“You surprised them.” Kennedy’s look was indecipherable. “I shouldn’t have called in.”

“They had to have tracked Commander Hardas here from the Waldorf, sir. It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

Hardas scowled.

Shine shrugged.

“Maybe,” Kennedy said. “Let’s clean up. If Morgan sees this, he’ll have a seizure.”

They dragged the bodies into one of the bedrooms and stowed them in an empty wardrobe. They worked on the carpet, scrubbing away at the stains. They ended up throwing a rug over the mess.

“What happens now, Major?”

“Tell him, David.”

“I’ve been down to the ship. Saffel’s story checks out. We’re screwed.”

“So Captain Lightholler’s part of it,” Shine mused.

“Guy doesn’t have a clue. But I figure even if he is clean, he ain’t going to be much use to us if he doesn’t know the layout of his own ship.”

“Lightholler has more to offer than just giving us directions,” Kennedy said, firmly. “If push comes to shove he can command the ship, and it may come down to that.”

Coming down to that implied a slip-up on Shine’s part. It was his turn to scowl.

“We have to move out,” Kennedy continued. “Webster’s shutting Camelot down. And if today’s disturbance is anything to go by, he’ll have the Bureau swarming all over our camps before the day is out.”

“All of them?” Shine asked.

“The ones he knows about,” Kennedy replied. “But that still puts him too close to where we need to be.”

“What’s our move then?”

“I put a call through to Nevada and ordered a fade-out. The only thing he’s going to find at Alpha and Bravo are empty shacks and tumbleweeds.”

“The director will think you’ve turned.”

Kennedy was staring at a streak of black blood that braided the carpet. “It’s too late to worry about that. Besides, judging from what David tells me, the director’s going to have bigger fish to fry. We move out tonight.”

Shine felt something shift within him. He interpreted it as anticipation. With or without Lightholler, they were going to make a run for Nevada. They were going straight to Red Rock.

Lightholler stirred to the sound of birdsong. He yawned and blinked at his surroundings. A field of green stretched out before him towards the low stone fence that separated Battery Park from the lapping waters of New York Harbor. Morning light dappled the waves. The Statue of Liberty stood ironically in her tarnished mantle, a jade glint in the distance.

More than a week had passed since he’d sailed into New York but the park still bore the signs of the thousands who had stood there in anticipation. Lightholler turned away, his recollection of the previous day returning with unpleasant clarity.

He’d gone from St Marks Place to wandering downtown Manhattan in a daze. His journey took him past the Lone Star Cafe, where he was to meet with Kennedy in two days’ time. He walked aimlessly, circumnavigating the narrow streets that bound Osakatown and the Chinese Ghetto till he found himself outside Astor Place in the early evening. St Marks was a street away and he had come almost full circle.

A cinema nearby had been playing a double feature:
Touch of Evil
and
Citizen Kurtz
. The first film was almost over. Lightholler, having no desire to return to his hotel, accepted the ticket stub from a surly woman and shuffled into the theatrette. Four or five other people were already seated in the dusty room. The proprietor was taking a small risk in showing the feature. Orson Welles’ portrayal of the Vietnam War hardly cast the Japanese in a favourable light, nor did it make any attempt to smooth over the difficulties that the Germans and Japanese had endured during the conflict. Welles had taken Conrad’s
Heart of Darkness
and reset it in the jungles of Indochina. Kurtz had become a German military adviser gone rogue; Marlowe was now a Union officer, dispatched by his Japanese masters to subdue him. All the characters were daubed in shades of grey. Flawed men reduced by circumstance to blind savagery.

By the time Lightholler had left the cinema the street had gone dark. Lamps flickered along the avenues to either side, but the street itself was a shadow bridging glittering shores. He’d made his way back to the Waldorf slowly, watching his own shadow lengthen and diminish in the pools of light of solitary streetlamps. He’d clambered into bed, hoping that his wanderings would confer the reward of a dreamless night. Instead, he’d tossed and turned, until finally throwing off his sheets.

Before he was even aware of it, he was dressed and walking back down the corridor of the hotel, past the Astoria Lounge where a century earlier his great-grandfather had stood proclaiming the incompetence of the
Titanic
’s owners. Out on the street, a thin mist was dissipating, the eastern sky hinting at dawn. A Japanese soldier approached him, pointed to his watch and back to the hotel, mouthing one word: curfew.

Lightholler, thankful that he had remembered to bring his wallet, produced the necessary papers. The soldier gave a small bow and Lightholler set out again. Apart from the odd sentry post, where soldiers lolled and spat on the cool pavement, he saw no one. Once on Broadway he followed its long course down to Battery Park, and by the time he arrived so had the morning light. He had sat on the splintered park bench, looking out to sea, till sleep had finally taken him.