The Last Eagle (2011) (22 page)

Andrus Kalm, admiral of the Estonian fleet, adjusted the sleeves of his uniform, and then plucked a piece of lint from the front of his jacket. He would need to scold his maid. Stupid Jew. She was supposed to make sure his uniforms were perfectly clean, and yet, for the second day in a row, he had been distracted in a meeting by lint on his jacket. This would not do. Perhaps it was time to find someone else, someone with a sharper eye? And given the present political climate, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone with a more palatable ethnic background in his service either.

Kalm cleared his throat, brushed his mustache, kept black as a Halloween cat courtesy of a dye used by his barber, and then continued in Polish. “Ah, yes, where was I. Damn unfortunate, this war, if you ask me. Complicates everything, you know. More rules and regulations.”

The admiral was safe behind a large rosewood desk, a memento from some long-forgotten trip to Asia. He didn’t stare at the three Polish officers in the chairs opposite him as he rambled along but gazed out the window of his harbor office at the steeples and turrets of medieval Tallinn. Though avoiding eye contact was a habit he had developed long ago as a young boy, when any direct gaze brought instance retribution from his abusive father, if truth be told, he did find the presence of these officers unsettling, almost insulting. It was easier not to look at them. His men knew better than to approach him without first making sure they were presentable. If any of them had looked like these three, they would have found themselves cleaning toilets in the bowels of a 50-year-old rust bucket before they had a chance to squeak an objection.

Of course, Kalm had to admit the captain, Sieinski was his name, wasn’t dressed poorly. He just looked awful. Sick. Sweat poured from his face like an overworked field hand. Dark circles already stained his uniform beneath each arm. And the bruise on his forehead, a mustard yellow with streaks of purple, looked like the artwork of an undisciplined child. And the other one, the executive officer. Dressed like a garbage man, and smelling the part. Kalm knew that submariners were not held to the high standards of surface crew in terms of hygiene and dress because of the constraints of the vessels upon which they served. But this hulk of a man was ridiculous. Filthy clothes. Red-rimmed eyes. Scraggy beard and hair. It was an insult. And finally, the Polish naval attaché stationed at the Polish embassy. This man had no excuse. He knew protocol and common decency. Kalm glanced at the man’s hands folded neatly on his lap, and then returned his gaze to the window. He had already apologized. Said he was working in his garden. At the very least, he should have had time to clean his fingernails during the drive here, or better yet, he should have worn gloves when he was working.

All this talk of rules reminded Kalm of how it had been when he was a young ensign. Recounting past deeds always made him feel better. He took a deep breath and jumped into an account of the time he had spent a few months on the Austro-Hungarian battleship
Maria Theresia
, cruising in the Mediterranean in 1902.

 Sieinski was only half listening to the Estonian admiral, a puffed up mushroom of a man who should have been retired before the last war, he thought. Hard to keep a thought in his mind when there was a car already waiting for him outside the building. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out. He’d managed a phone call to family friends before the meeting, and once past the usual pleasantries, asked for the number of a local physician who could be trusted. As soon as this meeting was over, Sieinski was going directly there.

Sieinski watched the admiral open his mouth, say a few words to the buildings outside, and then pause. Sieinski gave a bland smile he hoped was appropriate. Hurry up you old shit, he thought.

Stefan had stayed silent during the admiral’s prattle, too tired to care about Sieinski’s growing discomfort, wondering if anyone would notice if he took a little snooze. The chair he was sitting in was a delight. Big enough for his frame, soft cushion. In a pinch, it would do as a wonderful substitute for a bed. That alone was reason for extending this meeting. If he could just take off his boots. Then it would be perfect. But he knew the smell that would result from that act would clear the room and outrage the admiral even more than he was already. It was clear that something was bothering the old man, or else the collar that grasped his beefy neck like the hands of a strangler was too tight. Stefan glanced down at his clothes. Compared to the other two men, he looked like a vagabond. He should have changed, but at the time, it didn’t seem that important. He had on a salt-stained jacket and the same pants and boots he had been wearing when the
Eagle
left Gdynia. The only thing different, he was wearing a new cap. He preferred his old one, but it would be poor manners to ask Kate to trade him. Besides, he liked the idea of her having something of his.

Sieinski let Kalm finish a long, detailed exposition of his exploits during the Great War and decided it was past time to hurry things along. “Very interesting, I’m sure,” he said abruptly as Kalm paused to take a breath. “Anything else we should discuss? After our repairs, we will depart immediately.”

The naval attaché from the Polish embassy looked up from his hands. He had just noticed his dirty fingernails. His name was Adam Mokriski. He had plenty of work at the embassy. Gardening was the least of his concerns, but that is what he did when he was worried. And war news from home had him deeply worried. He had phoned in sick, deciding instead to stay home and work in his rose bed. “Yes, sir. They will depart,” he echoed, feeling the need to contribute something.

“Of course, they will,” the admiral waved. “And I will do everything to help you.” He glanced sharply at Sieinski. “Yes, there is one other item. You need to be aware of a few regulations. According to …,” he glanced at the notes on his desktop, “Article XII of the Hague Convention, to which Poland and Estonia are signatories, representatives of the neutral country—that’s me—are required to inform a belligerent warship—that’s you¬—that it must leave within 24 hours. In fact, not just leave port, but leave the territorial waters. Clear enough, I think.”

Sieinski glanced at his watch. “You will have no problems from us. Repairs are already under way …,” he lied.

“Very good,” beamed the admiral, finally deigning to look at the men, relieved that they were nearly out of his office, completely unaware of the fact, like most self-absorbed prigs, that he was the one prolonging it. “If there are no more questions, then …..” He stood, putting an exclamation mark to the end of the meeting.

Stefan yawned, looked up at everyone already on their feet, and then pushed himself out of the chair. He patted the arm affectionately. Yes, a fine chair, he thought. He remembered, his hat, reached under the chair to grab, and then plopped it on his head. “One question, sir,” he said. Sieinski had already fled. The attaché paused in the doorway, wavering between following after the captain, and wanting to hear what Stefan asked the admiral. “Perhaps you could tell me where I might find the offices of the Dutch shipbuilder De Schelde? They have a couple of items we need.”

Kalm gave Stefan a blank look. “I’m not aware that any Dutch shipbuilder has offices in Tallinn. You must be mistaken.”

“Are you sure? We have three Dutch engineers on board and they ….”

“Ignorance is not one of my vices,” interrupted the admiral haughtily.

“But these Dutch engineers, they ….” Stefan caught himself. There it was again. A vague sense of unease, as if his subconscious had something important all worked out, but could only hint at the answer. He caught sight of the attaché shaking his head back and forth, and then noticed that Kalm’s face had deepened another shade of red.

“Thank you, sir,” Stefan said, giving the admiral a crisp salute, pivoting around on his heels, and then he marched out of his room.

“I have to get back to my ship,” Stefan said as he hurried down the hallway.

“I was hoping to talk with you and your captain,” Mokriski said. He glanced over his shoulder. “News from home is very bad.”

Stefan gave the man a brief glance. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said shortly.

“Why are you here?” Mokriski said with a little heat. “We weren’t notified that you were coming. It was a complete surprise. Why aren’t you? …”

“Defending the homeland?” Stefan finished for him. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, ignoring the glances from the Estonian naval staff, office workers and secretaries, hurrying by on either side of them, the bright linoleum floor gleamed like a road to Oz in either direction. Morkriski skidded to a stop a moment later, doubled back to Stefan, not afraid to stand close though he was half Stefan’s bulk.

“Why, yes, that’s exactly what I was going to say,” Morkriski said, glaring up at the
Eagle’s
executive officer.

Stefan gave a thin smile of apology, resisted an impulse to pat the smaller man on the top of his head. “That is an excellent question. In fact, one I asked myself on numerous occasions. But for the answer, you need to ask our dear, departed captain. I’m surprised, though, you didn’t know we were on our way. He said he radioed headquarters about our coming …”

Morkriski shrugged. “They never contacted us.”

Another faint eddy of unease touched his spine. Stefan shook his head after a moment. At the moment, it didn’t matter if the captain had lied about it, or if it was simply a mistake at headquarters in Poland. Sieinski was done on the
Eagle
. That was a certainty. Stefan turned and began hurrying down the hallway again. The desire to get back to the ship was growing stronger with each passing moment. On impulse, Stefan shouted over his shoulder. “I may need your help later on.”

Morkriski ran to catch up. “With what?”

Stefan gave a humorless laugh. “Probably nothing … the war has me spooked.” He paused in the middle of the marble-clad entryway of the Estonian naval headquarters building, slapped the attaché on either shoulder. “But maybe it is something. My grandmother was a gypsy, you know.” And then pushed through the doors and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“What a loonybird.” Morkriski breathed the words, watching Stefan leave. Must be those damn boats. Enough to make anyone batty. Cooped up like that. He thought about returning to the embassy. But that was another nuthouse, the inhabitants almost as crazed as submariners. Morkriski glanced at his nails and decided. At the moment, he needed his roses almost as much as they needed him. As he followed a red-haired Estonian woman out the door, admiring the movement of her skirt across her ample behind, he began to laugh. “A gypsy grandmother? That Stefan Petrofski was a kook and a jokester. No one with gypsy parents or grandparents could ever rise to officer in the Polish Navy.” But then, as Morkriski raised his arm to hail a cab, another thought occurred to him. “What if he hadn’t been joking?”

Back in his office, Admiral Kalm was standing next to his window. Despite his age, his eyes were still sharp as a teenager’s. He spied Stefan’s bulky figure appear on the sidewalk, watched him glance automatically to the sky, a sailors habit, and then begin jogging back toward the harbor, as resolute as a locomotive.

“That one will be a problem,” he said to the man standing at his side.

Ritter, hands clasped behind his back, watched Stefan disappear. He had already showered and shaved, and stood dressed in his
Kriegsmarine
uniform, courtesy of the naval staff at the German embassy.

It was almost done.

“Perhaps,” he said, acknowledging this superior officer. “But I think it is too late for him to matter. It is all set, is it not?”

“As you requested, Captain,” Kalm replied smoothly. This man was only a captain, but he had Dönitz’s ear, it was said. Best to treat him gently. “The invitation is being delivered as we speak. But what if they decline?”

 “Refuse free food and drink?” Ritter began to laugh. “You don’t know Polish sailors. Trust me, if we did not send the trucks, they would arrive an hour early on foot. In any case, we have them hooked. The
Eagle
is all but mine.”

Kalm couldn’t contain a chuckle. The young, arrogant German bastard. “No, it is almost mine,” Kalm corrected. “Or, to be more precise, under the protection of the Estonian government. There are a few rules we must follow. Arrangements made. Confirmations sent. You understand, of course.”

Ritter understood precisely. The appropriate amount of money needed to be deposited into Kalm’s Swiss bank account. When he received news of the completed transaction, the submarine would be taken to a remote location, and then turned over to a German crew, who were already waiting on a German freighter, anchored in the harbor. “As you will, Admiral.”

The
Eagle
was tied up to a deserted pier in Tallinn’s inner harbor. A few Estonian sailors carrying rifles guarded approaches to the vessel, but their weapons remained slung over their shoulders, and the affable crew of the
Eagle
had already made friends with them, trading cigarettes for girlie magazines, sweets and, no doubt, a bottle of vodka or two.

Nearby, a worn German freighter rode silently at anchor. At first, its presence had caused no little consternation, the gun crews swinging their barrels to track its shape as the
Eagle
motored by. But when no threat materialized, the sailors on deck began jeering like soccer fans at the scattered figures who appeared on the freighter’s deck to watch the passing submarine. Strangely, though, the Germans did not reply in kind. They simply stood at the rail, silently staring. “That’s odd,” Squeaky said, raising a hand to give them a universally recognized gesture. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist,” he apologized in response to Stefan’s glance.