Certainly there was. But if he did what Brown wanted, once, he had a feeling it might be twice, and that it wouldn’t end there. And Brown wouldn’t dare to impound his ship, his job wouldn’t survive doing something like that. All right then, get out of the car.
“You aren’t averse to taking a passenger, are you?”
The current running beneath his words had stiffened-this was barely a question, almost a statement, and DeHaan realized it was a reference to Maria Bromen.
“And I expect the welfare of, um, any passenger, would mean something to you, no?” And, in Lisbon, because I can do it, I will, friend.
“Yes, it would,” DeHaan said.
“Ah then, we have no problem at all.”
It took DeHaan a moment longer, then he said, “No.”
Brown nodded- this always works. “You are helping to win the war, Captain. Even if very little is explained, even if you don’t care for the way things are done in my part of the world, you are. We must all lend a hand, if we’re to prevail, isn’t that so?”
“When does he arrive?”
“Oh, that’s up to you, Captain. When do you want him?”
“Before nine, we’ll be busy after that.”
“I’ll have him here. And we’re both very grateful, believe me. And, I should add, any difficulties here in Lisbon, you need only get in touch.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and handed DeHaan a blank card with a telephone number written on it. “That’s the British Embassy-they’ll know how to contact me.”
It occurred to DeHaan, as it was meant to, that he was now owed a favor, and he wondered if it could be used to help Maria Bromen-it might even get her to Britain. But he sensed that would open a certain door, in her life, to what Brown called his world, a door that didn’t open from the other side. DeHaan put the card in his pocket and got out of the car.
“Goodby, Captain,” Mr. Brown said. “And thanks again.”
2035 hours.
A pair of headlights turned the corner of the cargo shed, then went off as the car drove slowly to the end of the pier.
2130 hours.
The cargo shed was vast, seen from the inside, its ceiling thirty feet high. DeHaan, accompanied by Kees and Kovacz, followed Senhor Penha past mountains of stacked drums and bales until he found their consignment-an island of raw wood crates circled by a wire with a metal seal. Without ceremony, Penha took a wire cutter from a leather case and snipped off the seal. “Now it’s yours,” he said. He produced a paper for DeHaan to sign- cork oak, sardines, cooking oil — and departed, his hurrying footsteps receding down the length of the shed, followed by the emphatic slam of a door.
“Not much, is it,” Kees said, squatting to inspect one of the crates. By freighter standards, hardly anything at all. The twenty-footers were no doubt sections of tower, the lattice aerials flat, and ten feet across. There were also a dozen square crates, eight by eight, and three flatbed trucks, painted matte black.
“We’ll have to manhandle this stuff to the end of the dock,” DeHaan said. “Our crane will get it aboard from there.”
“The trucks, for the twenty-footers,” Kees said. “The one on the end facing backwards, and driving in reverse. We’ll need crew to get them on there.” He put a hand on one of the eight-foot squares. “What’s in here?”
“No idea,” DeHaan said. “Supplies, maybe.”
Kees took a prybar from his belt, the nails squeaked as a board came free and a hard-edged shape in oiled paper bulged through the opening. “Smell the cosmoline?” he said. He opened a clasp knife, slit the paper and peeled it back, revealing gray steel shining with lubricant. “This will be a submachine gun, I think, if you can find the magazine.”
“I’m sure it’s packed, in there somewhere,” DeHaan said.
“That’s what my wife used to say,” Kovacz said.
“Go get help,” DeHaan said to Kees, as he hammered the board back on.
As Kees left, Kovacz climbed into the nearest truck. “I wonder if they drained the tank,” he said. He felt around for the ignition switch, then the engine came to life with a huge hammering roar that echoed off the high ceiling. “Christ, what’s in here?” he shouted over the noise. He shifted into first gear, there was a loud metallic bang as it engaged, then the truck crept forward, a slow foot at a time. “That’s all of it. I bet it’ll do fifteen, downhill.”
“Regeared,” DeHaan yelled back. “All torque, no speed.”
Kovacz drove a few feet more, then stopped and turned the engine off. “My uncle Dice has a farm in Leszno, he’d love this thing.”
“He’ll have to wait,” DeHaan said.
When Kees returned, he had half the crew with him. Together they heaved and cursed until the first section of a tower rolled onto the truck bed. DeHaan, driving the backward-facing truck, didn’t get reverse on his first try, which caused a mass shout of alarm until he stamped on the brake. He got it right the second time and the two trucks crept through the broad doors at the end of the shed and moved slowly down the pier.
When he climbed down from the cab, Ratter was waiting for him. “Awake, O Lisbon,” he said, grinning.
“Can’t be helped,” DeHaan said.
“We’ll have police,” Ratter said. Then he peered into the darkness, nudged DeHaan with an elbow, and nodded back toward the cargo shed, where a lone figure stood in the shadows. “If that’s who I think it is,” he said, “you better go back there.”
It was loud and busy at the cargo shed, so DeHaan led her away, to the dark edge of the pier where the river current lapped at the pilings. “Forgive me,” she said. She was very tired, her voice soft with regret. “Maybe if I had waited for the night…”
“What happened?”
She took a deep breath, tried to steady herself. “They arrested me.” Of course, what else. “I never even got to street. Two men, in a car. Not the regular police, some other kind, the political kind, I think.”
“And?”
“And they took me to an office, and told me that I did not have visa for Portugal, so, if I choose to stay, I will be interned. They were polite, not angry-it is just the way their law is.”
“What does that mean, exactly? Did they explain it to you?”
“A camp, it means. Somewhere east of the city-they said the name but I forgot it. It isn’t like Germany, they said, but I would have to stay there until I could go somewhere else.”
“Where would you go?” DeHaan said.
“Back to Russia, they said. Or back to Tangier, if the Spanish would let me. Or wherever I could get permission to go. I could write letters, they said. All the internees write letters, although the mail is irregular.”
“But they let you come back here.”
“Yes, in time. They kept me in the office all day, brought me a sandwich, then they told me I could come back here-it would be as though I never entered the country, they said, if I returned to the ship.”
Was this, DeHaan wondered, Mr. Brown at work? He tried to figure it out, if this, then that, but it was a tangle of possibilities-including the possibility that he knew nothing about it. “Miss Bromen,” he said. “Maria. What we are going to do is very dangerous. You were on the ship when we repainted, and you know what that means.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Then you know it may not succeed, it may end in a bad way. If we’re caught, we’ll be taken under guard to a German port. Or sunk. So it’s possible that life in a Portuguese internment camp would be better, much better, than what can happen if you are aboard my ship. You would be alive, and then there is always hope. And they can’t keep you there forever. This war will end, sooner or later, they all do, and, even if the British capitulate, there would be some kind of settlement, treaties, arrangements.”
“I don’t think I can live in a camp,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “But that’s what you think I should do, isn’t it.”
“I don’t want you hurt, or dead. I don’t want you in a German prison.”
