'We're fucked, aren't we!?' says a German voice.
'Huh?' Shaftoe says.
'I said, we're fucked! You guys broke the Enigma!'
'What's the Enigma?'
'Don't play stupid,' says the German.
Shaftoe feels prickly on the back of his neck. That sounds exactly like the kind of thing a German would say before commencing torture.
Shaftoe composes his face into the cool, heavy-lidded, dopey expression that he always uses when he's trying to irritate an officer. As best he can when his legs are bolted down, he rolls over on his side, towards the sound of the voice. He is expecting to see an aquiline SS officer in a black uniform, jackboots, death's-head insignia, and riding crop, perhaps twiddling a pair of thumbscrews in his black leather gloves.
Instead he sees no one at all. Shit! Hallucinations again!
Then the dirty canvas sail bag in the bunk opposite him begins to move around. Shaftoe blinks and resolves a head sticking out of one end: straw-blond but prematurely half bald, contrasting black beard, catlike pale green eyes. The man's canvas garment is not exactly a bag, but a voluminous overcoat. He has his arms crossed over his body.
'Oh, well,' the German mutters, 'I was just trying to make conversation.' He turns his head and scratches his nose by nuzzling his pillow for a while. 'You can tell me any secret you want,' he says. 'See, I've already notified Donitz that the Enigma is shit. And it made no difference. Except he ordered me a new overcoat. The man rolls over, exposing his back to Shaftoe. The sleeves of the garment are sewn shut at the ends and tied together behind his back. 'It is more comfortable than you would think, for the first day or two.'
A mate pulls the leather curtain aside, nods apologetically, and hands Beck a fresh message decrypt. Beck reads it, raises his eyebrows, and blinks tiredly. He sets it down on the table and stares at the wall for fifteen seconds. Then he picks it up and reads it again, carefully.
'It says that I am not to ask you any more questions.'
'What!?'
'Under no circumstances,' Beck says, 'am I to extract any more information from you.'
'What the hell does that mean?'
'Probably that you know something I am not authorized to know,' Beck says.
It has been about two hundred years, now, since Bobby Shaftoe had a trace of morphine in his system. Without it, he cannot know pleasure or even comfort.
The syringe gleams like a cold star on the shelf underneath the crazy German in the straitjacket. He'd rather that they just tore his fingernails out or something.
He knows he's going to crack. He tries to think of a way to crack that won't kill any Marines.
'I could bring you the syringe in my teeth,' suggests the man, who has introduced himself as Bischoff.
Shaftoe mulls it over. 'In exchange for?'
'You tell me whether the Enigma has been decrypted.'
'Oh.' Shaftoe's relieved; he was afraid maybe Bischoff was going to demand a blow job. 'That's the code machine thingamajig you were telling me about?' He and Bischoff have had a lot of time to shoot the breeze.
'Yeah.'
Shaftoe's desperate. But he's also highly irritable, which serves him well now. 'You expect me to believe that you are just a crazy guy who is curious about Enigma, and not a German naval officer who's dressed up in a straitjacket to trick me?'
Bischoff is exasperated. 'I already said that I've told Donitz that Enigma is crap! So if you tell me it's crap, that doesn't make any difference!'
'Let me ask you a question, then,' Root says.
'What have you told Charlottenburg about us?'
'Names, ranks, serial numbers, circumstances of capture.'
'But you told them that yesterday.'
'Correct.'
'What have you told them recently?'
'Nothing. Except for the serial number on the morphium bottle.'
'And how long after you told them that did they send you the message to stop extracting information from us?'
'About forty-five minutes,' Beck says. 'So, yes, I would very much like to ask you where that bottle came from. But it is against orders.'
'I might consider answering your question about Enigma,' Shaftoe says, 'if you tell me whether this pipe bomb is carrying any gold.'
Bischoff's brow furrows; he's having translation problems. 'You mean money?
'No. Gold. The expensive yellow metal.'
'A little, maybe,' Bischoff says.
'Not petty cash,' Shaftoe says. 'Tons and tons.'
'No. U-boats don't carry tons of gold,' Bischoff says flatly.
'I'm sorry you said that, Bischoff. Because I thought you and I were starting a good relationship. Then you went and lied to me-you fuck!'
To Shaftoe's surprise and mounting irritation, Bischoff thinks that it's absolutely hilarious to be called a fuck. 'Why the hell should I lie to you? For god's sake, Shaftoe! Since you bastards broke Enigma and put radar on everything that moves, virtually every U-boat that's put to sea has been sunk! Why would the Kriegsmarine load tons of gold onto a ship that they know is doomed! ?'
'Why don't you ask the guys who loaded it on board U-553?'
'Ha! This only proves you are full of shit!' Bischoff says. 'U-553 was sunk a year ago, during a convoy attack.'
'Not so. I was on board it just a couple of months ago,' Shaftoe says, 'off Qwghlm. It was full of gold.'
'Bullshit,' Bischoff says. 'What was painted on its conning tower?'
'A polar bear holding a beer stein.'
Long silence.
'You want to know more? I went into the captain's cabin,' Shaftoe said, 'and there was a photo of him with some other guys, and now that I think of it, one of them looked like you.'
'What were we doing?'
'You were all in swimming trunks. You all had whores on your laps!' Shaftoe shouts. 'Unless those were your wives-in which case I'm sorry your wife is a whore!'
