As she turned into the Reeperbahn she was bitterly regretting not taking a taxi. She was walking along the most infamous road in Hamburg’s notorious red-light district. The Reeperbahn was the haunt of prostitutes, pimps and drug dealers. Each side of the street was lined with bars, nightclubs, strip clubs and brothels, the names of the establishments flashing out in red neon, while bouncers exhorted passers-by to come in and view the best live show on the street.
Sybilla kept her gaze focussed directly ahead, refusing to make eye contact with any other person. She resolved that, when she returned to the Davidwache, she would skewer Lieutenant Wagner with a rusty fish knife. She walked the whole length of the street before arriving at its junction with Grosse Freiheit. Her anxiety deepened when she realised it was just a ninety-degree extension of the Reeperbahn. However, halfway up, the strip clubs and topless bars started giving way to restaurants and Gasthöfe. Near the end of the road, she came upon the bar she was looking for. In place of the ubiquitous neon, a simple sign in gothic lettering on a painted background declared to the world that this was ‘Gaststätte St Pauli’. It looked like a very traditional German pub: no bouncer, no picture galleries displaying naked women, no loud, blaring music.
Sybilla stopped just inside the entrance to allow her eyes to accustom to the gloom. The red flock wallpaper, together with the low lighting, gave the room an eerie atmosphere. The diabolical masks hanging from the walls enhanced that further. Directly to her front was a three-piece combo on a stage, accompanying an attractive young girl with a surprisingly good voice singing a surprisingly bad song.
To Sybilla’s right was the bar, beautifully constructed in wrought iron, the front of the bar in red padded leather. Several rows of bottles and optics lined the rear wall, and hanging from hooks on a cross-beam at the front was a line of traditional beer mugs.
Arranged haphazardly around the stage were a number of black tables surrounded by red leather upholstered chairs. Sybilla was, according to Voigt’s landlady, looking for a loner. Most of the tables were occupied by small groups, but on one table a single man sat, seemingly engrossed by the stage show. Well, thought Sybilla, I have to start somewhere.
Indicating the seat next to the man, Sybilla asked, “Is this free?”
“No!” he answered without taking his eyes off the stage.
“Thanks,” said Sybilla as she sat down. “Are you Uwe Voigt?”
“Who wants to know?” he asked without looking at her.
“Sybilla Thorstaadt. I work for the British military.”
For the first time the man turned towards her, looking puzzled. “Why?” he asked.
The question threw Sybilla for a moment but, regaining her composure, she laughed lightly and said, “Do you know, I’ve often asked myself that question.”
The man showed more interest in her. Sybilla’s laugh had that effect on men.
“Yes, I’m Uwe Voigt. What do you want?”
As she answered, Sybilla took a twenty-mark note from her purse and laid it in front of the man. “I just want to ask a few questions about U-530, particularly her last voyage.”
Voigt hesitated for a moment then picked up the money and slid it into his top pocket. “Why not?” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s an open secret now. But before you start, I just wondered, does asking and answering questions make you thirsty?”
Sybilla rose, smiling. Inclining her head towards the bar she asked, “What are you drinking?”
“Oh, thank you!” he said, trying to sound surprised. “A large beer and a small beer—Dortmunder Pils—from tap, none of that bottled rubbish.”
“Who’s the small beer for?” asked Sybilla.
“The singer,” he said, nodding towards the stage.
When Sybilla returned a few minutes later carrying two half-litre mugs and a 0.2-litre glass of Pils, the singer had joined them and was sat next to Voigt. Sybilla placed one of the mugs in front of Voigt and handed the glass to the girl. “You have a lovely voice,” she said.
“Thank you,” she said, then openly appraising Sybilla, added, “And you are very beautiful.”
Embarrassed, Sybilla could only mutter her thanks, then rallying, she raised her mug. “Grüß Gott!”
“Ugh!” proclaimed the singer. “A Bavarian.”
“No, she isn’t,” said Voigt, “she’s British.”
“Actually, I’m Norwegian. I only work for the British.”
“Ah!” said Voigt. “Are you related to one of the U-boat crew?”
Looking puzzled, Sybilla shook her head. “No, why do you ask?”
“It’s just that we unloaded some of the crew in Norway—I believe one or two had Norwegian relations. I thought maybe that was why you were interested.”
The singer rose. Sybilla rose with her and offered her hand, which the girl took and held onto.
“I meant what I said about you being beautiful. I have to go back on stage now, but if you want to wait until I finish, we could go upstairs together. I do women as well as men. You could have a free one.”
Sybilla, trying to hide her acute embarrassment, smiled as best she could. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m strictly business today, but it was truly kind of you to offer.”
The girl shrugged and started to walk towards the stage. Over her shoulder she called, “Another time then.”
Sybilla was still trying to regain her composure, when Voigt asked, “Do you want me to tell you about our epic voyage?”
She didn’t look at him, but she knew he was smiling broadly, enjoying her embarrassment. “Yes please, Uwe,” she said, trying to sound
