‘But,’ said Joe, ‘how come you can live here in Albufeira?’
‘Simple. I look through these here books …’H.K. grabbed three large books of art reproductions from the shelf, ‘and choose the Pic. of the Month.’
The removal of the art books revealed three small ones that had fallen down the back of the row of books.
‘But,’ said Joe, ‘it says …’ Joe’s face bloomed red in embarrassment. I quickly plucked out the books.
‘Sure it says there’s a panel of artists and jokers like that,’ H.K. agreed.
One book was called
‘… they choose it …’ H.K. went on.
The third book was called
‘… but I, Henri Zahn, select it.’ H.K. laughed a great boom of a laugh and smashed his thigh with his big hairy fist like he’d collapse in hysterics if he didn’t beat himself serious quickly.
That Wednesday was one long wasted day as I look back on it. Giorgio and Singleton were to try a dive in the afternoon, but Giorgio’s reducer was defective (which caused the air to blast into the demand valve instead of flowing). They turned back after only a few yards. I suppose I was a bit edgy, cursing myself for overlooking the package the night before and being a little too critical of everything, including the Borbigoes — large cockles — that Charly had cooked with hot paprika and smoked ham sausage for lunch. After lunch she disappeared back to H.K.’s and I had a talk about expenses and car hire with Joe MacIntosh, who was doing all the bookwork as well as being in charge of diving.
I was concerned about Giorgio. He had been so boisterous and effervescent until we began diving. Joe said all divers are like that after they begin a job.
‘They mope around and worry about freshwater currents and whether to remove a bulkhead door. He’ll be O.K. when we complete diving.’
I looked at the diagram of the U-boat. Giorgio had cross-hatched the sections he had worked and there was a small red blob where the empty canister had been found under the control-room floor.
The marked area seemed very small compared with the size of the U-boat. I wondered how long it would be before we found the currency or log book, or London gave us permission to cease operations, or Mr Smith appeared on the scene.
It was when Joe was locking the plan of the submarine back into the writing-desk drawer that he noticed it.
We checked, sat down and thought about it, but Joe found the broken woodwork and then there was no doubt at all. The empty canister was exactly as we’d left it, still locked into the wardrobe, but someone had stolen the photos of it.
There is no alternative in situations like this. It wasn’t something that every young intelligence worker finds enthralling. It was a sordid little job of the sort that constitutes much of our work. Joe and I began to search everyone’s room.
Apart from the usual personality insights that these searches always provide, there was only one remarkable thing. Among the several articles in Charly’s room that a young single girl shouldn’t know how to buy were twenty- five rounds of 7.65 parabellum ammunition.
Joe had called London and they brought a light civilian plane down to Algarve for me. It was a fine clear night when I went out to the airfield via da Cunha’s house.
There were lights on, and outside the front door was a black Mercedes and a Seat car. Each had an E-plate and Madrid registration.[15] Farther along under the almond trees was H.K.’s little deux-chevaux. I knew that, as surely as a tickbird follows a rhino, a two-stroke motorcycle would be somewhere near by. It was. I remembered the Portuguese proverb that says, ‘From Spain, neither fair wind nor good marriage.’
A bell jangled deep in the interior and echoed back like a belly laugh. I rang again. Finally da Cunha opened the door himself. A gold tooth glinted in the lamplight, and he passed me the package from under his velvet smoking jacket. It was still wrapped in brown paper and string and was as heavy as good advice. Joe had the motor running when I got back to the car.
The little villages were dark except for the doorways. Low-wattage bulbs shone yellow amid the black furniture and rough whitewashed walls. Here and there a sharp glint of light reflected from a bottle.
Inevitably there were the laden burros, bicycles, and unlit carts wobbling along the black roads. I drew up at the place marked on my map; palm leaves cut jagged pieces of darkness from the stars. The trees were heavy with olives and the warm night air held their aroma. From near by came the purr of a light aeroplane engine. I got the green canister from the boot and scrambled aboard.
We were skirting the Bilbao air traffic control zone before I discovered the note that da Cunha had tucked into the package. I showed it to Joe.
Dear Smith,
During April 1945 the body of a German sailor was washed ashore a few kilometres to the west of here. I arranged that the body should be afforded a decent Christian burial and the accompanying package, which was the only thing found on the body, was buried with it. Since the fishermen who first discovered the body are now anxious that the package should be given to you, and since in my opinion the British Government has an obvious claim of ownership, I have pleasure in restoring it to you.
Your obedient servant,
DA CUNHA
By 3 a.m. Gatwick airport was grudgingly clearing us for landing among all their big boys. In our little cabin the instruments glowed numbers and with a sudden leap the landing lights, cut through the winter’s rain. I began to worry whether Brown’s Hotel would have a room for Joe.
19 Never say this
Dawlish picked it up and held it under the Anglepoise lamp. The burnished metal coruscated in the hard artificial light.
‘Just gave it to you, did he?’ said Dawlish. He flung me a fresh packet of Gauloises. ‘Very good. A stroke of luck.’
The phone rang. Alice said she’d run out of coffee, would Nescafe do. It was 6.25 a.m. and Dawlish told her she’d better go home and get some sleep, but she brought it up for us.
‘New cups and saucers, eh Alice,’ I said. Her smile was like a shaft of Christmas-afternoon sunshine. Dawlish handed her the block of metal. It was eight inches by six and about two and a quarter inches thick. The arcs of milling shone as she twisted it in her bony hands.
A large hole was driven through the carbon steel block. Fitting exactly into the hole were three discs. Two of the discs were over an inch thick. Alice shook them into her open palm. The dies carried a fine intaglio design, on one a man on a prancing horse, on the other a portrait of Queen Victoria. Nestling between them was a shiny sovereign.
Alice studied each one carefully, and looked up at me and then at Dawlish.
‘Isn’t it just as I said, Mr Dawlish?’
‘Yes, you were right, Alice,’ said Dawlish. ‘Excellent quality die for forging sovereigns.’
‘But didn’t I tell you that it would have Queen Victoria on it?’ she asked Dawlish.
‘All right, Alice,’ I said, ‘I was wrong, but we aren’t through diving yet.’
Alice trotted off home at 6.45 a.m. and over our coffee Dawlish and I sat down and talked about staff changes and overseas finance and how many days to Christmas and it didn’t seem like it and it doesn’t interest us but Dawlish’s kids liked it and the expense of it all; until Dawlish suddenly said, ‘You never relax; it’s getting you
