The Honor of Spies

Her diesels were idling; if necessary, she could be under way in a minute or two and submerged a few minutes after that. It was unlikely that she would have to do that. They were just about equidistant from Africa and South America, in the middle of the Atlantic, and off the usual shipping lanes.

The chief of the boat was in the conning tower, resting on his elbows. Two seamen were manning a machine gun.

"Morgen!" von Dattenberg called. He had "the voice of command"; it carried.

The seamen popped to attention. The chief of the boat looked up and waved his right arm in a gesture that was far more a friendly wave than a salute.

A white-jacketed steward touched von Dattenberg's arm and, when he looked, handed him a steaming china mug.

"The capitan asks that you join him for breakfast, Capitan."

"Thank you," von Dattenberg said, and walked off the flying bridge into the wheelhouse, then through it to the chart room, and from there to the door to the master's cabin.

De Banderano waved him in. A table had been set with a crisp white tablecloth and silver. A steward--not the one who had given von Dattenberg the coffee--immediately began to deliver breakfast.

It was an impressive display of food. They were served a basket of breads and rolls, thin slices of ham rolled into tubes, a plate of curled butter, and another of jams and marmalades.

De Banderano poked at the ham tubes with his fork, then announced: "A ham steak, please, Ricardo. Two eggs, up."

"Yes, sir," the steward said, and looked at von Dattenberg. "Capitan?"

"Not for me, thank you," von Dattenberg said, then immediately changed his mind. "Yes, please. Same thing." He met de Banderano's eyes. "God only knows when I'll eat this well again."

"Yes, sir."

The steward had just poured von Dattenberg another cup of coffee--this time into a delicate Meissen cup sitting on a saucer--when the third mate, serving as officer of the deck, appeared at the door.

"Excuse me, Capitan. There is a submarine dead ahead at maybe three kilometers."

"Can you read her flag?"

"No, sir. The submarine could be anything."

"Perhaps it's Swiss," de Banderano said. "Have the Oerlikons manned just in case. I have never trusted the Swiss navy."

Von Dattenberg chuckled.

The odds against any submarine but a U-boat not immediately submerging when spotting a ship were enormous. And there was no Swiss navy.

The Ciudad de Cadiz had a half-dozen Oerlikon 20mm machine guns mounted in various places in her superstructure, all but two of them behind false bulkheads that could be swung quickly out of the way.

"Yes, sir."

The third mate returned before von Dattenberg and de Banderano had finished their coffee.

"The Oerlikons are manned, sir, and we have notified the U-405."

"Very well," de Banderano said. "Capitan von Dattenberg and I will be on the bridge shortly."

"Send, Lie along our port side," Capitan de Banderano ordered the seaman standing beside him with a signaling lamp.

"Lie alongside our port side. Aye, aye, sir," the signalman said, and began tapping his key.

"That's the U-409," von Dattenberg said.

"You know her? Her master?"

"I don't know if I do or not," von Dattenberg said.

"Submarine sends, Will lie along your port," the signalman reported.

"Very well," de Banderano said. "Make all preparations to take passengers and cargo aboard, with refueling and replenishment of food supplies to follow. Have the galley prepared to feed her crew. Have the table set in the wardroom to feed officers. Alert the laundry."

"Aye, aye, sir," the third mate responded.

"Take the helm, Senor Sanchez."

"I have the helm, sir," Third Mate Sanchez said.

"Why don't we go below, Capitan, and greet our visitors?" Capitan de Banderano suggested.

By the time de Banderano and von Dattenberg had made their way from the bridge to the just-above-the-waterline Seventh Deck, enormous watertight doors in the Ciudad de Cadiz's hull had been slid upward and a huge cushion--lashed-together truck tires--was being lowered into place.

Lines were tossed aboard by sailors on the submarine, and hawsers then fed to the submarine from the ship. The U-409 was pulled carefully against the cushion.

A gangway was slid from the deck of the ship onto the submarine. Two men walked toward it as it was lashed into place. One was dressed, as was von Dattenberg, in a sweater and trousers topped off by an equally battered hat. Despite his neatly trimmed full beard, the captain of the U-409 looked very young.

The man with him was in a black SS uniform, its insignia identifying him as an SS-brigadefuhrer. He was pale-faced, and the uniform was mussed.

And probably dirty, von Dattenberg thought.

The captain of the U-409 walked up the gangway, stopped, raised his arm in a salute, and said, "Permission to board, Kapitan?"

The SS-brigadefuhrer pushed past him onto the ship.

De Banderano returned the salute. "Granted. Welcome."