Storm Warning

‘Not really,’ Prager told him. ‘He knows something’s going on. But how could he possibly suspect the truth? No one in his right mind would believe it.’ He clapped Richter on the shoulder. ‘Now let’s get moving.’

The bosun said, ‘I didn’t get a chance to tell you inside, but there was someone asking for you.’

There was a movement behind and, as Prager turned, a nun in tropical-white habit stepped into the light. She was a small woman, not much over five feet tall, with clear, untroubled eyes and a calm, unlined face.

‘Sister Angela,’ Richter said.

‘… of the Sisters of Mercy from the mission station on the Rio Negro. Introductions are not necessary, Helmut. Sister Angela and I are old acquaintances.’

He took off his panama and held out his hand which she clasped briefly in a grasp of surprising strength.

‘It’s good to see you again, Sister.’

‘And you, Herr Prager. I think you know why I’m here.’

‘Why, yes, Sister.’ Otto Prager smiled warmly. ‘I believe I do.’

An anchor light hung from the Deutschland’s forestay, as required by marine regulations, and this they saw first as Richter worked the dinghy across the harbour. Then suddenly she was very close, her masts and spars dark against the sky.

Prager looked up with conscious pleasure as he climbed the Jacob’s ladder. She was a three-masted barquentine built by Hamish Campbell on the Clyde in 1881 and built with love and understanding and grace, with an elegant clipper bow to her and an extended jib-boom.

She had spent a lifetime in trade; Newcastle-on-Tyne with steam coal for Valparaiso; Chilean nitrates for America’s west coast; lumber for Australia; wool for Britain … an endless circle, as sail died in a doomed attempt to combat steam, one owner after another through three changes of name until, finally, she had been bought by the Brazilian firm of Mayer Brothers, a family of German extraction, who had rechristened her Deutschland and put her to the coastal trade. Rio to Belém and the mouth of the Amazon – just the craft for such waters, having a draught of only eight feet fully loaded.

Prager went over the bulwark and extended his hand to Sister Angela. Richter was close behind on the ladder. Three seamen by the main mast gazed in astonishment as the little nun came over the side, and one of them hurried forward to take her other hand.

She thanked him, and Prager said to her, ‘I think it would be better if I spoke to Captain Berger alone to start with.’

‘Whatever you think best, Herr Prager,’ she said tranquilly.

He turned to Richter. ‘Take the good sister down to the saloon, then wait for me outside the Captain’s cabin.’

Richter and Sister Angela descended the companionway and Prager went aft towards the quarterdeck. Berger’s cabin was underneath. He hesitated, then braced himself, knocked on the door and went in.

The cabin was small, spartan in its furnishings – narrow bunk and three cupboards and not much else except for the desk behind which Berger sat, making a measurement with parallel rulers on the chart spread before him.

He glanced up, and there was relief in his eyes. ‘I was beginning to get worried.’

He was at that time forty-eight years old, of medium height with good shoulders, his wiry, dark hair and beard flecked with grey, and his face weathered by sea and sun.

‘I’m sorry,’ Prager said. ‘We ran into a bad electric storm on the flight from Rio. The pilot insisted on touching down at Carolina until the weather cleared. We were there for four hours.’

Berger opened a sandalwood box and offered him a cheroot. ‘What’s the latest war news?’

‘All bad.’ Prager sat in the chair opposite and accepted a light. ‘On the fifteenth of this month American and French forces landed on the Mediterranean coast. Two days ago French tanks entered Paris.’

Berger whistled softly. ‘Next stop the Rhine.’

‘I should imagine so.’

‘And then Germany.’ He stood up, crossed to one of the cupboards, opened it and took out a bottle of rum and two glasses. ‘What about the Russians?’

‘The Red Army is on the borders of East Prussia.’

Berger poured rum into the glasses and pushed one across. ‘You know, Otto, we Germans haven’t had to defend the soil of the Fatherland since Napoleon. It should prove an interesting experience.’

‘Brazil might be the best place to be for the next year or two,’ Prager said. ‘A hell of a time to go home.’

‘Or the only time,’ Berger said. ‘It depends on your point of view. Have you got the papers?’

Prager put his briefcase on the desk. ‘Everything needed and I’ve checked again on the barquentine you mentioned when you first spoke of this crazy affair, the GudridAndersen. She’s still in Gothenburg harbour. Hasn’t been to sea since the first year of the war.’

‘Excellent,’ Berger said. ‘Plain sailing from here on, then.’

‘You are fully prepared?’

Berger opened a cupboard and took out a lifejacket which he dropped on the desk. The legend Gudrid Andersen – Gothenburg was stencilled on the back.

‘And this, of course.’ He produced next a Swedish ensign. ‘A most important item as I’m sure you’ll agree.’ He smiled. ‘Everything is ready, believe me. The official change of name we’ll make once clear of the coastal shipping lanes.’

‘And the log?’

‘I’ve already prepared a false one in the name of the Gudrid Andersen for use with our friends from the other side if we should be so unlucky as to run into them. The true log of the Deutschland I shall continue to keep privately. It would not be correct to do otherwise.’ He put the lifejacket and ensign back in the cupboard. ‘As for you, old friend, what can I say? Without your hard work during these past few months, the information you have obtained, the forged papers, we could not have ever begun to contemplate such an enterprise.’

Prager said carefully, ‘There is just one more thing to discuss, Erich.’

‘What’s that?’

Prager hesitated, then said, ‘Seven passengers.’

Berger laughed harshly. ‘You must be joking.’

‘No, I’m perfectly serious. You’ve carried them before, haven’t you?’

‘You know damned well I have.’ There was something close to anger in Berger’s voice. ‘I have accommodation for eight passengers. Two cabins on either side of the saloon, two bunks to each. I should also point out that this ship is amply crewed by ten men including myself. At the moment, we are twenty-two, as you very well know. Seven passengers would mean that the additional crew would have to bunk elsewhere. An impossible situation.’

‘But you’ll be in ballast.’ Prager said. ‘No cargo, and surely genuine passengers would only strengthen your cover story?’

‘Who are these passengers?’

‘Germans, like you and your men, who want to go home.’ Prager took a deep breath and carried on. ‘All right, you might as well know the worst. They’re nuns. Sisters of Mercy from a mission station on the Negro. I’ve been visiting them regularly for the past two years, just like all the other Germans on my list. Every three months; a special dispensation from the authorities as the place is so difficult to get to.’

Berger stared at him in astonishment. ‘For God’s sake, Otto, am I going out of my mind or are you?’

Prager got up without a word and opened the cabin door. Richter was standing outside smoking a cigarillo. Prager nodded and the bosun hurried away.

‘Now what?’ Berger demanded.

‘I brought one of them on board with me. The others are waiting on shore. At least hear what she has to say.’