It was mid-morning when he cleared customs at Heathrow airport. He found a public telephone and looked up the number of the German Embassy. He dialled and asked to speak to the Naval Attaché.
‘Guten Tag,’ a cheerful voice intoned.
‘Good morning,’ McQuade said. ‘Can you help me, please? I’m very interested in German submarines of the World War II period. I believe you have a naval museum in Germany where I can see some?’
‘In Laboe,’ the officer said. ‘Near Kiel.’
McQuade scribbled a note. ‘Which type do they have there?’
‘Type VII C. That was the standard German submarine.’
‘And is there a naval archive open to the public, where I can find out details about individual submarines, and what they did during the war?’
‘The U-Boat Archive, in the town of Sylt. Near the Danish border. The man in charge is Horst Bredow, he was a submariner during the war. I will give you the address. Say hullo to Herr Bredow for me.’
Ten minutes later he was buying a ticket to Hamburg. The Lufthansa girl who served him was heart-achingly beautiful, and as charming as she looked. He went in search of a bar, feeling lucky. Everybody was being so nice. He was starting to enjoy himself.
It was early afternoon when he arrived in Hamburg, full of Löwenbrau beer and feeling no pain. He took a bus to the railway station. There was still plenty of time to get to Kiel before nightfall, but he thought, what the hell! He asked what times the trains ran in the morning, then he crossed the road and checked into Popp’s Hotel. Then, determined to enjoy himself, he did what tourists do in Hamburg and went to the Reeperbahn.
He sat in the Glass Elephant and drank expensive whisky while he watched some of the most beautiful girls in Germany copulating on stage. The most impressive performance was by one man with two girls, who managed to do it while they all whizzed around on rollerskates. Between acts the girls circulated amongst the audience and offered hand-jobs for fifty marks. He went back to his hotel late, jet-lagged and sex-bothered.
He hadn’t really enjoyed himself. He lay in bed wondering if he was crazy to be spending all this money on such a long shot.
It was freezing in Kiel. He left his bag in a locker, then asked how to get to Laboe. He bought a notebook from the newspaper kiosk, then he left the railway station and turned down to the waterfront, to the Bahnhofbrücke pier. A ferry was waiting. There was still ice floating in the harbour.
Half-an-hour later he disembarked at the village of Laboe at the mouth of Kiel’s long harbour, opening onto the bleak Baltic Sea. There were snowclad woods around the mouth. He asked the way to the U-boat museum.
It looked a nice little seaside holiday town, shut down for the winter. There were pleasure yachts and fishing boats wintering, closed up. He set off briskly down the seafront road, past solid Germanic suburban houses in neat little gardens. Within a few hundred yards he saw it, half a mile ahead, the long grey shape mounted on concrete blocks on the wintry shore, and the tall red-brick memorial opposite it, the shape of a submarine’s conning tower, rearing hundreds of feet up into the grey sky.
McQuade stood at the fence surrounding the submarine and stared at the long, sleek, dangerous-looking machine. All the horrors of that charnel house came flooding back to him, the dark ghostly shape materializing out of the gloom, the gaping black hatch of the conning tower, the horror of the octopus flying out at him with its suckers clawing, the stinking choke of death as he struggled upside-down in the tube, the dreadful boot lying at the bottom. He gave a tense sigh and raised his camera.
He took three photographs, of the stern, midships, and bows, then went through the gate. He paid the admission and bought the brochure on the submarine; there was a two-page drawing of the internal layout. He mounted the steps up to the doorway cut into the vessel’s stern section. He stooped through, into the aft-torpedo and electrical machine room.
It was brightly lit, and very clean. He was in a narrow passage, ten metres long, lined at eye-level with metal cabinets with dials and wheels. Below these, half under the steel footplates, were the long generators. In the very stern was a torpedo tube with a circular steel door.
McQuade’s heart sank. In this room alone there were a hundred places where a man could conceal valuables. Under the steel foot-plates, behind the labyrinth of pipes … He raised his automatic camera, and took four photographs, from different angles. Then moved on, to make a quick familiarization tour before going over everything carefully. He went through a water-tight door into the Dieselmotorenraum.
He was being grimly businesslike, but again his heart sank. Again there were a myriad of places to hide things. Big diesel engines, five feet high, lined the long narrow corridor. Overhead was a mass of twisted pipes, dials, valves.
He took more photographs, then pushed on, through another door. Into the galley, where some cook had once fed fifty-two men.
It was two metres by four. There was a black oven, some cupboards, a small toilet leading off, like a pantry, and that was it. McQuade looked around. Surely nobody would hide loot in a place like this?
He ducked through the next door. Into the Unteroffizierenraum, the Petty Officers’ Room.
There were eight bunks, four on each side. Covered in red cloth. There were two folding tables in the narrow alleyway. Above and below the bunks were wooden lockers. He tried to open one. It was locked. Then he crouched through a circular water-tight door. Into the Zentrale, the nerve-centre of the boat. He stood there, looking around. This was the part he had looked down into through the escape tube.
The periscope hung from the deckhead. To the right was a corner bench, and to the left, a stand-up table. All around, in a mind-boggling array, were dials, valves, more dials and more valves. Above his head, in the centre was the hatch leading up to the conning tower. This was where the telescopic escape tube came down from. It had been removed from this submarine and an iron grille prevented anybody going up to the conning tower.
He made his way forward, and stooped through another circular water-tight door. Into the Commander’s Room.
It was tiny. There was a narrow bunk, a locker and a folding table. A curtain was there for privacy, but the cabin was also a thoroughfare for the whole crew. On the other side was the radio room.
He tried the lockers and cupboard. All locked.
The next room was the officers’ sleeping cabin. Three bunks, lockers, a folding table. He went through it quickly, into the next part – the petty officers’ sleeping cabin: four bunks and a toilet. He passed through another water-tight door, into the main torpedo room.
This was it, the killing part of the machine.
It was fifteen paces long. In the bows lay the four big torpedo tubes. One hatch was open. Inside lay a torpedo, its propeller visible. From a rack hung a torpedo, nine metres long. There was a hatch angled into the deckhead above it, where new torpedoes were slid into the boat and onto the racks until loaded into the tubes. There were also nine bunks for the ordinary crew, and lockers. Everywhere ran pipes, valves and dials.
He closely examined the locking mechanism of the torpedo-tube hatches; they were secured by locking wheels in the centre, and locking pins, He tried to open one. The mechanism was painted over solid.