Текст книги "Eye of the Needle"
Автор книги: Ken Follett
Соавторы: Ken Follett
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
The wave came as he got to his knees. He threw himself forward. The wave carried him a few yards then flung him against the wooden planking. He swallowed water and saw stars. When the weight lifted from his back he summoned the will to move again. It would not come. He felt himself being dragged inexorably back, and a sudden rage took hold of him. He would not allow it…not now, goddamn it. He screamed at the fucking storm and the sea and the British and Percival Godliman, and suddenly he was on his feet and running, running, away from the sea and up the ramp, running with his eyes shut and his mouth open, a crazy man, daring his lungs to burst and his bones to break; running with no sense of a destination, but knowing he would not stop until he lost his mind.
The ramp was long and steep. A strong man might have run all the way to the top if he were in training and rested. An Olympic athlete, if he were tired, might have got halfway. The average forty-year-old man would have managed a yard or two.
Faber made it to the top.
A yard from the end of the ramp he felt a sharp pain, like a slight heart attack, and lost consciousness, but his legs pumped twice more before he hit the sodden turf.
He never knew how long he lay there. When he opened his eyes the storm still raged, but day had broken, and he could see, a few yards away from him, a small cottage that looked inhabited.
He got to his knees and began the long, interminable crawl to the front door.
18
THE U-505 WHEELED IN A TEDIOUS CIRCLE, HER powerful diesels chugging slowly as she nosed through the depths like a gray, toothless shark. Lieutenant Commander Werner Heer, her master, was drinking ersatz coffee and trying not to smoke any more cigarettes. It had been a long day and a long night. He disliked his assignment; he was a combat man and there was no combat to be had here; and he thoroughly disliked the quiet Abwehr officer with storybook-sly blue eyes who was an unwelcome guest aboard his submarine.
The intelligence man, Major Wohl, sat opposite the captain. The man never looked tired, damn him. Those blue eyes looked around, taking things in, but the expression in them never changed. His uniform never got rumpled, despite the rigors of underwater life, and he lit a new cigarette every twenty minutes, on the dot, and smoked it to a quarter-inch stub. Heer would have stopped smoking, just so that he could enforce regulations and prevent Wohl from enjoying tobacco, but he himself was too much of an addict.
Heer had never liked intelligence people, he’d always had the feeling they were gathering intelligence on him. Nor did he like working with the Abwehr. His vessel was made for battle, not for skulking around the British coast waiting to pick up secret agents. It seemed to him plain madness to risk a costly piece of fighting machinery, not to mention its skilled crew, for the sake of one man who might well fail to show up.
He emptied his cup and made a face. “Damn coffee,” he said. “Tastes vile.”
Wohl’s expressionless gaze rested on him for a moment, then moved away. He said nothing.
Forever cryptic. To hell with him. Heer shifted restlessly in his seat. On the bridge of a ship he would have paced up and down, but men on submarines learn to avoid unnecessary movement. He finally said, “Your man won’t come in this weather, you know.”
Wohl looked at his watch. “We will wait until 6 A.M.,” he said easily.
It was not an order—Wohl could not give orders to Heer; but the bald statement of fact was still an insult to a superior officer. Heer told him so.
“We will both follow our orders,” Wohl said. “As you know, they originate from a very high authority indeed.”
Heer controlled his anger. The young man was right, of course. Heer would follow his orders, but when they returned to port he would report Wohl for insubordination. Not that it would do much good; fifteen years in the Navy had taught Heer that headquarters people were a law into themselves…. “Well, even if your man is fool enough to venture out tonight, he is certainly not seaman enough to survive.”
Wohl’s only reply was the same blank gaze.
Herr called to the radio operator. “Weissman?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Wohl said, “I have a feeling that the murmurs we heard a few hours ago were from him.”
“If they were, he was a long way from the rendezvous, sir,” the radio operator said. “To me it sounded more like lightning.”
Heer added, “If it was not him, it was not him. If it was him, he is drowned.”
“You don’t know this man,” Wohl said, and this time there was actually a trace of emotion in his voice.
Heer didn’t answer. The engine note altered slightly, and he thought he could distinguish a faint rattle. If it increased on the journey home he would have it looked at in the port. He might do that anyway, just to avoid another voyage with the unspeakable Major Wohl.
A seaman looked in. “Coffee, sir?”
Heer shook his head. “If I drink any more I’ll be pissing coffee.”
Wohl said, “I will please.” He took out a cigarette.
Which made Heer look at his watch. It was ten past six. The subtle Major Wohl had delayed his six o’clock cigarette to keep the U-boat there a few extra minutes. Heer said, “Set a course for home.”
“One moment,” Wohl said. “I think we should take a look on the surface before we leave.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Heer said. He knew that he was on safe ground now. “Do you realize what kind of storm is raging up there? We wouldn’t be able to open the hatch, and the periscope will show up nothing that is more than a few yards away.”
“How can you tell what the storm is like from this depth?”
“Experience.”
“Then at least send a signal to base telling them that our man has not made contact. They may order us to stay here.”
Heer gave an exasperated sigh. “It’s not possible to make radio contact from this depth, not with base.”
Wohl’s calm finally broke. “Commander Heer, I strongly recommend you surface and radio home before leaving this rendezvous. The man we are to pick up has vital information. The Fuehrer is waiting for his report.”
Heer looked at him. “Thank you for letting me have your opinion, Major,” he said. He turned away. “Full ahead both,” he ordered.
The sound of the twin diesels rose to a roar, and the U-boat began to pick up speed.
Part Four
19
WHEN LUCY WOKE UP, THE STORM THAT HAD BROKEN the evening before was still raging. She leaned over the edge of the bed, moving cautiously so that she would not disturb David, and picked up her wristwatch from the floor. It was just after six. The wind was howling around the roof. David could sleep on; little work would be done today.
She wondered whether they had lost any slates off the roof during the night. She would need to check the loft. The job would have to wait until David was out, otherwise he would be angry that she had not asked him to do it.
She slipped out of bed. It was very cold. The warm weather of the last few days had been a phony summer, the buildup to the storm. Now it was as cold as November. She pulled the flannel nightdress off over her head and quickly got into her underwear, trousers and sweater. David stirred. She looked at him; he turned over, but did not wake.
She crossed the tiny landing and looked into Jo’s room. The three-year-old had graduated from a cot to a bed, and he often fell out during the night without waking. This morning he was on his bed, lying asleep on his back with his mouth wide open. Lucy smiled. He looked truly adorable when he was asleep.
She went quietly downstairs, wondering briefly why she had awakened so early. Perhaps Jo had made a noise, or maybe it was the storm.
She knelt in front of the fireplace, pushing back the sleeves of her sweater, and began to make the fire. As she swept out the grate she whistled a tune she had heard on the radio, “Is You Is Or Is You Ain’t My Baby?” She raked the cold ashes, using the biggest lumps to form the base for today’s fire. Dried bracken provided the tinder, and wood and then coal went on top. Sometimes she just used wood, but coal was better in this weather. She held a page of newspaper across the fireplace for a few minutes to create an updraft in the chimney. When she removed it the wood was burning and the coal glowing red. She folded the paper and placed it under the coal scuttle for use tomorrow.
The blaze would soon warm the little house, but a hot cup of tea would help meanwhile. Lucy went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the electric cooker. She put two cups on a tray, then found David’s cigarettes and an ashtray. She made the tea, filled the cups, and carried the tray through the hall to the stairs.
She had one foot on the lowest stair when she heard the tapping sound. She stopped, frowned, decided it was the wind rattling something and took another step. The sound came again. It was like someone knocking on the front door.
That was ridiculous, of course. There was no one to knock on the front door—only Tom, and he always came to the kitchen door and never knocked.
The tapping again.
She came down the stairs and, balancing the tea tray on one hand, opened the front door.
She dropped the tray in shock. The man fell into the hall, knocking her over. Lucy screamed.
SHE WAS FRIGHTENED only for a moment. The stranger lay prone beside her on the hall floor, plainly incapable of attacking anyone. His clothes were soaking wet, and his hands and face were stone-white with cold.
Lucy got to her feet. David slid down the stairs on his bottom, saying, “What is it? What is it?”
“Him,” Lucy said, and pointed.
David arrived at the foot of the stairs, clad in pajamas, and hauled himself into his wheelchair. “I don’t see what there is to scream about,” he said. He wheeled himself closer and peered at the man on the floor.
“I’m sorry. He startled me.” She bent over and, taking the man by his upper arms, dragged him into the living room. David followed. Lucy laid the man in front of the fire.
David stared at the unconscious body. “Where the devil did he come from?”
“He must have been shipwrecked…the storm…”
But he was wearing the clothes of a workman, not a sailor, Lucy noticed. She studied him. He was quite a big man, longer than the six-foot hearth rug—and heavy round the neck and shoulders. His face was strong and fine-boned, with a high forehead and a long jaw. He might be handsome, she thought, if he were not such a ghostly color.
He stirred and opened his eyes. At first he looked terribly frightened, like a small boy waking in strange surroundings; but, very quickly, his expression became relaxed, and he looked about him sharply, his gaze resting briefly on Lucy, David, the window, the door, and the fire.
Lucy said, “We must get him out of these clothes. Fetch a pair of pajamas and a robe, David.”
David wheeled himself out, and Lucy knelt beside the stranger. She took off his boots and socks first. There almost seemed to be a hint of amusement in his eyes as he watched her. But when she reached for his jacket he crossed his arms protectively over his chest.
“You’ll die of pneumonia if you keep these clothes on,” she said in her best bedside manner. “Let me take them off.”
The man said, “I really don’t think we know each other well enough—after all, we haven’t been introduced.”
It was the first time he had spoken. His voice was so confident, his words so formal, that the contrast with his terrible appearance made Lucy laugh out loud. “You’re shy?” she said.
“I just think a man should preserve an air of mystery.” He was grinning broadly, but his smile collapsed suddenly and his eyes closed in pain.
David came back with clean nightclothes over his arm. “You two seem to be getting on remarkably well already,” he said.
“You’ll have to undress him,” Lucy said. “He won’t let me.”
David’s look was unreadable.
The stranger said, “I’ll manage on my own, thanks—if it’s not too awfully ungracious of me.”
“Suit yourself,” David said. He dumped the clothes on a chair and wheeled out.
“I’ll make some more tea,” Lucy said as she followed. She closed the living room door behind her.
In the kitchen, David was already filling the kettle, a lighted cigarette dangling from his lips. Lucy quickly cleared up the broken china in the hall, then joined him.
“Five minutes ago I wasn’t at all sure the chap was alive—and now he’s dressing himself,” David said.
Lucy busied herself with a teapot. “Perhaps he was shamming.”
“The prospect of being undressed by you certainly brought about a rapid recovery.”
“I can’t believe anyone could be that shy.”
“Your own lack in that area may lead you to underestimate its power in others.”
Lucy rattled cups. “Let’s not quarrel today, David—we’ve got something more interesting to do. For a change.” She picked up the tray and walked into the living room.
The stranger was buttoning his pajama jacket. He turned his back to her as she walked in. She put the tray down and poured tea. When she turned back he was wearing David’s robe.
“You’re very kind,” he said. His gaze was direct.
He really didn’t seem the shy type, Lucy thought. However, he was some years older than she—about forty, she guessed. That might account for it. He was looking less of a castaway every minute.
“Sit close to the fire,” she told him. She handed him a cup of tea.
“I’m not sure I can manage the saucer,” he said. “My fingers aren’t functioning.” He took the cup from her stiff-handed, holding it between both palms, and carried it carefully to his lips.
David came in and offered him a cigarette. He declined.
The stranger emptied the cup. “Where am I?” he asked.
“This place is called Storm Island,” David told him.
The man showed a trace of relief. “I thought I might have been blown back to the mainland.”
David pointed the man’s toes at the fire to warm his bare feet. “You were probably swept into the bay,” David said. “Things usually are. That’s how the beach was formed.”
Jo came in, bleary-eyed, trailing a one-armed panda as big as himself. When he saw the stranger he ran to Lucy and hid his face.
“I’ve frightened your little girl.” The man smiled.
“He’s a boy. I must cut his hair.” Lucy lifted Jo onto her lap.
“I’m sorry.” The stranger’s eyes closed again, and he swayed in his seat.
Lucky stood up, dumping Jo on the sofa. “We must put the poor man to bed, David.”
“Just a minute,” David said. He wheeled himself closer to the man. “Might there be any other survivors?” he asked.
The man’s face looked up. “I was alone,” he muttered. He was very nearly all in.
“David—” Lucy began.
“One more question: did you notify the coastguard of your route?”
“What does it matter?” Lucy said.
“It matters because, if he did, there may be men out there risking their lives looking for him, and we can let them know he’s safe.”
The man said slowly, “I…did not…”
“That’s enough,” Lucy told David. She knelt in front of the man. “Can you make it upstairs?”
He nodded and got slowly to his feet.
Lucy looped his arm over her shoulders and began to walk him out. “I’ll put him in Jo’s bed,” she said.
They took the stairs one at a time, pausing on each. When they reached the top, the little color that the fire had restored to the man’s face had drained away again. Lucy led him into the smaller bedroom. He collapsed onto the bed.
Lucy arranged the blankets over him, tucked him in and left the room, closing the door quietly.
RELIEF WASHED over Faber in a tidal wave. For the last few minutes, the effort of self-control had been superhuman. He felt limp, defeated and ill.
After the front door had opened, he had allowed himself to collapse for a while. The danger had come when the beautiful girl had started to undress him, and he had remembered the can of film taped to his chest. Dealing with that had restored his alertness for a while. He had also been afraid they might call for an ambulance, but that had not been mentioned; perhaps the island was too small to have a hospital. At least he was not on the mainland—there it would have been impossible to prevent the reporting of the shipwreck. However, the trend of the husband’s questions had indicated that no report would be made immediately.
Faber had no energy to speculate about problems farther ahead. He seemed to be safe for the time being, and that was as far as he could go. In the meantime he was warm and dry and alive, and the bed was soft.
He turned over, reconnoitering the room: door, window, chimney. The habit of caution survived everything but death itself. The walls were pink, as if the couple had hoped for a baby girl. There was a train set and a great many picture books on the floor. It was a safe, domestic place; a home. He was a wolf in a sheepfold. A lame wolf.
He closed his eyes. Despite his exhaustion, he had to force himself to relax, muscle by muscle. Gradually his head emptied of thought and he slept.
LUCY TASTED the porridge, and added another pinch of salt. They had got to like it the way Tom made it, the Scots way, without sugar. She would never go back to making sweet porridge, even when sugar became plentiful and unrationed again. It was funny how you got used to things when you had to: brown bread and margarine and salt porridge.
She ladled it out and the family sat down to breakfast. Jo had lots of milk to cool his. David ate vast quantities these days, without getting fat: it was the outdoor life. She looked at his hands on the table. They were rough and permanently brown, the hands of a manual worker. She had noticed the stranger’s hands—his fingers were long, the skin white under the blood and the bruising. He was unaccustomed to the abrasive work of crewing a boat.
“You won’t get much done today,” Lucy said. “The storm looks like it’s staying.”
“Makes no difference. Sheep still have to be cared for, whatever the weather.”
“Where will you be?”
“Tom’s end. I’ll go up there in the jeep.”
Jo said, “Can I come?”
“Not today,” Lucy told him. “It’s too wet and cold.”
“But I don’t like the man.”
Lucy smiled. “Don’t be silly. He won’t do us any harm. He’s almost too ill to move.”
“Who is he?”
“We don’t know his name. He’s been shipwrecked, and we have to look after him until he’s well enough to go back to the mainland. He’s a very nice man.”
“Is he my uncle?”
“Just a stranger, Jo. Eat up.”
Jo looked disappointed. He had met an uncle once. In his mind uncles were people who gave out candy, which he liked, and money, which he had no use for.
David finished his breakfast and put on his mackintosh, a tent-shaped garment with sleeves with a hole for his head, and that covered most of his wheelchair as well as him. He put a sou’wester on his head and tied it under his chin, kissed Jo, said good-bye to Lucy.
A minute or two later she heard the jeep start up and went to the window to watch David drive off into the rain. The rear wheels of the vehicle slithered about in the mud. He would have to take care.
She turned to Jo. He said, “This is a dog.” He was making a picture on the tablecloth with porridge and milk.
Lucy slapped his hand. “What a horrid mess!” The boy’s face took on a grim, sulky look, and Lucy thought how much he resembled his father. They had the same dark skin and nearly-black hair, and they both had a way of withdrawing when they were cross. But Jo laughed a lot—he had inherited something from Lucy’s side of the family, thank God.
Jo mistook her contemplative stare for anger, and said, “I’m sorry.”
She washed him at the kitchen sink, then cleared away the breakfast things, thinking about the stranger upstairs. Now that the immediate crisis was past, and it seemed the man was not going to die, she was eaten with curiosity about him. Who was he? Where was he from? What had he been doing in the storm? Did he have a family? Why did he have workman’s clothes, a clerk’s hands, and a Home Counties accent? It was rather exciting.
It occurred to her that, if she had lived anywhere else, she would not have accepted his sudden appearance so readily. He might, she supposed, be a deserter, or a criminal, or even an escaped prisoner of war. But one forgot, living on the island, that other human beings could be threatening instead of companionable. It was so nice to see a new face that to harbor suspicions seemed ungrateful. Maybe—unpleasant thought—she more than most people was ready to welcome an attractive man…. She pushed the thought out of her mind.
Silly, silly. He was so tired and ill that he could not possibly threaten anyone. Even on the mainland, who could have refused to take him in, bedraggled and unconscious? When he felt better they could question him, and if his story of how he got here was less than plausible, they could radio the mainland from Tom’s cottage.
When she had washed up she crept upstairs to look at him. He slept facing the door, and when she looked in, his eyes opened instantly. Again there was that initial, split-second flash of fear.
“It’s all right,” Lucy whispered. “Just making sure you’re okay.”
He closed his eyes without speaking.
She went downstairs again. She dressed herself and Jo in oilskins and Wellington boots and they went out. The rain was still coming down in torrents, and the wind was terrific. She glanced up at the roof: they had lost some slates. Leaning into the wind, she headed for the cliff top.
She held Jo’s hand tightly—he might quite easily be blown away. Two minutes later she was wishing she had stayed indoors. Rain came in under her raincoat collar and over the tops of her boots. Jo must be soaked too but now that they were wet they might as well stay wet for a few minutes more. Lucy wanted to go to the beach.
However, when they reached the top of the ramp she realized it was impossible. The narrow wooden walkway was slippery with rain, and in this wind she might lose her balance and fall off, to plunge sixty feet to the beach below. She had to content herself with looking.
It was quite a sight.
Vast waves, each the size of a small house, were rolling in rapidly, close on each other’s heels. Crossing the beach the wave would rise even higher, its crest curling in a question mark, then throw itself against the foot of the cliff in a rage. Spray rose over the cliff top in sheets, causing Lucy to step back hurriedly and Jo to squeal with delight. Lucy could hear her son’s laughter only because he had climbed into her arms, and his mouth was now close to her ear; the noise of the wind and the sea drowned more distant sounds.
There was something terribly thrilling in watching the elements spit and sway and roar in fury, in standing fractionally too close to the cliff edge, feeling threatened and safe at the same time, shivering with cold and perspiring in fear. It was thrilling, and there were few thrills in her life.
She was about to go back, mindful of Jo’s health, when she saw the boat.
It was not a boat any more, of course; that was what was so shocking about it. All that was left were the large timbers of the deck and the keel. They were scattered on the rocks below the cliffs like a dropped handful of matches. It had been a big boat, Lucy realized. One man might have piloted it alone, but not easily. And the damage the sea had wrought on it was awesome. It was hard to detect two bits of wood still joined together.
How, in heaven’s name, had their stranger come out of it alive?
She shuddered when she thought of what those waves and those rocks might have done to a human body. Jo caught her sudden change of mood and said into her ear, “Go home, now.” She turned quickly away from the sea and hurried along the muddy path to the cottage.
Back inside, they took off their wet coats, hats and boots, and hung them in the kitchen to dry. Lucy went upstairs and looked in on the stranger again. This time he did not open his eyes. He seemed to be sleeping very peacefully, yet she had a feeling that he had awakened and recognized her tread on the stairs, and closed his eyes again before she opened the door.
She ran a hot bath. She and the boy were soaked to the skin. She undressed Jo and put him in the tub, then—on impulse—took off her own clothes and got in with him. The heat was blissful. She closed her eyes and relaxed. This was good, too; to be in a house, feeling warm, while the storm beat impotently at the strong stone walls.
Life had turned interesting, all of a sudden. In one night there had been a storm, a shipwreck, and a mystery man; this after three years of…She hoped the stranger would wake up soon so that she could find out about him.
Meanwhile it was time she started cooking lunch for the men. She had some breast of lamb to make a stew. She got out of the bath and toweled herself gently. Jo was playing with his bath toy, a much-chewed rubber cat. Lucy looked at herself in the mirror, examining the stretch-marks on her belly left by pregnancy. They were fading, slowly, but they would never completely disappear. An all-over suntan would help, though. She smiled to herself. Fat chance of that! Besides, who was interested in her tummy? Nobody but herself.
Jo said, “Can I stay in a minute more?” It was a phrase he used, “a minute more,” and it could mean anything up to a half a day.
“Just while I get dressed,” she told him and hung the towel on a rail and moved toward the door.
The stranger stood in the doorway, looking at her.
They stared at each other. It was odd—Lucy thought later—that she felt not a bit afraid. It was the way he looked at her; there was no threat in his expression, no lewdness, no smirk. He was not looking at her pubis, or even her breasts, but at her face—into her eyes. She looked back, a bit shocked but not embarrassed, with just a tiny part of her mind wondering why she did not squeal, cover herself with her hands and slam the door on him.
Something did come into his eyes, at last—perhaps she was imagining it, but she saw admiration, and a faint twinkle of honest humor, and a trace of sadness—and then the hold was broken and he turned away and went back into his bedroom, closing the door. A moment later Lucy heard the springs creak as his weight settled onto the bed.
And for no good reason at all she felt dreadfully guilty.
