The Passenger by F. R. Tallis Read Free Book Online

closed his eyes and recreated the moment, acknowledging a host of memories that had hithertobeen competing for attention among the marginalia of consciousness. The hand had been cold. He had felt frozen tendrils taking root in his flesh and curling around his bones, and the coldness had intensified as the long fingers tensed.
    The peculiarity of the memory made him doubt its fidelity. It was common knowledge that the brain was an unreliable record-keeper in extreme situations. Everything could become sharp and hard-edged or distant and dreamlike. He pieced together a reassuring scenario: in the darkness one of the crew had mistakenly laid a hand on his shoulder, and the coldness of Lorenz’s own fear had become localized at the point of contact. Realizing his mistake, the embarrassed crewman, most probably Krausse, had slipped away before the emergency lights had come on. Yes , Lorenz thought. He snapped the war diary shut. That’s it. That’s what must have happened . Yet he wasn’t wholly persuaded, and a feeling of unease persisted.

    T HE SWELL WAS HIGH AND the boat rolled. Two books tumbled onto the rubber matting and the chart chest slipped a few inches. Through the circle of the open hatch it was possible to see black clouds. Howling squalls were accompanied by a rattling assault of hailstones. Lorenz lurched down the gangway to the officers’ mess where he found Falk and Graf. Falk was serving potato soup from a tureen suspended above the table. It was impossible to ladle the thin gruel into the bowls without spilling any. The grey liquid collected in wide pools, and when the boat heeled it flowed under the rails and slopped onto the officers’ laps. None of them reacted.
    â€˜So,’ Lorenz addressed Graf. ‘Is the manometer working?’
    â€˜Yes, Kaleun.’ Graf replied. ‘It’s fine.’
    â€˜What do you mean, fine?’ Lorenz protested. By the time the soup spoon had reached his mouth it was already empty.
    â€˜I’ve checked everything.’
    â€˜And . . . ?’
    â€˜It’s in perfect working order.’
    â€˜Then why did it malfunction?’
    â€˜I don’t know, Kaleun—just one of those things.’
    â€˜One of those things,’ Lorenz repeated, shaking his head. The steward appeared and tried to wipe the table with a rag. ‘Not now, Keller.’ The steward retreated. Above their heads, the tureen swung away from the hull and more potato soup splashed onto their trousers.
    â€˜I’ve been thinking about our guests,’ said Falk.
    â€˜Really?’ said Lorenz, finally transferring some soup from the bowl to his mouth.
    â€˜Have you had a chance to look through the old man’s notebook?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜And did you find anything of interest, apart from the runes, I mean?’
    â€˜That’s all there is—runes. Perhaps those rumors about death rays and the big bomb are all wrong. Perhaps the SS intend to win this war using magic.’
    More soup rained down on the table. Graf swore at the tureen and then said, ‘Maybe he put a curse on the manometer.’
    It was a flippant remark, but it caused discomfort rather than amusement.
    â€˜We were . . . unlucky,’ said Falk, eager to fill the uncomfortable silence. ‘That’s all. Like you said—one of those things.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Graf’s head moved up and down emphatically, ‘one of those things.’
    When Lorenz went back to his nook he opened his drawer. He reached in for the bottle of rum but was startled by an unanticipated sensation. His fingers closed around the stone Grimstad had been holding when the old man was having his fit. It was definitely warm. Lorenz rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. He wasn’t mistaken—the stone was very warm—almost hot.

    T HE BBC G ERMAN-LANGUAGE BROADCAST—RELAYED OVER the public-address system—began with a familiar call: