Shadow Of The Wolf Read online

  The door opened and one of his storm troopers came in. He walked quickly towards Schafer. From his expression and manner it was clear that something unusual had happened. He stopped beside Schafer and brought his heels together.

  "What is it, Kohl?" Schafer asked.

  "I must talk with you Hauptsturmführer, outside." Schafer left Kretschmer with the islanders and stepped out into the street.

  "A boat has come ashore sir, within the last hour."

  Schafer spun round. "Occupants?"

  Kohl shook his head. "No sign sir."

  Schafer did not have to ask the man if he was certain.

  "Where is Bauer?"

  "With the boat, sir."

  Schafer drew in a deep breath. "Go up to the cottage and ask Leutnant Brenneke to join me."

  Kohl saluted and went off at a trot. Schafer went back into the schoolroom and instructed Kretschmer to form a small search party and to join him as quickly as possible. As they reached the cliff edge where the treacherous path sloped severely down to the small cove they could just glimpse Bauer waiting beside the boat. Schafer hurried down the slope, his mind racing. Whoever had sailed the boat in to the beach was almost certainly hiding and had to be found.

  FOUR

  Billy approached the cottage with extreme caution. The poor light and lancing rain had helped to conceal him as he trekked across the soft moor. Although it was dark he was struck instantly by the absence of lights, not just from the community, but from elsewhere on the island. He knew the islanders did try to adopt some semblance of blackout but they had never been entirely successful. But beyond the fact there was no tell-tale flicker of light from anywhere, there was an altogether unreal feeling about the island.

  He looked through the windows, holding his hand up against glass, but the cottage looked deserted. He went to the front door and tugged at it gently. It swung open noiselessly. He stepped inside and paused, listening carefully. He couldn’t hear any sound or movement coming from inside. He was immediately aware of an offending aroma of cigarette smoke. It was quite strong, but not fresh. He was tempted to find an oil lamp and light it, but his instincts prevailed and he decided against it. He pulled the door shut behind him. He decided not to call out for his mother because some instinct, some gut feeling told him that his mother wouldn’t be there.

  He went quickly into his bedroom using the poor light from the window and his own familiarity to guide him. He wanted to change into dry, warm clothes and he knew he would find what he needed in his wardrobe.

  He stripped off and dried himself with a cover from his bed. Then he pulled on the fresh clothes, choosing a dark blue, knitted sweater, black trousers and an old reefer jacket which he always kept hanging behind his door. It was a fair bit tighter on him than when he had last worn it, but its covering was adequate. He reached into the corner of his room for the shotgun that he knew would be there. It had gone. Billy frowned in the darkness: he knew his mother would not have touched it. He went through to her room where he knew she kept a gun in a case buried deep in the back of her cupboard. He dragged it out and found the cartridges she always kept with it. He broke the gun, loaded it and snapped it shut. He put the remainder of the cartridges into his pocket.

  All Billy needed now was something to eat. The larder yielded bread and cheese, although he was surprised to find so little food in there. He wasted no time in finesse but crammed the food into his mouth, filling himself as quickly as he could. He stuffed more food into his pockets and grabbed a box of matches.

  He heard voices in the distance and hurried back into his bedroom, lifted his rubber boots from under the bed and pulled them over his socks while grunting through a mouthful of cheese. The boots slipped on easily, which surprised him. He moved his feet inside the rubber. He went across to the old dresser which leaned up against the far wall. He opened a drawer and took out a pair of binoculars. They were German.

  The voices were getting closer and he moved swiftly to the back of the house, slipping through the back door into the small garden. By now his fears were scratching claw marks down his back and he hurried through the vegetables and flowers, trampling them aside in his haste to run. He ran as silently and swiftly as he could, hurrying to the only sanctuary he knew.

  He looked at the towering bulk of Blue Whale Mountain, indistinct against the heavy, leaden sky. Once there he would be able to rest and collect his thoughts. When morning came he would decide what to do.

  *

  "He was here, Brenneke!"

  Brenneke was searching Maura's room when he heard the shout. He went through into the bedroom where he found Schafer holding Billy's wet clothes. Kretschmer followed him quickly.

  "He was here," Schafer said, showing the two men the wet clothes. Then he dropped them on to the floor and turned round. He stepped across the room and snatched a framed photograph off the top of a dressing table. He showed that to them as well, although he wasn’t expecting any response from them. Was it the boy? Had the young Lucas returned, he wondered? He tossed the photograph on to the bed and kicked the wet clothes in frustration.

  "Go to the woman," he said to Kretschmer. "Say nothing of the boy. Ask her if she has any weapons." He turned quickly to Brenneke. "You did not search this place?"

  "You advised a light search, Hauptsturmführer. We found nothing."

  He addressed Kretschmer again. "We must know how many guns she has. We have to know if any are missing. The boy could be armed."

  "You found one yourself, Hauptsturmführer," Kretschmer reminded him. "Here in this room."

  "Nevertheless, if the person who came ashore is the woman's son, he may know of other weapons. It has to be her son, otherwise why would he have come here to this cottage?" He shook his head. "No, we cannot take that chance."

  Kretschmer saluted and left, leaving the two officers alone. "Take some men up to Anderson's house," Schafer ordered Brenneke. "He might try there."

  "You think he may try to use the radio, Hauptsturmführer?" Brenneke asked.

  Schafer nodded. "It's a possibility." He was acutely aware of the danger the boy presented to him and the chance of finding Ziegel and the documents. He looked beyond Brenneke to the open door. "See to it Jochen."

  Brenneke left Schafer alone with his thoughts. The German glanced around the room and wondered about the boy; if it was the boy. But they had found the kitbag and it looked as though he had come directly to the cottage. He couldn’t understand though why the boy’s clothes were wet. Not that it mattered now; it was a moot point. Schafer admonished himself for not thinking clearly. He knew he was being rattled by something which he should be able to deal with quite effectively.

  He wandered through the cottage trying to fit the boy into some kind of picture. He tried to imagine what a child of the island would be like: how he would react when faced with the threat the islanders were now under. He was still musing when Kretschmer returned.

  "There was a gun Herr Hauptsturmführer." Schafer thought he detected a note of triumph in Kretschmer’s voice which the man did little to conceal. He had no illusions about Kretschmer's methods and the fact that he was never ashamed to use them. He imagined the man was already salivating at the prospect of catching the woman’s son, if that was who had removed the gun. He followed his Truppführer into the woman's bedroom.

  Kretschmer went into Maura’s room and opened the wardrobe. He pushed through the mountain of clothes hanging there and reached into the back. Lying across the floor beneath hat boxes and shoes, all looking as though they had been recently disturbed, he found the empty gun case. He pulled it free and turned towards Schafer, a look of disappointment colouring his face. Schafer swore.

  "He will know this island like a rabbit, sir," Kretschmer pointed out. "If he is any good he could tie us up for days."

  Schafer pulled a cigarette from a silver case. He tapped the end of the cigarette several times before placing it carefully between his lips.

  Kretschmer watched the match fla
re. "The islanders could tell us where he might go."

  Schafer drew on the cigarette thoughtfully. "You think they would?"

  "I could make them," Kretschmer answered with a chilling conviction.

  Schafer blew out a stream of smoke. "Not against their own kind; their own flesh and blood." He stared vacantly at Kretschmer. "But if they thought we were looking for Leutnant Ziegel they might." He slapped his hand on his thigh. "Come on, we must try."

  In the schoolroom Maura Lucas huddled up against the wall, her knees drawn up against her body. Her face was badly marked where Kretschmer had hit her. Kneeling beside her was Ailie. She had a bowl of water and was carefully wiping the dirt from Maura's face. Maura was no longer crying but her eyes were swollen. Inside, her body felt quite bruised, but the pain was of no significance compared to the humiliation she had suffered.

  Callum sat facing her on a small chair. His eyes had no pity but he understood the suffering she had been through. In his heart was a morbid fear: a fear that the beatings would spread and occur more frequently. His biggest fear though, was that the Nazis would direct their passion at the women in an orgy of debauchery. And he knew that his beloved Ailie would never survive that.

  The door opened and Schafer came in. All the villagers turned their faces towards the German as his jackboots clattered noisily across the wooden boards. Schafer’s expression masked the uncertainty beneath the proud uniform, holding back the threat of failure that lingered there. Kretschmer followed him in, but unlike Schafer he looked at the islanders in defiance, challenging them to express their contempt. He stopped beside Schafer at the blackboard and turned to face them.

  "You will be aware," Schafer began, "that we are searching for property which belongs to the Third Reich. That property was brought to this island by an officer of the German Navy." He paused. "This officer is called Lieutenant Manfred Ziegel."

  He waited for the reaction he hoped would come: some change in their mood in which he would detect their knowledge of this man. But there was nothing. It was as though, for the islanders, Ziegel did not exist.

  "I will repeat his name. Lieutenant Manfred Ziegel."

  It was unnecessary because he was treated to the same bland, quiescent expression from the faces staring up at him. There was complete immobility as they waited for him to continue. "I believe," he went on, not quite so confidently, "that this officer is known to you all personally. Before the war he worked on the whaling ships that visited this island. He was here many times."

  Reevel Anderson rose a little unsteadily to his feet. All eyes turned towards him. "Hauptsturmführer, many sailors visited our island. It is not possible that we should remember them all."

  "Lieutenant Ziegel visited this island many times," Schafer snapped at him sharply. "He was known here."

  Reevel shrugged and shook his head. "We have no way of knowing that."

  Schafer could feel the mood hardening against him. "Do you have a doctor here?"

  There was a few moments silence and no movement. Then a small, neat, elderly man stood up. "I am the doctor," he said.

  "What is your name?"

  "Benedict Kristen."

  "Doctor Kristen, it is inevitable that you would have treated many sailors for minor injuries and the like. Surely you would recall Lieutenant Ziegel?"

  "It is true I attended on many sailors," Kristen answered with an oblique expression. "The last one was dead. I assure you I have no knowledge of this man."

  Schafer could feel their eyes on him. It was unsettling. Something about their manner, the absence of any gesture, convinced him that there was a conspiracy, and not simply a conspiracy of silence: these people knew something. He was determined to learn the truth, but for now he did not know which would be the quickest way to make them speak. In time he would use Kretschmer.

  He nodded at the doctor who sat down. "I am here to learn the truth about Lieutenant Ziegel. Soon one of you will tell me." He said it carefully, scanning them in turn, contriving to feed menace into his voice. He had gambled on them talking freely about Ziegel but he had failed. Why?

  Schafer was perplexed; Ziegel had said it himself. "There is someone on the island I can contact for sanctuary if my position becomes desperate." One of these expressionless faces held the key. But which one?

  He thought perhaps a thorough search of their possessions again might reveal a concealed truth or a hidden affair. Just one small clue or error of judgement, one that would lead him to the person who Ziegel believed he could contact for sanctuary. An indiscretion? If he could find something like that, Kretschmer would do the rest.

  "So be it," he said at length. "We shall resume our search. It will be extensive and extremely thorough. We shall call the search off when we have found what we are seeking or when you choose to be sensible. Heil Hitler!" He fired up a salute and marched contemptuously out of the room, his limp looking markedly exaggerated.

  *

  By now young Billy had succeeded in crossing Orca Ridge, a spine of soft moor that ran out from the mountain above Mullach Bay. As a boy he would often climb to the top of the ridge and watch the catchers anchoring off before sailing into the bay.

  He knew the quickest way up the mountain was to walk in the stream bed. In winter it would have been too dangerous because of the treacherously smooth rock and ice, but in summer he would often remove his shoes and socks to climb up in his bare feet.

  Now the game was too deadly. He used his hands and natural agility to scramble up the steepening incline until he reached the point where he knew he would be safe.

  He recalled Callum Macdonald first telling him about the cave, and how he and Ailie had climbed up to it. The cave had always been out of bounds to the young children on the island. It was an unspoken rule, one handed down through the generations, that no-one entered the cave where death lurked and struck at the most unexpected moments. It was that kind of challenge that made the youngsters dare each other to climb up the mountain to the cave. Billy and Ailie were no exception, and Ailie trusted Billy implicitly. Her fear was swamped by Billy’s bravado and daring, and she felt safe in a venture that could have cost them their lives. That act of young innocence had driven Callum and Billy's mother to extremes of despair. When the two youngsters had returned to their homes that night, tired and weary and not knowing a search party had been out looking for them, they were chastised severely. They were forbidden ever to return to the cave, which was a death trap.

  To a young, wild boy like Billy this served only to challenge his courage and at the first opportunity he had returned to the cave. It was something he did many times until his fear of the cave ebbed away, and he often found solace there when he felt the need. The cave was situated high up the mountain above the outlet of the stream along which Billy used to walk in his bare feet. The stream was nurtured by the melting snow in the winter and rain water throughout the rest of the year.

  Many times during the winter and spring the cave would flood as the deluge of water became too much for the subterranean stream. This flooding often happened quickly and with little warning as mounting pressure forced the water up a natural pipe into the small cave. It was the sound of the water being forced into the cave that became known as the ‘sounding’. It was like the sound of an organ pipe, and could be heard all over the island when the wind was blowing in the right quarter.

  In the darkness of the cave entrance he crouched now and waited, not wanting to venture into the black hole that beckoned him. He listened carefully, picking out easily the sound of the water rushing by below the pipe. There was no strength in it, which meant it was safe. For those without knowledge there was a mortal danger. But he had that knowledge and knew the sound was the devil's music, the pipes of Pan trying to lure him into the kingdom of Hades. For now the pipes were blowing soft.

  He slithered down the sloping floor which would have taken him well inside the cave. The poor light outside was just sufficient to give him some measure of comfort. There was
little room in the tunnel but he preferred to remain there than go right into the cave and risk a sudden, terrible death.

  He made himself as comfortable as possible; eating more of the bread and cheese he had stuffed into his pocket, and tried to shut out the wild imaginings born out of his fatigue and loneliness. The noise of the stream continued to dance among his senses and the rain fell steadily outside. Soon the noises faded and he fell asleep.

  *

  In the schoolroom the islanders were alone. Schafer had removed the guards and posted them outside. It gave the islanders a freedom to talk, but such was the tense atmosphere they spoke only in subdued, murmuring voices. Callum addressed Reevel as the authority on the island. Beside them sat the doctor and Marker Mace, the engineer.

  "We have to arrive at a decision, Reevel," he urged. "We must know what we have to do."

  Reevel had his heavy briar pipe in his mouth. It was unlit because they had no matches; Schafer had removed them as a precaution against them lighting oil lamps and signalling. Nevertheless, Reevel sucked on the pipe from years of habit. "There's no decision we can make," he answered solemnly.

  "We could tell them the truth," Doctor Kristen put in. "They will understand there is nothing to be found then."

  Reevel took the pipe from his mouth. "You believe they have understanding, Benedict? They do not. If our truth does not suit them, they will not believe us and we will all suffer."

  "Reevel," Callum spoke urgently. "We must find a way to stop them. It’s our duty," he added.

  "How?" Reevel asked scornfully. "We have no weapons. There are no young men among us. We are not free to act."

  "We cannot tell them the truth," Reevel said carefully. "It is too bizarre. They wouldn’t believe us; it’s as simple as that!"

  "We have words," Callum answered. "We must use them as our weapons. We must make them believe us."

  "The Germans will not be fooled by play-acting, Callum," Marker Mace put in. "And our words will seem like play-acting to them." He held out his hands. They were huge. "These are what they understand."