McQuade stared at Muller. His mind fumbling, his heart sinking. And he knew there was a trick in this. He tried to say it calmly,
‘How many dummy torpedoes?’
‘Alas, I don’t know. At least one.’ He added: ‘Of course, more may have been included in the shipment at the last moment.’
‘And how many live torpedoes?’
‘At least one.’ He added with a slight shrug. ‘My instructions were that extreme caution had to be used in identifying the cargo as one torpedo will be aboard for defensive purposes. Of course, more may have been added.’
McQuade’s heart sank. Horst Kohler had complained bitterly to his wife that he was going to sea with only one torpedo. ‘And how were you going to identify the dummy torpedoes?’
Muller gave his wisp of a smile. ‘The live torpedo, Mr McQuade. That’s the one to worry about, isn’t it? I was going to rely on the submarine’s crew to deliver the correct torpedo or torpedoes up to me on my trawler. But I would have checked, of course. The live torpedo has a special mark on it.’
McQuade demanded, ‘Where? What kind of mark?’
‘On the propeller section.’
‘What kind of mark?’
Muller looked at him with a glint of triumph.
‘Ah …’ he said, ‘that’s the tricky bit. Alas, I don’t know and I won’t know until I examine them myself. You see, the commander was to point out the identifying mark to me. Thereafter I was to accept only the unmarked torpedoes. Only the commander knew the mark. And, alas, he is dead …’
McQuade stared at him. His mind trying to race. Of course the bastard was lying – of course he knew the mark! And he wanted to grab the bastard and throttle the truth out of him! But, oh, the diabolical cleverness of the bastard – planting the fear! Of course the man was lying, but who would dare to disbelieve him and play Russian roulette with a live torpedo?! Muller held his eye knowingly, then turned away and began to pace again, as if in his own boardroom.
‘So I’ll now make you an offer, Mr McQuade. An offer you can’t refuse. Fifty-fifty split, but I’ll make it easier for all of us. Tomorrow we dive down on the submarine. We open the torpedo tubes, verify that the torpedoes are there, and we look for the identifying mark on the live one. It should be fairly conspicuous. But we should not attempt to remove any of the torpedoes in case we are mistaken. We don’t want to blow ourselves to bits, do we? So we should then adjourn and get an expert to remove the dummies for us, and open them up for us in perfect safety.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And I have such an expert.’
McQuade stared at the man. What an irresistible offer! No Russian roulette. And he wanted to shout in rage because of the trick in it. ‘And how does the expert open up the dummy torpedoes?’
‘I was told the propeller section is false. Unscrew it and it comes away.’
‘And how do you happen to have a torpedo expert at your disposal?’
Muller shook his head in amusement. ‘Oh, Mr McQuade, I don’t go at things like a bull at a gate, like you. I’ve been looking for this submarine for forty years! For forty years I’ve known that the cargo is in dummy torpedoes with at least one live torpedo amongst them. Not only have I read just about everything on torpedoes and consulted umpteen experts, but I’ve always had one on my permanent staff. Klaus, the man who’s in charge of my guards. I recruited him because he was an expert diver and salvage man, and I then had him trained in Germany in torpedoes. The man now is an overall bomb-disposal expert. Before Klaus, I had a genuine World War II expert.’ He shook his head dismissively. ‘I’m prepared, Mr McQuade? You are not.’
McQuade didn’t know whether he wanted to bellow with laughter at the naked trickery of the clever little bastard or be grateful, strangle him or grab his hand and shake on the deal. And the expert arrives with stormtroops, rescues Muller, murders the whole Bonanza crew and gets the whole submarine… Jesus, the diabolical cleverness of this trump card of the live torpedo – how could he take a chance on that being a lie? It even made sense – Horst Kohler told his wife there was one torpedo! But he wanted to bellow in rage – the bastard had frightened him!
‘And what is the value of this treasure?’
‘I don’t know. Except it is immense.’
‘And what is it – this treasure?’
‘Again, I’ve no idea. I was only instructed to receive it.’
Suddenly McQuade hardly cared any more, hardly cared about wealth. What he wanted was to punish this diabolical swine, prove him a liar and see him grovel and cry out for mercy.
‘And what were you to do with this treasure? Who were you receiving it for?’
‘I was to keep it safe until I received further instructions from the Berlin authorities.’
He was so plausible that McQuade had to remind himself that it was a pack of lies, and he felt a surge of elation that these lies were the man’s weakness because he was afraid of admitting he was Heinrich Muller. ‘But there were no more Berlin authorities.’
‘When Berlin fell, the Reich government continued in Flensberg under Admiral Dönitz until the tenth of May, 1945, by which time the submarine was half-way here.’
‘But who could send you instructions after the tenth of May when Germany finally surrendered?’
Muller said smoothly, ‘After I’d heard of Germany’s surrender, I expected the submarine commander would hand me written instructions when he delivered the consignment.’
‘And you would obey them? Even though the German authorities who sent them had ceased to exist? You would never have used the treasure for yourself?’
‘Certainly not. There is such a thing as honour. And what is the purpose of this cross-examination? I committed no crime.’
Committed no crime! ‘I presume you do not intend to use the treasure for yourself now, as there is this matter of honour. So I presume that in the last forty years your instructions have shown up?’
Muller saw the trap. He said with a faint smile:
‘What you do with your share is no concern of mine, Mr McQuade, and what becomes of my fifty per cent is no concern of yours. I repeat, what is the purpose of this impertinent cross-examination?’
Impertinent! McQuade rasped, ‘And the Jews? What became of them? And are they no concern of mine?’
For the first time Muller looked taken aback.
‘The Jews? What have they got to do with this?’ Then he sighed wearily. ‘We’re not going to rake over those old coals, are we? I thought you said you admired the Nazis?’ He frowned theatrically. ‘Anyway, do you know how many Jews perished in the war? A mere one hundred and fifty thousand.’
‘And they all died of old age?’
Muller smiled: ‘Everybody suffered during the war, Mr McQuade. There were food shortages and disease and air-raids and the hard labour for the war effort. Millions of Germans perished.’
McQuade almost felt his mind reel red-black again. ‘The Hoax of the Twentieth Century, huh?’
Muller dismissed the sarcasm with his theatrical frown: ‘Let’s stick to business, Mr McQuade – you’re about to become a very rich man. What’s the purpose of all this?’
McQuade didn’t give a shit about the treasure any more! ‘The purpose is to demonstrate that I’m not the simple fisherman you take me for! The purpose is to demonstrate that you’re a liar! The purpose is to show up the improbabilities in your story! The purpose is to show that you are SS General Heinrich Muller of the late Adolf Hitler’s Gestapo!’ Muller opened his mouth to protest but McQuade rasped on: ‘The purpose is to demonstrate that you were on that submarine coming out to South West Africa with complete instructions! And those instructions were so important to your masters in Nazi Germany that the entire crew of the submarine had to be murdered after you’d transferred the torpedoes so that nobody was left alive to know where Heinrich Muller had gone on Hitler’s business!’ He glared at the man furiously. ‘And the purpose is to find out what that business was!’
If Muller had lost his composure, he had recovered it. He looked at McQuade with a touch of amusement. ‘All very interesting. But, Mr McQuade, I am not Heinrich Muller.’
‘Your instructions were to use the money to rebuild the Nazi Party in southern Africa, weren’t they, Herr Muller?!’
‘I am Rolf Heinrich Strauss.’
McQuade bellowed, ‘Pottie!’
The door burst open and Potgieter came in, wide-eyed.
‘Bring the Mossad man here!’ Potgieter blinked and disappeared. McQuade turned to Muller furiously. The man had astonishment on his face. McQuade rasped venomously: ‘Very well, Mr Muller, you are about to meet the man from Mossad! You will see from his handcuffs that he is my prisoner too. They tried to snatch you from me while you were unconscious but fortunately they lost the fight. Fortunate for you, because had they won you would be on a plane to Jerusalem now! And fortunate for me because if they had won I wouldn’t be able to find out where that loot is!’ He paused dramatically. ‘Now, it was not my intention to hand you over to the tender mercies of Mossad, Herr Muller: I am not a vindictive man and I do not think the Nuremberg Trials were fair, I do not think men should be jailed and hanged for doing their duty in times of war, and I do not think so-called war-criminals should be hounded into their old age by snot-nosed young Jews who weren’t even born when the so-called crimes were committed!’ He paused again. ‘What I was going to do after we’d got the treasure was dump these three Mossad men – who are trying to kidnap you quite illegally in terms of the laws of this country – I was going to chuck them back in their dinghy and turn them loose on the Skeleton Coast and I was going to take you back to Walvis Bay to make your own way home. But since you refuse to tell me the truth, Herr Muller, I am now going to hand you over to the Mossad men! They are not only going to get the truth out of you, they’re going to take you back to Jerusalem to stand on the gallows!’
Muller seemed to have forced the momentary fear out of his eyes and they were opaque again. He opened his mouth to speak and McQuade bellowed, ‘Shut up!’ He strode for the door. ‘Pottie!’ he roared.
‘Here.’ Potgieter was coming down from the bridge, Matt in front of him, his hands manacled. They came filing into the saloon. Muller stared at the two men. His face was suddenly ashen. Matt had a malicious smile in his eyes. McQuade rasped at Matt, ‘Show the bastard your identification!’
Matt fumbled his manacled hand into his pocket. He produced a card and thrust it at Muller.
‘And who is this man?’ McQuade pointed at Muller.
Matt said slowly: ‘He is Heinrich Muller. Formerly SS General, head of the Gestapo in Nazi Germany.’
Muller was staring, ashen. Then his legs seemed to give way suddenly. He sat down heavily on the edge of the table.
McQuade looked at Matt in triumph. Then he jerked his head at the door.