Sant of the Secret Service: Some Revelations of Spies and Spying. Le Queux William
of detection.
My first task was to find a hiding-place. After some deliberation I selected a thick clump of brushwood which grew about half a mile from the point at which the track from the beach rose to the top of the cliff. Lying down at full length, I felt satisfied that I could see without being seen, and, pulling out the excellent pair of night-glasses with which I had taken the precaution to equip myself, I prepared for my vigil.
Just as sunset was darkening into night I caught sight of two men coming along the road. Through my small pair of powerful glasses I instantly recognised one of them as the “Italian.” The other, no doubt, was Fontan. Their figures showed black and sinister in the last gleam of the sunlight. They were walking quickly, and Fontan, if indeed it was he, carried in his hand a well-filled sack.
As they drew near they left the road and made straight for the edge of the cliff, disappearing into the cleft almost beneath the very branches of the big tree. It was now or never for me, and, loosening my automatic in my pocket, I cast all prudence aside and raced at top speed for the cliff.
Arriving at the edge, I flung myself flat on my face and peered over. Below, to my intense gratification, I could see assembled on the sands a dozen sailors in German uniforms, while only a few yards from the shore lay a big German submarine, its conning-tower and fore and aft guns showing clear of the long grey hull, which lay almost awash. The crew were being exercised along the sands, while Fontan was handing to an officer a quantity of fresh vegetables, with a packet of letters and telegrams, from the sack. Close by, the “Italian” and another officer, evidently the captain of the U-boat, were in earnest talk.
The light was failing rapidly, and soon it became too dark to see more. A lantern twinkled on the beach, and I could plainly hear steps and voices ascending the rough path to the top of the cliff. It was essential I should hear more, therefore I took the desperate course. Swiftly climbing into the tree, I laid myself down at full length on a big branch which jutted out over the path.
Preceded by a sailor bearing a lantern, three men came up the path. Two of them I knew to be the “Italian” and the captain of the U-boat. The third was Fontan, at whom I particularly wanted to have a look, for something in his walk reminded me of someone I had failed definitely to recall.
As the sailor reached the top of the cliff he turned and swung the lantern so as to show the last few steps of the rugged path. Its rays fell for a second upon the face of Fontan, and I nearly fell from my perch with amazement. Willi Bernhard, by all that was wonderful! One of the Kaiser’s most expert spies, who was head of one of the departments of the Königgrätzer-strasse, posing in Santander as a humble boatman. No wonder I had failed to recognise him until I saw his face!
“No need for me to come any farther,” said the deep voice of the U-boat captain in German. “We shall lie here until midnight to-morrow, and will expect you at sundown with the latest instructions. I only want to make sure the others are ready at their stations. And then,” he added, with a cruel laugh, “good-bye, Athabasca!”
The Athabasca was the liner I had come out to save!
I gritted my teeth with rage at his brutal callousness, and when I thought of the two thousand or so lives dependent on the Athabasca’s safety I could barely restrain myself from emptying my revolver into his head. That, however, would have been merely suicide, so I bided my time.
The “Italian” and Bernhard, as I may as well call him now, wished the captain au revoir and started to walk briskly to Santander; the sailors returned to the shore. Once the way was clear I wasted no time. I am a good runner, but never in my life have I covered three miles as quickly as I did that summer night in my dash for Santander.
I was elated beyond measure. For I had quite obviously dropped right on to the submarine supply-base, the existence of which had for months been a practical certainty. And, further, I had discovered the identity of “Fontan,” the German spy who was acting as the “post office” of the U-boats, and supplying them with all necessaries. It now remained only to smoke out the pirates’ nest and destroy the whole brood!
That cryptic telegram which was delivered to me at the Ezcurra in San Sebastian had been sent to Bernhard – in the name of Fontan – at the poste restante in San Sebastian and called for by the “Italian.” It was originally sent out by wireless, intercepted by the International Bureau, and retransmitted to me for my information and guidance. In the code of the maritime department of the German Secret Service at Kiel, when decoded it read:
“Fontan remains here.” (The following message is sent to Fontan at your poste restante.) “Goods marked C.X.B.” (the wireless call letters for the British liner Athabasca, from New Zealand, bound for London) “arrived” (meaning due to arrive) “fourteenth” (to-day was July 12th), “twenty-three cases” (twenty-three o’clock Continental time, in our time 11 p.m.). “Awaiting samples second quality” (“samples” in the spy code meaning submarines – “second quality” German – “first quality” meaning British).
Thus the submarine commander was informed of the coming of the great liner and was lying in wait in the calm, secluded cove, ready to pounce out and sink the great ship with two thousand souls on board, including a large number of New Zealand troops.
Racing into Santander, I made for the British Consul’s house, presenting so disreputable a figure that it was only with the utmost difficulty that I secured admission to the Consul himself.
“Has Jeans arrived?” I asked breathlessly, and, hearing that he was on his way at full speed, I told the Consul what I had learned.
Clearly it would be touch and go, but we had a little time in hand. The submarine would not leave the cove until after midnight on the thirteenth – to-day was the twelfth – so as to be just in time to place herself across the path of the oncoming liner.
About seven o’clock next evening, lounging in the garish Café Suzio, with its noisy crowd, I saw a tall English traveller in grey tweeds saunter in. After he had swallowed a drink, I rose and went out, and he followed at once. It was the commander of the British submarine 85, and on receipt of my wireless he had come full speed to Santander. At that moment his boat was lying off the port, skilfully screened behind a big British tramp steamer that was being used as a decoy. He had come ashore, apparently from the tramp, but really from his own boat, which had submerged the moment he left it.
“Well, Sant,” he said eagerly, “you’ve made a grand discovery. I got your wireless off Finisterre last night, and came here full speed. Wilson is outside Bilbao, and Matthews at Gijon, both waiting. I have sent out a message to the squadron, and we hope to make a big bag. But we’ll get this friend of yours in the cove first, anyhow. You’ll come, of course?”
I eagerly assented, and we went down to the water’s edge, where the tramp steamer’s boat was lying in charge of two men whose merchant jack rig-out hardly concealed the purposeful British bluejacket. We were soon on board the tramp. A few minutes later the submarine rose noiselessly to the surface, close alongside, and we went on board.
“Now for the cove,” said Jeans, as we dropped below.
Crawling along dead slow in order that the noise of our propellers might not betray us to the enemy, we approached the cove. By this time it was dark. A mile from the cove, screened by a promontory of rock, we rose noiselessly to the surface. A collapsible Berthon boat, containing half a dozen armed men, put off to guard the approach to the beach, and once more we submerged and made for the cove, showing only six inches of our periscope above the rippling waves.
There was just enough moonlight for our purpose, and as we drew near we were able to make out the enemy submarine, lying just awash, and presenting a magnificent target. Very few of the crew were on shore; obviously they were getting ready to leave. We could make out the captain, walking up and down with two men that we knew must be the “Italian” and Bernhard.
Jeans swung our ship slowly into position; the torpedo crew grouped themselves round the bow tube and we waited the exact moment. It was necessary that most of the crew should be on board, for our landing-party dared not risk a possible fight on Spanish soil, and if only one man escaped we should