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The car swerved to the right, and moments later to the left. Who were they trying to fool? Karl knew they were simply going back over the same route, because they wouldn’t risk leaving their Catholic stronghold.
Suddenly, the car came to a halt, a door opened and Karl was thrown out on to the street. If he was still alive in five minutes’ time, he thought, he might live to collect his old-age pension. Someone grabbed him by the hair and yanked him to his feet. A shove in the middle of his back propelled him through an open door. A smell of burned meat wafted from a back room, but he suspected that feeding him wasn’t on their agenda.
He was dragged up a flight of stairs into a room that had a bedroom smell, and pushed down on to a hard wooden chair. The door slammed, and he was left alone. Or was he? He assumed he must be in a safe house, and that someone senior, possibly even an area commander, would now be deciding what should be done with him.
He couldn’t be sure how long they kept him waiting. It felt like hours, each minute longer than the last. Then suddenly the door was thrown open, and he heard at least three men enter the room. One of them began to circle the chair.
“What do you want, Englishman?” said the gruff circling voice.
“I’m not English,” said Karl. “I’m German.”
A long silence followed. “So what do you want, Kraut?”
“I have a proposition to put to you.”
“Do you support the IRA?” another voice, younger, passionate, but with no authority.
“I don’t give a fuck about the IRA.”
“Then why risk your life trying to find us?”
“Because, as I said, I have a proposition you might find worthwhile. So why don’t you bugger off and get someone in here who can make decisions. Because I suspect, young man, that your mother is still teaching you your potty drill.”
A fist smashed into his mouth, followed by a loud angry exchange of opinions, several voices speaking at the same time. Karl felt blood trickle down his chin, and braced himself for the second blow, but it never came. The older man must have prevailed. A moment later three of them left the room, and the door slammed. But this time Karl knew he wasn’t alone. Having his eyes covered for so long had made him more sensitive to sound and smell. At least an hour passed before the door opened again, and a man wearing shoes, not boots, entered the room. Karl could sense that he was just inches away.
“What is your name?” asked a man with a cultured voice and almost no accent.
Karl guessed the voice belonged to someone aged between thirty-five and forty. He smiled. Although he couldn’t see him, this was the man he’d come to negotiate with.
“Karl Lunsdorf.”
“And what brings you to Belfast, Mr. Lunsdorf?”
“I need your help.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I need someone who believes in your cause and works at Harland and Wolff.”
“I am sure you already know that very few Catholics can find work at Harland and Wolff. It’s a closed shop. I fear you may have made a wasted journey.”
“There are a handful of Catholics, carefully vetted I admit, who work there in specialized areas, electrical, plumbing and welding, but only when the management can’t find a Protestant with the necessary skills.”
“You’re well informed, Mr. Lunsdorf. But even if we could find such a man who supported our cause, what would you expect him to do?”
“Harland and Wolff have just been awarded a contract by Barrington Shipping—”
“To build a luxury liner called the Buckingham.”
“Now it’s you who’s well informed,” said Karl.
“Hardly,” said the cultured voice. “An architect’s drawing of the proposed ship was printed on the front page of both our local papers the day after the contract was signed. So, Mr. Lunsdorf, tell me something I don’t know.”
“Work on the liner begins some time next month, with a delivery date to Barrington’s of March fifteenth, 1962.”
“And what are you hoping we will be able to do? Speed the process up, or slow it down?”
“Bring it to a halt.”
