The Hour of the Cat by Peter Quinn

said. “We were all proud to serve with Admiral von Spee.” Days so different from now, the endless Pacific sky; at night the spectacle of the Southern Cross, the pyrotechnics of shooting stars. The war was still exciting; victory still a possibility. The Dresden put into San Miguel on Michaelmas, a propitious coincidence, everyone agreed. Canaris spent several nights with the same whore, a half-Indian, half-German girl, a face so lovely he’d never seen its equal. Soon after, the Dresden rendezvoused with von Spee’s squadron and formed a small flotilla that posed a potent threat to British shipping.
    The Royal Navy wasn’t long in coming, steaming ahead with all the cocksure arrogance for which it was famous. Von Spee waited outside the port of Coronel, in Chile, and let them run into his guns. Monmouth and Good Hope each took direct hits, erupting into the twilight with the force of volcanoes, and sank with all 1,600 sailors aboard. Von Spee directed there be no cheering. An unnecessary order. The men knew that the Royal Navy would do everything in its power to undo such an atrocious defeat, the worst in more than a century, and that the charred and broken corpses floating in the water might soon be their own.
    â€œThe Invincible and Inflexible put an end to the Admiral’s success,” the attaché said.
    â€œYes, but the Dresden got away.”
    â€œQuite right. It was the Glasgow that finally caught up with you and sent the Dresden to the bottom, was it not?”
    â€œWe were hit by Glasgow, but we scuttled it ourselves and fled ashore. The crew was interned, but I was too young to waste away in such a place, with nothing more exciting to look forward to than a daily siesta. I escaped across the Andes, reached Buenos Aires, and sailed with a Chilean passport through Plymouth to Rotterdam.”
    â€œThe one that got away!”
    â€œThat time at least.”
    They’d watched from a nearby hill as the Dresden reared up out of the water, heaved its stern in the air and keeled over to expose the gaping, smoking, fatal wound in its starboard side. The sturdy, reliable, hardworking Dresden slipped rapidly into the green sea. An oil slick spread over the surface of the water like a blood stain. It felt as though they witnessed the death of an old and trusted mate.
    Three of the crew died from cholera while interned on the bleak island of Quiriquina. Another went mad. One slit his wrists. He was surrounded by death, certain it would come for him if he stayed, so he fled, across the Andes, death a pace or two behind. The commendation that accompanied his Iron Cross saluted his “heroic determination to rejoin the struggle for the Fatherland and fight unto the death.” But it was fear—the fear of death—that drove him to escape, not heroism.
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    Gresser served tea. The attaché spoke of his hope their countries wouldn’t be adversaries again. He recognized Germany’s claim on territorial adjustments to the Versailles Treaty. “But all this saber rattling is putting everyone on edge.”
    â€œWanton aggression must be strongly opposed,” Canaris said. “The security of Europe depends on it. Your government must face up to that.”
    â€œCome, Admiral, I’d hardly call the Czechs ‘wanton aggressors. ’”
    â€œNeither would I.”
    The attaché stared at the tea leaves in the bottom of his cup, as if the meaning of Canaris’s implicit criticism of his own government might be found there. After an unnatural pause, he described a motor trip he’d taken on the new autobahn, the wonders of its broad lanes, no lights or crossways or local traffic. He had an Englishman’s love of monologue as well as a talent for it. Canaris was delighted to be relieved of the burden of conversation. They parted with an amicable handshake.
    Canaris finished up his work and prepared to leave. The nap hadn’t done much