Cryptonomicon

He follows Bischoff's tracks through a film of snow, down the cobblestone street, and onto the pier. Three men in black scramble out of the launch, onto the ladder, up to the pier. They salute Bischoff and then two of them embrace him. Shaftoe's close enough and the salmon light is bright enough, that he can recognize these two: members of Bischoff's old crew. The third guy is taller, older, gaunter, grimmer, better-dressed, more highly decorated. All in all, more of a Nazi.

Shaftoe can't believe himself. When he picked up the locker he was just being considerate to his friend Günter--an ink-stained retiree with pacifist leanings. Now, all of a sudden, he's aiding and abetting the enemy! What would his fellow Marines think of him if they knew?

Oh, yeah. Almost forgot. He is actually participating in the conspiracy that he, Bischoff, Rudy von Hacklheber, and Enoch Root created in the basement of that church. He comes to a dead stop and slams the locker down right there, in the middle of the pier. The Nazi is startled by the noise and raises his blue eyes in the direction of Shaftoe, who prepares to stare him down.

Bischoff notices this. He turns towards Shaftoe and shouts something cheerful in Swedish. Shaftoe has the presence of mind to break eye contact with the chilly German. He grins and nods back. This conspiracy thing is going to be a real pain in the ass if it means backing down from casual fistfights.

A couple of sailors have come up the ladder now to handle Bischoff's luggage. One of them strides down the pier to get the footlocker. Shaftoe recognizes him, and he recognizes Shaftoe, at the same moment. Damn! The guy's surprised, but not unpleasantly so, to see Shaftoe here. Then something occurs to him and his face freezes up in horror and his eyes dart sideways, back toward the tall Nazi. Shit! Shaftoe turns his back on all of this, makes like he's strolling back into town.

"Jens! Jens!" Bischoff hollers, and then says something else in Swedish. He's running after Shaftoe. Shaftoe keeps his back prudently turned until Bischoff throws one arm around him with a final "JENS!" Then, sotto voce, in English: "You have my family's address. If I don't see you in Manila, let's get in touch after the war." He starts pounding Shaftoe on the back, pulls some paper money out of his pocket, stuffs it into Shaftoe's hand.

"Goddamn it, you'll see me there," Shaftoe says. "What is this shit for?"

"I am tipping the nice Swedish boy who carried my luggage," Bischoff says.

Shaftoe sucks his teeth and grimaces. He can tell he is not cut out for this cloak-and-dagger nonsense. Questions come to his mind, among them How is that big torpedo full of rocket fuel safer than what you were riding around in before?but he just says, "Good luck, I guess."

"Godspeed, my friend," Bischoff says. "This will remind you to check your mail." Then he punches Shaftoe in the shoulder hard enough to raise a three-day welt, turns around, and begins walking towards salt water. Shaftoe walks towards snow and trees, envying him. The next time he looks at the harbor, fifteen minutes later, the U-boat is gone. Suddenly this town feels just as cold, empty, and out in the middle of nowhere as it really is.

He's been getting his mail at the Norrsbruck post office, general delivery. When the place opens up a couple of hours later, Shaftoe's waiting by the door; venting steam from his nostrils, like he's rocket-fuel-powered. He receives a letter from his folks in Wisconsin, and one large envelope, posted yesterday from somewhere in Norrsbruck, Sweden, bearing no return address but inscribed in Günter Bischoff's hand.

It is full of notes and documents concerning the new U-boat, including one or two letters personally signed by John Huncock himself. Shaftoe's German is slightly better than it was before he went on his own U-boat ride, but he still can't follow most of it. He sees a lot of numbers there, a lot of technical-looking stuff.

It is your basic priceless naval intelligence. Shaftoe wraps the papers up carefully, sticks them in his pants, begins walking up the beach towards the Kivistik residence.

It is a long, cold, wet trudge. He has plenty of time to assess his situation: stuck in a neutral country on the other side of the world from where he wants to be. Alienated from the Corps. Lumped in with a vague conspiracy.

Technically speaking, he has been AWOL for several months now. But if he suddenly turns up at the American Embassy in Stockholm, carrying these documents, all will be forgiven. So this is his ticket home. And "home" is a very large country that includes places like Hawaii, which is closer to Manila than is Norrsbruck, Sweden.