I groaned, hoping the lady would go away. It didn't work.
"We're going to make another sweep of the reef. If our theory is right — if the earthquake or storm or whatever it was that happened out there actually ripped those cylinders out of what was left of the Garl then we're going to have to start all over."
"How?" I've always been the master of terse questions. It was one of the things that drove Gibby up the wall.
"I did some checking around. The maritime academy at Montego Bay has a PC-13A conversion submersible. I pulled a couple of strings, and got them to loan it to us.''
"Uncle Sugar's got a lot of clout," I said peevishly.
Hannah ignored the churlish remark. "Queet is on his way to pick it up. By the time you get back from Kingston, I should have everything rounded up, and we can get back to the reef and make another attempt to find Bearing's tin cans."
"About Kingston… how am I going to know where to look or even what the guy's name is?"
"That, battered one, is no problem. I got the information from Bearing." She handed me the slip of paper. "The man's name is Heinrich Froelling. He is a resident of the Saint Thomas asylum in Chamley on the outskirts of Kingston. When you get there, ask for a Father Govan; he's expecting you."
Hannah had it all arranged. Her face had creased into an unbecoming frown during the course of the exchange. Now that she was finished and I had my instructions, a wry smile began to work its way into her darkly tanned face.
I finished the coffee and forced my legs out over the edge of the bed. My little episode with Packer was a setback. I had only achieved about 70 percent efficiency after my encounter with Marshal Schuster in a Clearwater men's room. As my feet hit the floor, I revised my recovery estimate back down to about a 30 percent factor.
Hannah studied my every move and started to giggle.
"What's so damn funny?" I snarled.
She leaned back, grinning. "I was just thinking — if you and I had a 'thing' going, you'd be the next best thing to useless."
I groused, sputtered, limped into the toilet, looked in the mirror and saw what Hannah meant. My face was a kaleidoscope of purples, blues, blacks and maroons. Like Hannah said — a piece of shit!
7
"I am Father Govan," he said softly.
The good padre didn't look anything at all like I expected him to. Instead of being tall, paternal, gray-haired and an obvious paragon of wisdom, he was young, slight, round-shouldered, and his sparse sandy-colored hair hung down to his cleric's collar. He looked more like a fugitive from Woodstock than the man in charge of the Saint Thomas asylum. His most striking feature turned out to be a pair of beagle-like pleading and compassionate eyes that turned inward instead of trying to stare you down. He stuck out his bony hand in a straightforward kind of way.
"When Ms. Holbrook called, she said you were interested in talking to one of our residents."
"That's right, Father, a gentleman by the name of Heinrich Froelling."
Govan rolled his soft brown eyes toward the heavens. "Thank you," he murmured.
"Excuse me?"
The young priest's mobile face slipped into a homely smile. "Forgive me, Mr. Wages, it's a habit. It's just that another of my prayers has been answered."
"You'll have to explain, Father."
"I have known Herr Froelling a long time."
"Herr Froelling?" I repeated, more than a little surprised at the formality.
Govan held the tips of his fingers to his mouth in an apologetic gesture. "You must forgive me, Mr. Wages. I am of the order of Leon. We are essentially pacifist in nature. We seldom use men's titles, especially military ones."
"Military? I was led to believe that Heinrich Froelling was a merchant seaman."
"We also believed that Herr Froelling was a merchant seaman, but he claims to have been an officer in the Third Reich. Furthermore, he claims he was on a top secret mission for the German high command at the time of the accident."
"Accident?" To the priest I must have sounded like I couldn't come up with anything other than one word questions.
"When the Garl went down," Govan said patiently, "in the vicinity of Tiger Reef."
"Sounds to me like you've really pored over the old boy's files."
"I find the case of Herr Froelling quite interesting, and his personal files make for very unusual reading, so interesting, in fact, that I make it a practice to have tea with him every evening. I have taped many of our conversations, particularly on those nights when he is lucid."
"Then he does have his lucid periods?"
Govan sighed. "Not often, but he does have them, and they have, on some occasions, lasted for several days. I have repeatedly tried to get someone from the Ministry of Records or one of the universities to come assess his case, but, alas, I guess they have more important priorities."
"How about it, Father? May I talk to him?"
"Most assuredly, Mr. Wages. I was hoping you would ask." Govan's warm smile intensified as he stood up, straightening his cossack. "If you would be so kind as to walk with me, I will take you to him."
Govan led us out of the stark little room that served as his office and out into a courtyard choked with tropical plants. At the center of the court, he paused momentarily at a statue of the Blessed Virgin, genuflected, and continued on. We went through a massive oak door with heavy steel strapping, descended a set of narrow stone steps and headed down an even narrower stone passageway. The corridor was lined on both sides with doors similar to the one at the top of the stairs. We stopped at the last one on the left, and
Father Govan knocked three times.
"Herr Froelling, are you awake?"
Govan didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he quietly opened the door, and I got my first look at a genuine Nazi war criminal. Heinrich Froelling was a very old man in his 92nd year. He was propped up in a wheelchair with pillows, wrapped in gray muslin sheets and staring morosely out of an open window at the lush Jamaican countryside. There was a striking similarity between Bearing Schuster and the man Bearing had claimed would be too addled to be of any assistance in helping us locate the cylinders.
"Herr Froelling, I would like you to meet Mr. Wages. He has come a long way to visit with you." Govan enunciated his words slowly for the old man.
Froelling's skeletal head, void of hair and color, turned like a robot to assess me. His eyes were little more than muddy brown dull spots in hollow sockets. When he opened his mouth, there were no teeth, just hopelessly white, thin and anemic gums. "Visitors?" he repeated in a shaky voice that was barely audible.
"The test of lucidity, Mr. Wages, is to ask him where he last served during the war. If he is well-oriented, he will respond with something about the Garl."
I looked at the old man and wondered if it could really be true. Was this a man who had dared to dream a dream of world domination? Was I really face to face with a human being that had somehow survived the final hours of Germany's defeat? "I am told you served your Fuhrer well, Herr Froelling."
The old man looked at me with obvious distrust. His pale pink tongue darted out to wet his withered lips as he continued his assessment. Finally, he spoke. "Water." I couldn't tell whether it was a question or a statement.
Govan's perpetually misty eyes clouded still further. "Herr Froelling wants a drink of water."
After Govan left the room, Froelling appeared to gather himself. For a fleeting moment he appeared stronger. "Go away," he rasped.
Before I could respond, Govan returned with a glass of water. Froelling cradled the glass in his bony, trembling hands and held it to his mouth. He sucked more than drank.
"Herr Froelling's throat is constricted by large masses of scar tissue. I had gone over the doctor's reports when he first came to join us. His throat is little more than a network of deep lesions, some of them still seeping despite our constant medication."