I ignored Froelling's admonition. "I understand you were aboard the Garl?"
The former Nazi officer somehow managed to convey an even more haunted look than before. It was obvious the old man did not want to talk about the Garl. Reluctantly, he nodded.
"Can you tell me what happened aboard the Garl?"
Father Govan waited patiently while Froelling thought about his answer. Then, when the old man turned and looked out the window again, the young priest volunteered his own version. "I have asked the same question, Mr. Wages. On one occasion, Herr Froelling told me he was assigned to guard certain highly sensitive materials and documents the German high command was sending to a South American government sympathetic to the cause of the Third Reich."
"Like Peron in Argentina?"
"Among others," Govan confirmed in his gentle voice.
While I had him on the subject, I decided to press the young priest to see what he really knew. "Did Froelling ever tell you what was aboard the Garl or why the mission was so top secret?"
Govan nodded. "Yes," he admitted softly. All the while, Froelling's empty eyes were locked on mine in an expression of hatred. It was all too obvious he did not want the priest to discuss his mission with me.
"Do you believe what he told you?"
"I have heard Herr Froelling's story many times, Mr. Wages. It never varies. I have no reason to doubt him."
"Has he ever told you what happened to the Garl?"
Govan studied me a long time before responding. He was weighing whether or not the betrayal of the old man's confidence was worth it. "Herr Froelling and two others were the only military men assigned to the mission. The rest of the crew were merchant seamen. The Garl's commission was to deliver certain top secret artifacts to South America."
"Did Froelling ever tell you what those artifacts were?"
Again Govan hesitated. The moment he did, I knew Froelling had told him. Father Govan, in that sense, was no different than anybody else. The whole concept, the whole mission, sounded too ludicrous; it boggled the conventional mind. "He told me that a man named Martin Bormann had arranged to have Hitler's body frozen, placed in a special container and shipped to a Doctor Bachmann in South America. Once there, Hitler would be… reanimated."
"Let me ask you, Father, do you believe that's possible?"
The young priest sighed. "Consider my situation, Mr. Wages. I am a young man, unwise in the ways of the world. I know very little of this confrontation men call the Second World War. From everything I have read, this must have been one of mankind's darkest hours, a most maniacal period of discord. Now you ask me whether man can play God? Whether there is life after death? I say for the spirit, yes. As for the carnal image that is supposed to be our Savior's image, I believe that only to be a fool's dream."
"I can't debate philosophy with you, Father, but I can ask you to tell me what you know. You and Herr Froelling here are probably the only two people in the world that know what happened out there."
The young priest walked across the room and looked out the window, his hands locked behind his back in a posture of contemplation. "Herr Froelling told me that the Garl was scheduled to rendezvous with an Argentine freighter at a prearranged small port just west of Montego Bay. But according to Herr Froelling, that meeting never took place. He claims Nazi hunters were everywhere, and the Argentine captain decided not to go through with his assignment. When Froelling realized they would either be captured or have to jettison their cargo in order to avoid capture, Froelling took the captain of the Garl into his confidence and beseeched the man to take them on to Buenos Aires. The captain agreed, but the crew rebelled when they discovered what was aboard the freighter. In the end, they mutinied."
Froelling had averted his eyes. He looked away in dismay, feeling betrayed.
"Somewhere along the line the crew split into two factions. The struggle that followed lasted for days. Froelling and his two men were the only survivors of what turned out to be the losing faction. They were put in a boat and cast adrift. At that time, the Garl was approaching the Doobacque Cluster. As he was put off the ship, Froelling was told that it was the intent of the crew to destroy the cylinders.''
Govan paused and gave the old man another drink of water. "To continue… Herr Froelling said they drifted for two days, and on the morning of the third day there was an unexplained great blast of icy air. Froelling was knocked overboard, and since he had attempted to escape with what he considered to be some very sensitive documents, the weight of the packet almost made him drown. When he was able to rid himself of the burden, he swam to the surface. That's when he discovered that his men had been so desperate for air that they had literally torn their throats out."
"What else did he tell you?"
Father Govan shook his head sadly. "I have learned since that the small boat eventually drifted into a small lagoon somewhere in the Cluster. Froelling was found there what is believed to be three years later by some engineers developing a site for an American research facility. When Herr Froelling was discovered, he was assumed to be quite mad."
"Three years?" I repeated in disbelief.
"Yes," Govan replied in his now near-tutorial voice. "You see, Mr. Wages, I have been to the Cluster. It is a strange place. The largest of the islands, the one called Big Doobacque, was once considered to be the crown jewel of the Cluster — the near perfect Caribbean paradise — that is, until the great upheaval. From that day forward it was shrouded in a steamy mist — one could even say an inhospitable and oppressive atmosphere."
"And when did that happen?"
Govan rolled his eyes back in his head in thought. "Oddly enough," he admitted, "at about the same time as the Garl incident."
I looked long and hard at Froelling and then at the young priest. Formerly scattered and meaningless pieces of Bachmann's convoluted puzzle were leaping into place.
"Has he ever talked to you about the cylinders? About their construction? About the procedure for opening them?"
Govan thought for a moment then shook his head.
I looked at the old man again. He had completely lost interest in me — or was it the world?
At that point, Father Govan escorted me out of the room, and the two of us threaded our way back through the maze of the abbey's courtyard and returned to the austere little cubicle that served as the priest's office. He went immediately to a battered old filing cabinet and opened the bottom drawer.
Govan pulled out something wrapped in what appeared to be a piece of faded muslin and handed it to me.
"You may have this if you want it," he offered.
I gave him a quizzical look.
"I must apologize for the poor quality, Mr. Wages, but I thought perhaps this might be of some value to you. They are my notes from my conversations with Herr Froelling."
I rifled through the pages to see the extent of the man's documentation. Each page, each entry, was carefully and precisely written in a stylized penmanship that brought back those days of a hundred years ago when Sister Joel stood over me with her hickory pointer.
"I want you to have it," Govan added as an afterthought.
There was little doubt in my mind that his journal might contain some piece of information that could prove invaluable in solving the riddle of Bormann's cylinders. Yet I was aware of just how much time and effort the good priest had put into the Froelling project. "But you said he still had lucid periods. There may be more conversations to record."