Part 4 (1/2)
Her frown deepened and she came and sat beside him. ”What is it, Henry?”
”Something happened when I was diving this morning, something extraordinary. I found a wreck about eighty or ninety feet down.”
”You d.a.m.n fool.” She was angry now. ”Diving at that kind of depth on your own and at your age. Where was this?”
Although not a serious diver, she did go down occasionally and knew most of the sites. He hesitated. It was not only that he knew she would be thoroughly angry to know that he'd dived a place like Thunder Point and it certainly wasn't that he didn't trust her. He just wanted to keep the location of the submarine to himself for the moment, certainly until he'd seen Garth Travers.
”All I can tell you, Jenny, is that I found a German U-boat from nineteen forty-five.”
Her eyes widened. ”My G.o.d!”
”I managed to get inside. There was a briefcase, an aluminum thing. Watertight. I found the Captain's diary inside. It's in German, which I can't read, but there were a couple of names I recognized.”
”Such as?”
”Martin Bormann and the Duke of Windsor.”
She looked slightly dazed. ”Henry, what's going on here?”
”That's what I'd like to know.” He took her hand. ”Remember that English friend of mine, Rear Admiral Travers?”
”The one you served in the Korean War with? Of course, you introduced me to him the year before last when we were in Miami and he was pa.s.sing through.”
”I phoned him earlier. He's got all sorts of records on the German Kriegsmarine. He checked on the boat for me. One-eighty, that's what's painted on the conning tower, but one-eighty was a different type boat and it went down in the Bay of Biscay in nineteen forty-four.”
She shook her head in bewilderment. ”But what does it all mean?”
”There were stories for years about Bormann, dozens of books, all saying he didn't die in Berlin at the end of the War, that he survived. People had sightings of him in South America, or so they said.”
”And the Duke of Windsor?”
”G.o.d knows.” He shook his head. ”All I know is this could be important and I found the d.a.m.n boat, Jenny, me, Henry Baker. Christ, I don't know what's in the diary, but maybe it changes history.”
He got up and walked to the rail, gripping it with both hands. She had never seen him so excited, got up herself and put a hand on his shoulder. ”Want me to come with you?”
”h.e.l.l no, there's no need for that.”
”Billy and Mary could run things here.”
He shook his head. ”I'll be back in a few days. Four at the most.”
”Fine.” She managed a smile. ”Then we'd better get back to the house and I'll help you pack.”
His flight in the Carib Aviation Partenavia was uneventful except for strong headwinds that held them back a little so that the landing was later than he'd antic.i.p.ated, around six-thirty. By the time he'd pa.s.sed through customs, collected his luggage and proceeded to the British Airways desk, it was seven o'clock. He went through security into the departure lounge and the flight was called ten minutes later.
The service in British Airways First Cla.s.s was as superb as usual. He had carried Korvettenkapitan Friemel's case through with him and he accepted a gla.s.s of champagne from the stewardess, opened the case and browsed through it for a while, not just the diary, but the photos and the letters. Strange, because he didn't understand a word. It was the photo of the Kriegsmarine officer that really intrigued him, presumably Friemel himself, the face of the enemy, only Baker didn't feel like that, but then seamen of all nations, even in war, tended to have a high regard for each other. It was the sea, after all, which was the common enemy.
He closed the case and put it in the locker overhead when takeoff was announced and spent his time reading one or two of the London newspapers which were in plentiful supply. The meal was served soon after takeoff, and after it had been cleared away the stewardess reminded him that each seat had its own small video screen and offered him a brochure which included a lengthy list of videos available.
Baker browsed through it. It would at least help pa.s.s the time, and then he s.h.i.+vered a little as if someone had pa.s.sed over his grave. There was a film there he'd heard about, a German film, Das Boot Das Boot, in English, The Boat The Boat, from all accounts a harrowing story of life in a U-boat at the worst time in the War.
Against his better judgment he ordered it and asked for a large Scotch. The cabin crew went round pulling down the window blinds so that those who wished to might sleep. Baker inserted the video, put on the earphones and sat there, in the semidarkness, watching. He called for another Scotch after twenty minutes and kept watching. It was one of the most disturbing films of its kind he had ever seen.
An hour was enough. He switched off, tilted his seat back and lay there, staring through the darkness thinking about Korvettenkapitan Paul Friemel and U180 and that final ending on Thunder Point, wondering what had gone wrong. After a while, he slept.
3.
It was ten o'clock when the doorbell rang at the house in Lord North Street. Garth Travers answered the door himself and found Henry Baker standing there in the rain, the briefcase in one hand, his overnight case in the other. He had no raincoat and the collar of his jacket was turned up.
”My dear chap,” Travers said. ”For G.o.d's sake, come in before you drown.” He turned as he closed the door. ”You'll stay here of course?”
”If that suits, old buddy.”
”It's good to hear that description of me again,” Travers told him. ”I'll show you to your room later. Let's get you some breakfast. My housekeeper's day off, so you'll get it Navy style.”
”Coffee would be fine for the moment,” Baker said.
They went to the large, comfortable kitchen and Travers put the kettle on. Baker placed the briefcase on the table. ”There it is.”
”Fascinating.” Travers examined the Kriegsmarine insignia on the case, then glanced up. ”May I?”
”That's why I'm here.”
Travers opened the case. He examined the letters quickly. ”These must be keepsakes, dated at various times in nineteen forty-three and -four. All from his wife from the looks of things.” He turned to the photos. ”Knight's Cross holder? Must have been quite a boy.” He looked at the photos of the woman and the two little girls and read the handwritten paragraph on the back of one of them. ”Oh dear.”
”What is it?” Baker asked.
”It reads, 'my dear wife Lottie and my daughters, Ilse and Marie, killed in a bombing raid on Hamburg, August the eighth, nineteen forty-four.'”
”Dear G.o.d!” Baker said.
”I can check up on him easily enough. I have a book listing all holders of the Knight's Cross. It was the Germans' highest award for valor. You make the coffee and I'll get it.”
Travers went out and Baker found cups, a tin of instant milk in the icebox, had just finished when Travers returned with the book in question. He sat down opposite Baker and reached for his coffee.
”Here we are, Paul Friemel, Korvettenkapitan, joined the German Navy as an officer cadet after two years studying medicine at Heidelberg.” Travers nodded. ”Outstanding record in U-boats. Knight's Cross in July forty-four for sinking an Italian cruiser. They were on our side by then, of course. After that he was a.s.signed to sh.o.r.e duties at Kiel.” He made a face. ”Oh dear, mystery piles on mystery. It says here he was killed in a bombing raid on Kiel in April, nineteen forty-five.”
”Like h.e.l.l he was,” Baker said.
”Exactly.” Travers opened the diary and glanced at the first page. ”Beautiful handwriting and perfectly legible.” He riffled the pages. ”Some of the entries are quite short. Can't be more than thirty pages at the most.”
”Your German is fluent as I recall,” Baker said.
”Like a native, old boy; my maternal grandmother was from Munich. I'll tell you what I'll do, an instant translation into my word processor. Should take no more than an hour and a half. You get yourself some breakfast. Ham and eggs in the refrigerator, sorry, icebox to you, bread bin over there. Join me in the study when you're ready.”
He went out and Baker, relaxed now that everything was in hand, busied himself making breakfast, aware that he was hungry. He sat at the table to eat it, reading Travers' copy of that morning's London Times Times while he did so. It was perhaps an hour later that he cleared everything away and went into the study. while he did so. It was perhaps an hour later that he cleared everything away and went into the study.
Travers sat at the word processor, watching the screen, his fingers rippling over the keyboard, the diary open and standing on a small lectern on his right-hand side. There was a curiously intent look on his face.