that he survived. People had sightings of him in South America, or so they said.”
“And the Duke of Windsor?”
“God knows.” He shook his head. “All I know is this could be important and I found the damn 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?”
“Hell 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 anticipated, around six-thirty. By the time he’d passed 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 Class was as superb as usual. He had carried Korvettenkapitän Friemel’s case through with him and he accepted a glass 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 pass the time, and then he shivered a little as if someone had passed over his grave. There was a film there he’d heard about, a German film,
Das Boot
, in English,
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 Korvettenkapitän 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 God’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,
“And the Duke of Windsor?”
“God knows.” He shook his head. “All I know is this could be important and I found the damn 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?”
“Hell 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 anticipated, around six-thirty. By the time he’d passed 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 Class was as superb as usual. He had carried Korvettenkapitän Friemel’s case through with him and he accepted a glass 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 pass the time, and then he shivered a little as if someone had passed over his grave. There was a film there he’d heard about, a German film,
Das Boot
, in English,
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 Korvettenkapitän 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 God’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,
Similar Books
