pier’s old wooden steps and the boatman threw his hawser with unerring accuracy, securing the stern. Monsignor Jennings, handing the money to the boatman, climbed onto the gunwale and the boat tilted alarmingly. The boatman steadied it against the pier and shook his head as Jennings lost his footing and fell into the lake.
‘Imbecil!’ Jennings fumed, flailing back to the jetty and hauling himself onto the steps.
The old boatman shrugged and placed Jennings’ suitcase on top of the jetty. With an expert flick, he unhitched the hawser from the jetty pile and backed into the inlet.
‘ Adios, senor! ’ The old boatman was still grinning as he headed into the dusk enveloping the smooth waters of the lake.
‘ Tuc tuc, senor! Tuc tuc! ’
‘ Aqui, senor, aqui! ’
A squabble had broken out between two young taxi drivers, neither of whom could have been older than twelve. One had illegally manoeuvred his tuc tuc under the rope at the end of the jetty, gaining the advantage over the other boy waiting at the rank. Jennings took the option that didn’t involve walking, much to the anger of the boy who’d kept to the rules.
‘ Que te jordan! Hijo de puta! Fuck you, son of a bitch!’
Jennings’ driver gave the other boy the bird, opened the throttle and powered the noisy little three-wheeler up the narrow road that led to the town square at the top of the hill.
‘Donde a, senor?’
‘ La Iglesia,’ Jennings replied, pointing in the direction of the white-washed Catholic church that sat atop one of the foothills of Volcan San Pedro. Jennings, still dripping as he clung to the flimsy metal frame supporting the tuc tuc ’s canvas, observed the young driver with interest. The boy’s olive skin was flawless and Jennings began to mentally run his hand up the young man’s inner thigh. The boy weaved artfully between tourists and locals browsing the small roadside stalls that offered everything from woven baskets to tacos, spices to hambuergasas. The local village women, wearing elegant cortes, walked the streets balancing large baskets of fruit and bread on their heads, seemingly without effort.
‘?Como se llama usted?’ Jennings asked.
‘ Me llamo Alonzo,’ the boy replied as he weaved across the crowded square at the top of the hill, bringing the tuc tuc to a halt opposite the path that led to the church.
‘I’m the new priest here, Alonzo. Come and see me,’ Jennings said, tipping the boy fifty quetzales. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
Jennings extended the carry handle on his bag and walked up the path to the steps of the large white- washed colonial building that dominated San Pedro. A stone statue of Saint Peter guarded the cobblestones, and rocks protected gardens filled with luscious palms, brilliant orange hibiscus, white nun orchids and pink confetti flowers. The massive cedar door creaked on its iron hinges.
A solitary nun kneeling in the front pew turned at the sound of Jennings’ footfall echoing off the white stone walls, and went back to her prayers. Jennings walked up the centre aisle of the church and stopped at the nun’s pew. Sensing his presence, Sister Juanita Gonzales opened her eyes and looked up to find an obese, red-faced man in a dripping safari suit staring down at her.
‘Can I help you, senor?’ she whispered.
‘Monsignor Jennings.’
Sister Gonzales shot to her feet, banging her knee on the heavy wooden pew.
‘Oh, Father. I’m so sorry, no one told us you were coming,’ Sister Gonzales stammered, her round dark eyes full of concern. ‘I’m Sister Gonzales,’ she added. The beautiful young nun was slim and petite, her long dark hair hidden under the hood of her habit.
‘I see,’ Jennings replied irritably. ‘Take me to my quarters.’
‘Again, I’m most terribly sorry, Father,’ said Sister Gonzales, hurriedly opening the blinds and windows of the tiny one-bedroom San Pedro presbytery, which commanded sweeping views over the lake. ‘The presbytery’s been vacant ever since Father Hernandez left, so it’s terribly musty. We were planning to give it a thorough spring clean before your arrival.’
‘The presbytery’s been vacant all that time?’
‘We’ve been without a permanent parish priest since Father Hernandez retired, although he lived here for many years until he left… ’ Sister Gonzales’ voice trailed off.
‘And what was the reason for his leaving?’ Jennings probed.
Sister Gonzales stared at the old wooden floorboards.
‘I’m waiting!’
‘No one really knows, Father. There are just rumours…’
‘Yes?’
‘Rumours of his past – that he might have been a Nazi. He left in a big hurry after the Israelis arrived,’ Sister Gonzales added uncomfortably.
‘You knew the Israelis were here?’
Sister Gonzales nodded. ‘Someone in Panajachel warned Father Hernandez the Israelis were coming for him, and he left in a truck before they could get here.’
‘A truck?’
‘There is a back road that connects with the highway to the south. He took a big crate with him -’
‘Containing?’
‘No one knows, Father, but it was very heavy. It had to be loaded by forklift.’
Jennings grunted.
‘Have you had dinner, Father? We’re having black beans and tortillas tonight.’ The young nun smiled enthusiastically.
‘I’ll eat out. That will be all.’
Jennings glanced around his new quarters, angry at the task he’d been given. San Pedro was a long way from the delights of the European capitals, and even those in Guatemala, he thought wistfully, remembering the previous night with Reynaldo. Perhaps some of the tuc tuc drivers held some promise. He unpacked his battered suitcase and placed his clothes in the oak wardrobe in the bedroom which was on a mezzanine floor, reached by a wooden staircase. The rest of the flat consisted of a downstairs sitting room with an old couch and a white wicker table and two wicker chairs. The kitchen had a small stove, connected to a gas bottle, and an old Kelvinator refrigerator. The bathroom was equally primitive. Several tiles were missing from the shower recess, which was screened by a yellowed shower curtain.
He walked back out into the sitting room, oblivious to the stunning vista of coffee plantations running down the sides of the volcanoes to a lake shore dotted with poinsettia trees, banana palms, Mexican honeysuckles, spiny yuccas and a host of other colourful palms and plants. Jennings opened a door under the stairs and switched on the light. The storeroom was dank and dusty; empty save for a pair of scuba tanks and a diving regulator. He lifted the tanks and underneath was an old diary. The Israelis had indeed forced von Hei?en to get out in a rush, Jennings thought, as he retrieved the diary from the concrete floor.
44
O ’Connor parked the Toyota in a side street near the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof and hailed a cab to take them within walking distance of the Hansehof, a two-star hotel on Simon-von-Utrecht Strasse. He booked just one room, not wanting Aleta to be any more vulnerable than she already was.
‘Bit of a comedown from the Imperial,’ Aleta said with a grin, unable to resist having a dig.
‘Yes, but this one’s nondescript, and it has one big advantage at this stage of our journey.’
‘And what might that be?’ she asked as O’Connor inserted the key to their room.
‘Twin beds.’
‘You’re incorrigible.’
