Thunder Point

Copyright

Harper

An imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph Ltd 1993

Copyright © Jack Higgins 1993

Jack Higgins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

All rights reserved under International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780007456058

Ebook Edition © June 2012 ISBN: 9780007456055

Version: 2015-01-13

Dedication

For my daughter Hannah

Epigraph

Whether Reichsleiter Martin Bormann, Head of the Nazi Party Chancellery and Secretary to Adolf Hitler, the most powerful man in Germany after the Führer, actually escaped from the Führer Bunker in Berlin in the early hours of 2 May 1945 or died trying to cross the Weidendammer Bridge has always been a matter of conjecture. Josef Stalin believed him to be alive, Jacob Glas, Bormann’s chauffeur, swore that he saw him in Munich after the war and Eichmann told the Israelis he was still alive in 1960. Simon Wiesenthal, the greatest Nazi hunter of them all, always insisted he was alive and then there was a Spaniard who had served in the German SS who insisted that Bormann had left Norway in a U-boat bound for South America at the very end of the war…

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Thunder Point Map

Epigraph

Prologue

1992

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Jack Higgins

About the Publisher

Prologue Berlin – The Führer Bunker

30 April 1945

The city seemed to be on fire, a kind of hell on earth, the ground shaking as shells exploded and, as dawn came, smoke drifted in a black pall. In the eastern half of Berlin, the Russians were already formally in control, and refugees, carrying what they could of their belongings, moved along Wilhelmstrasse close to the Reich Chancellery in the desperate hope of somehow reaching the West and the Americans.

Berlin was doomed, everyone knew that, and the panic was dreadful to see. Close by the Chancellery, a group of SS were stopping everyone they saw in uniform. Unless such individuals could account for themselves they were immediately accused of desertion in the face of the enemy and hung from the nearest lamppost or tree. A shell screamed in, fired at random by Russian artillery. There were cries of alarm and people scattered.

The Chancellery itself was battered and defaced by the bombardment, particularly at the rear, but deep in the earth, protected by thirty metres of concrete, the Führer and his staff still worked on in a subterranean world that was totally self-supporting, still in touch by radio and radio-telephone with the outside world.

The rear of the Reich Chancellery was also damaged, pock-marked by shell fire, and the once-lovely gardens were a wilderness of uprooted trees and the occasional shell hole. One blessing; there was little air activity, low cloud and driving rain having cleared the sky of aircraft for the moment.

The man who walked in that ruined garden on his own seemed curiously indifferent to what was happening, didn’t even flinch when another shell landed on the far side of the Chancellery. As the rain increased in force, he simply turned up his collar, lit a cigarette and held it in cupped hand as he continued to walk.

He was not very tall with heavy shoulders and a coarse face. In a crowd of labourers or dock workers he would have faded into the background, nothing special, not memorable to the slightest degree. Everything about him was nondescript from the shabby ankle-length greatcoat to the battered peaked cap.

A nobody of any importance, that would have been the conclusion and yet this man was Reichsleiter Martin Bormann, Head of the Nazi Party Chancellery and Secretary to the Führer, the most powerful man in Germany next to Hitler himself. The vast majority of the German people had never even heard of him and even fewer would have recognized him if they saw him. But then he had organized his life that way, deliberately choosing to be an anonymous figure wielding his power only from the shadows.

But that was all over, everything was finished and this was the final end of things. The Russians could be here at any moment. He’d tried to persuade Hitler to leave for Bavaria, but the Führer had refused, had insisted, as he had publicly declared for days, that he would commit suicide.

An SS corporal came out of the Bunker entrance and hurried towards him. He gave the Nazi salute. ‘Herr Reichsleiter, the Führer is asking for you.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In his study.’

‘Good, I’ll come at once.’ As they walked towards the entrance several shells landed on the far side of the Chancellery again, debris lifting into the air. Bormann said, ‘Tanks?’

‘I’m afraid so, Herr Reichsleiter, less than half a mile away now.’

The SS corporal was young and tough, a seasoned veteran. Bormann clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You know what they say? Everything comes to he who waits.’

He started to laugh and the young corporal laughed with him as they started down the concrete steps.

When Bormann knocked on the study door and went in the Führer was seated behind the desk, examining some maps with a magnifying glass. He glanced up.

‘Ah, Bormann, there you are. Come in. We don’t have much time.’

‘I suppose not, my Führer,’ Bormann said uncertainly, unsure of what was meant.

‘They’ll be here soon, Bormann, the damned Russians, but they won’t find me waiting. Stalin would like nothing better than to exhibit me in a cage.’

‘That can never be, my Führer.’

‘Of course not. I shall commit suicide and my wife will accompany me on that dark journey.’

He was referring to his mistress Eva Braun, who he had finally married at midnight on the 28th.

‘I had hoped that even now you would reconsider whether or not to make a break for Bavaria,’ Bormann told him, but more for something to say than anything else.

‘No, my mind is made up, but you, my old friend, you have work to do.’

Hitler stood up and shuffled round the table, the man who only three years previously had controlled Europe from the Urals in the east to the English Channel. Now, his cheeks were sunken, his jacket appeared too large, and when he took Bormann’s hands, his own shook with palsy. And yet the power was there still and Bormann was moved.

‘Anything, my Führer.’

‘I knew I could depend on you. The Kameradenwerk, Action for Comrades.’ Hitler shuffled back to his chair. ‘That is your task, Bormann, to see that the National Socialism survives. We have hundreds of millions in Switzerland and elsewhere in the world in gold in numbered accounts, but you have details of those.’

‘Yes, my Führer.’

Hitler reached under his desk and produced a rather strange-looking briefcase, dull silver in appearance. Bormann noted the Kriegsmarine insignia etched in the top right-hand corner.

Hitler flicked it open. ‘The keys are inside along with a number of items which will prove useful to you over the years.’ He held up a buff envelope. ‘Details of similar accounts in various South American countries and the United States. We have friends in all those places only waiting to hear from you.’

‘Anything else, my Führer?’

Hitler held up a large file. ‘I call this the Blue Book. It contains the names of many members of the British Establishment, both in the ranks of the aristocracy and Parliament, who are friendly to our cause. A number of our American friends are there also. And last, but not least.’ He passed another envelope across. ‘Open it.’

The paper was of such quality that it was almost like parchment. It had been written in English in July 1940, in Estoril in Portugal and was addressed to the Führer. The signature at the bottom was that of His Royal Highness the Duke of Windsor. It was in English and the content was quite simple. He was agreeing to take over the throne of Great Britain in the event of a successful invasion.

‘The Windsor Protocol,’ Hitler said simply.

‘Can this be true?’ Bormann asked in astonishment.

‘Himmler himself vouched for it. He had the Duke approached by his agents in Portugal at the time.’

Or said that he had, Bormann told himself. That devious little animal had always been capable of anything. He replaced the document in its envelope and handed it to the Führer who replaced it and the other items in the briefcase. ‘This is standard issue to the U-boat captains at the moment. Completely self-sealing, water and fire-proof.’ He pushed it across to Bormann. ‘Yours now.’ The Führer gazed in space for a moment in reverie. ‘What a swine Himmler is to try and make a separate peace with the Allies, and now I hear that Mussolini and his girlfriend were murdered by partisans in northern Italy, strung up by their ankles.’

‘A mad world.’ Bormann waited for a moment then said, ‘One point, my Führer, how do I leave? We are now surrounded here.’

Hitler came back to life. ‘Quite simple. You will fly out using the East-West Avenue. As you know, Field Marshal Ritter von Greim and Hannah Reitsch got away in an Arado just after midnight yesterday. I spoke personally to the Commander of the Luftwaffe Base at Rechlin.’ He glanced at a paper on his desk. ‘A young man, a Captain Neumann, volunteered to fly in a Fieseler Storch during the night, he arrived safely and is now waiting your orders.’

‘But where, my Führer?’ Bormann asked.

‘In that huge garage at Goebbels’ house near the Brandenburg Gate. From there he will fly you to Rechlin and refuel for the onward flight to Bergen in Norway.’

‘Bergen?’ Bormann asked.

‘From where you will proceed by submarine to South America, Venezuela to be precise. You’ll be expected. One stop on the way. You’ll be expected there too, but all the details are in here.’ He handed him an envelope. ‘You’ll also find my personal signed authorization in there giving you full powers in my name and several false passports.’

‘So, I leave tonight?’ Bormann asked.

‘No, you leave within the next hour,’ Hitler said calmly. ‘Because of the driving rain and low cloud there is no air cover at the moment. Captain Neumann thinks he could achieve total surprise and I agree. I have every confidence you will succeed.’

There could be no arguing with that and Bormann nodded. ‘Of course, my Führer.’

‘Then there only remains one more thing,’ Hitler said. ‘You’ll find someone in the bedroom. Bring him in.’

The man Bormann found in there wore the uniform of a lieutenant general in the SS. There was something familiar about him and Bormann felt acutely uncomfortable for some reason.

‘My Führer,’ the man said and gave Hitler a Nazi salute.

‘Note the resemblance, Bormann?’ Hitler asked.

It was then that Bormann realized why he’d felt so strange. It was true, the general did have a look of him. Not perfect, but it was undeniably there.

‘General Strasser will stay here in your place,’ Hitler said. ‘When the general break-out occurs he will leave with the others. He can stay out of the way until then. In the confusion and darkness of leaving it’s hardly likely anyone will notice. They’ll be too concerned with saving their own skins.’ He turned to Strasser. ‘You will do this for your Führer?’

‘With all my heart,’ Strasser said.

‘Good, then you will now exchange uniforms. You may use my bedroom.’ He came round the desk and took both of Bormann’s hands in his. ‘I prefer to say goodbye now, old friend. We will not meet again.’

Cynical as he was by nature Bormann felt incredibly moved. ‘I will succeed, my Führer, my word on it.’

‘I know you will.’

Hitler shuffled out, the door closed behind him and Bormann turned to Strasser, ‘Right, let’s get started.’

Precisely half an hour later Bormann left the Bunker by the exit into Hermann Goering Strasse. He wore a heavy leather military overcoat over his SS uniform and carried a military holdall which held the briefcase and a change of civilian clothes. In one pocket he carried a silenced Mauser pistol and a Schmeisser machine pistol was slung across his chest. He moved along the edge of the Tiergarten, aware of people everywhere, mainly refugees, crossed by the Brandenburg Gate and arrived at Goebbels’ house quite quickly. Like most properties in the area it had suffered damage, but the vast garage building seemed intact. The sliding doors were closed, but there was a small Judas gate which Bormann opened cautiously.

It was dark in there and a voice called, ‘Stay where you are, hands high.’

Lights were switched on and Bormann found a young man in the uniform of a captain in the Luftwaffe and a flying jacket standing by the wall, a pistol in his hand. The small Fieseler Storch spotter plane stood in the centre of the empty garage.

‘Captain Neumann?’

‘General Strasser?’ The young man looked relieved and holstered his pistol. ‘Thank God, I’ve been expecting Ivans ever since I got here.’

‘You have orders?’

‘Of course. Rechlin to refuel and then Bergen. A distinct pleasure actually.’

‘Do you think we stand a chance of getting away?’

‘There’s nothing up there to shoot us down at the moment. Filthy weather. Only ground fire to worry about.’ He grinned. ‘Is your luck good, General?’

‘Always.’

‘Excellent. I’ll start up, you get in and we’ll taxi across the road to the Brandenburg Gate. From there I’ll take off towards the Victory Column. They won’t be expecting that because the wind is in the wrong direction.’

‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ Bormann asked.

‘Absolutely.’ Neumann climbed up into the cabin and started the engine.

There was broken glass and rubble in the street and the Storch bumped its way along, passing many astonished refugees, moved across the Brandenburg Gate and turned towards the Victory Column in the distance. The rain was driving down.

Neumann said, ‘Here we go,’ and boosted power.

The Storch roared down the centre of the road, here and there people fleeing before it, and suddenly they were airborne and turning to starboard to avoid the Victory Column. Bormann was not even aware of any ground fire.

‘You must live right, Herr Reichsleiter,’ the young pilot said.

Bormann turned to him sharply. ‘What did you call me?’

‘I’m sorry if I’ve said the wrong thing,’ Neumann said, ‘but I met you at an award ceremony once in Berlin.’

Bormann decided to leave it for the moment. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He looked down at the flames and smoke below as Berlin burned, the Russian artillery keeping up a constant bombardment. ‘Truly a scene from hell.’

‘Twilight of the Gods, Reichsleiter,’ Neumann said. ‘All we need is Wagner to provide suitable music,’ and he took the Storch up into the safety of the dark clouds.

It was the second part of the journey which was particularly arduous, cutting across to the east coast of Denmark and then up across the Skagerrak, refuelling at a small Luftwaffe base at Kristiansand for the final run. It was pitch dark when they reached Bergen and cold, very cold, a little sleet mixed with the rain as they landed. Neumann had contacted the base half an hour earlier to notify their arrival. There were lights in the control tower and the buildings, a poor blackout. The German occupying forces in Norway knew that the end was near, that there was no possibility of an Allied invasion. It simply wasn’t necessary. An aircraftsman with a torch in each hand guided them to a parking place then walked away. Bormann could see a Kubelwagen driving towards them. It stopped on the other side of the parked aircraft of which there were several.

Neumann switched off. ‘So, we made it, Herr Reichsleiter. Rather different from Berlin.’

‘You did well,’ Bormann said. ‘You’re a fine pilot.’

‘Let me get your bag for you.’

Bormann got down to the ground and Neumann passed him the bag. Bormann said, ‘Such a pity you recognized me,’ and he took the silenced Mauser from his greatcoat pocket and shot him through the head.

The man standing beside the Kubelwagen was a naval officer and he wore the white-topped cap affected by U-boat commanders. He was smoking a cigarette and he dropped it to the ground and stamped on it as Bormann approached.

‘General Strasser?’

‘That’s right,’ Bormann told him.

‘Korvettenkapitän Paul Friemel.’ Friemel gave him a half salute. ‘Commanding U180.’

Bormann tossed his bag into the rear of the Kubelwagen and eased himself into the passenger seat. As the other man got behind the wheel, the Reichsleiter said, ‘Are you ready for sea?’

‘Absolutely, General.’

‘Good, then we’ll leave at once.’

‘At your orders, General,’ Friemel said and drove away.

Bormann took a deep breath, he could smell the sea on the wind. Strange, but instead of feeling tired he was full of energy and he lit a cigarette and leaned back, looking up at the stars and remembering Berlin only as a bad dream.

1992

1

Just before midnight it started to rain as Dillon pulled in the Mercedes at the side of the road, switched on the interior light and checked his map. Klagenfurt was twenty miles behind which meant that the Yugoslavian border must be very close now. There was a road sign a few yards further on and he took a torch from the glove compartment, got out of the car and walked towards it, whistling softly, a small man, no more than five feet four or five with hair so fair that it was almost white. He wore an old black leather flying jacket with a white scarf at his throat and dark blue jeans. The sign showed Fehring to the right and five kilometres further on. He showed no emotion, simply took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it with an old-fashioned Zippo lighter and returned to the car.

It was raining very heavily now, the road badly surfaced, mountains rising to his right, and he switched on the radio and listened to a little night music, occasionally whistling the tune until he came to gates on the left and slowed to read the sign. It badly needed a fresh coat of paint, but the inscription was clear enough. Fehring Aero Club. He turned in through the gates and followed a track, lurching over potholes until he saw the airfield below.

He switched off his lights and paused. It seemed a poor sort of place, a couple of hangars, three huts and a rickety excuse for a control tower, but there was light streaming out from one of the hangars and from the windows of the end hut. He moved into neutral, eased off the brake and let the Mercedes run down the hill silently, coming to a halt on the far side of the runway from the hangars. He sat there thinking about things for a moment then took a Walther PPK and black leather gloves from the attaché case on the seat next to him. He checked the Walther, slipped it into his waistband at the rear then pulled on the gloves as he started across the runway in the rain.

The hangar was old and smelled of damp as if not used in years, but the aeroplane that stood there in the dim light looked well enough, a Cessna 441 Conquest with twin turboprop engines. A mechanic in overalls had the cowling on the port engine open and stood on a ladder working on it. The cabin door was open, the stairs down, and two men loaded boxes inside.

As they emerged, one of them called in German, ‘We’re finished, Dr Wegner.’

A bearded man emerged from the small office in one corner of the hangar. He wore a hunting jacket, the fur collar turned up against the cold.

‘All right, you can go.’ As they walked away he said to the mechanic, ‘Any problems, Tomic?’

‘No big deal, Herr Doctor, just fine-tuning.’

‘Which won’t mean a thing unless this damn man Dillon turns up.’ As Wegner turned, a young man came in, the woollen cap and reefer coat he wore beaded with rain.

‘He’ll be here,’ Wegner told him. ‘I was told he could never resist a challenge, this one.’

‘A mercenary,’ the young man said. ‘That’s what we’ve come down to. The kind of man who kills people for money.’

‘There are children dying over there,’ Wegner said. ‘And they need what’s on that plane. To achieve that I’d deal with the Devil himself.’

‘Which you’ll probably have to.’

‘Not kind,’ Dillon called in excellent German. ‘Not kind at all,’ and he stepped out of the darkness at the end of the hangar.

The young man put a hand in his pocket and Dillon’s Walther appeared fast. ‘Plain view, son, plain view.’

Dillon walked forward, swung the young man round and extracted a Mauser from his right-hand pocket. ‘Would you look at that now? You can’t trust a soul these days.’

Wegner said in English, ‘Mr Dillon? Mr Sean Dillon?’

‘So they tell me.’ Dillon slipped the Mauser into his hip pocket, took out his silver case one-handed, still holding the Walther, and managed to extract a cigarette. ‘And who might you be, me old son?’ His speech had the hard distinctive edge to it that was found only in Ulster and not in the Republic of Ireland.

‘I am Dr Hans Wegner of International Drug Relief and this is Klaus Schmidt from our office in Vienna. He arranged the plane for us.’

‘Did he now? That’s something to be said in his favour.’ Dillon took the Mauser from his hip pocket and handed it back. ‘Doing good is all very fine, but playing with guns when you don’t know how is a mug’s game.’

The young man flushed deeply, took the Mauser and put it in his pocket and Wegner said mildly, ‘Herr Schmidt has made the run by road twice with medical supplies.’

‘Then why not this time?’ Dillon asked, slipping the Walther back in his waistband.

‘Because that part of Croatia is disputed territory now,’ Schmidt said. ‘There’s heavy fighting between Serbs and Moslems and Croats.’

‘I see,’ Dillon said. ‘So I’m to manage by air what you can’t by road?’

‘Mr Dillon, it’s a hundred and twenty miles to Sabac from here and the airstrip is still open. Believe it or not, but the phone system still works quite well over there. I’m given to understand that this plane is capable of more than three hundred miles an hour. That means you could be there in twenty minutes or so.’

Dillon laughed out loud. ‘Would you listen to the man? It’s plain to see you don’t know the first thing about flying a plane.’ He saw that the mechanic high on his ladder was smiling. ‘Ah, so you speak English, old son.’

‘A little.’

‘Tomic is a Croatian,’ Dr Wegner said.

Dillon looked up. ‘What do you think?’

Tomic said, ‘I was in the air force for seven years. I know Sabac. It’s an emergency strip, but a sound asphalt runway.’

‘And the flight?’

‘Well, if you’re just some private pilot out here to do a bit of good in this wicked world you won’t last twenty miles.’

Dillon said softly, ‘Let’s just say I’ve seldom done a good thing in my life and I’m not that kind of pilot. What’s the terrain like?’

‘Mountainous in parts, heavily forested and the weather forecast stinks, I checked it myself earlier, but it’s not only that, it’s the air force, they still patrol the area regularly.’

‘Mig fighters?’ Dillon asked.

‘That’s right.’ Tomic slapped the wing of the Conquest with one hand. ‘A nice aeroplane, but no match for a Mig.’ He shook his head. ‘But maybe you’ve got a death-wish.’

‘That’s enough, Tomic,’ Wegner said angrily.

‘Oh, it’s been said before.’ Dillon laughed. ‘But let’s get on. I’d better look at the charts.’

As they moved towards the office Wegner said, ‘Our people in Vienna did make it plain. Your services are purely voluntary. We need all the money we can raise for the drugs and medical supplies.’

‘Understood,’ Dillon said.

They went into the office where a number of charts were spread across the desk. Dillon started to examine them.

‘When would you leave?’ Wegner asked.

‘Just before dawn,’ Dillon told him. ‘Best time of all and least active. I hope the rain keeps up.’

Schmidt, genuinely curious, said, ‘Why would you do this? I don’t understand. A man like you.’ He seemed suddenly awkward. ‘I mean, we know something of your background.’

‘Do you now?’ Dillon said. ‘Well, as the good doctor said, I find it hard to resist a challenge.’

‘And for this you would risk your life?’

‘Ah, sure and I was forgetting.’ Dillon looked up and smiled and an astonishing change came to his face, nothing but warmth and great charm there. ‘I should also mention that I’m the last of the world’s great adventurers. Now leave me be like a good lad and let me see where I’m going.’

He leaned over the charts and started to examine them intently.

Just before five the rain was as relentless as ever, the darkness as impenetrable as Dillon stood in the entrance of the hangar and peered out. Wegner and Schmidt approached him.

The older man said, ‘Can you really take off in weather like this?’

‘The problem is landing, not taking off.’ Dillon called to Tomic, ‘How are things?’

Tomic emerged from the cabin, jumped to the ground and came towards them wiping his hands on a rag. ‘Everything in perfect working order.’

Dillon offered him a cigarette and glanced out. ‘And this?’

Tomic peered up into the darkness. ‘It’ll get worse before it gets better and you’ll find ground mist over there, especially over the forest, mark my words.’

‘Ah, well, better get on with it as the thief said to the hangman.’ Dillon crossed to the Conquest.

He went up the steps and examined the interior. All the seats had been removed and it was stacked with long olive-green boxes. Each one was stencilled in English: Royal Army Medical Corps.

Schmidt, who had joined him, said, ‘As you can see we get our supplies from unusual sources.’

‘You can say that again. What’s in these?’

‘See for yourself.’ Schmidt unclipped the nearest one, removed a sheet of oiled paper to reveal box after box of morphine ampoules. ‘Over there, Mr Dillon, they sometimes have to hold children down when they operate on them because of the lack of any kind of anaesthetic. These prove a highly satisfactory substitute.’

‘Point taken,’ Dillon said. ‘Now close it up and I’ll get moving.’

Schmidt did as he was told, then jumped to the ground. As Dillon pulled up the steps Wegner said, ‘God go with you, Mr Dillon.’

‘There’s always that chance,’ Dillon said. ‘It’s probably the first time I’ve done anything he’d approve of,’ and he closed the door and clamped it in place.

He settled into the left-hand pilot’s seat, fired the port engine and after that the starboard. The chart was next to him on the other seat, but he had already pretty well committed it to memory. He paused on the apron outside the hangar, rain streaming from his windscreen, did a thorough cockpit check then strapped in and taxied to the end of the runway, turning into the wind. He glanced across to the three men standing in the hangar entrance, raised a thumb then started forward, his engine roar deepening as he boosted power. Within a second or two he had disappeared, the sound of the engines already fading.

Wegner ran a hand over his face. ‘God, but I’m tired.’ He turned to Tomic. ‘Has he a chance?’

Tomic shrugged. ‘Quite a man, that one. Who knows?’

Schmidt said, ‘Let’s get some coffee. We’re going to have a long wait.’

Tomic said, ‘I’ll join you in a minute. I just want to clear my tools away.’

They crossed towards the end hut. He watched them go, waited until they’d gone inside before turning and swiftly crossing to the office. He picked up the telephone and dialled a lengthy series of numbers. As the good doctor had said, the telephone system still worked surprisingly well over there.

When a voice answered he spoke in Serbo-Croat. ‘This is Tomic, get me Major Branko.’

There was an instant response. ‘Branko here.’

‘Tomic. I’m at the airfield at Fehring and I’ve got traffic for you. Cessna Conquest just left, destination Sabac. Here is his radio frequency.’

‘Is the pilot anyone we know?’

‘Name of Dillon – Sean Dillon. Irish, I believe. Small man, very fair hair, late thirties I’d say. Doesn’t look much. Nice smile, but the eyes tell a different story.’

‘I’ll have him checked out through Central Intelligence, but you’ve done well, Tomic. We’ll give him a warm welcome.’

The phone clicked and Tomic replaced the receiver. He took out a packet of the vile Macedonian cigarettes he affected and lit one. Pity about Dillon. He’d rather liked the Irishman, but that was life and he started to put his tools away methodically.

And Dillon was already in trouble, not only thick cloud and the constant driving rain, but even at a thousand feet a swirling mist that gave only an intermittent view of pine forest below.

‘And what in the hell are you doing here, old son?’ he asked softly. ‘What are you trying to prove?’

He got a cigarette out of his case, lit it and a voice spoke in his earphones in heavily accented English, ‘Good morning, Mr Dillon, welcome to Yugoslavia.’

The plane took station to starboard not too far away, the red stars on its fuselage clear enough, a Mig 21, the old Fishbed, probably the Soviet jet most widely distributed to its allies. Outdated now, but not as far as Dillon was concerned.

The Mig pilot spoke again. ‘Course 124, Mr Dillon. We’ll come to a rather picturesque castle at the edge of the forest, Kivo it’s called, Intelligence Headquarters for this area. There’s an airstrip there and they’re expecting you. They might even arrange a full English breakfast.’

‘Irish,’ Dillon said cheerfully. ‘A full Irish breakfast and who am I to refuse an offer like that? One-two-four it is.’

He turned on to the new course, climbing to two thousand feet as the weather cleared a little, whistling softly to himself. A Serbian prison did not commend itself, not if the stories reaching Western Europe were even partly true, but in the circumstances, he didn’t seem to have any choice and then, a couple of miles away on the edge of the forest beside a river he saw Kivo, a fairytale castle of towers and battlements surrounded by a moat, the airstrip clear beside it.

‘What do you think?’ the Mig pilot asked. ‘Nice, isn’t it?’

‘Straight out of a story by the Brothers Grimm,’ Dillon answered. ‘All we need is the ogre.’

‘Oh, we have that too, Mr Dillon. Now put down nice and easy and I’ll say goodbye.’

Dillon looked down into the interior of the castle, noticed soldiers moving towards the edge of the airstrip preceded by a Jeep and sighed. He said into his mike, ‘I’d like to say it’s been a good life, but then there are those difficult days, like this morning for instance. I mean, why did I even get out of bed?’

He heaved the control column right back and boosted power, climbing fast and the Mig pilot reacted angrily. ‘Dillon, do as you’re told or I’ll blast you out of the sky.’

Dillon ignored him, levelling out at five thousand, searching the sky for any sign and the Mig, already on his tail, came up behind and fired. The Conquest staggered as cannon shell tore through both wings.

‘Dillon – don’t be a fool!’ the pilot cried.

‘Ah, but then I always was.’

Dillon went down fast, levelling at two thousand feet over the edge of the forest, aware of vehicles moving from the direction of the castle. The Mig came in again firing his machine guns now and the Conquest’s windscreen disintegrated, wind and rain roaring in. Dillon sat there, hands firm on the control column, blood on his face from a glass splinter.

‘Now then,’ he said into his mike. ‘Let’s see how good you are.’

He dropped the nose and went straight down, the pine forest waiting for him below and the Mig went after him, firing again. The Conquest bucked, the port engine dying as Dillon levelled out at four hundred feet and behind him the Mig, no time to pull out at the speed it was doing, ploughed into the forest and fireballed.

Dillon, trimming as best he could for flying on one engine, lost power and dropped lower. There was a clearing up ahead and to his left. He tried to bank towards it, was already losing height as he clipped the tops of the pine trees. He cut power instantly and braced himself for the crash. In the end, it was the pine trees which saved him, retarding his progress so much that by the time he hit the clearing for a belly landing, he wasn’t actually going all that fast.

The Conquest bounced twice, and came to a shuddering halt. Dillon released his straps, scrambled out of his seat and had the door open in an instant. He was out head first, rolling over in the rain and on his feet and running, his right ankle twisting so that he fell on his face again. He scrambled up and limped away as fast as he could, but the Conquest didn’t burst into flame, it simply crouched there in the rain as if tired.

There was thick black smoke above the trees from the burning Mig and then soldiers appeared on the other side of the clearing. A Jeep moved out of the trees behind them, top down and Dillon could see an officer standing up in it wearing a winter campaign coat, Russian-style, with a fur collar. More soldiers appeared, some of them with Dobermanns, all barking loudly and straining against their leashes.

It was enough. Dillon turned to hobble into the trees and his leg gave out on him. A voice on a loudhailer called in English, ‘Oh, come now, Mr Dillon, be sensible, you don’t want me to set the dogs on you.’

Dillon paused, balanced on one foot, then he turned and hobbled to the nearest tree and leaned against it. He took a cigarette from his silver case, the last one, and lit it. The smoke tasted good as it bit at the back of his throat and he waited for them.

They stood in a semi-circle, soldiers in baggy tunics, guns covering him, the dogs howling against being restrained. The Jeep rolled to a halt and the officer, a major from his shoulder boards, stood up and looked down at him, a good-looking man of about thirty with a dark saturnine face.

‘So, Mr Dillon, you made it in one piece,’ he said in faultless public school English. ‘I congratulate you. My name, by the way, is Branko – John Branko. My mother was English, is, I should say. Lives in Hampstead.’

‘Is that a fact.’ Dillon smiled. ‘A desperate bunch of rascals you’ve got here, Major, but cead mile failte anyway.’

‘And what would that mean, Mr Dillon?’

‘Oh, that’s Irish for a hundred thousand welcomes.’

‘What a charming sentiment.’ Branko turned and spoke in Serbo-Croat to the large, brutal-looking sergeant who sat behind him clutching an AK assault rifle. The sergeant smiled, jumped to the ground and advanced on Dillon.

Major Branko said, ‘Allow me to introduce you to my Sergeant Zekan. I’ve just told him to offer you a hundred thousand welcomes to Yugoslavia or Serbia as we prefer to say now.’

Dillon knew what was coming, but there wasn’t a thing he could do. The butt of the AK caught him in the left side, driving the wind from him as he keeled over, the sergeant lifted a knee in his face. The last thing Dillon remembered was the dogs barking, the laughter and then there was only darkness.

When Sergeant Zekan took Dillon along the corridor, someone screamed in the distance and there was the sound of heavy blows. Dillon hesitated but the sergeant showed no emotion, simply put a hand between the Irishman’s shoulder-blades and pushed him towards a flight of stone steps and urged him up. There was an oaken door at the top banded with iron. Zekan opened it and pushed him through.

The room inside was oak-beamed with granite walls, tapestries hanging here and there. A log fire burned in an open hearth and two of the Dobermanns sprawled in front of it. Branko sat behind a large desk reading a file and drinking from a crystal glass, a bottle in an ice-bucket beside him. He glanced up and smiled, then took the bottle from the ice-bucket and filled another glass.

‘Krug champagne, Mr Dillon, your preferred choice, I understand.’

‘Is there anything you don’t know about me?’ Dillon asked.

‘Not much.’ Branko lifted the file then dropped it on the desk. ‘The Intelligence organizations of most countries have the useful habit of frequently cooperating with each other even when their countries don’t. Do sit down and have a drink. You’ll feel better.’

Dillon took the chair opposite and accepted the glass that Zekan handed him. He emptied it in one go and Branko smiled, took a cigarette from a packet of Rothmans and tossed it across.

‘Help yourself.’ He reached out and refilled Dillon’s glass. ‘I much prefer the non-vintage, don’t you?’

‘It’s the grape mix,’ Dillon said and lit the cigarette.

‘Sorry about that little touch of violence back there,’ Branko told him. ‘Just a show for my boys. After all you did cost us that Mig and it takes two years to train the pilots. I should know, I’m one myself.’

‘Really?’ Dillon said.

‘Yes, Cranwell, courtesy of your British Royal Air Force.’

‘Not mine,’ Dillon told him.

‘But you were born in Ulster, I understand. Belfast, is that not so and Belfast, as I understand it, is part of Great Britain and not the Republic of Ireland.’

‘A debatable point,’ Dillon said. ‘Let’s say I’m Irish and leave it at that.’ He swallowed some more champagne. ‘Who dropped me in it? Wegner or Schmidt?’ He frowned. ‘No, of course not. Just a couple of do-gooders. Tomic. It would be Tomic, am I right?’

‘A good Serb.’ Branko poured a little more champagne. ‘How on earth did you get into this, a man like you?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘I’ll be honest, Mr Dillon. I knew you were coming, but no more than that.’

‘I was in Vienna for a few days to sample a little opera. I’m partial to Mozart. Bumped into a man I’d had dealings with over the years in the bar during the first interval. Told me he’d been approached by this organization who needed a little help, but were short on money.’

‘Ah, I see now.’ Branko nodded. ‘A good deed in a naughty world as Shakespeare put it? All those poor little children crying out for help? The cruel Serbs.’

‘God help me, Major, but you have a way with the words.’

‘A sea-change for a man like you I would have thought.’ Branko opened the file. ‘Sean Dillon, born Belfast, went to live in London when you were a boy, father a widower. A student of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art at eighteen, even acted with the National Theatre. Your father returned to Belfast in 1971 and was killed by British paratroopers.’

‘You are well informed.’

‘You joined the Provisional IRA, trained in Libya courtesy of Colonel Gadaffi and never looked back.’ Branko turned a page. ‘You finally broke with the IRA. Some disagreement as to strategy.’

‘Bunch of old women.’ Dillon reached across and helped himself to more Krug.

‘Beirut, the PLO, even the KGB. You really do believe in spreading your services around.’ Branko laughed suddenly in a kind of amazement. ‘The underwater attack on those two Palestinian gunboats in Beirut in 1990. You were responsible for that? But that was for the Israelis.’

‘I charge very reasonable rates,’ Dillon said.

‘Fluent German, Spanish and French, oh, and Irish.’

‘We mustn’t forget that.’

‘Reasonable Arabic, Italian and Russian.’ Branko closed the file. ‘Is it true you were responsible for the mortar attack on No. 10 Downing Street during the Gulf War when the British Prime Minister, John Major, was meeting with the War Cabinet?’

‘Now do I look as if I’d do a thing like that?’

Branko leaned back and looked at him seriously. ‘How do you see yourself, my friend, gun for hire like one of those old Westerns, riding into town to clean things up single-handed?’

‘To be honest, Major, I never think about it.’

‘And yet you took on a job like this present affair for a bunch of well-meaning amateurs and for no pay?’

‘We all make mistakes.’

‘You certainly did, my friend. Those boxes on the plane. Morphine ampoules on top, Stinger missiles underneath.’

‘Jesus.’ Dillon laughed helplessly. ‘Now who would have thought it.’

‘They say you have a genius for acting, that you can change yourself totally, become another person with a look, a gesture.’

‘No, I think that was Laurence Olivier.’ Dillon smiled.

‘And in twenty years, you’ve never seen the inside of a cell.’

‘True.’

‘Not any longer, my friend.’ Branko opened a drawer, took out a two hundred pack of Rothmans cigarettes and tossed them across. ‘You’re going to need those.’ He glanced at Zekan and said in Serbo-Croat, ‘Take him to his cell.’

Dillon felt the sergeant’s hand on his shoulder pulling him up and propelling him to the door. As Zekan opened it Branko said, ‘One more thing, Mr Dillon. The firing squad operates most mornings here. Try not to let it put you off.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Dillon said. ‘Ethnic cleansing, isn’t that what you call it?’

‘The reason is much simpler than that. We just get short of space. Sleep well.’

They went up a flight of stone steps, Zekan pushing Dillon ahead of him. He pulled him to a halt outside an oak door on the passageway at the top, took out a key and unlocked it. He inclined his head and stood to one side and Dillon entered. The room was quite large. There was an army cot in one corner, a tablet chair, books on a shelf and, incredibly, an old toilet in a cubicle in one corner. Dillon went to the window and peered through bars to the courtyard eighty feet below and the pine forest in the near distance.

He turned. ‘This must be one of your better rooms. What’s the catch?’ Then realized he was wasting his time for the sergeant had no English.

As if perfectly understanding him Zekan smiled, showing bad teeth, took Dillon’s silver case and Zippo lighter from a pocket and laid them carefully on the table. He withdrew, closing the door, and the key rattled in the lock.

Dillon went to the window and tried the bars, but they seemed firm. Too far down anyway. He opened one of the packs of Rothmans and lit one. One thing was certain. Branko was being excessively kind and there had to be a reason for that. He went and lay on the bed, smoking his cigarette, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about it.

In 1972, aware of the growing problem of terrorism and its effect on so many aspects of life at both political and national level, the British Prime Minister of the day ordered the setting up of a small elite Intelligence unit, known simply by the code name Group Four. It was to handle all matters concerning terrorism and subversion in the British Isles. Known rather bitterly in more conventional Intelligence circles as the Prime Minister’s private army, it owed allegiance to that office alone.

Brigadier Charles Ferguson had headed Group Four since its inception, had served a number of prime ministers, both Conservative and Labour, and had no political allegiance whatsoever. He had an office on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence overlooking Horseguards Avenue, and was still working at his desk at nine o’clock that night when there was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ Ferguson said, stood up and walked to the window, a large, rather untidy-looking man with a double chin and grey hair who wore a baggy suit and a Guards tie.

As he peered out at the rain towards Victoria Embankment and the Thames the door opened behind him. The man who entered was in his late thirties, wore a tweed suit and glasses. He could have been a clerk, or even a schoolmaster, but Detective Inspector Jack Lane was neither of these things. He was a cop. Not an ordinary one, but a cop all the same and, after some negotiating, Ferguson had succeeded in borrowing him from Special Branch at Scotland Yard to act as his personal assistant.

‘Got something for me, Jack?’ Ferguson’s voice was ever so slightly plummy.

‘Mainly routine, Brigadier. The word is that the Director General of the Security Services is still unhappy at the Prime Minister’s refusal to do away with Group Four’s special status.’

‘Good God, don’t they ever give up those people? I’ve agreed to keep them informed on a need-to-know basis and to liaise with Simon Carter, the Deputy Director, and that damned MP, the one with the fancy title. Extra Minister at the Home Office.’

‘Sir Francis Pamer, sir.’

‘Yes, well that’s all the co-operation they’re going to get out of me. Anything else?’

Lane smiled. ‘Actually, I’ve saved the best bit till last. Dillon – Sean Dillon?’

Ferguson turned. ‘What about him?’

‘Had a signal from our contacts in Yugoslavia. Dillon crashed in a light plane this morning, supposedly flying in medical supplies only they turned out to be Stinger missiles. They’re holding him in that castle at Kivo. It’s all here.’

He passed a sheet of paper across and Ferguson put on half-moon spectacles and studied it. He nodded in satisfaction. ‘Twenty years and the bastard never saw the inside of a prison cell.’

‘Well he’s in one now, sir. I’ve got his record here, if you want to look at it.’

‘And why would I want to do that? No use to anyone now. You know what the Serbs are like, Jack. Might as well stick it in the dead-letter file. Oh, you can go home now.’

‘Good night, sir.’

Lane went out and Ferguson crossed to his drinks cabinet and poured a large Scotch. ‘Here’s to you, Dillon,’ he said softly. ‘And you can chew on that, you bastard.’

He swallowed the whisky down, returned to his desk and started to work again.

2

East of Puerto Rico in the Caribbean are the Virgin Islands, partly British like Tortola and Virgin Gorda. Across the water, just as proudly American, are St Croix, St Thomas and St John since 1917 when the United States purchased them from the Danish government for twenty-five million dollars.

St John is reputed to have been discovered by Columbus on his second voyage to the New World in 1493 and without a doubt is the most idyllic island in the entire Caribbean, but not that night as a tropical storm, the tail end of Hurricane Able, swept in across the old town of Cruz Bay, stirring the boats at anchor in the harbour, driving rain across the rooftops, the sky exploding into thunder.

To Bob Carney, fast asleep in the house at Chocolate Hole on the other side of Great Cruz Bay, it was the sound of distant guns. He stirred in his sleep and, suddenly, it was the same old dream, the mortars landing everywhere, shaking the ground, the screams of the wounded and dying. He’d lost his helmet, flung himself to the ground, arms protecting his head, was not even aware of being hit, only afterwards, as the attack faded and he sat up. There was pain then in both arms and legs from shrapnel wounds, blood on his hands. And then, as the smoke cleared, he became aware of another marine sitting against a tree, both legs gone below the knees. He was shaking, had a hand outstretched as if begging for help and Carney cried out in horror and sat bolt upright in bed, awake now.

The same lousy old dream, Vietnam, and that was a long time ago. He switched on the bedside lamp and checked his watch. It was only two-thirty. He sighed and stood up, stretching for a moment, then padded through the dark house to the kitchen, switched on the light and got a beer from the ice-box.

He was very tanned, the blond hair faded, both from regular exposure to sea and sun. Around five foot eight, he had an athlete’s body, not surprising in a man who had been a ship’s captain and was now a master diver by profession. Forty-four years of age, but most people would have taken seven or eight years off that.

He went through the living-room and opened a window to the verandah. Rain dripped from the roof and out to sea lightning crackled. He drank a little more of his beer then put the can down and closed the window. Better to try and get a little more sleep. He was taking a party of recreational scuba divers out from Caneel Bay at nine-thirty which meant that as usual he needed his wits about him, plus all his considerable expertise.

As he went through the living-room he paused to pick up a framed photo of his wife, Karye and his two young children, the boy Walker and his daughter, little Wallis. They’d departed for Florida only the previous day for a vacation with their grandparents which left him a bachelor for the next month. He smiled wryly, knowing just how much he’d miss them and went back to bed.

At the same moment in his house on the edge of Cruz Bay at Gallows Point, Henry Baker sat in his study reading in the light of a single desk lamp. He had the door to the verandah open because he liked the rain and the smell of the sea. It excited him, took him back to the days of his youth and his two years’ service in the navy during the Korean War. He’d made full lieutenant, had even been decorated with the Bronze Star, could have made a career of it. In fact they’d wanted him to, but there was the family publishing business to consider, responsibilities and the girl he’d promised to marry.

It hadn’t been a bad life considering. No children, but he and his wife had been content until cancer took her at fifty. From then on he’d really lost interest in the business, had been happy to accept the right kind of deal for a take-over which had left him very rich and totally rootless at fifty-eight.

It was a visit to St John which had been the saving of him. He’d stayed at Caneel Bay, the fabulous Rock Resort on its private peninsula north of Cruz Bay. It was there that he’d been introduced to scuba diving by Bob Carney and it had become an obsession. He’d sold his house in the Hamptons, moved to St John and bought the present place. His life at sixty-three was totally satisfactory and worthwhile although Jenny had had something to do with that as well.

He reached for her photo. Jenny Grant, twenty-five, face very calm, wide eyes above high cheek-bones, short dark hair and there was still a wariness in those eyes as if she expected the worst, which was hardly surprising when Baker recalled their first meeting in Miami when she’d tried to proposition him in a car-park, her body shaking from the lack of the drugs she’d needed.

When she’d collapsed, he’d taken her to hospital himself, had personally guaranteed the necessary financing to put her through a drug-rehabilitation unit, had held her hand all the way because there was no one else. It was the usual story. She was an orphan raised by an aunt who’d thrown her out at sixteen. A fair voice had enabled her to make some kind of living singing in saloons and cocktail lounges, and then the wrong man, bad company and the slide had begun.

He’d brought her back to St John to see what the sea and the sun could do. The arrangement had worked perfectly and on a strictly platonic basis. He was the father she had never known, she was the daughter he had been denied. He’d invested in a café and bar for her on the Cruz Bay waterfront, called Jenny’s Place. It had proved a great success. Life couldn’t be better and he always waited up for her. It was at that moment he heard the Jeep drive up outside, there was the sound of the porch door and she came in laughing, a raincoat over her shoulder. She threw it on a chair and leaned down and kissed his cheek.

‘My God, it’s like a monsoon out there.’

‘It’ll clear by morning, you’ll see.’ He took her hand. ‘Good night?’

‘Very.’ She nodded. ‘A few tourists in from Caneel and the Hyatt. Gosh, but I’m bushed.’

‘I’d get to bed if I were you, it’s almost three o’clock.’

‘Sure you don’t mind?’

‘Of course not. I may go diving in the morning, but I should be back before noon. If I miss you, I’ll come down to the café for lunch.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t dive on your own.’

‘Jenny, I’m a recreational diver, no decompression needed because I work within the limits exactly as Bob Carney taught me and I never dive without my Marathon diving computer, you know that.’

‘I also know that whenever you dive there’s always a chance of some kind of decompression sickness.’

‘True, but very small.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Now stop worrying and go to bed.’

She kissed him on the top of his head and went out. He returned to his book, carrying it across to the couch by the window, stretching out comfortably. He didn’t seem to need so much sleep these days, one of the penalties of growing old, he imagined, but after a while, his eyes started to close and sleep he did, the book sliding to the floor.

He came awake with a start, light beaming in through the venetian blinds. He lay there for a moment, then checked his watch. It was a little after five and he got up and went out on to the verandah. It was already dawn, light breaking on the horizon, but strangely still and the sea was extraordinarily calm, something to do with the hurricane having passed. Perfect for diving, absolutely perfect.

He felt cheerful and excited at the same time, hurried into the kitchen, put the kettle on and made a stack of cheese sandwiches while it boiled. He filled a thermos with coffee, put it in a holdall with the sandwiches and took his old reefer coat down from behind the door.

He left the Jeep for Jenny and walked down to the harbour. It was still very quiet, not too many people about, a dog barking in the distance. He dropped into his inflatable dinghy at the dock, cast off and started the outboard motor, threaded his way out through numerous boats until he came to his own, the Rhoda, named after his wife, a 35-foot Sport Fisherman with a flying bridge.

He scrambled aboard, tying the inflatable on a long line, and checked the deck. He had four air tanks standing upright in their holders, he’d put them in the day before himself. He opened the lid of the deck locker and checked his equipment. There was a rubber-and-nylon diving suit which he seldom used, preferring the lighter, three-quarter-length one in orange and blue. Fins, mask, plus a spare because the lenses were correctional according to his eye prescription, two buoyancy jackets, gloves, air regulators and his Marathon computer.

‘Carney training,’ he said softly; ‘never leave anything to chance.’

He went round to the prow and unhitched from the buoy then went up the ladder to the flying bridge and started the engines. They roared into life and he took the Rhoda out of harbour towards the open sea with conscious pleasure.

There were all his favourite dives to choose from, the Cow & Calf, Carval Rock, Congo, or there was Eagle Shoal if he wanted a longer trip. He’d confronted a lemon shark there only the previous week, but the sea was so calm that he just headed straight out. There was always Frenchcap Cay to the south and west and maybe eight or nine miles, a great dive, but he just kept going, heading due south, pushing the Rhoda up to fifteen knots, pouring himself some coffee and breaking out the sandwiches. The sun was up now, the sea the most perfect blue, the peaks of the islands all around, a breathtakingly beautiful sight. Nothing could be better.

‘My God,’ he said softly, ‘it’s a damn privilege to be here. What in hell was I doing with my life all those years?’

He lapsed into a kind of reverie, brooding about things, and it was a good thirty minutes later that he suddenly snapped out of it and checked on his position.

‘Christ,’ he said, ‘I must be twelve miles out.’

Which was close to the edge of things and that awesome place where everything simply dropped away and it was two thousand feet to the bottom, except for Thunder Point and that, he knew, was somewhere close. But no one ever dived there, the most dangerous reef in the entire region. Even Carney didn’t dive there. Strong currents, a nightmare world of fissures and channels. Carney had told him that years before an old diver had described it to him. A hundred and eighty feet on one side, then the ridge of the reef at around seventy and two thousand feet on the other. The old boy had hit bad trouble, had only just made it to the surface, had never tried again. Few people even knew where it was anyway and the sea out there was generally so turbulent that that in itself was enough to keep anyone away, but not today. It was a millpond. Baker had never seen anything like it. A sudden excitement surged in him and he switched on his fathometer, seeking the bottom, throttling back the engines, and then he saw it, the yellow ridged lines on the black screen.

He killed the engine and drifted, checking the depth reading until he was certain he was above the ridge of the reef at seventy feet, then scrambled round to the prow and dropped the anchor. After a while, he felt it bite satisfactorily and worked his way round to the deck. He felt incredibly cheerful as he stripped, pulled on the orange-and-blue nylon diving suit, then quickly assembled his gear, clamping a tank to his inflatable. He strapped the computer to the line of his air-pressure gauge, then eased himself into the jacket, taking the weight of the tank, strapping the Velcro wrappers firmly across his waist and hooking a net diving bag to his weight belt as he always did with a spotlight inside in case he came across anything interesting. He pulled on a pair of diving gloves, then sat with his feet on the platform at the stern and pulled on his fins. He spat on his mask, rinsed it, adjusted it to his face then simply stood up and stepped into the water.

It was incredibly clear and blue. He swam round to the anchor rope, paused then started down, following the line. The sensation of floating in space was, as always, amazing, a silent, private world, sunlight at first, but fading as he descended.

The reef where the anchor was hooked was a forest of coral and sea-grass, fish of every conceivable description, and suddenly, a barracuda that was at least five feet long swerved across his vision and paused, turning towards him threateningly which didn’t bother Baker in the slightest, because barracuda were seldom a threat to anyone.

He checked his dive computer. It not only indicated the depth he was at, but told him how long he was safe there and constantly altered its reading according to any change in depth he made during the dive. He was at this point at seventy feet and he turned and headed over to the left-hand side where the reef slid down to a hundred and eighty. He went over the edge, then changed his mind and went up again. It was amazing how much an extra ten or fifteen feet reduced your bottom time.

There was a reasonably strong current, he could feel it pushing him to one side. He imagined what it must be like when conditions were bad, but he was damned if that was going to stop him having a look at the big drop. The edge of the reef over there was very clearly defined. He paused, holding on to a coral head, and peered over, looking down the cliff face into a great blue vault that stretched into infinity. He went over, descended to eighty feet and started to work his way along.

It was interesting. He noted a considerable amount of coral damage, large sections having been torn away, recently, presumably the result of the hurricane although they were on a fault line here and earth tremors were also common. Some distance ahead there was a very obvious section where what looked like an entire overhang had gone, revealing a wide ledge below, and there was something there, perched on the ledge yet part of it, hanging over. Baker paused for a moment, then approached cautiously.

It was then that he received not only the greatest thrill of his diving career, but the greatest shock of a long life. The object which was pressed on the ledge and partly sticking out over two thousand feet of water was a submarine.

During his naval service Baker had done a training course in a submarine when based in the Philippines. No big deal, just part of general training, but he remembered the lectures, the training films they’d had to watch, mainly Second World War stuff and he recognized what he was looking at instantly. It was a type VII U-boat, by far the most common craft of its kind used by the German Kriegsmarine, the configuration was unmistakable. The conning tower was encrusted with marine growth, but when he approached he could still discern the number on the side, 180. The attack and control-room periscopes were still intact and there was a snorkel. He recalled having heard that the Germans had gradually introduced that as the war progressed, a device that enabled the boat to proceed under water much faster because it was able to use the power of its diesel engines. Approximately two thirds of it rested stern first on the ledge and the prow jutted out into space.

He glanced up, aware of a school of horse-eyed jacks overhead mixed with silversides, then descended to the top of the conning tower and hung on to the bridge rail. Aft was the high gun platform with its 20mm cannon and forward and below him was the deck gun, encrusted, as was most of the surface, with sponge and coral of many colours.

The boat had become a habitat as with all wrecks, fish everywhere, yellow-tail snappers, angel and parrot fish and sergeant-majors and many others. He checked his computer. On the bridge he was at a depth of seventy-five feet and he had only twenty minutes at the most before the need to surface.

He drifted away a little distance to look the U-boat over. Obviously the overhang which had recently been dislodged had provided a kind of canopy for the wreck for years, protecting it from view and, at a site which was seldom visited, it had been enough. That U-boats had worked the area during the Second World War was common knowledge. He’d known one old sailor who’d always insisted that crews would come ashore on St John by night in search of fresh fruit and water, although Baker had always found that one hard to swallow.

He swung over to the starboard side and saw what the trouble had been instantly, a large ragged gash about fifteen feet long in the hull below the conning tower. The poor bastards must have gone down like a stone. He descended, holding on to a jagged coral-encrusted edge, and peered into the control room. It was dark and gloomy in there, silverfish in clouds and he got the spotlight from his dive bag and shone it inside. The periscope shafts were clearly visible, again encrusted like everything else, but the rest was a confusion of twisted metal, wires and pipes. He checked his computer, saw that he had fifteen minutes, hesitated then went inside.

Both the aft and forward watertight doors were closed, but that was standard practice when things got bad. He tried the unlocking wheel on the forward hatch but it was immovable and hopelessly corroded. There were some oxygen bottles, even a belt of some kind of ammunition and, most pathetic thing of all, a few human bones in the sediment of the floor. Amazing that there was any trace at all after so many years.

Suddenly he felt cold. It was as if he was an intruder who shouldn’t be here. He turned to go and his light picked out a handle in the corner, very like a suitcase handle. He reached for it, the sediment stirred and he found himself clutching a small briefcase in some kind of metal, encrusted like everything else. It was enough and he went out through the gash in the hull, drifted up over the edge of the reef and went for the anchor.

He made it with five minutes to spare. Stupid bastard, he told himself, taking such a chance and he ascended just by the book, one foot per second, one hand sliding up the line, the briefcase in the other, leaving the line at twenty feet to swim under the boat and surface at the stern.

He pushed the briefcase on board, then wriggled out of his equipment which was always the worst part. You’re getting old, Henry, he told himself as he scrambled up the ladder and turned to heave his buoyancy jacket and tank on board.

He schooled himself to do everything as normal, stowing away the tank and the equipment following his usual routine. He towelled himself dry, changed into jeans and a fresh denim shirt, all the time ignoring the briefcase. He opened his thermos and poured some coffee, then went and sat in one of the swivel chairs in the stern, drinking and staring at the briefcase encrusted with coral.

The encrusting was superficial more than anything else. He got a wire brush from his tool kit and applied it vigorously and realized at once that the case was made of aluminium. As the surface cleared, the eagle and swastika of the German Kriegsmarine was revealed etched into the top right-hand corner. It was secured by two clips and there was a lock. The clips came up easily enough, but the lid remained obstinately locked, which left him little choice. He found a large screwdriver, forced it in just above the lock and was able to prise open the lid within a few moments. The inside was totally dry, the contents a few photos and several letters bound together by a rubber band. There was also a large diary in red Moroccan leather stamped with a Kriegsmarine insignia in gold.

The photos were of a young woman and two little girls. There was a date on the back of one of them at the start of a handwritten paragraph in German, 8 August 1944. The rest made no sense to him as he didn’t speak the language. There was also a faded snap of a man in Kriegsmarine uniform. He looked about thirty and wore a number of medals including the Knight’s Cross at his throat. Someone special, a real ace from the look of him.

The diary was also in German. The first entry was 30 April 1945 and he recognized the name, Bergen, knew that was a port in Norway. On the flyleaf was an entry he did understand. Korvettenkapitän Paul Friemel, U180, obviously the captain and owner of this diary.

Baker flicked through the pages, totally frustrated at being unable to decipher any of it. There were some twenty-seven entries, sometimes a page for each day, sometimes more. On some occasions there was a notation to indicate position and he had little difficulty in seeing from those entries that the voyage had taken the submarine into the Atlantic and south to the Caribbean.

The strange thing was the fact that the final entry was dated 28 May 1945 and that didn’t make too much sense. Henry Baker had been sixteen years of age when the war in Europe had ended and he recalled the events of those days with surprising clarity. The Russians had reached Berlin and reduced it to hell on earth and Adolf Hitler, holed up in the Führer Bunker at the Reich Chancellery, had committed suicide on May the 1st at 10.30 pm along with his wife of a few days only, Eva Braun. That was the effective end of the Third Reich and capitulation had soon followed. If that were so, what in the hell was U180 doing in the Virgin Islands with a final log entry dated 28 May?

If only he could speak German, and the further frustrating thing was that he didn’t know a soul in St John who did. On the other hand, if he did, would he want to share such a secret? One thing was certain, if news of the submarine and its whereabouts got out, the place would be invaded within days.

He flicked through the pages again, paused suddenly and turned back a page. A name jumped out at him. Reichsleiter Martin Bormann. Baker’s excitement was intense. Martin Bormann, Head of the Nazi Party Chancellery and Secretary to the Führer. Had he escaped from the Bunker at the end, or had he died trying to escape from Berlin? How many books had been written about that?

He turned the page idly and another name came out at him, the Duke of Windsor. Baker sat staring at the page, his throat dry, and then he very carefully closed the diary and put it back in the case with the letter and photos. He closed the lid, put the case in the wheelhouse and started the engines. Then he went and hauled in the anchor.

Whatever it was, it was heavy, had to be. He had a U-boat that had gone down in the Virgin Islands three weeks after the end of the war in Europe, a private diary kept by the captain which mentioned the most powerful man in Nazi Germany after Hitler, and the Duke of Windsor.

‘My God, what have I got into?’ he murmured.

He could go to the authorities, of course, the coastguard, for example, but it had been his find, that was the trouble and he was reluctant to relinquish that. But what in the hell to do next? and then it came to him and he laughed out loud.

‘Garth Travers, of course,’ and he pushed up to full throttle and hurried back to St John.

In 1951, as a lieutenant in the US Navy, Baker had been assigned as liaison officer to the British Royal Navy destroyer, Persephone which was when he had first met Garth Travers, a gunnery officer. Travers was on the fast-track, had taken a degree in history at Oxford University and the two young officers had made a firm friendship, cemented by five hours in the water one dark night off the Korean coast which they’d spent hanging on to each other after a landing craft on which they’d been making a night drop with Royal Marine Commandos had hit a mine.

And Travers had gone on to great things, had retired a rear-admiral. Since then he’d written several books on naval aspects of the Second World War, had translated a standard work on the Kriegsmarine from the German which Baker’s publishing house had published in the last year he’d been in the business. Travers was the man, no doubt about it.

He was close inshore to St John now and saw another Sport Fisherman bearing down on him and he recognized the Sea Raider, Bob Carney’s boat. It slowed, turning towards him, and Baker slowed too. There were four people in the stern dressed for diving, three women and a man. Bob Carney was on the flying bridge.

‘Morning Henry,’ he called. ‘Out early. Where you been?’

‘Frenchcap.’ Baker didn’t like lying to a friend, but had no choice.

‘Conditions good?’

‘Excellent, millpond out there.’

‘Fine.’ Carney smiled and waved. ‘Take care, Henry.’

The Sea Raider moved away and Baker pushed up to full power and headed for Cruz Bay.

When he reached the house, he knew at once that Jenny wasn’t there because the Jeep had gone. He checked his watch. Ten o’clock. Something must have come up to take her out. He went into the kitchen, got a beer from the ice-box and went to his study, carrying the briefcase in one hand. He placed it on the desk, pulled his phone file across and leafed through it one-handed while he drank the beer. He found what he was looking for soon enough and checked his watch again. Ten after ten which meant ten after three in the afternoon in London. He picked up the telephone and dialled.

In London it was raining, drumming against the windows of the house in Lord North Street where Rear-Admiral Garth Travers sat in a chair by the fire in his book-lined study enjoying a cup of tea and reading The Times. When the phone rang, he made a face, but got up and went to the desk.

‘Who am I talking to?’

‘Garth? It’s Henry – Henry Baker.’

Travers sat down behind the desk. ‘Good God Henry, you old sod. Are you in London?’

‘No, I’m calling from St John.’

‘Sounds as if you’re in the next room.’

‘Garth, I’ve got a problem, I thought you might be able to help. I’ve found a U-boat.’

‘You’ve what?’

‘An honest-to-God U-boat, out here in the Virgins, on a reef about eighty feet down. One-eighty was the number on the conning tower. It’s a type VII.’

Travers’ own excitement was extreme. ‘I’m not going to ask you if you’ve been drinking. But why on earth has no one discovered it before?’

‘Garth, there are hundreds of wrecks in these waters, we don’t know the half of it. This is in a bad place, very dangerous. No one goes there. It’s half on a ledge which was protected by an overhang, or I miss my guess. There’s a lot of fresh damage to the cliff face. We’ve just had a hurricane.’

‘So what condition is she in?’

‘There was a gash in the hull and I managed to get in the control room. I found a briefcase in there, a watertight job in aluminium.’

‘With a Kriegsmarine insignia engraved in the top right-hand corner?’

‘That’s right!’

‘Standard issue, fire-proof and waterproof, all that sort of thing. What did you say the number was, 180? Hang on a minute and I’ll look it up. I’ve got a book on one of my shelves that lists every U-boat commissioned by the Kriegsmarine during the war and what happened to them.’

‘Okay.’

Baker waited patiently until Travers returned. ‘We’ve got a problem old son, you’re certain this was a type VII?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Well the problem is that 180 was a type IX, dispatched to Japan from France in August ’44 with technical supplies. She went down in the Bay of Biscay.’

‘Is that so?’ Baker said. ‘Well how does this grab you? I found the personal diary of a Korvettenkapitän Paul Friemel in that briefcase and the final entry is dated May 28th, 1945.’

‘But VE day in Europe was May the 8th,’ Travers said.

‘Exactly, so what have we got here? A German submarine with a false number that goes down in the Virgins three weeks after the end of the bloody war.’

‘It certainly is intriguing,’ Travers said.

‘You haven’t heard the best bit, old buddy. Remember all those stories about Martin Bormann having escaped from Berlin?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Well I can’t read German, but I sure can read his name and it’s right here in the diary and another little bombshell for you. So is the Duke of Windsor.’

Travers loosened his tie and took a deep breath. ‘Henry, old son, I must see that diary.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ Baker said. ‘There’s the British Airways overnight flight leaving Antigua around eight this evening our time. I should be able to make it. Last time I used it we got into London Gatwick at nine o’clock in the morning. Maybe you could give me a late breakfast.’

‘I’ll be looking forward to that,’ Travers said and replaced the receiver.

The Professional Association of Diving Instructors, of which Henry was a certificated member, have strict regulations about flying after diving. He checked his book of rules and discovered that he should wait at least four hours after a single no-decompression dive at eighty feet. That gave him plenty of leeway, especially if he didn’t fly down to Antigua until the afternoon which was exactly what he intended.

First he rang British Airways in San Juan. Yes, they had space in the first-class cabin on BA flight 252 leaving Antigua at 20.10 hours. He made the booking and gave them one of his Gold Card numbers. Next he rang Carib Aviation in Antigua, an air taxi firm he’d used before. Yes, they were happy to accept the charter. They’d send up one of their Partenavias early afternoon to St Thomas. If they left for the return trip to Antigua at four-thirty, they’d be there by six at the latest.

He sat back, thinking about it. He’d book a water taxi across to Charlotte Amalie, the main town on St Thomas. Forty minutes, that’s all it would take, fifteen at the most by taxi to the airport. Plenty of time to pack and get himself ready, but first he had to see Jenny.

The waterfront was bustling when he walked down into Cruz Bay this time. It was a picturesque little town, totally charming and ever so slightly run-down in the way of most Caribbean ports. Baker had fallen in love with the place the first time he’d seen it. It was everything he’d hoped for. He used to joke that all it needed was Humphrey Bogart in a sailor’s cap and denims running a boat from the harbour on mysterious missions.

Jenny’s Place was slightly back from the road, just before Mongoose Junction. There were steps up to the verandah, a neon sign above the door. Inside it was cool and shaded, two large fans revolving in the low ceiling. There were several booths against the walls, a scattering of marble-topped tables across a floor of black-and-white tiles. There were high stools at the long mahogany bar, bottles on glass shelves against the mirrored wall behind. A large, handsome black man with greying hair was polishing glasses, Billy Jones, the barman. He had the scar tissue around the eyes and the slightly flattened nose of a professional fighter. His wife, Mary, was manager.

He grinned, ‘Hi there, Mr Henry, you looking for Jenny?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Went down the front with Mary to choose the fish for tonight. They shouldn’t be too long. Can I get you something?’

‘Just a coffee, Billy, I’ll have it outside.’

He sat in a cane chair on the verandah, drinking the coffee and thinking about things, was so much within himself that he didn’t notice the two women approach until the last minute.

‘You’re back, Henry.’

He looked up and found Jenny and Mary Jones coming up the steps. Mary wished him good morning and went inside and Jenny sat on the rail, her figure very slim in T-shirt and blue jeans.

She frowned. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘I’ve got to go to London,’ he told her.

‘To London? When?’

‘This afternoon.’

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 damn 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 in 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 1945.’

Her eyes widened. ‘My God!’

‘I managed to get inside. There was a briefcase, an aluminium 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 passing 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 180 was a different type boat and it went down in the Bay of Biscay in 1944.’

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?’

‘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 take-off 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 take-off 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 judgement 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 semi-darkness, 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 went 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 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 1943 and ’44. 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 8th, 1944.’

‘Dear God!’ 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 valour. You make the coffee and I’ll get it.’

Travers went out and Baker found cups, a tin of instant milk in the ice-box, 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, Korvettenkapitän, 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 ’44 for sinking an Italian cruiser. They were on our side by then, of course. After that he was assigned to shore 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 1945.’

‘Like hell 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, ice-box 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 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.

Baker said cheerfully, ‘How’s it going?’

‘Not now, old boy, please.’

Baker shrugged, sat by the fire and picked up a magazine. It was quiet, only the sound of the word processor except when Travers suddenly said, ‘My God!’ and then a few minutes after that, ‘No, I can’t believe it.’

‘For heaven’s sake, what is it, Garth?’ Baker demanded.

‘In a minute, old boy, almost through.’

Baker sat there on tenterhooks and after a while, Travers sat back with a sigh. ‘Finished. I’ll run it through the copier.’

‘Does it have anything interesting to say?’

‘Interesting?’ Travers laughed harshly. ‘That’s putting it mildly. First of all I must make the point that it isn’t the official ship’s log, it’s essentially a private account of the peculiar circumstances surrounding his final voyage. Maybe he was trying to cover himself in some way, who knows, but it’s pretty sensational. The thing is, what are we going to do about it.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Read it for yourself. I’ll go and make some more coffee,’ Travers said as the copier stopped. He shuffled the sheets together and handed them to Baker who settled himself in the chair by the fire and started to read.

Bergen, Norway, 30 April 1945. I, Paul Friemel, start this account, more because of the strangeness of the task I am to perform than anything else. We left Kiel two days ago in this present boat designated U180. My command is in fact a craft that was damaged by bombing while under construction at Kiel in 1943. We are to my certain knowledge carrying the number of a dead ship. My orders from Grand Admiral Doenitz are explicit. My passenger will arrive this evening from Berlin although I find this hard to swallow. He will carry a direct order in the Führer’s own hand. I will learn our destination from him.

There was a gap here in the diary and then a further entry for the evening of the same day.

I received orders to proceed to the airstrip where a Fieseler Storch landed. After a few minutes an officer in the uniform of an SS general appeared and asked if I was Korvettenkapitän Friemel. He in no way identified himself although at that stage I felt that I had seen him before.

When we reached the dock, he took me to one side before boarding and presented me with a sealed envelope. When I opened it I found it contained the order from the Führer himself which had been mentioned in Grand Admiral Doenitz’s personal order to me. It ran as follows.

From the Leader and Chancellor of the State.

Reichsleiter Martin Bormann acts with my authority on a matter of the utmost importance and essential to the continuance of the Third Reich. You will place yourself under his direct authority, at all times remembering your solemn oath as an officer of the Kriegsmarine to your Führer, and will accept his command and authority as he sees fit and in all situations.

I recall now, having seen Bormann once at a State function in Berlin in 1942. Few people would recognize the man for of all our leaders I would conclude he is the least known. He is smaller than I would have thought, rough-featured with overlong arms. Frankly, if seen in working clothes one would imagine him a docker or labourer. The Reichsleiter inquired as to whether I accepted his authority which, having little option, I have agreed to do. He instructed me that as regards my officers and the crew, he was to be known as General Strasser.

1 May. Although the officers’ area is the most spacious on board, it only caters for three with one bunk lashed up. I have taken this for myself and given the Reichsleiter the commanding officer’s compartment on the port side and aft of what passes for a wardroom in this boat. It is the one private place we have though only a felt curtain separates his quarters from the wardroom. As we left Bergen on the evening tide the Reichsleiter joined me on the bridge and informed me that our destination was Venezuela.

2 May 1945. As the boat has been fitted with a snorkel I am able to contemplate a voyage entirely underwater though I fear this may not be possible in the heavy weather of the North Atlantic. I have laid a course underwater by way of the Iceland-Faroes narrows and once we have broken into the Atlantic will review the situation.

3 May 1945. Have received by radio from Bergen the astonishing news that the Führer has died on the 1st of May fighting valiantly at the head of our forces in Berlin, in an attempt to deny the Russians victory. I conveyed the melancholy news to the Reichsleiter who accepted it with what I thought to be astonishing calm. He then instructed me to pass the news to the crew, stressing that the war would continue. An hour later we received word over the radio that Grand Admiral Doenitz had set up a provisional government in Schleswig-Holstein. I doubt that it can last long with the Russians in Berlin and the Americans and British across the Rhine.

Baker was more than fascinated by this time and quickly passed through several pages which at that stage were mainly concerned with the ship’s progress.

5 May. We received an order from U-boat command that all submarines at sea must observe a cease-fire from this morning at 08.00 hours. The order is to return to harbour. I discussed this with the Reichsleiter in his quarters who pointed out that he had the Führer’s authority to continue still and asked me if I queried it. I found this difficult to answer and he suggested that I consider the situation for a day or two.

8 May 1945. We received this evening by radio the message I have been expecting. Total capitulation to the enemy. Germany has gone down to defeat. I again met with the Reichsleiter in his quarters and while discussing the situation, received a ciphered message from Bergen instructing me to return or to continue the voyage as ordered. The Reichsleiter seized upon this and demanded my obedience insisting on his right to speak to the crew over the intercom. He disclosed his identity and the matter of his authority from the Führer. He pointed out that there was nothing left for any of us in Germany and that there were friends waiting in Venezuela. A new life for those who wanted it, the possibility for a return to Germany for those who wanted that. It was difficult to argue with his reasoning and, on the whole, my crew and officers accepted it.

12 May 1945. Continued south and this day received general signal from Canadian Navy in Nova Scotia to any U-boat still at sea, demanding we report exact situation, surface and proceed under black flag. Failure to do so apparently condemning us to be considered as pirate and liable to immediate attack. The Reichsleiter showed little concern at this news.

15 May 1945. The snorkel device is in essence an air pipe raised above the surface when we run at periscope depth. In this way we may run on our diesel engines underwater without using up our batteries. I have discovered considerable problems with the device for if the sea is rough, and nothing is rougher than the Atlantic, the ballcock closes. When this happens the engines still draw in air which means an instant fall in pressure in the boat and this gives the crew huge problems. We have had three cases of ruptured eardrums, but proceeding with the aid of the snorkel does make it difficult for us to be detected from the air.

17 May 1945. So far into the Atlantic are we now that I feel our risk of detection from the air to be minimal and decided from today to proceed on the surface. We carve through the Atlantic’s heavy seas, continually awash and our chances of encountering anyone in these latitudes are slim.

20 May 1945. The Reichsleiter has kept himself to himself for much of the trip except for eating with the officers, preferring to remain on his bunk and read. Today he asked if he could accompany me when I was taking my watch. He arrived on the bridge in foul-weather gear when we were barrelling through fifteen and twenty-foot waves and thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

21 May 1945. An extraordinary night for me. The Reichsleiter appeared at dinner obviously the worse for drink. Later he invited me to his quarters where he produced a bottle of Scotch whisky from one of his cases and insisted I joined him. He drank freely, talking a great deal about the Führer and the final days in the Bunker in Berlin. When I asked him how he had escaped, he told me they had used the East/West Avenue in the centre of Berlin as a runway for light aircraft. At this stage he had finished the whisky, pulled out one of his duffel bags from under the bunk and opened it. He took out an aluminium Kriegsmarine captain’s briefcase like my own and put it on the bunk then found a fresh bottle of whisky.

By now he was very drunk and told me of his last meeting with the Führer who had charged him with a sacred duty to continue the future of the Third Reich. He said an organization called the Odessa Line had been set up years before by the SS to provide an escape line, in the event of temporary defeat, for those officers of SS and other units essential to the continuance of the struggle.

Then he moved on to the Kameradenwerk, Action for Comrades, an organization set up to continue National Socialist ideas after the war. There were hundreds of millions salted away in Switzerland, South America and other places and friends in every country at the highest level of government. He took his aluminium case from the bunk, opened it and produced a file. He called it the Blue Book. He said it listed many members of the English aristocracy, many Members of the English Parliament, who had secretly supported the Führer during the 1930s and also many Americans. He then took a paper from a buff envelope and unfolded it before me. He told me it was the Windsor Protocol, a secret agreement with the Führer signed by the Duke of Windsor while resident at Estoril in Portugal in 1940 after the fall of France. In it he agreed to ascend the throne of England again after a successful German invasion. I asked him what value such a document could have and how could he be sure it was genuine. He became extremely angry and told me that in any event, there were those on his Blue Book list who would do anything to avoid exposure and that his own future was taken care of. I asked him at that point if he was certain and he laughed and said you could always trust an English gentleman. At this point he became so drunk that I had to assist him on to the bunk. He fell asleep instantly and I examined the contents of the briefcase. The names in his Blue Book list meant nothing to me, but the Windsor Protocol looked genuine enough. The only other thing in the briefcase was a list of numbered bank accounts and the Führer order and I closed it and placed it under the bunk with his other luggage.

Baker stopped at this point, put the diary down, got up and walked to the window as Garth Travers entered.

Travers said, ‘Here’s the coffee. Thought I’d leave you to get on with it. Have you finished?’

‘Just read what Bormann told him on the 21st of May.’

‘The best is yet to come, old boy, I’ll be back,’ and Travers went out again.

25 May 1945. 500 miles north of Puerto Rico. I envisage using the Anegada Passage through the Leeward Islands into the Caribbean Sea with a clear run to the Venezuelan coast from there.

26 May 1945. The Reichsleiter called me to his quarters and informed me that it was necessary to make a stop before reaching our destination and requested to see the chart for the Virgin Islands. The island he indicated is a small one, Samson Cay, south-east of St John in the American Virgin Islands, but in British sovereign waters being a few miles south of Norman Island in the British Virgin Islands. He gave me no indication of his reason for wishing to stop there.

27 May 1945. Surfaced off the coast of Samson Cay at 21.00 hours. A dark night with a quarter moon. Some lights observed on shore. The Reichsleiter requested that he be put ashore in one of the inflatables and I arranged for Petty Officer Schroeder to take him. Before leaving he called me to his quarters and told me that he was expecting to meet friends on shore, but as a precaution against something going wrong, he was not taking anything of importance with him. He particularly indicated the briefcase which he left on the bunk and gave me a sealed envelope which he said would give me details of my destination in Venezuela if anything went wrong and the name of the man I was to hand the briefcase to. He told me to send Schroeder back for him at 02.00 hours and that if he was not on the beach I was to fear the worst and depart. He wore civilian clothes and left his uniform.

Travers came back in at that moment. ‘Still at it?’

‘I’m on the final entry.’

The Admiral went to the drinks cabinet and poured Scotch into two glasses. ‘Drink that,’ he said, passing one to Baker. ‘You’re going to need it.’

28 May 1945. Midnight. I have just been on the bridge and noticed an incredible stillness to everything, quite unnatural and like nothing I have experienced before. Lightning on the far horizon and distant thunder. The waters here in the lagoon are shallow and give me concern. I write this at the chart table while waiting for the radio officer to check for weather reports.

There was a gap here and then a couple of lines scrawled hurriedly.

Radio report from St Thomas indicates hurricane approaching fast. We must make for deep water and go down to ride it out. The Reichsleiter must take his chance.

‘Only the poor buggers didn’t ride it out,’ Travers said. ‘The hurricane caught them when they were still vulnerable. Must have ripped her side open on the reef where you found her.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Baker said. ‘Then I presume the current must have driven her in on that ledge under the overhang.’

‘Where she remained all these years. Strange no one ever discovered her before.’

‘Not really,’ Baker said. ‘It’s a bad place. No one goes there. It’s too far out for people who dive for fun and it’s very dangerous. Another thing. If the recent hurricane hadn’t broken away the overhang I might well have missed it myself.’

‘You haven’t actually given me the location yet,’ Travers remonstrated.

‘Yes, well, that’s my business,’ Baker said.

Travers smiled. ‘I understand, old boy, I understand, but I really must point out that this is a very hot potato.’

‘What on earth are you getting at?’

‘Number one, we’d appear to have positive proof, after all the rumour and speculation for nearly fifty years, that Martin Bormann escaped from Berlin.’

‘So?’ Baker said.

‘More than that! There’s the Blue Book list of Hitler’s sympathizers here in England, not only the nobility, but Members of Parliament plus the names of a few of your fellow-countrymen. Worse than that, this Windsor Protocol.’

‘What do you mean?’ Baker asked.

‘According to the diary Bormann kept them in a similar survival case to this.’ He tapped the aluminium briefcase. ‘And he left it on the bunk in the commanding officer’s quarters. Now just consider this. According to Friemel’s final entry he was in the control room at the chart table, entering the diary when he got that final radio report about the hurricane. He shoves the diary in his briefcase and locks it, only a second to do that, then gets on with the emergency. That would explain why you found the briefcase in the control room.’

‘I’ll buy that,’ Baker agreed.

‘No, you’re missing the real point which is that the case survived.’

‘So what are you getting at?’

‘These things were built for survival which means it’s almost certain Bormann’s is still in the commanding officer’s quarters with the Blue Book, the Windsor Protocol and Hitler’s personal order concerning Bormann. Even after all these years the facts contained in those documents would cause a hell of a stink, Henry, especially the Windsor thing.’

‘I wouldn’t want to cause that kind of trouble,’ Baker told him.

‘I believe you, I know you well enough for that, but what if someone else found that submarine?’

‘I told you, no one goes there.’

‘You also told me you thought an overhang had been torn off revealing it. I mean, somebody could dive there, Henry, just like you did.’

‘The conditions were unusually calm,’ Baker said. ‘It’s a bad place, Garth, no one goes there, I know, believe me. Another thing, the commanding officer’s compartment is forward and aft of the wardroom, on the port side, that’s what Friemel said in the diary.’

‘That’s right. I was shown over a type VII U-boat. The navy had one or two they took over after the war. The captain’s cabin, so-called, is across from the radio and sound rooms. Quick access to the control room. That was the point.’

‘Yes, well my point is that you can’t get in there. The forward watertight hatch is closed fast.’

‘Well you’d expect that. If they were in trouble he’d have ordered every watertight hatch in the boat closed. Standard procedure.’

‘I tried to move the wheel. Corroded like hell. The door is solid. No way of getting in there.’

‘There’s always a way, Henry, you know that.’ Travers sat there frowning for a moment then said, ‘Look, I’d like to show the diary to a friend of mine.’

‘Who are we talking about?’

‘Brigadier Charles Ferguson. We’ve known each other for years. He might have some ideas.’

‘What makes him so special?’

‘He works on the Intelligence side of things. Runs a highly specialized anti-terrorist unit responsible only to the Prime Minister and that’s privileged information, by the way.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought this was exactly his field,’ Baker said.

‘Just let me show him the diary, old boy,’ Travers said soothingly. ‘See what he thinks.’

‘Okay,’ Baker said. ‘But the location stays my little secret.’

‘Of course. You can come with me if you want.’

‘No, I think I’ll have a bath and maybe go for a walk. I always feel like hell after a long jet flight. I could see this Brigadier Ferguson later if you think it necessary.’

‘Just as you like,’ Travers said. ‘I’ll leave you to it. You know where everything is.’

Baker went out and Travers looked up Ferguson’s personal phone number at the Ministry of Defence and was speaking to him at once. ‘Charles, Garth Travers here.’

‘My dear old boy, haven’t seen you in ages.’

Travers came directly to the point. ‘I think you should see me at your soonest moment, Charles. A rather astonishing document has come into my hands.’

Ferguson remained as urbane as ever. ‘Really? Well we must do something about that. You’ve been to my flat in Cavendish Square?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘I’ll see you there in thirty minutes.’

Ferguson sat on the sofa beside the fireplace in his elegant drawing-room and Travers sat opposite. The door opened and Ferguson’s manservant Kim, an ex-Gurkha corporal, entered, immaculate in snow-white jacket, and served tea. He withdrew silently and Ferguson reached for his cup of tea and continued reading. Finally he put the cup down and leaned back.

‘Quite bizarre, isn’t it?’

‘You believe it then?’

‘The diary? Good God yes. I mean you obviously vouch for your friend Baker. He isn’t a hoaxer or anything?’

‘Certainly not. We were lieutenants together in Korea. Saved my life. He was chairman of a highly respected publishing house in New York until a few years ago. He’s also a multi-millionaire.’

‘And he won’t tell you the location?’

‘Oh, that’s understandable enough. He’s like a boy again. He’s made this astonishing discovery.’ Travers smiled. ‘He’ll tell us eventually. So what do you think? I know it’s not really in your line.’

‘But that’s where you’re wrong, Garth. I think it’s very much in my line because I work for the Prime Minister and I think he should see this.’

‘There is one point,’ Travers said. ‘If Bormann landed on this Samson Cay place, there had to be a reason, I mean who in the hell was he meeting?’

‘Perhaps he was to be picked up by somebody, a fast boat and a passage by night, you know the sort of thing. I mean, he probably left the briefcase on board as a precaution until he knew everything was all right, but we can find out easily enough. I’ll get my assistant, Detective Inspector Lane on to it. Regular bloodhound.’ He slipped the papers comprising the diary back into their envelope. ‘Give me a moment. I’m going to send my driver round with this to Downing Street. Eyes of the Prime Minister only, then I’ll see how soon he can see us. I’ll be back.’

He went out to his study and Travers poured another cup of tea. It was cold and he walked restlessly across to the window and looked outside. It was still raining, a thoroughly miserable day. As he turned, Ferguson came back.

‘Can’t see us until two o’clock, but I spoke to him personally and he’s going to have a quick look when the package arrives. You and I, old son, are going to have an early luncheon at the Garrick. I’ve told Lane we’ll be there in case he gets a quick result on Samson Cay.’

‘Umbrella weather,’ Travers said. ‘How I loathe it.’

‘Large gin and tonic will work wonders, old boy.’ Ferguson ushered him out.

They had steak-and-kidney pie at the Garrick, sitting opposite each other at the long table in the dining-room, and coffee in the bar afterwards which was where Jack Lane found them.

‘Ah, there you are, Jack, got anything for me?’ Ferguson demanded.

‘Nothing very exciting, sir. Samson Cay is owned by an American hotel group called Samson Holdings. They have hotels in Las Vegas, Los Angeles and three in Florida, but Samson Cay would appear to be their flagship. I’ve got you a brochure. Strictly a millionaire’s hideaway!’

He passed it across and they examined it. There were the usual pictures of white beaches, palm trees, cottages in an idyllic setting.

‘Garden of Eden according to this,’ Ferguson said. ‘They even have a landing strip for light aircraft, I see.’

‘And a casino, sir.’

‘Can’t be too big as casinos go,’ Travers pointed out. ‘They only cater for a hundred people.’

‘Isn’t the numbers that count, old boy,’ Ferguson said. ‘It’s the amount of cash across the table. What about during the war, Jack?’

‘There was always a hotel of some sort. In those days it was owned by an American family called Herbert who were also in the hotel business. Remember Samson Cay is in the British Virgin Islands which means it comes under the control of Tortola as regards the law, customs and so forth. I spoke to their Public Record Office. According to their files the hotel stayed empty during the war. The occasional fishermen from Tortola, a couple caretaking the property and that’s all.’

‘Doesn’t help but thanks, Jack, you’ve done a good job.’

‘It might help if I knew what it was about, sir.’

‘Later, Jack, later. Off you go and make Britain a safer place to live in.’ Lane departed with a grin and Ferguson turned to Travers.

‘Right, old boy, Downing Street awaits.’

The Prime Minister was sitting behind his desk in his study when an aide showed them in. He stood up and came round the desk to shake hands. ‘Brigadier.’

‘Prime Minister,’ Ferguson said. ‘May I introduce Rear-Admiral Travers?’

‘Of course. Do sit down, gentlemen.’ He went and sat behind his desk again. ‘An incredible business this.’

‘An understatement, Prime Minister,’ Ferguson replied.

‘You were quite right to bring it to my attention. The royal aspect is what concerns me most.’ The phone went. He picked it up, listened then said, ‘Send them up.’ As he replaced the receiver he said, ‘I know you’ve had your problems with the Security Services, Brigadier, but I feel this to be one of those cases where we should honour our agreement to keep them informed about anything of mutual interest. You recall you agreed to liaise with the Deputy Director, Simon Carter and Sir Francis Pamer?’

‘I did indeed, Prime Minister.’

‘I called both of them in immediately after reading the diary. They’ve been downstairs having a look at it themselves. They’re on their way up.’

A moment later the door opened and the aide ushered in the two men. Simon Carter was fifty, a small man with hair already snow-white. Never a field agent he was an ex-academic, one of the faceless men who controlled Britain’s Intelligence system. Sir Francis Pamer was forty-seven, tall and elegant in a blue flannel suit. He wore a Guards tie, thanks to three years as a subaltern in the Grenadiers, and had a slight smile permanently fixed to the corner of his mouth in a way that Ferguson found intensely irritating.

They all shook hands and sat down. ‘Well gentlemen?’ the Prime Minister said.

‘Always assuming it isn’t a hoax,’ Pamer said. ‘A fascinating story.’

‘It would explain many aspects of the Bormann legend,’ Simon Carter put in. ‘Arthur Axmann, the Hitler Youth leader, said he saw Bormann’s body lying in the road near the Lehrter Station in Berlin, that was after the break-out from the Bunker.’

‘It would seem now that what he saw was someone who looked like Bormann,’ Travers said.

‘So it would appear,’ Carter agreed. ‘If Bormann was on this U-boat and survived, it would explain the numerous reports over the years of sightings of him in South America.’

‘Simon Wiesenthal, the Nazi hunter, always thought him alive,’ Pamer said. ‘Before Eichmann was executed, he told the Israelis that Bormann was alive. Why would a man faced with death lie?’

‘All well and good, gentlemen,’ the Prime Minister told them, ‘but frankly, I think the question of whether Martin Bormann survived the war or not, purely of academic interest. It would change history a little and the newspapers would get some mileage out of it.’

‘And a damn sight more out of this Blue Book list that’s mentioned. Members of Parliament and the nobility.’ Carter shuddered. ‘The mind boggles.’

‘My dear Simon,’ Pamer told him, ‘there were an awful lot of people around before the war who found aspects of Hitler’s message rather attractive. There are also names in that list with a Washington base.’

‘Yes, well their children and grandchildren wouldn’t thank you to have their names mentioned and what in the hell was Bormann doing at this Samson Cay?’

‘There’s a resort there now, one of those rich man’s hideaways,’ Ferguson said. ‘During the war there was a hotel, but it was closed for the duration. We checked with Public Records in Tortola. Owned by an American family called Herbert.’

‘What do you think Bormann was after there?’ Pamer asked.

‘One can only guess, but my theory runs something like this,’ Ferguson said. ‘He probably intended to let U180 proceed to Venezuela on its own. I would hazard a guess that he was to be picked up by someone and Samson Cay was the rendezvous. He left the briefcase as a precaution in case anything went wrong. After all, he did give Friemel instructions about its disposal if anything happened to him.’

‘A pretty scandal, I agree, gentlemen, the whole thing, but imagine the furore it would cause if it became known that the Duke of Windsor had signed an agreement with Hitler,’ the Prime Minister said.

‘Personally, I think it more likely that this so-called Windsor Protocol would prove fraudulent,’ Pamer told him.

‘That’s as may be, but the papers would have a field-day and frankly, the Royal Family have had more than their share of scandal in this past year or so,’ the Prime Minister replied.

There was silence and Ferguson said gently, ‘Are you suggesting that we attempt to recover Bormann’s briefcase before anyone else does, Prime Minister?’

‘Yes, that would seem the sensible thing to do. Do you think you might handle that, Brigadier?’

It was Simon Carter who protested, ‘Sir, I must remind you that this U-boat lies in American territorial waters.’

‘Well I don’t think we need to bring our American cousins into this,’ Ferguson said. ‘They would have total rights to the wreck and the contents. Imagine what they’d get for the Windsor Protocol at auction.’

Carter tried again. ‘I really must protest, Prime Minister. Group Four’s brief is to combat terrorism and subversion.’

The Prime Minister raised a hand. ‘Exactly and I can think of few things more subversive to the interests of the nation than the publication of this Windsor Protocol. Brigadier, you will devise a plan, do whatever is necessary and as soon as possible. Keep me informed and also the Deputy Director and Sir Francis.’

‘So the matter is entirely in my hands?’ Ferguson asked.

‘Total authority. Just do what you have to.’ The Prime Minister got up. ‘And now you really must excuse me, gentlemen. I have a tight schedule.’

The four men walked down to the security gates where Downing Street met Whitehall and paused at the pavement.

Carter said, ‘Damn you, Ferguson, you always get your way, but see you keep us informed. Come on, Francis,’ and he strode away.

Francis Pamer smiled. ‘Don’t take it to heart, Brigadier, it’s just that he hates you. Good hunting,’ and he hurried after Carter.

Travers and Ferguson walked along Whitehall looking for a taxi and Travers said, ‘Why does Carter dislike you so?’

‘Because I succeeded too often where he’s failed and because I’m outside the system and only answerable to the Prime Minister and Carter can’t stand that.’

‘Pamer seems a decent enough sort.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘He’s married I suppose?’

‘As a matter of fact, no. Apparently much in demand by the ladies. One of the oldest baronetcies in England. I believe he’s the twelfth or thirteenth. Has a wonderful house in Hampshire. His mother lives there.’

‘So what is his connection with Intelligence matters?’

‘The Prime Minister has made him a junior minister at the Home Office. Extra Minister I believe his title is. A kind of roving troubleshooter. As long as he and Carter keep out of my hair I’ll be well pleased.’

‘And Henry Baker – do you think he’ll tell you where U180 is lying?’

‘Of course he will, he’ll have to.’ Ferguson saw a taxi and waved it down. ‘Come on, let’s get moving and we’ll confront him now.’

After his bath, Baker had lain on his bed for a moment, a towel about his waist and, tired from the amount of travelling he’d done, fell fast asleep. When he finally awakened and checked his watch it was shortly after two o’clock. He dressed quickly and went downstairs.

There was no sign of Travers and when he opened the front door it was still raining hard. In spite of that, he decided to go for a walk as much to clear his head as anything else. He helped himself to an old trenchcoat from the cloakroom and an umbrella and went down the steps. He felt good, but then rain always made him feel that way and he was still excited about the way things were going. He turned towards Millbank and paused, looking across to Victoria Tower Gardens and the Thames.

In St John, for obscure reasons, people drive on the left-hand side of the road as in England and yet on that rainy afternoon in London, Henry Baker did what most Americans would do before crossing the road. He looked left and stepped straight into the path of a London Transport bus coming from the right. Westminster Hospital being close by, an ambulance was there in minutes, not that it mattered for he was dead by the time they reached the casualty department.

4

In St John it was just after ten o’clock in the morning as Jenny Grant walked along the waterfront to the café and went up the steps and entered the bar. Billy was sweeping the floor and he looked up and grinned.

‘A fine, soft day. You heard from Mr Henry yet?’

‘Five hours time difference.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Just after three o’clock in the afternoon there, Billy. There’s time.’

Mary Jones appeared at the end of the bar. ‘Telephone call for you in the office. London, England.’

Jenny smiled instantly. ‘Henry?’

‘No, some woman. You take it, honey, and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.’

Jenny brushed past her and went into the office and Mary poured a little water into the coffee percolator. There was a sharp cry from inside the office. Billy and Mary glanced at each other in alarm then hurried in.

Jenny sat behind the desk looking dazed, clutching the phone in one hand and Mary said, ‘What is it, honey? Tell Mary.’

‘It’s a policewoman ringing me from Scotland Yard in London,’ Jenny whispered. ‘Henry’s dead. He was killed in a road accident.’

She started to cry helplessly and Mary took the phone from her. ‘Hello, are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ a neutral voice replied. ‘I’m sorry if the other lady was upset. There’s no easy way to do this.’

‘Sure, honey, you got your job to do.’

‘Could you find out where he was staying in London?’

‘Hang on.’ Mary turned to Jenny. ‘She wants to know the address he was staying at over there.’

So Jenny told her.

It was just before five and Travers, in response to a telephone call from Ferguson asking him to meet him, waited in the foyer of the mortuary in the Cromwell Road. The Brigadier came bustling in a few minutes later.

‘Sorry to keep you, Garth, but I want to expedite things. There has to be an autopsy for the coroner’s inquest and we can’t have that unless he’s formally identified.’

‘I’ve spoken to the young woman who lives with him, Jenny Grant. She’s badly shocked, but intends to fly over as soon as possible. Should be here tomorrow.’

‘Yes, well I don’t want to hang about.’ Ferguson took a folded paper from his inside breast pocket. ‘I’ve got a court order from a judge in chambers here which authorizes Rear-Admiral Garth Travers to make formal identification so let’s get on with it.’

A uniformed attendant appeared at that moment. ‘Is one of you gentlemen Brigadier Ferguson?’

‘That’s me,’ Ferguson told him.

‘Professor Manning is waiting. This way, sir.’

The post-mortem room was lit by fluorescent lighting that bounced off the white lined walls. There were four stainless-steel operating tables. Baker’s body lay on the nearest one, his head on a block. A tall thin man in surgeon’s overalls stood waiting flanked by two mortuary technicians. Travers noted with distaste that they all wore green rubber boots.

‘Hello, Sam, thanks for coming in,’ Ferguson said. ‘This is Garth Travers.’

Manning shook hands. ‘Could we get on, Charles? I have tickets for Covent Garden.’

‘Of course, old boy.’ Ferguson took out a pen and laid the form on the end of the operating table. ‘Do you Rear-Admiral Travers formally identify this man as Henry Baker, an American citizen of St John in the American Virgin Islands?’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.