Thunder Point

3

It was ten o’clock when the doorbell rang at the house in Lord North Street. Garth Travers answered the door himself and found Henry Baker standing there in the rain, the briefcase in one hand, his overnight case in the other. He had no raincoat and the collar of his jacket was turned up.

“My dear chap,” Travers said. “For God’s sake, come in before you drown.” He turned as he closed the door. “You’ll stay here of course?”

“If that suits, old buddy.”

“It’s good to hear that description of me again,” Travers told him. “I’ll show you to your room later. Let’s get you some breakfast. My housekeeper’s day off, so you’ll get it Navy style.”

“Coffee would be fine for the moment,” Baker said.

They went to the large, comfortable kitchen and Travers put the kettle on. Baker placed the briefcase on the table. “There it is.”

“Fascinating.” Travers examined the Kriegsmarine insignia on the case, then glanced up. “May I?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Travers opened the case. He examined the letters quickly. “These must be keepsakes, dated at various times in nineteen forty-three and -four. All from his wife from the looks of things.” He turned to the photos. “Knight’s Cross holder? Must have been quite a boy.” He looked at the photos of the woman and the two little girls and read the handwritten paragraph on the back of one of them. “Oh dear.”

“What is it?” Baker asked.

“It reads, ‘my dear wife Lottie and my daughters, Ilse and Marie, killed in a bombing raid on Hamburg, August the eighth, nineteen forty-four.’ ”

“Dear 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 valor. You make the coffee and I’ll get it.”

Travers went out and Baker found cups, a tin of instant milk in the icebox, had just finished when Travers returned with the book in question. He sat down opposite Baker and reached for his coffee.

“Here we are, Paul Friemel, 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 forty-four 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, nineteen forty-five.”

“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, icebox to you, bread bin over there. Join me in the study when you’re ready.”

He went out and Baker, relaxed now that everything was in hand, busied himself making breakfast, aware that he was hungry. He sat at the table to eat it, reading Travers’ copy of that morning’s London Times 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 1944. 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 nineteen forty-three. 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 Feiseler 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 laborer. The Reichsleiter enquired 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 harbor. 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 ball cock 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 barreling 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 join 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 center 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 Kamaradenwerk, 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 nineteen-thirties 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 be 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 twenty-first 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 rumor 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-Ghurka 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 rang. 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 honor 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 breakout 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. “That Bormann was on this U-boat and survived 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 furor it would cause if it became known that the Duke of Windsor had signed an agreement with Hitler,” the Prime Minister said.

“Personally I feel it more than 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 trouble shooter. 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 traveling 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 toward 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.