Thunder Point

4

In St. John it was just after ten o’clock in the morning as Jenny Grant walked along the waterfront to the cafe 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?”

“I do.”

“Sign here.” Travers did so and Ferguson handed the form to Manning.

“There you go, Sam, we’ll leave you to it,” and he nodded to Travers and led the way out.

Ferguson closed the glass partition in his Daimler so the driver couldn’t hear what was being said.

“A hell of a shock,” Travers said. “It hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“Leaves us in rather an interesting situation,” Ferguson commented.

“In what way?”

“The location of U180. Has it died with him?”

“Of course,” Travers said. “I was forgetting.”

“On the other hand, perhaps the Grant girl knows. I mean she lived with him and all that.”

“Not that kind of relationship,” Travers told him. “Purely platonic. I met her just the once. I was passing through Miami and they happened to be there. Lovely young woman.”

“Well let’s hope this paragon of all the virtues has the answer to our problem,” Ferguson said.

“And if not?”

“Then I’ll just have to think of something.”

“I wonder what Carter will make of all this.”

Ferguson groaned. “I suppose I’d better bring him up to date. Keep the sod happy,” and he reached for his car phone and dialed Inspector Lane.

At precisely the same time Francis Pamer, having made a very fast trip indeed from London in his Porsche Cabriolet to his country home at Hatherley Court in Hampshire, was mounting the grand staircase to his mother’s apartment on the first floor. The house had been in the family for five hundred years and he always visited it with conscious pleasure, but not now. There were more important things on his mind.

When he tapped on the door of the bedroom and entered he found his mother propped up in the magnificent four-poster bed, a uniformed nurse sitting beside her. She was eighty-five and very old and frail and lay there with her eyes closed.

The nurse stood up. “Sir Francis. We weren’t expecting you.”

“I know. How is she?”

“Not good, sir. Doctor was here earlier. He said it could be next week or three months from now.”

He nodded. “You have a break. I want to have a little chat with her.” The nurse went out and Pamer sat on the bed and took his mother’s hand. She opened her eyes. “How are you, darling?” he asked.

“Why, Francis, what a lovely surprise.” Her voice was very faded.

“I had some business not too far away, Mother, so I thought I’d call in.”

“That was nice of you, dear.”

Pamer got up, lit a cigarette and walked to the fire. “I was talking about Samson Cay today.”

“Oh, are you thinking of taking a holiday, dear? If you go and that nice Mr. Santiago is there, do give him my regards.”

“Of course. I’m right, aren’t I? It was your mother who brought Samson Cay into the family?”

“Yes, dear, her father, George Herbert, gave it to her as a wedding present.”

“Tell me about the War again, Mother,” he said. “And Samson Cay.”

“Well, the hotel was empty for most of the War. It was small then, of course, just a little colonial-style place.”

“And when did you go there? You never really talked about that and I was too young to remember.”

“March nineteen forty-five. You were born in July, the previous year, and those terrible German rockets kept hitting London, V1s and V2s. Your father was out of the army then and serving in Mr. Churchill’s government as a Junior Minister, just like you, dear. He was worried about the attacks on London continuing so he arranged passage on a boat to Puerto Rico for you and me. We carried on to Samson Cay from there. Now I remember. It was the beginning of April when we got there. We went over from Tortola by boat. There was an old man and his wife. Black people. Very nice. Jackson, that was it. May and Joseph.”

Her voice faded and he went and sat on the bed and took her hand again. “Did anyone visit, Mother? Can you remember that?”

“Visit?” She opened her eyes. “Only Mr. Strasser. Such a nice man. Your father told me he might be coming. He just appeared one night. He said he’d been dropped off in a fishing boat from Tortola and then the hurricane came. It happened the same night. Terrible. We were in the cellar for two days. I held you all the time, but Mr. Strasser was very good. Such a kind man.”

“Then what happened?”

“He stayed with us for quite a while. Until June, I think, and then your father arrived.”

“And Strasser?”

“He left after that. He had business in South America, and the war in Europe was over, of course, so we came back to England. Mr. Churchill had lost the election and your father wasn’t in Parliament anymore, so we lived down here, darling. The farms were a great disappointment.”

She was wandering a little. Pamer said, “You once told me my father served with Sir Oswald Mosley in the First World War in the trenches.”

“That’s true dear, they were great friends.”

“Remember Mosley’s black shirts, Mother, the British Fascist Party? Did Father have any connection with that?”

“Good heavens no. Poor Oswald. He often spent the weekend here. They arrested him at the beginning of the War. Said he was pro-German. Ridiculous. He was such a gentleman.” The voice trailed away and then strengthened. “Such a difficult time we had. Goodness knows how we managed to keep you at Eton. How lucky we all were when your father met Mr. Santiago. What wonderful things they did together at Samson Cay. Some people say it’s the finest resort in the Caribbean now. I’d love to visit again, I really would.”

Her eyes closed and Pamer went and put her hands under the cover. “You sleep now, Mother, it will do you good.”

He closed the door gently, went downstairs to the library, got himself a Scotch and sat by the fire thinking about it all. The contents of the diary had shocked him beyond measure and it was a miracle that he had managed to keep his composure in front of Carter, but the truth was plain now. His father, a British Member of Parliament, a serving officer, a member of government, had had connections with the Nazi Party, one of those who had eagerly looked forward to a German invasion in 1940. The involvement must have been considerable. The whole business with Martin Bormann and Samson Cay proved that.

Francis Pamer’s blood ran cold and he went and got another Scotch and wandered around the room looking at the portraits of his ancestors. Five hundred years, one of the oldest families in England, and he was a Junior Minister now, had every prospect of further advancement, but if Ferguson managed to arrange the recovery of Bormann’s briefcase from the U-boat he was finished. No reason to doubt that his father’s name would be on the Blue Book list of Nazi sympathizers. The scandal would finish him. Not only would he have to say goodbye to any chance of a high position in government, he would have to resign his Parliamentary seat at the very least. Then there would be the clubs. He shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking about, but what to do?

The answer was astonishingly simple. Max – Max Santiago. Max would know. He hurried to the study, looked up the number of the Samson Cay resort, phoned through and asked for Carlos Prieto, the general manager.

“Carlos? Francis Pamer here.”

“Sir Francis. What a pleasure. What can I do for you? Are you coming to see us soon?”

“I hope so, Carlos. Listen, I need to speak to Señor Santiago urgently. Would you know where he is?”

“Certainly. Staying at the Ritz in Paris. Business, I understand, then he returns to Puerto Rico in three days.”

“Bless you, Carlos.” Pamer had never felt such relief.

He asked the operator to get him the Ritz in Paris and checked his watch. Five-thirty. He waited impatiently until he heard the receptionist at the Ritz in his ear and asked for Santiago at once.

“Be there, Max, be there,” he murmured.

A voice said in French, “Santiago here. Who is this?”

“Thank God. Max, this is Francis. I must see you. Something’s happened, something bad. I need your help.”

“Calm yourself, Francis, calm yourself. Where are you?”

“Hatherley Court.”

“You could be at Gatwick by six-thirty your time?”

“I think so.”

“Good. I’ll have a charter waiting for you. We can have dinner and you can tell me all about it.”

The phone clicked and he was gone. Pamer got his passport from the desk and a wad of traveler’s checks, then he went upstairs, opened his mother’s door and peered in. She was sleeping. He closed the door gently and went downstairs.

The phone sounded in his study. He hurried in to answer it and found Simon Carter on the line. “There you are. Been chasing you all over the place. Baker’s dead. Just heard from Ferguson.”

“Good God,” Pamer said and then had a thought. “Doesn’t that mean the location of U180 died with him?”

“Well he certainly didn’t tell Travers, but apparently his girlfriend is flying over tomorrow, a Jenny Grant. Ferguson is hoping that she knows. Anyway, I’ll keep you in touch.”

Pamer went out, frowning, and the nurse entered the hall from the kitchen area. “Leaving, Sir Francis?”

“Urgent Government business, Nellie, give her my love.”

He let himself out, got in the Porsche and drove away.

At Garth Travers’ in Lord North Street the Admiral and Ferguson finished searching Baker’s suitcase. “You didn’t really expect to find the location of that damned reef hidden amongst his clothes, did you?” Travers asked.

“Stranger things have happened,” Ferguson said, “believe me.” They went into the study. The aluminium briefcase was on the desk. “This is it, is it?”

“Yes,” Travers told him.

“Let’s have a look.”

The Admiral opened it. Ferguson examined the letter, the photos and glanced through the diary. “You copied this on your word processor here I presume?”

“Oh, yes, I typed the translation straight out of the top of my head.”

“So the disk is still in the machine?”

“Yes.”

“Get it out, there’s a good chap, and stick it in the case, also any copy you have.”

“I say, Charles, that’s a bit thick after all I’ve done and anyway, it was Baker’s property in the legal sense of the word.”

“Not any more it isn’t.”

Grumbling, Travers did as he was told. “Now what happens?”

“Nothing much. I’ll see this young woman tomorrow and see what she has to say.”

“And then?”

“I don’t really know, but frankly, it won’t concern you from here on in.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

Ferguson slapped him on the shoulder. “Never mind, meet me in the Piano Bar at the Dorchester at eight. We’ll have a drink.”

He let himself out of the front door, turned down the steps and got into the rear of the waiting Daimler.

As the Citation jet lifted off the runway at Gatwick, Francis Pamer got himself a Scotch from the bar box thinking about Max Santiago. Cuban, he knew that, one of the landed families chased out by Castro in nineteen fifty-nine. The Max bit came from his mother, who was German. That he had money was obvious, because when he had struck the deal with old Joseph Pamer to develop Samson Cay Resort in nineteen seventy, he already controlled a number of hotels. How old would he be now, sixty-seven or -eight? All Francis Pamer knew for sure was that he had always been a little afraid of him, but that didn’t matter. Santiago would know what to do and that was all that was important. He finished his Scotch and settled back to read the Financial Times until the Citation landed at Le Bourget Airport in Paris half an hour later.

Santiago was standing on the terrace of his magnificent suite at the Ritz, an impressively tall man in a dark suit and tie, his hair still quite black in spite of his age. He had a calm, imperious face, the look of a man who was used to getting his own way, and dark, watchful eyes.

He turned as the room waiter showed Pamer in. “My dear Francis, what a joy to see you.” He held out a hand. “A glass of champagne, you need it, I can tell.” His English was faultless.

“You can say that again,” Pamer said and accepted the crystal glass gratefully.

“Now come and sit down and tell me what the trouble is.”

They sat on either side of the fire. Pamer said, “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Why, at the beginning, naturally.”

So Pamer did just that.

When he was finished, Santiago sat there for a while without saying a word. Pamer said, “What do you think?”

“Unfortunate to say the least.”

“I know. I mean, if this business ever got out, Bormann on the island, my mother, my father.”

“Oh, your mother didn’t have the slightest idea who Bormann was,” Santiago said. “Your father did, of course.”

“I beg your pardon?” Pamer was stunned.

“Your father, dear old Joseph, was a Fascist all his life, Francis, and so was my father, and a great friend of General Franco. People like that were, how shall I put it, connected? Your father had very heavy links with Nazi Germany before the War, but then so did many members of the English establishment, and why not? What sensible person wanted to see a bunch of Communists take over? Look what they have done to my own Cuba.”

“Are you saying you knew my father had this connection with Martin Bormann?”

“Of course. My own father, in Cuba at that time, was also involved. Let me explain, Francis. The Kamaradenwerk, Action for Comrades, the organization set up to take care of the movement in the event of defeat in Europe, was, still is, a worldwide network. Your father and my father were just two cogs in the machine.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Francis, how do you think your father was able to hang on to Hatherley Court? Your education at Eton, your three years in the Grenadier Guards, where did the money come from? Your father didn’t even have his salary as an M.P. after he lost his seat.”

“To the bloody Labour Party,” Pamer said bitterly.

“Of course, but over the years he was allowed to, shall we say, assist with certain business dealings. When my own family left Cuba because of that animal Castro, there were funds made available to us in the United States. I built up the hotel chain, was able to indulge in certain illegal but lucrative forms of traffic.”

Pamer had always suspected some kind of drug involvement and his blood ran cold. “Look, I don’t want to know about that.”

“You do like spending the money though, Francis.” Santiago smiled for the first time. “The development of Samson Cay suited us very well. A wonderful cover, a playground for the very rich, and behind that facade, perfect for the conducting of certain kinds of business.”

“And what if someone investigated it?”

“Why should they? Samson Holdings is, as the name implies, a holding company. It’s like a Russian doll, Francis, one company inside another, and the name of Pamer appears on none of the boards and you’d have to go some way back to find the name of Santiago.”

“But it was my grandmother’s family who originally owned it.”

“The Herbert people? That was a long time ago, Francis. Look, your mother’s name was Vail, her mother’s maiden name was Herbert I admit, but I doubt that any connection would be made. You mentioned that Ferguson had checked with Public Records in Tortola, who told him the hotel was unoccupied during the War.”

“Yes, I wonder how they made the mistake?”

“Quite simple. A clerk nearly forty years later looks in the file and sees a notation that the hotel was unoccupied for the duration, which it was, Francis. Your mother didn’t turn up with you until April forty-five, only four or five weeks before the end of the War. In any case it’s of no consequence. I’ll have my people check the Records Office in Tortola. If there’s anything there we’ll remove it.”

“You can do that?” Pamer said aghast.

“I can do anything, Francis. Now, this Rear Admiral Travers, what’s his address?”

“Lord North Street.”

“Good. I’ll get someone to pay him a call, although I shouldn’t imagine he has the diary in his possession any longer or the translation from the sound of Ferguson.”

“They’ll be careful, your people,” Pamer said. “I mean we don’t want a scandal.”

“That’s exactly what you will have if we don’t get in first on this thing. I’ll get one of my people to check out this young woman, what was her name?”

“Jenny Grant.”

“I’ll have flights checked to see when she’s arriving. Simple enough. She’ll be on either the Puerto Rico or Antigua flight.”

“And then what?”

Santiago smiled. “Why, we’ll have to hope that she’ll be able to tell us something, won’t we?”

Pamer felt sick. “Look, Max, they won’t hurt her or anything?”

“Poor old Francis, what a thoroughly spineless creature you are.” Santiago propelled him to the door and opened it. “Wait for me in the bar. I have telephone calls to make, then we’ll have dinner.”

He pushed him out into the corridor and closed the door.

The Piano Bar at the Dorchester was busy when Garth Travers went in and there was no sign of Ferguson. He was greeted warmly by one of the waiters, for it was one of his favorite watering holes. A corner table was found and he ordered a gin and tonic and relaxed. Ferguson arrived fifteen minutes later and joined him.

“Got to do better than that,” the Brigadier told him and ordered two glasses of champagne. “I love this place.” He looked up at the mirrored ceiling. “Quite extraordinary, and that chap at the piano plays our kind of music, doesn’t he?”

“Which is another way of saying we’re getting on,” Travers said. “You’re in a good mood. Anything happened?”

“Yes, Lane did a check through British Airways at Gatwick. She’s on Flight 252 departing Antigua at twenty-ten hours their time, arriving at Gatwick at five past nine in the morning.”

“Poor girl,” Travers said.

“Will you ask her to stay with you?”

“Of course.”

“I thought you might.” Ferguson nodded. “Under the circumstances I think it would be better if you picked her up. My driver will have the Daimler at your place at seven-thirty. I know it’s early, but you know what the traffic is like.”

“That’s fine by me. Do you want me to bring her straight to you?”

“Oh, no, give her a chance to settle. She’ll be tired after her flight. I can see her later.” Ferguson hesitated. “There’s a strong possibility that she’ll want to see the body.”

“Is it still at the mortuary?”

“No, at a firm of undertakers we use on department matters. Cox and Son, in the Cromwell Road. If she asks to go, take her there, there’s a good chap.”

He waved to a waiter and ordered two more glasses of champagne, and Travers said, “What about the U-boat, the diary, all that stuff? Do I say anything to her?”

“No, leave that to me.” Ferguson smiled. “Now drink up and I’ll buy you dinner.”

And in Antigua, when she went up the steps to the first-class compartment, Jenny Grant felt as if she were moving in slow motion. The stewardess who greeted her cheerfully had the instinct that comes from training and experience that told her something was wrong. She took her to her seat and helped her get settled.

“Would you like a drink? Champagne, coffee?”

“Actually I could do with a brandy. A large one,” Jenny told her.

The stewardess was back with it in a moment. There was concern on her face now. “Look, is there something wrong? Can I help?”

“Not really,” Jenny said. “I’ve just lost the best friend I ever had to a road accident in London, that’s why I’m going over.”

The young woman nodded sympathetically. “There’s no one sitting next to you, only six in the cabin this trip, nobody to bother you.” She squeezed Jenny’s shoulder. “Anything you need, just let me know.”

“I’ll probably try to sleep through the whole trip.”

“Probably the best thing for you.”

The stewardess went away and Jenny leaned back, drinking her brandy and thinking about Henry, all the kindness, all the support. He’d saved her life, that was the truth of it, and the strange thing was that try as she might, for some reason she couldn’t remember his face clearly and tears welled up in her eyes, slow and bitter.

The Daimler arrived just before seven-thirty. Travers left a note for his housekeeper, Mrs. Mishra, an Indian lady whose husband kept a corner store not too far away, explaining the situation, hurried down the steps to Ferguson’s limousine and was driven away, passing a British Telecom van parked at the end of the street. The van started up, moved along the street and parked outside Travers’ house.

A telephone engineer in official overalls got out with a toolbox in one hand. He had the name Smith printed on his left-hand breast pocket. He went along the flagged path leading to the back of the house and the rear courtyard. He went up the steps to the kitchen door, punched a gloved hand through the glass pane, reached in and opened it. A moment later he was also opening the front door and another Telecom engineer got out of the van and joined him. The name on his overalls pocket was Johnson.

Once inside they worked their way methodically through the Admiral’s study, searching every drawer, pulling the books from the shelves, checking for signs of a safe and finding none.

Finally, Smith said, “Waste of time. It isn’t here. Go and get the van open.”

He unplugged the Admiral’s word processor and followed Johnson out, putting it in the back of the van. They went back inside and Johnson said, “What else?”

“See if there’s a television or video in the living room, then take this typewriter.”

Johnson did as he was told. When he returned to the living room Smith was screwing the head of the telephone back into place.

“You’re tapping the phone?”

“Why not? We might hear something to our advantage.”

“Is that smart? I mean, the kind of people we’re dealing with, Intelligence people, they’re not rubbish.”

“Look, to all intents and purposes this is just another hit-and-run burglary,” Smith told him. “Anyway, Mr. Santiago wants a result on this one and you don’t screw around with him, believe me. Now let’s get moving.”

Mrs. Mishra, the Admiral’s housekeeper, didn’t normally arrive until nine o’clock, but the fact that she’d had the previous day off meant there was laundry to take care of so she had decided to make an early start. As she turned the corner of Lord North Street and walked toward the house, an overcoat over her sari against the early morning chill, she saw the two men come out of the house.

She hurried forward. “Is there a problem?”

They turned toward her. Smith said urbanely, “Not that I know of. Who are you, love?”

“Mrs. Mishra, the housekeeper.”

“Problem with one of the telephones. We’ve taken care of it. You’ll find everything’s fine now.”

They got in the van, Johnson behind the wheel, and drove away. Johnson said, “Unfortunate that.”

“No big deal. She’s Indian, isn’t she? We’re just another couple of white faces to her.”

Smith lit a cigarette and leaned back, enjoying the view of the river as they turned into Millbank.

Mrs. Mishra didn’t notice anything was amiss because the study door was half-closed. She went into the kitchen, put her bag on the table and saw the Admiral’s note. As she was reading it she became aware of a draft, turned and saw the broken pane in the door.

“Oh my God!” she said in horror.

She quickly went back along the passage and checked the living room, noticed the absence of the television and video at once. The state of the study confirmed her worst fears and she immediately picked up the phone and dialed 999 for the police emergency service.

Travers recognized Jenny Grant at once as she emerged into the arrival hall at Gatwick pushing her suitcase on a trolley. She wore a three-quarter-length tweed coat over a white blouse and jeans and she looked tired and strained, dark circles under her eyes.

“Jenny?” he said as he approached. “Do you remember me? Garth Travers?”

“Of course I do, Admiral.” She tried a smile and failed miserably.

He put his hands lightly on her shoulders. “You look bushed, my dear. Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve got a car waiting. Let me take your case.”

The driver put the case in the boot of the Daimler and Travers joined her in the rear. As they drove away he said, “I expect you to stay with me, naturally, if that’s all right?”

“You’re very kind. Will you do something for me?” She was almost pleading. “Will you tell me exactly what happened?”

“From what witnesses have told the police he simply looked the wrong way and stepped in front of a bus.”

“What a bloody stupid way to go.” There was a kind of anger in her voice now. “I mean, here we had a sixty-three-year-old man who insisted on diving every day, sometimes to a hundred and thirty feet in hazardous conditions, and he has to die in such a stupid and trivial way.”

“I know. Life’s a bit of a bad joke sometimes. Would you care for a cigarette?”

“As a matter of fact, I would. I gave up six months ago, started again on the plane coming over last night.” She took one from the packet he offered and accepted a light. “There’s something else I’d like, and before we do anything else.”

“What’s that?”

“To see him,” she said simply.

“I thought you might,” Garth Travers said. “That’s where we’re going now.”

The undertaker’s was a pleasant enough place, considering what it was. The waiting room was panelled and banked with flowers. An old man in black suit and a tie entered.

“May I help you?”

“Mr. Cox? I’m Admiral Travers and this is Miss Grant. You were expecting us, I believe?”

“Of course.” His voice was a whisper. “If you would come this way.”

There were several rooms off a rear corridor with sliding doors open revealing coffins standing on trestles and flowers everywhere, the smell quite overpowering. Mr. Cox led the way into the end one. The coffin was quite simple, made of mahogany.

“As I had no instructions I had to do the best I could,” Cox said. “The fittings are gold plastic as I assumed cremation would be the intention.”

He slid back the lid and eased the gauze from the face. Henry Baker looked very calm in death, eyes closed, face pale. Jenny put a hand to his face, slightly dislodging the gauze.

Cox carefully rearranged the gauze. “I wouldn’t, miss.”

She was bewildered for a moment and Travers said, “There was an autopsy, my dear, had to be, it’s a court requirement. They’ll be holding a coroner’s inquest, you see. Day after tomorrow.”

She nodded. “It doesn’t matter, he’s gone now. Can we leave, please?”

In the car he gave her another cigarette. “Are you all right?”

“Absolutely.” She smiled suddenly. “He was a smashing fella, Admiral, isn’t that what they say in England? The dearest, kindest man I ever knew.” She took a deep breath.

“Where to now?”

“My house in Lord North Street. You’d probably like a bath, rest up a little and so on.”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

She leaned back and closed her eyes.

The surprise at Lord North Street was the police car. The front door stood open and Travers hurried up the steps, Jenny behind him. He went into the hall and found the chaos in his study instantly, followed the sounds of voices and found Mrs. Mishra and a young policewoman in the kitchen.

“Oh, Admiral,” Mrs. Mishra said as he entered. “Such a terrible thing. They have stolen many things. The television, your word processor and typewriter. The study is such a mess, but I saw their names on their overalls.”

“Admiral Travers?” the policewoman said. “Typical daytime robbery, I’m afraid, sir. They gained access through that door.”

She indicated the hole in the glass. Travers said, “The bloody swine.”

“They were in a Telecom van,” Mrs. Mishra said. “Telephone engineers. I saw them leave. Imagine such a thing.”

“That’s a common ploy during the day, sir,” the policewoman said, “to pass themselves off as some kind of workmen.”

“I don’t suppose there’s much chance of catching them either?” Travers inquired.

“I doubt it, sir, I really do. Now if I could have full details about what’s missing.”

“Yes, of course, just give me a moment.” He turned to Jenny. “Sorry about this. Mrs. Mishra, this is Miss Grant. She’ll be staying for a while. Tell the driver to take her case up and show her to her room.”

“Of course, Admiral.”

Mrs. Mishra ushered Jenny out and Travers said to the policewoman, “There’s a chance there could be more to this than meets the eye, officer. I’ll just make a phone call and I’ll be with you directly.”

“Smith and Johnson,” Ferguson said. “That’s a good one.”

“Seems like a run-of-the-mill daytime robbery, sir,” Lane said. “All the usual hallmarks. They only took the kind of portable items that convert to quick cash. The television, video and the rest.”

“Rather sophisticated, I would have thought, having their very own Telecom van.”

“Probably stolen, sir. We’ll run a check.”

“Rather fortunate I relieved Travers of the diary and the translation software he’d made from it if they were looking for something more important than television sets.”

“You really think it could have been that, sir?”

“All I know is that I learned a long time ago to suspect coincidence, Jack. I mean, how often does Garth Travers leave the house at seven-thirty in the morning? They must have seen him go.”

“And you think taking the run-of-the-mill kind of stuff was just a blind?”

“Perhaps.”

“But how would they know about the existence of the diary, sir?”

“Yes, well that is the interesting point.” Ferguson frowned. “I’ve had a thought, Jack. Go to Lord North Street. Get one of your old friends from Special Branch, someone who specializes in bugging devices, to do a sweep.”

“You really think…?”

“I don’t think anything, Jack, I’m merely considering all the options. Now on your way.”

Lane went out and Ferguson picked up the phone and rang Lord North Street and spoke to Travers. “How’s your guest?”

“Fine. Bearing up remarkably well.”

Ferguson looked at his watch. “Bring her to my place in Cavendish Square at about twelve-thirty. We might as well get on with it, but don’t say a word. Leave it all to me.”

“You can rely on me.”

Travers put the phone down and went into the living room, where Jenny sat by the fire drinking coffee. “Sorry about all this,” he said, “a hell of an introduction.”

“Not your fault.”

He sat down. “We’ll go out soon for a spot of lunch, but I’d like to introduce you to an old friend of mine, Brigadier Charles Ferguson.”

She was an astute young woman and sensed something at once. “Did he know Henry?”

“Not directly.”

“But this is something to do with Henry?”

He reached across and patted her hand. “All in good time, my dear, just trust me.”

Santiago was still at his suite at the Ritz when the man who called himself Smith phoned through from London. “Not a thing, guv, certainly nothing like you described.”

“Hardly surprising, but it was worth checking,” Santiago said. “A nice clean job, I trust.”

“Sure, guv, just made it look run-of-the-mill. I tapped the phone, just in case you wanted to listen in.”

“You did what?” Santiago was coldly angry. “I told you, these are Intelligence people involved in this one, the kind of people who check everything.”

“Sorry, guv, I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Never mind, it’s too late now. Just drop any other commissions you have at the moment and wait to hear from me,” and Santiago put the phone down.

In the living room at Cavendish Square Jenny sat beside the fire opposite Ferguson and Travers stood by the window.

“So you see, Miss Grant,” Ferguson said, “there will have to be a coroner’s inquest, which is set for the day after tomorrow.”

“And I can have the body then?”

“Well that is really a matter for the next of kin.”

She opened her handbag and took out a paper, which she unfolded and passed to him. “Henry took up serious diving a year or so ago.”

“Rather old for that, I should have thought,” Ferguson said.

“Yes, well he had a near-miss one day. Ran out of air at fifty feet. Oh, he made it to the surface okay, but he immediately went to his lawyer and had him draw up a power of attorney in my name.”

Ferguson looked it over. “That seems straightforward enough. I’ll see that it’s passed to the coroner.” He reached down at the side of the sofa and produced Friemel’s aluminium briefcase. “Have you seen this before?”

She looked puzzled. “No.”

“Or this?” He opened it and took out the diary.

“No, never.” She frowned. “What is this?”

Ferguson said, “Did Mr. Baker tell you why he was coming to London?”

She looked at him, then turned to glance at Travers, then she turned back. “Why do you think he came here, Brigadier?”

“Because he discovered the wreck of a German submarine somewhere off St. John, Miss Grant. Did he tell you about that?”

Jenny Grant took a deep breath. “Yes, Brigadier, he did tell me. He said he’d been diving and that he’d discovered a submarine and a briefcase.”

“This case,” he said, “with this diary inside. What else did he tell you?”

“Well, it was in German, which he didn’t understand, but he did recognize the name Martin Bormann and…” Here she paused.

Ferguson said gently, “And…?”

“The Duke of Windsor,” she said lamely. “Look, I know it sounds crazy but…”

“Not crazy at all, my dear. And where did Mr. Baker find this U-boat?”

“I’ve no idea. He wouldn’t tell me.”

There was a pause while Ferguson glanced at Travers. He sighed. “You are absolutely certain of that, Miss Grant?”

“Of course I am. He said he didn’t want to tell me for the time being. He was very excited about his find.” She paused, frowning. “Look, what are you trying to tell me, Brigadier? What’s going on here? Does this have something to do with Henry’s death?”

“No, not at all,” he said soothingly and nodded to Travers.

The Admiral said, “Jenny, poor old Henry’s death was a complete accident. We have plenty of witnesses. He stepped into the path of a London Transport bus. The driver was a sixty-year-old Cockney who won the Military Medal for Gallantry in the Korean War in nineteen fifty-two as an infantry private. Just an accident, Jenny.”

“So, you’ve no idea where the U-boat lies?” Ferguson asked again.

“Is it important?”

“Yes, it could be.”

She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. If you want my opinion, it would have to be somewhere far out.”

“Far out? What do you mean?”

“Most of the dive sites that tourists use from St. Thomas and St. John are within reasonable distance. There are plenty of wrecks around, but the idea that a German U-boat had remained undiscovered since the end of the war,” she shook her head, “that’s nonsense. It could only happen if it was somewhere remote and far out.”

“Further out to sea.”

“That’s right.”

“And you’ve no idea where?”

“No, I’m not much of a diver, I’m afraid. You’d need to go to an expert.”

“And is there such a person?”

“Oh, sure, Bob Carney.”

Ferguson picked up his pen and made a note. “Bob Carney? And who might he be?”

“He has the watersports concession at Caneel Bay Resort. I mean, he spends most of his time teaching tourists to dive, but he’s a real diver and quite famous. He was in the oil fields in the Gulf of Mexico, salvage work, all that stuff. They’ve done magazine articles about him.”

“Really?” Ferguson said. “He’s the best diver in the Virgin Islands then?”

“In the whole Caribbean, Brigadier,” she said.

“Really.” Ferguson glanced at Travers and stood up. “Good. Many thanks for your cooperation, Miss Grant. I appreciate this is not a good time, but you must eat. Perhaps you’ll allow me to take you and Admiral Travers out for a meal tonight.”

She hesitated and then said, “That’s kind of you.”

“Not at all. I’ll send my car to pick you up at seven-thirty.” He ushered them to the outside door. “Take care.” He nodded to the Admiral. “I’ll be in touch, Garth.”

He was having a cup of tea and thinking about things half an hour later when Lane arrived. The Inspector dropped a hard, black metal bug on the coffee table. “You were right, sir, this little bastard was in the living room telephone.”

“So,” Ferguson said, picking it up. “The plot thickens.”

“Look, sir, Baker knew about the diary because he found it, the girl knew because he told her, the Admiral knew, you know, the P.M. had a copy, the Deputy Director of the Intelligence Services knew, Sir Francis Pamer knew.” He paused.

“You’re missing yourself out, Jack.”

“Yes, sir, but who the hell was it who knew who would go to the trouble of knocking off Admiral Travers’ pad?”

“There you go again, Jack, police jargon.” Ferguson sighed. “It’s like a spider’s web. There are lots of lines of communication between all those people you mention. God knows how many.”

“So what are you going to do, sir? I mean, we don’t even know where the bloody U-boat is. On top of that, we’ve all sorts of dirty work going on underneath things. Burglary, illegal phone-tapping.”

“You’re right, Jack, the whole thing assumes a totally new dimension.”

“It might be better to bring Intelligence in on it, sir.”

“Hardly, although when you get back to the office, you may phone Simon Carter and Sir Francis and tell them the girl says she doesn’t know the site.”

“But then what, sir?”

“I’m not sure. We’ll have to send someone out there to find out for us.”

“Someone who knows about diving, sir?”

“That’s a thought, but if there is skulduggery afoot, someone who’s just as big a villain as the opposition.” Ferguson paused. “Correction, someone who is worse.”

“Sir?” Lane looked bewildered.

Ferguson suddenly started to laugh helplessly. “My dear Jack, isn’t life delicious on occasions? I spend simply ages getting someone I positively detest banged up, the cell door locked tight, and suddenly discover he’s exactly what I need in the present situation.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“You will, Jack. Ever been to Yugoslavia?”

“No, sir.”

“Good, a new experience for you. We’ll leave at dawn. Have them get the Learjet ready. Tell Admiral Travers I’ll have to postpone dinner with him and the young lady.”

“And the destination, sir?”

“The air strip at Kivo Castle, Jack. Tell them to clear it with the Serbian High Command. I don’t think they’ll have a problem.”