Thunder Point

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‘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?’