"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 h.e.l.l. 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 h.e.l.l 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 doc.u.ment 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 G.o.d, 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 h.e.l.l was he meeting?"

"Perhaps he was to be picked up by somebody, a fast boat and a pa.s.sage 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 a.s.sistant, 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.suming 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 n.a.z.i 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 d.a.m.n sight more out of this Blue Book list that's mentioned. Members of Parliament and the n.o.bility." 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 h.e.l.l 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, "d.a.m.n 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 t.i.tle 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.

4.