Thunder Point

by Jack Higgins

  “But V.E. day in Europe was May the eighth,” Travers said.

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

  “It certainly is intriguing,” Travers said.

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

  “Of course I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He grinned. “Hi there, Mr. Henry, you looking for Jenny?”

  “That’s right.”

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

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

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

  “You’re back, Henry.”

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

  She frowned. “Is something wrong?”

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

  “To London? When?”

  “This afternoon.”

  Her frown deepened and she came and sat beside him. “What is it, Henry?”

  “Something happened when I was diving this morning, something extraordinary. I found a wreck about eighty or ninety feet down.”

  “You damn fool.” She was angry now. “Diving at that kind of depth on your own and at your age. Where was this?”

  Although not a serious diver, she did go down occasionally and knew most of the sites. He hesitated. It was not only that he knew she would be thoroughly angry to know that he’d dived a place like Thunder Point and it certainly wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. He just wanted to keep the location of the submarine to himself for the moment, certainly until he’d seen Garth Travers.

  “All I can tell you, Jenny, is that I found a German U-boat from nineteen forty-five.”

  Her eyes widened. “My God!”

  “I managed to get inside. There was a briefcase, an aluminum thing. Watertight. I found the Captain’s diary inside. It’s in German, which I can’t read, but there were a couple of names I recognized.”

  “Such as?”

  “Martin Bormann and the Duke of Windsor.”

  She looked slightly dazed. “Henry, what’s going on here?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” He took her hand. “Remember that English friend of mine, Rear Admiral Travers?”

  “The one you served in the Korean War with? Of course, you introduced me to him the year before last when we were in Miami and he was passing through.”

  “I phoned him earlier. He’s got all sorts of records on the German Kriegsmarine. He checked on the boat for me. One-eighty, that’s what’s painted on the conning tower, but one-eighty was a different type boat and it went down in the Bay of Biscay in nineteen forty-four.”

  She shook her head in bewilderment. “But what does it all mean?”

  “There were stories for years about Bormann, dozens of books, all saying he didn’t die in Berlin at the end of the War, that he survived. People had sightings of him in South America, or so they said.”

  “And the Duke of Windsor?”

  “God knows.” He shook his head. “All I know is this could be important and I found the damn boat, Jenny, me, Henry Baker. Christ, I don’t know what’s in the diary, but maybe it changes history.”

  He got up and walked to the rail, gripping it with both hands. She had never seen him so excited, got up herself and put a hand on his shoulder. “Want me to come with you?”

  “Hell no, there’s no need for that.”

  “Billy and Mary could run things here.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll be back in a few days. Four at the most.”

  “Fine.” She managed a smile. “Then we’d better get back to the house and I’ll help you pack.”

  His flight in the Carib Aviation Partenavia was uneventful except for strong headwinds that held them back a little so that the landing was later than he’d anticipated, around six-thirty. By the time he’d passed through customs, collected his luggage and proceeded to the British Airways desk, it was seven o’clock. He went through security into the departure lounge and the flight was called ten minutes later.

  The service in British Airways First Class was as superb as usual. He had carried Korvettenkapitän Friemel’s case through with him and he accepted a glass of champagne from the stewardess, opened the case and browsed through it for a while, not just the diary, but the photos and the letters. Strange, because he didn’t understand a word. It was the photo of the Kriegsmarine officer that really intrigued him, presumably Friemel himself, the face of the enemy, only Baker didn’t feel like that, but then seamen of all nations, even in war, tended to have a high regard for each other. It was the sea, after all, which was the common enemy.

  He closed the case and put it in the locker overhead when takeoff was announced and spent his time reading one or two of the London newsp
apers which were in plentiful supply. The meal was served soon after takeoff, and after it had been cleared away the stewardess reminded him that each seat had its own small video screen and offered him a brochure which included a lengthy list of videos available.

  Baker browsed through it. It would at least help pass the time, and then he shivered a little as if someone had passed over his grave. There was a film there he’d heard about, a German film, Das Boot, in English, The Boat, from all accounts a harrowing story of life in a U-boat at the worst time in the War.

  Against his better judgment he ordered it and asked for a large Scotch. The cabin crew went round pulling down the window blinds so that those who wished to might sleep. Baker inserted the video, put on the earphones and sat there, in the semidarkness, watching. He called for another Scotch after twenty minutes and kept watching. It was one of the most disturbing films of its kind he had ever seen.

  An hour was enough. He switched off, tilted his seat back and lay there, staring through the darkness thinking about Korvettenkapitän Paul Friemel and U180 and that final ending on Thunder Point, wondering what had gone wrong. After a while, he slept.

  3

  It was ten o’clock when the doorbell 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 Reichsleite
r 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.