by Jack Higgins
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.
