By now he was very drunk and told me of his last meeting with the Führer, who had charged him with a sacred duty to continue the future of the Third Reich. He said an organization called the Odessa Line had been set up years before by the SS to provide an escape line, in the event of temporary defeat, for those officers of SS and other units essential to the continuance of the struggle.

Then he moved on to the Kamaradenwerk, Action for Comrades, an organization set up to continue National Socialist ideas after the war. There were hundreds of millions salted away in Switzerland, South America and other places and friends in every country at the highest level of government. He took his aluminium case from the bunk, opened it and produced a file. He called it the Blue Book. He said it listed many members of the English aristocracy, many members of the English Parliament, who had secretly supported the Führer during the nineteen-thirties and also many Americans. He then took a paper from a buff envelope and unfolded it before me. He told me it was the Windsor Protocol, a secret agreement with the Führer signed by the Duke of Windsor while resident at Estoril in Portugal in 1940 after the fall of France. In it he agreed to ascend the throne of England again after a successful German invasion. I asked him what value such a document could be and how could he be sure it was genuine. He became extremely angry and told me that, in any event, there were those on his Blue Book list who would do anything to avoid exposure and that his own future was taken care of. I asked him at that point if he was certain and he laughed and said you could always trust an English gentleman. At this point he became so drunk that I had to assist him on to the bunk. He fell asleep instantly and I examined the contents of the briefcase. The names in his Blue Book list meant nothing to me, but the Windsor Protocol looked genuine enough. The only other thing in the briefcase was a list of numbered bank accounts and the Führer order and I closed it and placed it under the bunk with his other luggage.

Baker stopped at this point, put the diary down, got up and walked to the window as Garth Travers entered.

Travers said, “Here’s the coffee. Thought I’d leave you to get on with it. Have you finished?”

“Just read what Bormann told him on the twenty-first of May.”

“The best is yet to come, old boy, I’ll be back,” and Travers went out again.

25 May 1945. 500 miles north of Puerto Rico. I envisage using the Anegada Passage through the Leeward Islands into the Caribbean Sea with a clear run to the Venezuelan coast from there.

26 May 1945. The Reichsleiter called me to his quarters and informed me that it was necessary to make a stop before reaching our destination and requested to see the chart for the Virgin Islands. The island he indicated is a small one, Samson Cay, south-east of St. John in the American Virgin Islands, but in British sovereign waters being a few miles south of Norman Island in the British Virgin Islands. He gave me no indication of his reason for wishing to stop there.

27 May 1945. Surfaced off the coast of Samson Cay at 21.00 hours. A dark night with a quarter moon. Some lights observed on shore. The Reichsleiter requested that he be put ashore in one of the inflatables, and I arranged for Petty Officer Schroeder to take him. Before leaving he called me to his quarters and told me that he was expecting to meet friends on shore, but as a precaution against something going wrong he was not taking anything of importance with him. He particularly indicated the briefcase which he left on the bunk and gave me a sealed envelope which he said would give me details of my destination in Venezuela if anything went wrong and the name of the man I was to hand the briefcase to. He told me to send Schroeder back for him at 02.00 hours and that if he was not on the beach I was to fear the worst and depart. He wore civilian clothes and left his uniform.

Travers came back in at that moment. “Still at it?”

“I’m on the final entry.”

The Admiral went to the drinks cabinet and poured Scotch into two glasses. “Drink that,” he said, passing one to Baker. “You’re going to need it.”

28 May 1945. Midnight. I have just been on the bridge and noticed an incredible stillness to everything, quite unnatural and like nothing I have experienced before. Lightning on the far horizon and distant thunder. The waters here in the lagoon are shallow and give me concern. I write this at the chart table while waiting for the radio officer to check for weather reports.

There was a gap here and then a couple of lines scrawled hurriedly.

Radio report from St. Thomas indicates hurricane approaching fast. We must make for deep water and go down to ride it out. The Reichsleiter must take his chance.

“Only the poor buggers didn’t ride it out,” Travers said. “The hurricane caught them when they were still vulnerable. Must have ripped her side open on the reef where you found her.”

“I’m afraid so,” Baker said. “Then I presume the current must have driven her in on that ledge under the overhang.”

“Where she remained all these years. Strange no one ever discovered her before.”

“Not really,” Baker said. “It’s a bad place. No one goes there. It’s too far out for people who dive for fun and it’s very dangerous. Another thing. If the recent hurricane hadn’t broken away the overhang, I might well have missed it myself.”

“You haven’t actually given me the location yet,” Travers remonstrated.

“Yes, well, that’s my business,” Baker said.

Travers smiled. “I understand, old boy, I understand, but I really must point out that this is a very hot potato.”

“What on earth are you getting at?”

“Number one, we’d appear to have positive proof after all the rumor and speculation for nearly fifty years, that Martin Bormann escaped from Berlin.”

“So?” Baker said.

“More than that! There’s the Blue Book list of Hitler’s sympathizers here in England, not only the nobility but Members of Parliament plus the names of a few of your fellow countrymen. Worse than that, this Windsor Protocol.”

“What do you mean?” Baker asked.

“According to the diary, Bormann kept them in a similar survival case to this.” He tapped the aluminium briefcase. “And he left it on the bunk in the Commanding Officer’s quarters. Now just consider this. According to Friemel’s final entry he was in the control room at the chart table, entering the diary when he got that final radio report about the hurricane. He shoves the diary in his briefcase and locks it, only a second to do that, then gets on with the emergency. That would explain why you found the briefcase in the control room.”

“I’ll buy that,” Baker agreed.

“No, you’re missing the real point, which is that the case survived.”

“So what are you getting at?”

“These things were built for survival, which means it’s almost certain Bormann’s is still in the Commanding Officer’s quarters with the Blue Book, the Windsor Protocol and Hitler’s personal order concerning Bormann. Even after all these years the facts contained in those documents would cause a hell of a stink, Henry, especially the Windsor thing.”

“I wouldn’t want to cause that kind of trouble,” Baker told him.

“I believe you, I know you well enough for that, but what if someone else found that submarine?”

“I told you, no one goes there.”

“You also told me you thought an overhang had been torn off revealing it. I mean, somebody could dive there, Henry, just like you did.”