“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 hell. 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 hell 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 document 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 God, 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 hell was he meeting?”

“Perhaps he was to be picked up by somebody, a fast boat and a passage 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 assistant, 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 passed 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.”