She was wandering a little. Pamer said, “You once told me my father served with Sir Oswald Mosley in the First World War in the trenches.”

“That’s true dear, they were great friends.”

“Remember Mosley’s black shirts, Mother, the British Fascist Party? Did Father have any connection with that?”

“Good heavens no. Poor Oswald. He often spent the weekend here. They arrested him at the beginning of the War. Said he was pro-German. Ridiculous. He was such a gentleman.” The voice trailed away and then strengthened. “Such a difficult time we had. Goodness knows how we managed to keep you at Eton. How lucky we all were when your father met Mr. Santiago. What wonderful things they did together at Samson Cay. Some people say it’s the finest resort in the Caribbean now. I’d love to visit again, I really would.”

Her eyes closed and Pamer went and put her hands under the cover. “You sleep now, Mother, it will do you good.”

He closed the door gently, went downstairs to the library, got himself a Scotch and sat by the fire thinking about it all. The contents of the diary had shocked him beyond measure and it was a miracle that he had managed to keep his composure in front of Carter, but the truth was plain now. His father, a British Member of Parliament, a serving officer, a member of government, had had connections with the Nazi Party, one of those who had eagerly looked forward to a German invasion in 1940. The involvement must have been considerable. The whole business with Martin Bormann and Samson Cay proved that.

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.”