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.”
A moment later the door opened and the aide ushered in the two men. Simon Carter was fifty, a small man with hair already snow-white. Never a field agent, he was an ex-academic, one of the faceless men who controlled Britain’s intelligence system. Sir Francis Pamer was forty-seven, tall and elegant in a blue flannel suit. He wore a Guards tie, thanks to three years as a subaltern in the Grenadiers, and had a slight smile permanently fixed to the corner of his mouth in a way that Ferguson found intensely irritating.
They all shook hands and sat down. “Well, gentlemen?” the Prime Minister said.
“Always assuming it isn’t a hoax,” Pamer said. “A fascinating story.”
“It would explain many aspects of the Bormann legend,” Simon Carter put in. “Arthur Axmann, the Hitler Youth leader, said he saw Bormann’s body lying in the road near the Lehrter Station in Berlin, that was after the breakout from the Bunker.”
“It would seem now that what he saw was someone who looked like Bormann,” Travers said.
“So it would appear,” Carter agreed. “That Bormann was on this U-boat and survived would explain the numerous reports over the years of sightings of him in South America.”
“Simon Wiesenthal, the Nazi hunter, always thought him alive,” Pamer said. “Before Eichmann was executed, he told the Israelis that Bormann was alive. Why would a man faced with death lie?”
“All well and good, gentlemen,” the Prime Minister told them, “but frankly, I think the question of whether Martin Bormann survived the war or not purely of academic interest. It would change history a little and the newspapers would get some mileage out of it.”
“And a damn sight more out of this Blue Book list that’s mentioned. Members of Parliament and the nobility.” Carter shuddered. “The mind boggles.”
“My dear Simon,” Pamer told him. “There were an awful lot of people around before the War who found aspects of Hitler’s message rather attractive. There are also names in that list with a Washington base.”
“Yes, well their children and grandchildren wouldn’t thank you to have their names mentioned, and what in the
