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?”
