Thunder Point (33 page)

They descended to the conning tower, held on to the top of the bridge rail, dropped down from the high gun platform to the ragged fifteen-foot gash in the hull below the conning tower. Dillon hovered as Carney went inside, checked his dive computer and saw that it was seven minutes since leaving
Sea Raider
. He switched his spot lamp on and went after the American.

It was dark and gloomy, a confusion of twisted metal in spite of the illumination from Carney’s lamp. He was crouched beside the forward hatch, trying to turn the unlocking wheel with no success.

Dillon opened his dive bag, took out the Semtex and handed a coil to Carney. They worked together, Dillon taking the top of the hatch, Carney the bottom, pressing the plastic of the explosive in place until they had completed a full circle. They finished, Carney turned and held out a gloved hand. Dillon passed him two of the chemical detonating pencils. Carney paused, broke the first one and pushed it onto the Semtex at the top of the circular hatch. A small spiral of bubbles appeared at once. Carney did the same at the bottom of the circle with the other.

Dillon glanced at his computer. Seventeen minutes. Carney nodded and Dillon turned and went out through the rent, rose to the edge of the cliff, went straight to the anchor and started up the line, holding on with one hand, Carney just behind him. As they left the line at fifteen feet and moved under the keel of the stern, he checked the computer again. Twenty-one minutes. He broke through to the surface, slipped out of his jacket and climbed on to the diving platform.

“You found it?” Ferguson demanded.

“Just like Carney said,” Dillon told him. “In like Flynn and out again. Twenty minutes, that’s all. Just twenty bloody minutes.”

Carney was changing the tanks for fresh ones. “Sweet Jesus, I’ve never seen such a sight. I’ve been diving twenty years or more and I’ve got to tell you, I’ve never seen anything to beat that.”

Dillon lit a cigarette with his Zippo. “Santiago, eat your heart out.”

“I’d like to take him down, weight him with lead and leave him inside,” Carney said, “except it would be an insult to brave sailors who died down there.”

The surface of the sea lifted, spray scattering, foam appeared, moved outwards in concentric circles over the swell. They stood at the rail watching until the activity dwindled.

Finally Carney said, “That’s it. Let’s get moving.”

They got their diving gear on again. Dillon said, “What happens now? I mean, how long?”

“If we’re lucky and we find what we want straightaway, then there’s no problem. The whole forward part of the boat has been sealed all these years.” Carney tightened his weight belt. “That should mean no silt, very little detritus. Human remains will have dissolved years ago except for a few bones. In other words, it should be relatively clear.” He sat on the thwart and pulled on his fins. “If I think we should stop on the way back, I’ll just signal and hang in there.”

Dillon followed him down, aware of motion in the water, some sort of current like shockwaves that hadn’t been there before. Carney hovered over the edge of the cliff and when Dillon joined him, he saw the problem at once. The force of the explosion had caused the U-boat to move, the stern had lifted, the prow, stretching out over that 2,000-feet drop, was already dipping.

They held on to the bridge rail beside the gun and Dillon could actually feel the boat move. He looked at Carney and the American shook his head. He was right, of course, another few feet higher at the stern and U180 would slide straight over into oblivion, and Dillon couldn’t accept that.

He turned to go down, was aware of Carney’s restraining hand, managed to pull free and jack-knifed, heading for the rent in the hull, pulling himself into the control room. Everything was stirring with the effects from the explosion, the movement of the boat. He switched on his spot lamp and moved forward and saw the great ragged hole where the hatch cover had been.

It was dark in there, far murkier than he had expected, again from the effects of the explosion. He shone his spotlight inside and as he pulled himself through was aware of a strange, eerie noise as if some living creature was groaning in pain, was aware of the boat moving, lurching a little. Too late to retreat now and his own stubbornness refused to let him.

The radio and sound room was on the right, the captain’s quarters opposite to his left, no curtain left now, long since decayed over the years. There was a metal locker, a door hanging off, the skeleton of a bunk. He splayed the beam of the torch around and saw it lying in the corner, coated with filth, a metal briefcase with a handle, just like the one Baker had taken to London.

He ran a hand across it, silver gleamed dully, and then the floor tilted at an alarming angle and everything seemed to be moving. He bounced against the bulkhead, dropping the case, grabbed it again, turned and started through the hatch. His jacket snagged and he stopped dead, struggling frantically, aware of the boat tilting farther. And then Carney was in front of him, reaching through to release him.

The American turned and made for that gash in the hull and Dillon went after him, the whole boat tilting now, sliding, the strange, groaning noises, metal scraping across the edge, and Carney was through, drifting up, and Dillon rose to join him, hovering on the edge of the cliff, and as they turned to look down, the great whalelike shape of U180 slid over the edge and plunged into the void.

Carney made the okay sign, Dillon responded, then followed him across the ridge to the anchor line. He checked his computer. Another twenty minutes, which was fine, and he followed up the line slowly, but Carney was taking no chances. At fifteen feet he stopped and looked down. Dillon nodded, moved up beside him and raised the briefcase in his right hand. He could tell that Carney was smiling.

They stayed there for five minutes, then surfaced at the stern to find Ferguson leaning over anxiously. “Dear God. I thought the end of the world had come,” he said.

They stowed the gear, made everything shipshape. Carney pulled on jeans and a tee-shirt, Dillon his tracksuit. Ferguson got the thermos, poured coffee and added brandy from the half-bottle.

“The whole bloody sea erupted,” he said. “Never seen anything like it. Sort of boiled over. What happened?”

“She was lying on a ledge, Brigadier, you knew that,” Carney said. “Already sticking right out, and the force of the explosion made her start to move.”

“Good God!”

Carney drank some of the coffee. “Christ, that’s good. Anyway, this idiot here decided he was going to go inside anyway.”

“Always suspected you were a fool, Dillon,” Ferguson told him.

“I got the briefcase, didn’t I? It was in the corner of the captain’s quarters on the floor, and then the whole damn boat started to go, taking me with it because I got snagged trying to get back out of the hatch.”

“What happened?”

“A mad, impetuous fool called Bob Carney who’d decided to follow me and pulled me through.”

Carney went and looked over the side, still drinking his coffee. “A long, long way down. That’s the last anyone will ever see of U180. It’s as if she never existed.”

“Oh, yes, she did,” Ferguson said. “And we have this to prove it,” and he held up the briefcase.

There wasn’t much encrusting. Carney got a small wire brush from the tool kit and an old towel. The surface cleaned up surprisingly well, the Kriegsmarine insignia clearly etched into the right-hand corner. Carney unfastened the two clips and tried to raise the lid. It refused to move.

“Shall I force it, Brigadier?”

“Get on with it,” Ferguson told him, his face pale with excitement.

Carney pushed a thin-bladed knife under the edge by the lock, exerted pressure. There was a cracking sound and the lid moved. At that moment it started to rain. Ferguson took the briefcase into the deckhouse, sat down with it on his knees and opened it.

The documents were in sealed envelopes. Ferguson opened the first one, took out a letter and unfolded it. He passed it to Dillon. “My German is a little rusty, you’re the language expert.”

Dillon read it aloud. “From the Leader and Chancellor of the State. Reichsleiter Martin Bormann is acting under my personal orders in a matter of the utmost importance to the State. He is answerable only to me. All personnel, military or civil, without distinction of rank, will assist him in any way he sees fit.” Dillon handed it back. “It’s signed Adolf Hitler.”

“Really?” Ferguson folded it again and put it back in its envelope. “That would fetch a few thousand at auction at Christie’s.” He passed another, larger envelope over. “Try that.”

Dillon opened it and took out a bulky file. He leafed through several pages. “This must be the Blue Book, alphabetical list of names, addresses, a paragraph under each, a sort of thumbnail sketch of the individual.”

“See if Pamer is there.”

Dillon checked quickly. “Yes, Major, Sir Joseph Pamer, Military Cross, Member of Parliament, Hatherley Court, Hampshire. There’s an address in Mayfair. The remarks say he’s an associate of Sir Oswald Mosley, politically sound and totally committed to the cause of National Socialism.”

“Really?” Ferguson said dryly.

Dillon looked through several more pages and whistled softly. “Jesus, Brigadier, I know I’m just a little Irish peasant, but some of the names in here, you wouldn’t believe. Some of England’s finest. A few of America’s also.”

Ferguson took the file from him, glanced at a couple of pages, his face grave. “Who would have thought it?” He put the file back in its envelope and passed another. “Try that.”

There were several documents inside and Dillon looked them over briefly. “These are details of numbered bank accounts in Switzerland, various South American countries and the United States.” He handed them back. “Anything else?”

“Just this.” Ferguson passed the envelope to him. “And we know what that must be, the Windsor Protocol.”

Dillon took the letter out and unfolded it. It was written on paper of superb quality, almost like parchment, and was in English. He read it quickly, then passed it over. “Written at a villa in Estoril in Portugal in July 1940, addressed to Hitler and the signature at the bottom seems to be that of the Duke of Windsor.”

“And what does it say?” Carney asked.

“Simple enough. The Duke says too many have already died on both sides, the war is pointless and should be ended as soon as possible. He agrees to take over the throne in the event of a successful German invasion.”

“My God!” Carney said. “If that’s genuine, it’s dynamite.”

“Exactly.” Ferguson folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. “If it
is
genuine. The Nazis were past masters at forgery.” But his face was sad as he closed the case.

“Now what?” Carney asked.

“We return to St. John where Dillon and I will pack and make our way back to London. I have a Learjet awaiting my orders at St. Thomas.” He held up the case and smiled bleakly. “The Prime Minister is a man who likes to hear bad news as quickly as possible.”

The
Maria Blanco
had dropped anchor off Paradise Beach mid-morning and Algaro and Guerra, in the launch, had made contact at once. Santiago, sitting at his massive desk in the salon, listened as they went over the events of the previous night, then turned to Serra, who was standing beside him.

“Tell me about the situation as you see it, Captain.”

“A long run out there, Señor, perhaps two and a half hours to come back because they’ll be sailing into the wind all the way. I’d say they’ll be back quite soon, probably just before noon.”

“So what do we do, hit them tonight?” Algaro asked.

“No.” Santiago shook his head. “I’d anticipate Ferguson making a move back to London as soon as possible. According to our information he has a Learjet on standby at St. Thomas airport.” He shook his head. “No, we make our move on the instant.”

“So what are your orders?” Algaro demanded.

“The simple approach is the best. You and Guerra will go ashore in one of the inflatables dressed as tourists. Leave the inflatable on Paradise below Cottage Seven, where Ferguson and Dillon are staying. Serra will give you each a walkie-talkie so you can keep in touch with each other and the ship. You, Algaro, will stay in the general vicinity of the cottage. Read a book on the beach, enjoy the sun, try to look normal if that’s possible.”

“And me, Señor?” Guerra asked.

“You go down to Caneel Beach and wait. When Carney’s boat arrives, notify Algaro. Ferguson and Dillon must return to the cottage to change clothes and pack. That’s when you strike. Once you have the Bormann briefcase, you return in the inflatable and we’ll get out of here. Remember, the briefcase is distinctive. It’s made of aluminium and is silver in appearance.”

“Do we return to San Juan, Señor?” Serra asked.

“No.” Santiago shook his head. “Samson Cay. I want time to consider my next move. The contents of that case will be more than interesting, Serra, they could give my life a whole new meaning.” He opened a drawer at his right hand. There were a number of handguns in there. He selected a Browning Hi Power and pushed it across to Algaro. “Don’t fail me.”

“I won’t,” Algaro said. “If they have that briefcase, we’ll get it for you.”

“Oh, they’ll have it all right.” Santiago smiled. “I have every faith in our friend Dillon. His luck is good.”

When
Sea Raider
moved in through all the moored yachts to the dock at Caneel Bay, the sun was high in the heavens. There were people wind-surfing out in the bay and the beach was crowded with sun worshippers. Guerra was one of them, sitting on a deck chair in flowered shirt and Bermuda shorts, dark glasses shading his eyes. He saw Dillon step on to the dock to tie up. He returned on board, then came back, the olive-green holdall in one hand. Ferguson followed him carrying the briefcase, Carney walking at his side.

Guerra pulled on a white floppy sunhat that, with the brim down, partially concealed his features, adjusted the dark glasses and moved off the beach along the front of the restaurant to where the path from the dock emerged. He reached it almost at the same time as the three men, and at that moment a young black receptionist hurried out of the front desk lobby.