Pamer almost choked on the piece of toast he was eating. "Yes, of course I do," he managed to say.

"Killed last night when he was leaving the Ministry of Defence around midnight. Hit and run. Stolen car apparently, which the police have recovered."

"How terrible."

"Thing is, Special Branch aren't too happy about it. It seems the preliminary medical report indicates that he was. .h.i.t twice. Of course, that could simply mean the driver panicked and reversed or something. On the other hand, Lane sent a lot of men to prison. There must be many who bore him a grudge."

"I see," Pamer said. "So Special Branch are investigating?"

"Oh, yes, you know what the police are like when one of their own gets. .h.i.t. Free for lunch, Francis?"

"Yes," Pamer said. "But it would have to be at the House. I'm taking part in the debate on the crisis in Croatia."

"That's all right. I'll see you on the Terrace at twelve-thirty."

Pamer put the phone down, his hand shaking, and looked at his watch. No sense in ringing Santiago now, it would be four in the morning over there. It would have to wait. He pushed his plate with the rest of his breakfast on it away from him, suddenly revolted, bile rising in his throat. The truth was he had never been so frightened in his life.

Way over toward the east the sun was rising as Sea Raider Sea Raider crept in toward Thunder Point, Carney checking the fathometer. "There it is," he said as he saw the yellow ridged lines on the black screen. "You get to the anchor," he told Dillon. "I'll have to do some maneuvering so you can hit that ridge at seventy feet." crept in toward Thunder Point, Carney checking the fathometer. "There it is," he said as he saw the yellow ridged lines on the black screen. "You get to the anchor," he told Dillon. "I'll have to do some maneuvering so you can hit that ridge at seventy feet."

There was a heavy swell, the boat, with the engines throttled back, just about holding her own. Dillon felt the anchor bite satisfactorily, called up to Carney on the flying bridge and the American switched off the engines.

Carney came down the ladder and looked over the side. "There's a rough old current running here. Could be three knots at least."

Ferguson said, "I must say the water seems exceptionally clear. I can see right down to the reef."

"That's because we're so far from the mainland," Carney said. "It means there is very little particulate matter in the water. In fact, it gives me an idea."

"What's that?" Dillon asked.

Carney took off his jeans and tee-shirt. "This water is so clear, I'm going to go trolling. That means I'll stay at less than ten feet, work my way across and locate the edge of the cliff. If I'm lucky and the water down there is as clear as it looks, I might manage to pinpoint the U-boat."

He zipped up his diving suit and Dillon helped him into his tank. "Do you want a line?"

Carney shook his head. "I don't think so."

He pulled on his mask, sat on the high thwart, waited for the swell to rise high and went over backwards. The water was so clear that they could mark his progress for a while.

"What's the point of all this?" Ferguson asked.

"Well, by staying at such a shallow depth, it will have no effect on the diving later. It could save time, and time is crucial on this one, Brigadier. If we use too much of it, we just wouldn't be able to dive again, perhaps for many hours."

Carney surfaced a hundred yards away and waved his arms. Ferguson got out the old binoculars and focused them. "He's beckoning."

Carney's voice echoed faintly. "Over here."

Dillon switched on the engines by the deckhouse wheel and throttled down. "Try and get the anchor up, Brigadier, I'll do my best to give you a bit of movement."

Ferguson went round to the prow and got to work, while Dillon tried to give him some slack. Finally, it worked, the Brigadier shouted in triumph and hauled in. Dillon throttled down and coasted toward Carney.

When they came alongside, the American called, "Drop the hook right here."

Ferguson complied, Dillon switched off the engine, Carney swam around to the dive platform, slipped off his jacket and climbed aboard.

"Clearest I've ever seen," he said. "We're right on the edge of the cliff. There's been a lot of coral damage recently, maybe because of the hurricane, but I swear I can see something sticking out over a ledge."

"You're sure?" Ferguson demanded.

"h.e.l.l, nothing's certain in this life, Brigadier, but if it is the U-boat, we can go straight down and be inside in a matter of minutes. Could make all the difference. Now let's see what you've got in the bag, Dillon."

Dillon produced the Semtex. "It'll work better if it's rolled into a rope and placed around the outer circle of the hatch."

"You would know, would you?" Carney asked.

"I've used the stuff before."

"Okay, let's have a look at those chemical detonating fuses." Dillon pa.s.sed them to him and Carney examined them. "These are good. I've used them before. Ten- or thirty-minute delay. We'll use a ten."

Dillon was already into his diving suit and now he sliced a large section off the block of Semtex and first kneaded it, then rolled it between his hands into several long sausages. He put it into his dive bag with the detonating fuses.

"I'm ready when you are."

Carney helped him on with his gear, then handed him an underwater spot lamp. "I'll see you at the anchor and remember, Dillon, speed is everything, and be prepared for that current."

Dillon nodded and did what Carney had done, simply sat on the thwart, waited until the swell lifted and went in backwards.

The water was astonishingly clear and very blue, the ridge below covered with elkhorn coral and large basket sponges in muted shades of orange. As he waited at the anchor, a school of barracuda-like fish called sennet moved past him and when he looked up, there were a number of large jacks overhead.

The current was strong, so fierce that when he held on to the anchor chain his body was extended to one side. He glanced up again and Carney came down toward him, paused for a moment, already drifting sideways, and gestured. Dillon went after him, checking his dive computer, noting that he was at sixty-five feet, followed Carney over the edge of the cliff, looking down into the blue infinity below and saw, to the left, the great scar where the coral had broken away, the bulk of U180, the prow sticking out from the ledge.

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 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 pa.s.sed 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 sc.r.a.ping 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 G.o.d. 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 G.o.d!"

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 d.a.m.n 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 doc.u.ments were in sealed envelopes. Ferguson opened the first one, took out a letter and unfolded it. He pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sist 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sociate 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 pa.s.sed another. "Try that."

There were several doc.u.ments 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d!" Carney said. "If that's genuine, it's dynamite."

"Exactly." Ferguson folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. "If it is is genuine. The n.a.z.is were past masters at forgery." But his face was sad as he closed the case. genuine. The n.a.z.is 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 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 ma.s.sive desk in the salon, listened as they went over the events of the previous night, then turned to Serra, who was standing beside him. had dropped anchor off Paradise Beach mid-morning and Algaro and Guerra, in the launch, had made contact at once. Santiago, sitting at his ma.s.sive 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, Senor, 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 antic.i.p.ate 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."