Free Thunder Point by Jack Higgins Page A

captain’s cabin, so-called, is across from the radio and sound rooms. Quick access to the control room. That was the point.”
    “Yes, well my point is that you can’t get in there. The forward watertight hatch is closed fast.”
    “Well you’d expect that. If they were in trouble, he’d have ordered every watertight hatch in the boat closed. Standard procedure.”
    “I tried to move the wheel. Corroded like hell. The door is solid. No way of getting in there.”
    “There’s always a way, Henry, you know that.” Travers sat there frowning for a moment, then said, “Look, I’d like to show the diary to a friend of mine.”
    “Who are we talking about?”
    “Brigadier Charles Ferguson. We’ve known each other for years. He might have some ideas.”
    “What makes him so special?”
    “He works on the intelligence side of things. Runs a highly specialized anti-terrorist unit responsible only to the Prime Minister, and that’s privileged information, by the way.”
    “I wouldn’t have thought this was exactly his field,” Baker said.
    “Just let me show him the diary, old boy,” Travers said soothingly. “See what he thinks.”
    “Okay,” Baker said. “But the location stays my little secret.”
    “Of course. You can come with me if you want.”
    “No, I think I’ll have a bath and maybe go for a walk. I always feel like hell after a long jet flight. I could see this Brigadier Ferguson later if you think it necessary.”
    “Just as you like,” Travers said. “I’ll leave you to it. You know where everything is.”
    Baker went out and Travers looked up Ferguson’s personal phone number at the Ministry of Defence and was speaking to him at once. “Charles, Garth Travers here.”
    “My dear old boy, haven’t seen you in ages.”
    Travers came directly to the point. “I think you should see me at your soonest moment, Charles. A rather 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,