Thunder Point by Jack Higgins

this connection with Martin Bormann?”
    “Of course. My own father, in Cuba at that time, was also involved. Let me explain, Francis. The Kamaradenwerk, Action for Comrades, the organization set up to take care of the movement in the event of defeat in Europe, was, still is, a worldwide network. Your father and my father were just two cogs in the machine.”
    “I don’t believe it.”
    “Francis, how do you think your father was able to hang on to Hatherley Court? Your education at Eton, your three years in the Grenadier Guards, where did the money come from? Your father didn’t even have his salary as an M.P. after he lost his seat.”
    “To the bloody Labour Party,” Pamer said bitterly.
    “Of course, but over the years he was allowed to, shall we say, assist with certain business dealings. When my own family left Cuba because of that animal Castro, there were funds made available to us in the United States. I 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