Thunder Point by Jack Higgins

it would take, fifteen at the most by taxi to the airport. Plenty of time to pack and get himself ready, but first he had to see Jenny.
     
     
    The waterfront was bustling when he walked down into Cruz Bay this time. It was a picturesque little town, totally charming and ever so slightly run-down in the way of most Caribbean ports. Baker had fallen in love with the place the first time he’d seen it. It was everything you’d hope for. He used to joke that all it needed was Humphrey Bogart in a sailor’s cap and denims running a boat from the harbor on mysterious missions.
    Jenny’s Place was slightly back from the road just before Mongoose Junction. There were steps up to the veranda, a neon sign above the door. Inside it was cool and shaded, two large fans revolving in the low ceiling. There were several booths against the walls, a scattering of marble-topped tables across a floor of black and white tiles. There were high stools at the long mahogany bar, bottles on glass shelves against the mirrored wall behind. A large, handsome black man with graying hair was polishing glasses, Billy Jones, the barman. He had the scar tissue around the eyes and the slightly flattened nose of a professional fighter. His wife, Mary, was manager.
    He grinned. “Hi there, Mr. Henry, you looking for Jenny?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Went down the front with Mary to choose the fish for tonight. They shouldn’t be too long. Can I get you something?”
    “Just a coffee, Billy, I’ll have it outside.”
    He sat in a cane chair on the veranda, drinking the coffee and thinking about things, was so much within himself that he didn’t notice the two women approach until the last minute.
    “You’re back, Henry.”
    He looked up and found Jenny and Mary Jones coming up the steps. Mary wished him good morning and went inside and Jenny sat on the rail, her figure very slim in tee-shirt and blue jeans.
    She frowned. “Is something wrong?”
    “I’ve got to go to London,” he told her.
    “To London? When?”
    “This afternoon.”
    Her frown deepened and she came and sat beside him. “What is it, Henry?”
    “Something happened when I was diving this morning, something extraordinary. I found a wreck about eighty or ninety feet down.”
    “You damn fool.” She was angry now. “Diving at that kind of depth on your own and at your age. Where was this?”
    Although not a serious diver, she did go down occasionally and knew most of the sites. He hesitated. It was not only that he knew she would be thoroughly angry to know that he’d dived a place like Thunder Point and it certainly wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. He just wanted to keep the location of the submarine to himself for the moment, certainly until he’d seen Garth Travers.
    “All I can tell you, Jenny, is that I found a German U-boat from nineteen forty-five.”
    Her eyes widened. “My God!”
    “I managed to get inside. There was a briefcase, an aluminum thing. Watertight. I found the Captain’s diary inside. It’s in German, which I can’t read, but there were a couple of names I recognized.”
    “Such as?”
    “Martin Bormann and the Duke of Windsor.”
    She looked slightly dazed. “Henry, what’s going on here?”
    “That’s what I’d like to know.” He took her hand. “Remember that English friend of mine, Rear Admiral Travers?”
    “The one you served in the Korean War with? Of course, you introduced me to him the year before last when we were in Miami and he was passing through.”
    “I phoned him earlier. He’s got all sorts of records on the German Kriegsmarine. He checked on the boat for me. One-eighty, that’s what’s painted on the conning tower, but one-eighty was a different type boat and it went down in the Bay of Biscay in nineteen forty-four.”
    She shook her head in bewilderment. “But what does it all mean?”
    “There were stories for years about Bormann, dozens of books, all saying he didn’t die in Berlin at the end of the War,