He flicked back through the diary; stopping suddenly on the 28th April. A name jumped out at him, Heinrich Himmler, this made him flush and his pulse race. He read on excitedly, the entry had been made just before dawn, the submarine was to rendezvous with a Sicilian fishing vessel and take on board secret cargo of national importance to the Third Reich. Cunningham’s excitement was almost too much for him to contain. Heinrich Himmler, head of the Gestapo and the SS had been, next to Hitler and Martin Bormann, one of the most powerful and feared men in the Nazi Party. Had he really committed suicide just after capitulation or had it been another carefully staged deception, for which the Nazis were particularly skilled at. It had become almost run-of-the-mill during those last months of the war for many of the top ranking Nazis to have doubles. People who were taught to speak, behave, and even dress in the same uniform as those they were impersonating. This was simply so that those individuals who would otherwise be put to trial or death by the allies could escape. Nathan thought about how many academics and historians had speculated or written books on that subject?
He put the diary to one side; picked up one of the envelopes and idly pulled the letter out. The name at the top of the sheet of paper made him sit up, Grossadmiral Karl Donitz. Nathan carefully read the letter and stared at it in utter amazement for some time before carefully placing it back inside the envelope, gathered up the documents, diary, and the letters and put them all back inside the aluminium case. He shut the lid, snapping the two clasps back in place and took the case below to put inside his holdall. Then he went back up, and started the engine, letting it idle while he engaged the automatic anchor chain winch.
Throughout his years as a serving officer in the Royal Navy, Cunningham had never seen or read about anything as mysterious as this. His instincts told him that whatever it was, it was absolute dynamite, it had to be. He had a U-boat tied up in an underground harbour, with a final diary entry on the last day of World War Two. There was a reference to one of the most evil men in the Nazi Party. As well as a letter from the Commander-in-Chief of the entire Kriegsmarine who eventually became the acting Head of State of the Third Reich.
“What in hell’s name have I stumbled upon? My God, if this turns out, not to be a dream, then I’ve probably woken the devil himself?” He mumbled aloud.
He fought with his conscience about what to do with his find, eventually making a decision not to go to the authorities on the island or the police. Journalists were totally out of the question and he certainly wouldn’t be able to talk to any of his friends. “Except one” he said out loud, and then laughed.
Edward Levenson-Jones, of course, LJ would know what to do. He wasn’t far from Bonne Nuit, but he still opened up the throttle. The fibreglass hull slapped the waves as the boat speeded towards the bay. Nathan’s thoughts strayed back to the time he and LJ had first met, when both men were attending the same university. They had immediately hit it off, both having similar backgrounds and interests, as well as the same taste in women. LJ had been approached early on by MI5 and had, without hesitation, chosen to join them, fast tracking right to the top as Director of Operations. During both of their careers they found themselves working together on half a dozen secret missions where Royal Navy assistance was required.
On more than one occasion, the two friends very nearly lost their lives while doing their duty for Queen and country. His daydream was broken as the hull of the sport fisherman slapped down hard onto another wave. “Yes,” he said aloud, LJ was definitely the right person to tell. After all he was an expert at keeping secrets and had and interest, as well as unlimited access to all sorts of military and maritime historical information.
He eased back on the throttle as he entered Bonne Nuit harbour and saw Charlie Trelawney one of the old fishermen stood up on the sea wall looking down at him.
“Morning Nathan,” he called. “You were out early today. Where you been?”
“Grosnez Point, Charlie.” Cunningham lied easily, but in the circumstances he had no other choice if he were to keep his secret.
“What’s it like round there this morning?”
“Absolutely perfect diving conditions.”
“No such thing as perfect. You should be more careful, diving alone around this island, it isn’t safe.” Trelawney yawned, gave Nathan a friendly yet dismissive wave, and then started to walk back along the sea wall to his hut.
“You take care now Nathan.” He said loudly over his shoulder.
Cunningham moved slowly into the harbour and over to his mooring buoy. Leaving the engine idling he took the gaff hook and pulled the bright orange buoy on board before tethering a rope to it. Dropping it back into the water he then went back into the wheelhouse and engaged the automatic anchor winch.
He was out of breath when he reached the house. He’d seen Annabelle working in the Café, so he knew that he was alone. As he went through the living room he glanced up at the ship’s clock on the wall, which showed eleven o’clock. In the kitchen he poured himself a strong black coffee from the fancy machine that his daughter had bought him the previous Christmas and took it through to his study. Unzipping the holdall he took out the aluminium briefcase and put it on the desk. With the cordless phone in one hand and the cup of coffee precariously balanced in the other, he scrolled through the phone’s memory until he found the number that he was looking for. Pushing the appropriate button, he waited to be connected.
In London it was another busy working day for Edward Levenson-Jones who was just getting up to go to his weekly Partners’ meeting. This was always held in the atrium room on the top floor of Ferran & Cardini’s prestigious Docklands building. The phone on his desk started to ring, glancing down at it, he saw that it was an internal call from Guy Roberts.
“Yes, I know I’m late, but you can tell them, that I’m on my way up.”
“There’s an outside call for you sir, the gentleman insists that he is an old friend of yours and must talk to you immediately. Shall I tell him that you’re in a meeting?”
“What’s his name?”
“Commander Nathan Cunningham, sir.”
“Nathan Cunningham, no Roberts, put him through at once. Oh, and call the Partners, tell them that I’ll be ten minutes late for the meeting, they’ll understand.”
“Nat, you old sea dog, how’s life treating you down there in Jersey?”
“LJ, things couldn’t be better, how about you? Still working your nuts off seven days a week in the city I suppose?”
Levenson-Jones sat down behind his desk. “Good to hear your voice, old son. Are you in town?”
“No, I’m in Jersey, but I’ve got a bit of a dilemma, that I thought you might be able to help me with. You see, I went for a dive this morning, and found myself a large Second World War German U-boat.”
“Well that’s splendid, Nat. But there must be quite a few sunken wrecks around the Channel Islands from the last war. Nothing unusual about that old son.”
“No you don’t understand LJ. This one is fifty-five feet down and under the island, tied up in a cavern that’s like an enormous subterranean harbour. It’s got a bloody great big red leaping devil painted on the side of the conning tower, and LJ, it’s definitely a type VIIC.” Nathan could once again feel a tingling sensation run up and down his spine, and the bristles on the back of his neck stand on end.