Thunder Point (12 page)

“Further out to sea.”

“That’s right.”

“And you’ve no idea where?”

“No, I’m not much of a diver, I’m afraid. You’d need to go to an expert.”

“And is there such a person?”

“Oh, sure, Bob Carney.”

Ferguson picked up his pen and made a note. “Bob Carney? And who might he be?”

“He has the watersports concession at Caneel Bay Resort. I mean, he spends most of his time teaching tourists to dive, but he’s a real diver and quite famous. He was in the oil fields in the Gulf of Mexico, salvage work, all that stuff. They’ve done magazine articles about him.”

“Really?” Ferguson said. “He’s the best diver in the Virgin Islands then?”

“In the whole Caribbean, Brigadier,” she said.

“Really.” Ferguson glanced at Travers and stood up. “Good. Many thanks for your cooperation, Miss Grant. I appreciate this is not a good time, but you must eat. Perhaps you’ll allow me to take you and Admiral Travers out for a meal tonight.”

She hesitated and then said, “That’s kind of you.”

“Not at all. I’ll send my car to pick you up at seven-thirty.” He ushered them to the outside door. “Take care.” He nodded to the Admiral. “I’ll be in touch, Garth.”

He was having a cup of tea and thinking about things half an hour later when Lane arrived. The Inspector dropped a hard, black metal bug on the coffee table. “You were right, sir, this little bastard was in the living room telephone.”

“So,” Ferguson said, picking it up. “The plot thickens.”

“Look, sir, Baker knew about the diary because he found it, the girl knew because he told her, the Admiral knew, you know, the P.M. had a copy, the Deputy Director of the Intelligence Services knew, Sir Francis Pamer knew.” He paused.

“You’re missing yourself out, Jack.”

“Yes, sir, but who the hell was it who knew who would go to the trouble of knocking off Admiral Travers’ pad?”

“There you go again, Jack, police jargon.” Ferguson sighed. “It’s like a spider’s web. There are lots of lines of communication between all those people you mention. God knows how many.”

“So what are you going to do, sir? I mean, we don’t even know where the bloody U-boat is. On top of that, we’ve all sorts of dirty work going on underneath things. Burglary, illegal phone-tapping.”

“You’re right, Jack, the whole thing assumes a totally new dimension.”

“It might be better to bring Intelligence in on it, sir.”

“Hardly, although when you get back to the office, you may phone Simon Carter and Sir Francis and tell them the girl says she doesn’t know the site.”

“But then what, sir?”

“I’m not sure. We’ll have to send someone out there to find out for us.”

“Someone who knows about diving, sir?”

“That’s a thought, but if there is skulduggery afoot, someone who’s just as big a villain as the opposition.” Ferguson paused. “Correction, someone who is worse.”

“Sir?” Lane looked bewildered.

Ferguson suddenly started to laugh helplessly. “My dear Jack, isn’t life delicious on occasions? I spend simply ages getting someone I positively detest banged up, the cell door locked tight, and suddenly discover he’s exactly what I need in the present situation.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“You will, Jack. Ever been to Yugoslavia?”

“No, sir.”

“Good, a new experience for you. We’ll leave at dawn. Have them get the Learjet ready. Tell Admiral Travers I’ll have to postpone dinner with him and the young lady.”

“And the destination, sir?”

“The air strip at Kivo Castle, Jack. Tell them to clear it with the Serbian High Command. I don’t think they’ll have a problem.”

Dillon was dozing on his bed at Kivo when the sound of a plane circling overhead awoke him. He lay there for a moment listening, aware of the change in the engine note that indicated a landing was being made. A jet by the sound of it. He went to the barred window and peered out. It was raining hard and as he looked out across the walls he saw a Learjet come in out of low cloud and make an approach to the airstrip. It landed perfectly, then taxied forward so that he could see there were no markings. It disappeared from view and he went and got a cigarette, wondering who it could be.

A shouted command drifted up and there was a crackle of rifle fire. He went back to the window, but he could only see part of the courtyard below. One or two soldiers appeared and laughter drifted up, presumably the General clearing out the cells again, and he wondered how many poor bastards had ended up against the wall this time. There was more laughter and then an army truck crossed his line of vision and disappeared.

“You’re in a mess this time, my old son,” he murmured softly. “A hell of a bloody mess,” and he went and lay on the bed, finishing his cigarette and thinking about it.

In Paris, Santiago was about to leave his suite for a lunch appointment when the phone rang. It was Francis Pamer. “I tried to catch you earlier, but you were out,” Pamer told him.

“Business, Francis, that’s why I’m here. What have you got for me?”

“Carter had a word with me. He spoke to Ferguson. He said the girl doesn’t know the location of the U-boat. He said that she knew about it, that Baker had told her about his discovery before he left, but that he hadn’t told her where the damned thing is.”

“Does Ferguson believe her?”

“Apparently,” Pamer told him. “At least that was the impression Carter got.”

“And what’s Ferguson up to now?”

“I don’t know. He just told Carter that he’d keep him posted.”

“What about the girl? Where is she staying?” Santiago asked him.

“With Admiral Travers at Lord North Street. There’s the coroner’s inquest tomorrow. Once that’s over Ferguson’s agreed she can have the body.”

“I see,” Santiago said.

“What do you think, Max?”

“About the girl, you mean? I don’t know. She could be telling the truth. On the other hand, she could be lying and there’s only one way to find that out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, by asking her, Francis, in the proper way, of course. A little persuasion, gentle or otherwise, works wonders.”

“For God’s sake, Max,” Pamer began and Santiago cut him off.

“Just do what’s necessary, keep me posted as regards Ferguson’s plans and I’ll have the girl taken care of. I had intended to return to Puerto Rico tomorrow, but I’ll hang on for another day or two here. In the meantime, I’ll speak to my people in San Juan, tell them to get the
Maria Blanco
ready for sea. The moment we know for definite that Ferguson intends some sort of operation in the Virgins, I’ll sail down to Samson Cay and use it as a base.”

Pamer said, “Christ, Max, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going with this thing. If it comes out, I’m finished.”

“But it won’t, Francis, because I’ll see that it doesn’t. I’ve always anticipated seeing you in the Cabinet. Very useful to have a friend who’s a British Cabinet Minister. I’ve no intention of allowing that not to happen, so don’t worry.”

Santiago put the phone down, thought about it for a moment, then picked it up again and rang his house in San Juan on the island of Puerto Rico.

Dillon was reading a book, head propped up against the pillow, when the key rattled in the lock, the door opened and Major Branko entered. “Ah, there you are,” he said.

Dillon didn’t bother getting up. “And where else would I be?”

“That sounds a trifle bitter,” Branko told him. “After all, you’re still with us. Cause for a certain amount of gratitude, I should have thought.”

“What do you want?” Dillon asked.

“I’ve brought someone to see you, hardly an old friend, but I’d listen to what he has to say if I were you.”

He stood to one side. Dillon swung his legs to the floor, was starting to get up and Ferguson entered the room followed by Jack Lane.

“Holy Mother of God!” Dillon said and Branko went out and closed the door behind him.

“Dear me, Dillon, but you are up the creek without a paddle, aren’t you?” Ferguson dusted the only chair with his hat and sat. “We’ve never actually made it face to face before, but I imagine you know who I am?”

“Brigadier Charles bloody Ferguson,” Dillon said. “Head of Group Four.”

“And this is Detective Inspector Jack Lane, my assistant, on loan from Special Branch at Scotland Yard so he doesn’t like you.”

Lane’s face was like stone. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, and Dillon said, “Is that a fact?”

“Look at him, Jack,” Ferguson said. “The great Sean Dillon, soldier of the IRA in his day, master assassin, better than Carlos the Jackal, some say.”

“I am looking at him, sir, and all I see is just another killer.”

“Ah, but this one is special, Jack, the man of a thousand faces. Could have been another Olivier if he hadn’t taken to the gun. He can change before your very eyes. Mind you, he cocked up his attempt to blow up the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet at Number Ten during the Gulf War as nobody knows better than you, Jack. By God, you gave us a hard time on that one, Dillon.”

“A pleasure.”

“But you’re behind walls now,” Lane said.

Ferguson nodded. “Twenty years, Jack, twenty years without getting his collar felt once and where does he end up?” He looked around the room. “You must have been out of your mind, Dillon. Medical supplies for the sick and the dying? You?”

“We all have our off days.”

“Stinger missiles as well so you didn’t even check your cargo properly. You must be losing your touch.”

“All right, the show’s over,” Dillon told him. “What do you want?”

Ferguson got up and went to the window. “They’ve been shooting Croatians down there in the courtyard. We heard them as we drove over from the airstrip. They were clearing the bodies away in a truck as we drove in.” He turned. “It’ll be your turn one of these fine mornings, Dillon. Unless you’re sensible, of course.”

Dillon got a cigarette from one of the Rothmans packets and lit it with his Zippo. “You mean I have a choice?” he asked calmly.

“You could say that.” Ferguson sat down again. “You shoot guns rather well, Dillon, fly a plane, speak a number of languages, but the thing I’m interested in at the moment was that underwater job you did for the Israelis. It was you, wasn’t it, who blew up those PLO boats off Beirut?”

“Do you tell me?” Dillon said, sounding very Irish.

“Oh, for God’s sake, sir, let’s leave the bastard to rot,” Lane said.

“Come on, man, don’t be stupid. Was it you, or wasn’t it?” Ferguson demanded.

“As ever was,” Dillon told him.

“Good. Now here’s the situation. I have a job that requires a man of your peculiar talents.”

“A crook he means,” Lane put in.

Ferguson ignored him. “I’m not sure exactly what’s going on at the moment, but it could demand a man who can handle himself if things get rough. What I am certain of is that it would require, at the right moment, considerable diving skills.”

“And where would all this take place?”

“The American Virgin Islands.” Ferguson stood up. “The choice is yours, Dillon. You can stay here and be shot or you can leave now and fly back to London in the Learjet we have at the airstrip with the Inspector and me.”

“And what will Major Branko have to say about it?”

“No problem there. Nice boy. His mother lives in Hampstead. He’s had enough of this Yugoslavian mess, and who can blame him. I’m going to arrange political asylum for him in England.”

Dillon said, “Is there nothing you can’t do?”

“Not that I can think of.”

Dillon hesitated. “I’m a wanted man over there in the UK, you know that.”

“Slate wiped clean, my word on it, which disgusts Inspector Lane here, but that’s the way it is. Of course it also means you’ll have to do exactly as you’re told.”

“Of course.” Dillon picked up his flying jacket and pulled it on. “Yours to command.”

“I thought you’d see sense. Now let’s get out of this disgusting place,” and Ferguson rapped on the door with his Malacca cane.

Dillon finished the diary and closed it. Lane was dozing, his head on a pillow, and the Irishman passed the diary to Ferguson, who sat on the other side of the aisle, but facing him.

“Very interesting,” Dillon said.

“Is that all you’ve got to say?”

The Irishman reached for the bar box, found a miniature of Scotch, poured it into one of the plastic cups provided and added water. “What do you expect me to say? All right, Henry Baker’s death was unfortunate, but he died happy, by God. Finding U180 must have been the biggest thing that ever happened to him.”

“You think so?”

“Every diver’s dream, Brigadier, to find a wreck that’s never been discovered before, preferably stuffed with Spanish doubloons, but if you can’t have that, the wreck on its own will do.”

“Really.”

“You’ve never dived?” Dillon laughed. “A silly question. It’s another world down there, a special feeling, nothing quite like it.” He swallowed some of his whisky. “So this woman you mentioned, this Jenny Grant, she says he didn’t tell her where the U-boat is located?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you believe her?”

Ferguson sighed. “I’m afraid I do. Normally I don’t believe in anyone, but there’s something about her, something special.”

“Falling for a pretty face in your old age,” Dillon said. “Always a mistake that.”

“Don’t be stupid, Dillon,” the Brigadier replied sharply. “She’s a nice girl and there’s something about her, that’s all I mean. You can judge for yourself. We’ll have dinner with Garth Travers and her this evening.”

“All right.” Dillon nodded. “So if she doesn’t know where the damn thing is, what do you expect me to do?”

“Go to the Virgin Islands and find it, that’s what I expect you to do, Dillon. It’s no great hardship, I assure you. I visited St. John a few years back. Lovely spot.”

“For a holiday?”

“You won’t be on holiday, only pretending. You’ll earn your keep.”

“Brigadier,” Dillon said patiently, “the sea is a hell of a big place. Have you any idea how difficult it is to locate a ship down there on the bottom? Even in Caribbean waters with good visibility, you could miss seeing it at a hundred yards.”