Thunder Point (16 page)

“Then don’t waste time in talking about it,” he said. “Go and get your bags now and I’ll ring for a taxi.”

“Will you, Dillon, honestly?”

“I’ll go with you myself.”

She turned and hurried out and Dillon sighed and said softly, “You daft bastard, what’s getting into you?” and he picked up the phone.

It was very quiet in the waiting room of the small private nursing home in Farsley Street. Smith sat in an upright chair against the wall, his right forearm encased in plaster and held in a sling. The half hour after their encounter with Dillon had been a nightmare. They couldn’t afford to go to a public hospital because that would have meant the police, so he’d had to go and get the van from the alley by Lord North Street from where he’d driven one-handed to Victoria Tower Gardens to retrieve Johnson. The trip to Farsley Street had been even worse. Dr. Shah emerged from the operating theater, a small, gray-haired Pakistani in green cap and gown, a mask hanging around his neck.

“How is he?” Smith asked.

“As well as can be expected with a split kneecap. He’ll limp for the rest of his life.”

“That fucking little Irish bastard,” Smith said.

“You boys can never stay out of trouble, can you? Does Mr. Santiago know about it?”

“Why should he?” Smith was alarmed. “Nothing to do with him this one.”

“I thought it might, that’s all. He phoned me from Paris the other day on business so I knew he was around.”

“No, not his bag this.” Smith got up. “I’ll get myself off home. I’ll be in to see him tomorrow.”

He went out of the glass front door. Shah watched him go, then walked past the reception desk, empty at that time of night, and went into his office. He always believed in covering himself. He picked up the phone and rang Santiago at the Ritz in Paris.

The traffic at that time in the evening was light and they were at Heathrow by eight o’clock. Jenny picked up her ticket at the reservation desk and went and booked in for the flight. She put her case through, but carried the traveling urn.

“Time for a drink?” Dillon suggested.

“Why not?”

She seemed in better spirits now and waited for him in the corner of the bar until he returned with an Irish whisky and a glass of white wine. “You’re feeling better, I can tell,” he said.

“It’s good to be on the move again, to get away from it all. What will you tell Ferguson?”

“Nothing about you until the morning.”

“You’ll tell him I flew to Paris?”

“No point in not doing, he’d find that out in five minutes from a check on British Airways’ passenger computer.”

“That doesn’t matter, I’ll be well on my way by then. What about you?”

“St. John next stop. Tomorrow or the day after.”

“See Bob Carney,” she said. “Tell him I sent you, and introduce yourself to Billy and Mary Jones. They’re running the cafe and bar for me while I’m away.”

“What about you? When will you be back?”

“I don’t honestly know. A few days, a week, I’ll see how I feel. I’ll look you up when I get back if you’re still there.”

“I don’t know where I’ll be staying.”

“It’s easy to find someone in St. John.”

The flight was called and they finished their drinks, went down to the concourse and he accompanied her to the security entrance. “I’m sorry if I’ve made trouble for you with the Brigadier,” she said.

“Entirely my pleasure,” he assured her.

“You’re quite a guy, Dillon.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Frightening, mind you, but thank God you’re on my side. I’ll see you.”

Dillon watched her go, then turned and made his way to the nearest row of telephones, took out a card with telephone numbers which Ferguson had given him and rang the Cavendish Square number. Kim answered the phone and informed him that the Brigadier was dining at the Garrick Club. Dillon thanked him, went out to the rank and took the first cab in the line.

“London,” he said. “The Garrick Club. You know where that is?”

“Certainly, guv.” The driver examined Dillon’s open-necked shirt in the rear-view mirror. “Wasting your time there, guv, dressed like that. They won’t let you in. Jacket-and-tie job. Members and their guests only.”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Dillon told him. “Just take me there.”

When they reached the Garrick, the driver pulled in at the curb and turned. “Shall I wait, guv?”

“Why not? I’ll be straight out again if what you say is true.”

Dillon went up the steps and paused at the desk. The uniformed porter was civil enough. “Can I help you, sir?”

Dillon put on his finest public-school accent. “I’m looking for Brigadier Charles Ferguson. I was told he was dining here tonight. I need to see him most urgently.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow you upstairs, sir. We do require a jacket and tie, but if you care to wait here I’ll have a message sent to the Brigadier. What was the name, sir?”

“Dillon.”

The porter picked up the telephone and spoke to someone. He put the phone down. “He’ll be with you directly, sir.”

Dillon moved forward into the hall, admiring the grand staircase, the oil paintings that covered the walls. After a while Ferguson appeared up there, looked over the rail at him and came down the stairs.

“What on earth do you want, Dillon? I’m halfway through my dinner.”

“Oh, Jesus, Your Honor.” Dillon stepped effortlessly into the Stage Irishman. “It’s so good of you to see me, the grand man like yourself and this place so elegant.”

The porter looked alarmed and Ferguson took Dillon by the arm and propelled him outside to the top of the steps. “Stop playing the fool, my steak will be quite ruined by now.”

“Bad for you at your age, red meat.” Dillon lit a cigarette, the Zippo flaring. “I’ve found out who the opposition is.”

“Good God, who?”

“A name, that’s all I have. Santiago — Max Santiago. He lives in Puerto Rico, but recently he’s been in Paris. By the way, they also did the burglary.”

“How did you find this out?”

“I had a run-in with our two friends from the coroner’s court.”

Ferguson nodded. “I see. I hope you didn’t have to kill anyone?”

“Now would I do a thing like that? I’ll leave it with you, Brigadier, I feel like an early night.”

He went down the steps to the cab and got in. “I told you, guv,” the cabby said.

“Oh, well,” Dillon said. “You can’t win them all. Take me to Lord North Street,” and he leaned back and looked out at the London night scene.

Jack Lane, only recently divorced, lived alone in a flat in West End Lane on the edge of Hampstead. He was cooking a frozen pizza in his microwave oven when the phone rang and his heart sank.

“Jack? Ferguson here. Dillon had a run-in with those two suspicious characters who were at the coroner’s court and the crematorium. They’ve been working for a Max Santiago, resident of Puerto Rico, recently in Paris.”

“Is that all, sir?”

“It’s enough. Get yourself down to the office. See if French Intelligence has anything on him, then try the CIA, the FBI, anybody you can think of. He must be on somebody’s computer. Did you get anything on this Bob Carney fellow, the diver?”

“Yes, sir, an interesting man in more ways than one.”

“Right, you can brief me in the morning, but get cracking on this Santiago thing now. Five hours earlier than us in the States, remember.”

“I’ll try to, sir.”

Lane put the phone down with a groan, opened the microwave oven and looked with distaste at the pizza. What the hell, he’d nothing better to do and he could always pick up some fish and chips on the way to the Ministry.

At his flat, Smith was on his second large Scotch, his right forearm in plaster and held by a sling. He felt terrible and it was beginning to hurt a great deal. He was pouring another Scotch when the phone rang.

Santiago said, “Have you anything for me?”

“Not yet, Mr. Santiago.” Smith searched wildly for something to say. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Shah has been on the phone. Johnson shot and you with a broken arm. ‘Fucking little Irish bastard,’ I believe that was the phrase you used. Presumably Dillon?”

“Well, yes, Mr. Santiago, we did have a run-in with him. We’d got the girl, see, and he managed to jump us. He had a gun.”

“Did he really?” Santiago commented dryly. “And what did you say when he asked you who your employer was?”

Smith answered instinctively, “Not a bloody thing, it was Johnson who . . .”

He stopped dead and Santiago said, “Carry on, tell me the worst.”

“All right, Mr. Santiago, the stupid bastard did give Dillon your name.”

There was silence for a moment and then Santiago said, “I’m disappointed in you, my friend, most disappointed.” The phone clicked and the line went dead.

Smith knew what that meant. More frightened than he had ever been in his life, he packed a suitcase one-handed, retrieved a thousand pounds mad money he kept in a sugar tin in the kitchen and left. Two minutes later he was behind the wheel of the van and driving away one-handed. He had an old girlfriend in Aberdeen who’d always had a weakness for him. Scotland, that was the place to go. As far away from Johnson as possible.

At the nursing home Shah sat behind his desk, the phone to his ear. After a while he put it down, sighed heavily and went out. He went into the small pharmacy at the side of the operating theater, fitted a syringe together and filled it from a phial he took from the medicine cupboard.

When he opened the door at the end of the corridor, Johnson was sleeping, linked to a drip. Shah stood looking down at him for a moment, then bared the left forearm and inserted the needle. Johnson sucked in air very deeply for about five times, then stopped altogether. Shah checked for vital signs, found none and went out. He paused at the reception desk, picked up the phone and dialed.

A voice said, “Deepdene Funeral Service. How may we serve you?”

“Shah here. I have a disposal for you.”

“Ready now?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Thank you.”

Shah replaced the receiver and went back to his office, humming to himself.

It was almost eleven when Travers returned to Lord North Street and found Dillon sitting in the study reading a book. “Jennifer gone to bed?” Travers asked.

“More than an hour ago. She was very tired.”

“Not surprising, been through a hell of a lot that girl. Fancy a nightcap, Dillon? Can’t offer you Irish, but a good single malt perhaps?”

“Fine by me.”

Travers poured it into two glasses, gave him one and sat opposite. “Cheers. What are you reading?”

“Epictetus.” Dillon held the book up. “He was a Greek philosopher of the Stoic School.”

“I know who he was, Dillon,” Travers said patiently. “I’m just surprised that you do.”

“He says here that a life not put to the test is not worth living. Would you agree to that, Admiral?”

“As long as it doesn’t mean bombing the innocent in the name of some sacred cause or shooting people in the back, then I suppose I do.”

“God forgive you, Admiral, but I never planted a bomb in the way you mean or shot anyone in the back in me life.”

“God forgive me, indeed, Dillon, because for some obscure reason I’m inclined to believe you.” Travers swallowed his whisky and got up. “Good night to you,” he said and went out.

Things had gone better than Smith had expected and he soon had the hang of handling the wheel one-handed, just the fingers of his right hand touching the bottom of the wheel. The rain wasn’t helping, of course, and beyond Watford he missed a turning for the motorway and found himself on a long dark road, no other vehicles in sight, and then headlights were switched on behind and a vehicle came up far too fast.

It started to overtake him, a large black truck, and Smith cursed, frightened to death, knowing what this was, and he frantically worked at the wheel. The truck swerved in, knocking him sideways, and with nowhere to go, the van spun off the road, smashed through a fence and turned over twice on its way down a seventy-foot bank. It came to a crumpled halt and Smith, still conscious as he lay on his side in the cab, could smell petrol as the fractured tank spilled its contents.

There was the noise of someone scrambling down the bank and footsteps approached. “Help me,” Smith moaned, “I’m in here.”

Someone struck a match. It was the last thing he remembered. One final moment of horror as it was flicked toward him through the darkness and the petrol fireballed.

In Paris at Charles de Gaulle Airport it was almost midnight by the time Jenny Grant had retrieved her suitcase and she walked out into the concourse quickly and found an Avis car rental desk.

“You’re still open, thank goodness,” she said as she got her passport and driving license out.

“But of course,” the young woman on duty replied in English. “We always wait until the final arrival of the day, even when there is a delay. How long will you require the car for, mademoiselle?”

“Perhaps a week. I’m not certain, but I’ll be returning here.”

“That’s fine.” The girl busied herself with the paperwork and took a print from her charge card. “Follow me and I’ll take you to the car.”

Ten minutes later Jenny was driving out of the airport sitting behind the wheel of a Citroën saloon and headed west, Normandy the destination. The traveling urn was on the passenger seat beside her. She touched it briefly, then settled back to concentrate on her driving. She had a long way to go, would probably have to drive through the night, but that didn’t matter because London and the terrible events of the last few days were behind her and she was free.

Dillon rose early, was in the kitchen cooking bacon and eggs at seven-thirty when Travers entered in his dressing gown.

“Smells good,” the Admiral said. “Jenny about yet?”

“Well, to be honest with you, Admiral, she’s not been about for some time.” Dillon poured boiling water into a china teapot. “There you go, a nice cup of tea.”