Thunder Point (18 page)

“He’s all heart, isn’t he?” Dillon said to the Admiral as they emerged onto the pavement.

“Never would have thought of describing him in quite that way,” Travers said and raised his umbrella at a passing cab.

It was perhaps an hour later that Ferguson met Simon Carter in the snug of a public house called the St. George not too far from the Ministry of Defence.

He ordered a gin and tonic. “Thought I’d better bring you up to date,” he said. “There’s a lot happened.”

“Tell me,” Carter said.

So Ferguson did, the attack on Jenny by Smith and Johnson, Santiago, Jenny’s flight, everything. When he finished, Carter sat there thinking about it.

“The Santiago thing — that’s very interesting. Your chap Lane may have a point, the Fascist angle, General Franco and all that.”

“It would certainly fit, but Dillon’s right. None of it explains how Santiago seems to be so well informed.”

“So what do you intend to do about him?”

“Nothing I
can
do officially,” Ferguson said. “He’s an American citizen, a multi-millionaire businessman and in the eyes of the world, highly respected. I mean, that stuff on the FBI and CIA files is confidential.”

“And there is the fact that we don’t want to involve the Americans in this in any way,” Carter pointed out.

“Heaven forbid, the last thing we want.”

“So we’re in Dillon’s hands,” the Deputy Director said.

“I know and I don’t like it one little bit.” Ferguson stood up. “You’ll let Pamer know where we’re at.”

“Of course,” Carter told him. “Perhaps this Carney chap, the diver you mentioned, can give Dillon a lead.”

“I’ll keep you posted,” Ferguson said and went out.

In Paris, Santiago, who was going to a black-tie dinner at the American Embassy, was adjusting his tie in the mirror when the phone rang. It was Pamer, and Santiago listened while he brought him up to date.

“So they know your name, Max.” Pamer was very agitated. “And all thanks to those damned men who were working for you.”

“Forget them,” Santiago said. “They’re yesterday’s news.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t be stupid, Francis, you’re a big boy now. Try to act like one.”

Pamer was horrified. “All right, Max, but what are we going to do?”

“They can’t lay a finger on me, Francis, I’m an American citizen, and they won’t want to include the American Government in this thing. In fact, Ferguson is acting quite illegally in sending Dillon to operate in another country’s sovereign territory. The U-boat is in American waters, remember?”

“So what will you do?”

“I’ll fly to Puerto Rico in the morning, then sail down to Samson Cay and operate from there. Dillon must stay at either the Hyatt or at Caneel Bay if he uses a hotel, and a simple phone call will confirm that. I suspect Caneel Bay if he wishes to cultivate the diver, this Carney.”

“I suppose so.”

“A pity about the girl. She’ll turn up eventually though, and I still feel she could be the key to this thing. She could know more than she realizes.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“For your sake particularly, I hope so too, Francis.”

Dillon, suitably attired in his blazer and a Guards tie, followed Travers up the imposing stairway at the Garrick Club. “Jesus, they’ve got more portraits here than the National Gallery,” he said and followed Travers through to the bar where Ferguson waited.

“Ah, there you are,” he said. “I’m one ahead of you. Thought we’d have a spot of champagne, Dillon, just to wish you bon voyage. You prefer Krug as I recall.”

They sat in the corner and the barman brought the bottle over in an ice bucket and opened it. He filled three glasses and retired. Ferguson thanked him, then took an envelope from his pocket and passed it across. “Just in case things get rough, there’s the name of a contact of mine in Charlotte Amalie, that’s the main town in St. Thomas. What you might call a dealer in hardware.”

“Hardware?” Travers looked bewildered. “What on earth would he need with hardware?”

Dillon put the envelope in his pocket. “You’re a lovely fella, Admiral, and long may you stay that way.”

Ferguson toasted Dillon. “Good luck, my friend, you’re going to need it.” He emptied his glass. “Now let’s eat.”

There was something in his eyes, something that said there was more to this, much more, had to be, Dillon told himself, but he got up obediently and followed Travers and the Brigadier out of the bar.

And at Briac at the Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity, Jenny sat alone in the rear pew of the chapel, resting her arms on the backrest of the pew in front of her, gazing at the flickering candlelight at the altar and brooding. The door creaked open and Sister Maria Baker entered.

“There you are. You should be in bed.”

“I know, Sister, but I was restless and wanted to think about things.”

Sister Maria Baker sat down beside her. “Such as?”

“Dillon for one thing. He’s done many terrible things. He was a member of the IRA, for example, and when those two men attacked me last night . . .” She shivered. “He was so coldly savage, so ruthless, and yet to me he was kindness itself and so understanding.”

“So?”

Jenny turned to her. “I’m not a good Christian. In fact, when Henry found me, I was a very great sinner, but I do want to understand God, I really do.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Why does God allow violence and killing to take place at all? Why does he allow the violence in Dillon?”

“The simplest thing to answer, my child. What God does allow is free will. He gives us all a choice. You, me, and the Dillons of this world.”

“I suppose so.” Jenny sighed. “But I will have to go back to St. John and not just to help Dillon, but somehow for Henry too.”

“Why do you feel so strongly?”

“Because Henry really didn’t tell me where he discovered that U-boat, which means the secret must have died with him, and yet I have the oddest feeling that it didn’t, that the information is back there in St. John, but I just can’t think straight. It won’t come, Sister.”

She was distressed again and Sister Maria Baker took her hands. “That’s enough, you need sleep. A few days’ rest will work wonders. You’ll remember then what you can’t now, I promise you. Now let’s have you in bed.”

She took Jenny by the hand and led her out.

Ferguson’s Daimler picked Dillon up at seven-thirty the following morning to take him to Gatwick and Travers insisted on accompanying him. The journey out of town at that time in the morning with all the heavy traffic going the other way was relatively quick, and Dillon was ready to go through passport control and security by eight-thirty.

“They’ve already called it, I see,” Travers said.

“So it seems.”

“Look here, Dillon,” Travers said awkwardly. “We’ll never see eye-to-eye, you and me, I mean the IRA and all that stuff, but I want to thank you for what you did for the girl. I liked her — liked her a lot.”

“And so did I.”

Travers shook Dillon’s hand. “Take care, this Santiago sounds bad news.”

“I’ll try, Admiral.”

“Another thing.” Travers sounded more awkward than ever. “Charles Ferguson is a dear friend, but he’s also the most devious old sod I’ve ever known in my life. Watch yourself in the clinches there too.”

“I will, Admiral, I will,” Dillon said, watched the Admiral walk away, then turned and went through.

A nice man, he thought as the Jumbo lifted off and climbed steadily, a decent man, but nobody’s fool and he was right; there
was
more to all this than the surface of things, nothing was more certain than that, and Ferguson knew what it was.
Devious old sod
. An apt description.

“Ah, well, I can be just as devious,” Dillon murmured and accepted the glass of champagne the stewardess offered.

The flight to Antigua took a little over eight hours thanks to a tailwind, and they arrived just after two o’clock local time. It was hot, really hot, very noticeable after London. Dillon felt quite cheered and strode ahead of everybody else toward the airport building, wearing black cord slacks and a denim shirt, his black flying jacket over one shoulder. When he reached the entrance a young black woman in a pale blue uniform was standing there with a board bearing his name.

Dillon paused. “I’m Dillon.”

She smiled. “I’m Judy, Mr. Dillon. I’ll see you through immigration and so on and then take you to your plane.”

“You represent the handling agents?” he asked as they walked through.

“That’s right. I need to see your pilot’s license and there are a couple of forms to fill in for the aviation authority, but we can do that while we’re waiting for the luggage to come through.”

Twenty minutes later she was driving him out to the far side of the runway in a courtesy bus, an engineer called Tony in white overalls sitting beside her. The Cessna was parked beside a number of private planes, slightly incongruous because of its floats, with wheels protruding beneath.

“Shouldn’t give you any problems,” Tony said as he stowed Dillon’s two suitcases. “Flies as sweet as a nut. Of course a lot of people are nervous about flying in the islands with a single engine, but the beauty about this baby is you can always come down in the water.”

“Or something like that,” Dillon said.

Tony laughed, reached into the cabin and pointed. “There’s an air log listing all the islands and their airfields and charts. Our chief pilot has marked your course from here to Cruz Bay in St. John. Very straightforward. Around two hundred and fifty miles. Takes about an hour and a half.” He glanced at his watch. “You should be there by four-thirty.”

“It’s American territory, but customs and immigration are expecting you. They’ll be waiting at the ramp at Cruz Bay. When you’re close enough, call in to St. Thomas and they’ll let them know you’re coming. Oh, and there will be a self-drive jeep waiting for you.” Judy smiled. “I think that’s about it.”

“Thanks for everything.” Dillon gave her that special smile of his with total charm and kissed her on the cheek. “Judy, you’ve been great.” He shook Tony’s hand. “Many thanks.”

A moment later he was in the pilot’s seat, closing the door. He strapped himself in, adjusted his earphones, then fired the engine and called the tower. There was a small plane landing and the tower told him to wait. They gave him the good word and he taxied to the end of the runway. There was a short pause, then the go signal and he boosted power, roared down the runway and pulled back the column at exactly the right moment, the Cessna climbing effortlessly out over the azure sea.

It was an hour later that Max Santiago flew into San Juan, where he was escorted through passport control and customs with a minimum of fuss by an airport official to where his chauffeur, Algaro, waited with the black Mercedes limousine.

“At your orders, Señor,” he said in Spanish.

“Good to see you, Algaro,” Santiago said. “Everything is arranged as I requested?”

“Oh yes, Señor. I’ve packed the usual clothes, took them down to the
Maria Blanco
myself this morning. Captain Serra is expecting you.”

Algaro wasn’t particularly large, five foot seven or eight, but immensely powerful, his hair cropped so short that he almost looked bald. A scar, running from the corner of the left eye to the mouth, combined to give him a sinister and threatening appearance in spite of the smart gray chauffeur’s uniform he wore. He was totally devoted to Santiago, who had saved him from a life sentence for the stabbing to death of a young prostitute two years previously by the liberal dispensing of funds not only to lawyers but corrupt officials.

The luggage arrived at that moment and while the porters stowed it Santiago said, “Good, you needn’t take me to the house. I’ll go straight to the boat.”

“As you say, Señor.” They drove away, turned into the traffic of the main road and Algaro said, “Captain Serra said you asked for a couple of divers in the crew. It’s taken care of.”

“Excellent.” Santiago picked up the local newspaper, which had been left on the seat for him, and opened it.

Algaro watched him in the mirror. “Is there a problem, Señor?”

Santiago laughed. “You’re like an animal, Algaro, you always smell trouble.”

“But that’s what you employ me for, Señor.”

“Quite right.” Santiago folded the newspaper, selected a cigarette from an elegant gold case and lit it. “Yes, my friend, there is a problem, a problem called Dillon.”

“May I know about him, Señor?”

“Why not? You’ll probably have to, how shall I put it, take care of him for me, Algaro.” Santiago smiled. “So listen carefully and learn all about him because this man is good, Algaro, very good indeed.”

It was a perfect afternoon, the limitless blue sky with only the occasional cloud as Dillon drifted across the Caribbean at five thousand feet. It was pure pleasure, the sea constantly changing color below, green and blue, the occasional boat, the reefs and shoals clearly visible at that height.

He passed the islands of Nevis and St. Kitts, calling in to the local airport, moved on flying directly over the tiny Dutch island of Saba. He had a brisk tailwind and made good time, better than he had expected, found St. Croix on his port side on the horizon no more than an hour after leaving Antigua.

Soon after that, the main line of the Virgins lifted out of the heat haze to greet him, St. Thomas to port, the smaller bulk of St. John to starboard, Tortola beyond. He checked the chart and saw Peter Island below Tortola and east of St. John, Norman Island south of it, and south of there was Samson Cay.

Dillon called in to St. Thomas airport to notify them of his approach. The controller said, “Cleared for landing at Cruz Bay. Await customs and immigration officials there.”

Dillon went down low, turning to starboard, found Samson Cay with no difficulty and crossed over at a thousand feet. There was a harbor dotted with yachts, a dock, cottages and a hotel block grouped around the beach amidst palm trees. The airstrip was to the north, no control tower, just an air sock on a pole. There were people lounging on the beach down there. Some stood up and waved. He waggled his wings and flew on, found Cruz Bay fifteen minutes later and drifted in for a perfect landing just outside the harbor.