Thunder Point (21 page)

“I see.” The Prime Minister sighed. “Very well, Brigadier, I leave it to your own good judgment, but do try and make your peace with Carter.”

“I will, Prime Minister,” Ferguson said and withdrew.

Jack Lane was waiting in the Daimler. As it drove away he said, “And what was that all about?”

Ferguson told him. “He’s got a point, of course.”

“You know how I feel, sir, I was always against it. I wouldn’t trust Dillon an inch.”

“Interesting thing about Dillon,” Ferguson said. “One of the things he’s always been known for is a kind of twisted sense of honor. If he gives his word he sticks to it and expects others to do the same.”

“I find that hard to believe, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose most people would.”

Ferguson picked up the car phone and rang through to Simon Carter’s office. He wasn’t there, he was meeting with Pamer at the House of Commons.

“Get a message through to him now,” Ferguson told Carter’s secretary. “Tell him I need to see them both urgently. I’ll meet them on the Terrace at the House in fifteen minutes.” He replaced the phone. “You can come with me, Jack, you’ve never been on the Terrace, have you?”

“What’s going on, sir?”

“Wait and see, Jack, wait and see.”

Rain drifted across the Thames in a fine spray, clearing the Terrace of people. Except for a few who stood under the awnings, drink in hand, everyone else had taken to the bars and cafes. Ferguson stood by the wall holding a large golfer’s umbrella his chauffeur had given him, Lane sheltering with him.

“Doesn’t it fill you with a sense of majesty and awe, Jack, the Mother of Parliaments and all that sort of thing?” Ferguson asked.

“Not with rain pouring down my neck, sir.”

“Ah, there you are.” They turned and saw Carter and Pamer standing in the main entrance to the Terrace. Carter was carrying a black umbrella, which he put up, and he and Pamer joined them.

Ferguson said, “Isn’t this cozy?”

“I’m not in the mood for your feeble attempts at humor, Ferguson, now what do you want?” Carter demanded.

“I’ve just been to see the P.M. I understand you’ve been complaining again, old boy? Didn’t do you any good. He’s told me to carry on and use my judgment.”

Carter was furious, but he managed to control himself and glanced at Lane. “Who’s this?”

“My present assistant, Detective Inspector Jack Lane. I’ve borrowed him from Special Branch.”

“That’s against regulations, you can’t do it.”

“That’s as may be, but I’m not a deckhand on your ship. I run my own and, as my time is limited, let’s get down to facts. Dillon arrived in St. John around five o’clock in the evening their time yesterday. He was attacked by two crew members of Santiago’s boat, the
Maria Blanco
, who ran him off the road in his jeep and fired a shotgun at him.”

“My God!” Pamer said in horror.

Carter frowned. “Is he all right?”

“Oh, yes, a rubber ball our Dillon, always bounces back. Personally I think they were trying it on, hassling him. Of course the interesting thing is how come they knew who he was and knew he was there?”

“Now look here,” Pamer began, “I trust you’re not suggesting any lack of security on our part?”

Carter said, “Shut up, Francis, he’s got a valid point. This Santiago man is far too well informed.” He turned to Ferguson. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Actually, I was thinking of taking a brief holiday,” Ferguson told him. “You know, sun, sea and sand, swaying palms? They tell me the Virgins are lovely at this time of the year.”

Carter nodded. “You’ll stay in touch?”

“Of course, dear old boy.” Ferguson smiled and turned to Lane. “Let’s go, Jack, we’ve lots to do.”

On the way back to the Ministry Ferguson told his chauffeur to pull in beside a mobile sandwich bar on Victoria Embankment. “This man does the best cup of tea in London, Jack.”

The owner greeted him as an old friend. “Rotten day, Brigadier.”

“It was worse on the Hook, Fred,” the Brigadier said and walked with his cup of tea to the wall overlooking the Thames.

As Lane received his cup of tea he said to Fred, “What did he mean, the Hook?”

“That was a really bad place that was, worst position in the whole of Korea. So many dead bodies that every time you dug another trench, arms and legs came out.”

“You knew the Brigadier then?”

“Knew him? I was a platoon sergeant when he was a second lieutenant. He won his first Military Cross carrying me on his back under fire.” Fred grinned. “That’s why I never charge for the tea.”

Lane, impressed, joined Ferguson and leaned on the parapet under the umbrella. “You’ve got a fan there, sir.”

“Fred? Old soldier’s tales. Don’t listen. I’m going to need the Learjet. Direct flight to St. Thomas should be possible.”

“I believe the work on those new tanks the RAF did has extended the range to at least four thousand miles, sir.”

“There you are then.” Ferguson glanced at his watch. “Just after ten. I want that Learjet ready to leave Gatwick no later than one o’clock, Jack. Top priority. Allowing for the time difference, I could be in St. Thomas somewhere between five or six o’clock their time.”

“Do you want me with you, sir?”

“No, you’ll have to hold the fort.”

“You’ll need accommodation, sir. I’ll see to that.”

Ferguson shook his head. “I’ve reserved it at this Caneel place where I booked Dillon in.”

“You mean you were expecting what happened to happen?”

“Something like that.”

“Look, sir,” said Lane in exasperation, “exactly what is going on?”

“When you find out, tell me, Jack.” Ferguson emptied his cup, went and put it on the counter. “Thanks, Fred.” He turned to Lane. “Come on, Jack, must get moving, lots to do before I leave,” and he got into the rear of the Daimler.

Santiago was up early, even went for a swim in the sea, and was seated at the table in the stern enjoying his breakfast in the early morning sunshine when Algaro brought him the telephone.

“It’s Sir Francis,” he said.

“A wonderful morning here,” Santiago said. “How’s London?”

“Cold and wet. I’m just about to have a sandwich lunch and then spend the whole afternoon in interminable Committee meetings. Look, Max, Carter saw the Prime Minister and tried to put the boot into Ferguson because he was employing Dillon.”

“I didn’t imagine Carter to be quite so stupid. Ferguson still got his way of course?”

“Yes, the P.M. backed him to the hilt. More worrying, he asked for another meeting with me and Carter, and told us Dillon had been attacked on his first night in St. John. What on earth was that about?”

“My people were just leaning on him a little, Francis. After all, and as you made clear, he knows of my existence.”

“Yes, but what Ferguson’s now interested in is how
you
knew who Dillon was, the fact that he was arriving in St. John and so on. He said you were far too well informed, and Carter agreed with him.”

“Did he make any suggestion as to how he thought I was getting my information?”

“No, but he did say he thought he’d join Dillon in St. John for a few days.”

“Did he now? That should prove interesting. I look forward to meeting him.”

Pamer said, genuine despair in his words, “God dammit, Max, they know of your involvement. How long before they know about mine?”

“You’re not on the boards of any of the companies, Francis, and neither was your father. No mention of the name Pamer anywhere, and the great thing about this whole affair is that it is a private war. As I’ve already told you, Ferguson won’t want the American authorities in on this. We’re rather like two dogs squabbling over the same bone.”

“I’m still worried,” Pamer told him. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Keep the information flowing, Francis, and keep your nerve. Nothing else you can do.”

Santiago put the phone down and Algaro said, “More coffee, Señor?”

Santiago nodded. “Brigadier Ferguson is coming.”

“Here to Caneel?” Algaro smiled. “And what would you like me to do about him, Señor?”

“Oh, I’ll think of something,” Santiago said and drank his coffee. “In the meantime, let’s find out what our friend Dillon is up to this morning.”

Guerra went round to Caneel Beach in an inflatable, taking one of the divers with him, a young man called Javier Noval. They wore swimming shorts, tee-shirts and dark glasses, just another couple of tourists. They pulled in amongst other small craft at the dock, Guerra killed the outboard motor and Noval tied up. At that moment Dillon appeared at the end of the dock. He wore a black tracksuit and carried a couple of towels.

“That’s him,” Guerra told Noval. “Get going. I’ll stay out of the way in case he remembers me from last night.”

Bob Carney was manhandling dive tanks from a trolley on to the deck of a small twenty-five-foot dive boat, turned and saw Dillon. He waved and went along the dock to join him, passing Noval, who stopped to light a cigarette close enough to listen to them.

Carney said, “You’re going to need a few things. Let’s go up to the dive shop.”

They moved away. Noval waited and then followed.

There was a wide range of excellent equipment. Dillon chose a three-quarter-length suit of black and green in padded nylon, nothing too heavy, a mask, fins and gloves.

“Have you tried one of these?” Carney opened a box. “A Marathon dive computer. The wonder of the age. Automatic readings on your depth, elapsed time under water, safe time remaining. Even tells you how long you should wait to fly.”

“That’s for me,” Dillon told him. “I always was lousy at mental arithmetic.”

Carney itemized the bill. “I’ll put this on your hotel account.”

Dillon signed it. “So what have you got planned?”

“Oh, nothing too strenuous, you’ll see.” Carney smiled. “Let’s get going,” and he led the way out.

Noval dropped down into the inflatable. “The other man is called Carney. He owns the diving concession here. Paradise Watersports.”

“So they are going diving?” Guerra asked.

“They must be. Dillon was in the shop with him buying equipment.” He glanced up. “Here they come now.”

Dillon and Carney passed above them and got into the dive boat. After a moment Carney fired the engine and Dillon cast off. The boat moved out of the bay, weaving its way through various craft anchored there.

Guerra said, “There’s no name on that boat.”

“
Privateer
, that’s what it’s called,” Noval told him. “I asked one of the beach guards. You know, I’ve done most of my diving around Puerto Rico, but I’ve heard of this Carney. He’s big stuff.”

Guerra nodded. “Okay, we’d better get back and let Señor Santiago know what’s happening.”

Noval cast off, Guerra started the outboard, and they moved away.

The
Privateer
was doing a steady twenty knots, the sea not as calm as it could have been. Dillon held on tight and managed to light a cigarette one-handed.

“Are you prone to sea sickness?” Carney asked.

“Not that I know of,” Dillon shouted above the roar of the engine.

“Good, because it’s going to get worse before it gets better. We’ve not too far to go though.”

Waves swept in, long and steep, the
Privateer
riding up over them and plunging down, and Dillon hung on, taking in the incredible scenery, the peaks of the islands all around. And then they were very close to a smaller island, turned in toward it and moved into the calmer waters of a bay.

“Congo Cay,” Carney said. “A nice dive.” He went round to the prow, dropped the anchor and came back. “Not much to tell you. Twenty-five to ninety feet. Very little current. There’s a ridge maybe three hundred feet long. If you want to limit your depth you could stay on top of that.”

“Sounds the kind of place you’d bring novices,” Dillon said, pulling on the black and green diving suit.

“All the time,” Carney told him calmly.

Dillon got into his gear quickly and fastened a weight belt round his waist. Carney had already clamped tanks to their inflatable jackets and helped Dillon ease into his while sitting on the side of the boat. Dillon pulled on his gloves.

Carney said, “See you at the anchor.”

Dillon nodded, pulled down his mask, checked that the air was flowing freely through his mouthpiece and went over backwards into the sea. He swam under the keel of the boat until he saw the anchor line and followed it down, pausing only to swallow a couple of times, a technique aimed at equalizing the pressure in his ears when they became uncomfortable.

He reached the ridge, paused with a hand on the anchor and looked at Carney descending to join him through a massive school of silversides. At that moment, an extraordinary thing happened. A black tip reef shark about nine feet in length shot out of the gloom scattering clouds of fish before it, swerved around Carney, then disappeared over the ridge as fast as it had come.

Carney made the okay sign with finger and thumb. Dillon replied in kind and followed him as he led the way along the reef. There were brilliant yellow tube sponges everywhere, and when they went over the edge there was lots of orange sponge attached to the rock faces. The coral outcroppings were multi-colored and very beautiful, and at one point Carney paused, pointing, and Dillon saw a huge eagle ray pass in the distance, wings flapping in slow motion.

It was a very calm, very enjoyable dive, but no big deal, and after about thirty minutes, Dillon realized they’d come full circle because the anchor line was ahead of them. He followed Carney up the line nice and slow, finally swam under the keel and surfaced at the stern. Carney, with practiced ease, was up over the stern pulling his gear behind him. Dillon unstrapped his jacket, slipped out of it and Carney reached down and pulled jacket and tank on board. Dillon joined him a moment later.

Carney busied himself clipping fresh tanks to the jackets and went and pulled in the anchor. Dillon put a towel over his shoulders and lit a cigarette. “The reef shark,” he said. “Does that happen often?”