Thunder Point (28 page)

“And Sir Francis Pamer?” Ferguson asked.

“Little Francis?” Jackson laughed. “He growed up real fine. I’ve seen him here many times. Can we go now, gents?”

“Of course,” Ferguson said.

Jackson drove away, Dillon took out a cigarette and no one said a word until they reached the front entrance. Ferguson produced his wallet, extracted a ten-pound note and passed it to Jackson. “My thanks.”

“And I thank you,” Jackson told him. “I’ll be ready for you gents when you want to go back.”

The three of them paused at the bottom of the steps. Dillon said, “So now we know how Santiago comes to be so well informed.”

“God in heaven,” Ferguson said. “A Minister of the Crown and one of the oldest families in England.”

“A lot of those people thought Hitler had the right ideas during the nineteen-thirties,” Dillon said. “It fits, Brigadier, it all fits. What about Carter?”

“The British Secret Service was unfortunate enough to employ dear old Kim Philby, Burgess, MacLean, all of whom also worked for the KGB and sold us down the river to Communism without a moment’s hesitation. Since then, there was Blunt, rumours of a fifth man, a sixth.” Ferguson sighed. “In spite of the fact that I don’t care a jot for Simon Carter, I must tell you that I believe he’s an old-fashioned patriot and honest as the day is long.”

Carlos Prieto appeared at the top of the steps. “Brigadier Ferguson, what a pleasure. Señor Santiago is waiting for you in the bar. He’s just come over from the
Maria Blanco
. He prefers to stay on board while he’s here.”

The lounge bar was busy with the rich and the good as one would expect in such a place. People tended to be older rather than younger, the men especially, mostly American, being rather obviously close to the end of their working lives. There was a preponderance of trousers in fake Scottish plaid swelling over ample bellies, white tuxedos.

“God save me,” Dillon said, “I’ve never seen so many men who resembled dance-band leaders in their prime.”

Ferguson laughed out loud and Santiago, who was seated in a booth by the bar, Algaro bending over him, turned to look at them. He stood up and reached out a hand urbanely. “My dear Brigadier Ferguson, such a pleasure.”

“Señor Santiago,” Ferguson said formally. “I’ve long looked forward to this meeting.” He pointed briefly at Algaro with his Malacca cane. “But do we really have to have this creature present? I mean couldn’t he go and feed the fish or something?”

Algaro looked as if he would have liked to kill him on the spot, but Santiago laughed out loud. “Poor Algaro, an acquired taste, I fear.”

“The little devil.” Dillon wagged a finger at Algaro.

“Now go and chew a bone or something, there’s a good boy.”

Santiago turned and said to Algaro in Spanish, “Your turn will come, go and do as I have told you.”

Algaro went out and Ferguson said, “So, here we are. What now?”

“A little champagne perhaps, a pleasant dinner?” Santiago waved to Prieto, who snapped his fingers at a waiter and escorted him with a bottle of Krug in an ice bucket. “One can be civilized, can’t one?”

“Isn’t that a fact?” Dillon checked the label. “Eighty-three. Not bad, Señor.”

“I bow to your judgment.” The waiter filled the glasses and Santiago raised his. “To you, Brigadier Ferguson, to the playing fields of Eton and the continued success of Group Four.”

“You
are
well informed,” the Brigadier said.

“And you, Captain Carney, what a truly remarkable fellow you are. War hero, sea captain, diver of legendary proportions. Who on earth could they get to play you in the movie?”

“I suppose I’d just have to do it myself,” Carney told him.

“And Mr. Dillon. What can I say to a man whose only rival in his chosen profession has been Carlos.”

“So you know all about us,” Ferguson said. “Very impressive. You must need what’s in that U-boat very badly indeed.”

“Let’s lay our cards on the table, Brigadier. You want what should still be in the captain’s quarters, Bormann’s briefcase containing his personal authorization from the Führer, the Blue Book and the Windsor Protocol.”

There was a pause and it was Carney who said, “Interesting, you didn’t call him Hitler, you said the Führer.”

Santiago’s face was hard. “A great man, a very great man who had a vision of the world as it should be, not as it has turned out.”

“Really?” Ferguson commented. “I’d always understood that if you counted Jews, Gypsies, Russians and war dead from various countries, around twenty-five million people died to prove him wrong.”

“We both want the same thing, you and I,” Santiago said. “The contents of that case. You don’t want them to fall into the wrong hands. The old scandal affecting so many people, the Duke of Windsor, putting the Royal Family in the eye of the storm again. The media would have a field day. As I say, we both want the same thing. I don’t want all that to come out either.”

“So the work continues,” Ferguson said. “The Kamaraden? How many names are on that list, famous names, old names who have prospered since the War in industry and business, all on the back of Nazi money?”

“Jesus,” Dillon said. “It makes the Mafia look like small beer.”

“Come now,” Santiago told him. “Is any of this important after all these years?”

“It sure as hell must be, either to you or close friends,” Carney said, “otherwise why would you go to such trouble?”

“But it is important, Mr. Carney,” Ferguson said. “That’s the point. If the network continues over the years, if sons become involved, grandsons, people in higher places, politicians, for example.” He drank some more champagne. “Imagine, as I say, just for example, having someone high in Government. How useful that would be and then, after so many years, the kind of scandal that could bring everything down around your ears.”

Santiago waved for the waiter to pour more champagne. “I thought you might be sensible, but I see not. I don’t need you, Brigadier, or you, Mr. Carney. I have my own divers.”

“Finding it is not enough,” Carney said. “You’ve got to get into that tin can and that requires expertise.”

“I have divers, Mr. Carney, an ample supply of C4, is that the name of the explosive? I only employ people who know what they are doing.” He smiled. “But this is not getting us anywhere.” He stood up. “At least we can eat like civilized men. Please, gentlemen, join me.”

The Ford station wagon slowed to a halt at the side of the air strip, Algaro sitting in the rear behind Joseph Jackson. “Is this where you wanted, mister?”

“I guess so,” Algaro said. “Those people you brought in from the plane, what were they like?”

“Nice gentlemen,” Jackson said.

“No, what I mean is, were they curious? Did they ask questions?”

Jackson began to feel uncomfortable. “What kind of questions you mean, mister?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Algaro told him. “They talked and you talked. Now what about?”

“Well the English gentleman, he was interested in the old days. I told him how I was caretaker here in the Herbert place during the big War with my wife.”

“And what else did you tell him?”

“Nothing, mister, I swear.” Jackson was frightened now.

Algaro put a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed. “Tell me, damn you!”

“It was nothing much, mister.” Jackson struggled to get away. “About the Pamers.”

“The Pamers?”

“Yes, Lady Pamer and how she came here at the end of the War.”

“Tell me,” Algaro said. “Tell me everything.” He patted him on the side of the face. “It’s all right, just tell the truth.”

Which Jackson did and when he was finished, Algaro said, “There, that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

He slid an arm across Jackson’s throat, put his other hand on top of his head and twisted, breaking the neck so cleanly that the old man was dead in a second. He went round, opened the door and pulled the body out. He positioned it with the head just under the car by the rear wheel, took out a flick knife, sprung it and stabbed the point into the rear offside tire so that it deflated. He got the tool kit out, raised the car on the hydraulic jack, whistling as he pumped it up.

Very quickly, he undid the bolts and removed the tire. He stood back and kicked at the jack and the rear of the station wagon lurched to one side and descended on Jackson. He took out the spare tire and laid it beside the other one, then walked across to the Cessna and stood looking at it for quite some time.

The meal was excellent. West Indian chicken wings with blue cheese, conch chowder followed by baked red snapper. No one opted for dessert and Santiago said, “Coffee?”

“I’d prefer tea,” Dillon told him.

“How very Irish of you.”

“All I could afford as a boy.”

“I’ll join you,” Ferguson said and at that moment Algaro appeared in the doorway.

“You must excuse me, gentlemen.” Santiago got up and went and joined Algaro. “What is it?”

“I found out who the Jackson man was, the old fool driving that Ford taxi.”

“So what happened?”

Algaro told him briefly and Santiago listened intently, watching as the waiter took tea and coffee to the table.

“But it means our friends now know that Sir Francis is involved in this business.”

“It doesn’t make any difference, Señor. We know the girl is returning tomorrow, we know she thinks she knows where the U-boat is. Who needs these people any more?”

“Algaro,” Santiago said. “What have you done?”

As Santiago returned to the table, Ferguson finished his tea and stood up. “Excellent dinner, Santiago, but we really must be going.”

“What a pity. It’s been quite an experience.”

“Hasn’t it? By the way, a couple of presents for you.” Ferguson took the two tracking bugs from his pocket and put them on the table. “Yours, I think. Give my regards to Sir Francis next time you’re in touch, or I could give your regards to him.”

“How well you put it,” Santiago said and sat down.

They reached the front entrance to find Prieto standing at the top of the steps looking flustered. “I’m so sorry, gentlemen, but I’ve no idea what’s happened to the taxi.”

“It’s of no consequence,” Ferguson said. “We can walk there in five or six minutes. Good night to you. Excellent meal,” and he went down the steps.

It was Carney who noticed the station wagon just as they reached the airstrip. “What’s he doing over there?” he said and called, “Jackson?”

There was no reply. They walked across and saw the body at once. Dillon got down on his knees and got as close as he could. He stood up, brushing his clothes. “He’s been dead for some time.”

“The poor bastard,” Carney said. “The jack must have toppled over.”

“A remarkable coincidence,” Ferguson said.

“Exactly.” Dillon nodded. “He tells us all about Francis Pamer and bingo, he’s dead.”

“Just a minute,” Carney put in. “I mean, if Santiago knew about the old boy’s existence, why leave it till now? I’d have thought he’d have got rid of him a lot earlier than this.”

“But not if he didn’t realize he existed,” Ferguson said.

Dillon nodded. “Until somebody told him, somebody who’s been feeding all the other information he needed.”

“You mean, this guy Pamer?” Carney asked.

“Yes, isn’t it perfectly dreadful,” Ferguson said. “Just shows you you can’t trust anyone these days. Now let’s get out of here.”

He and Carney got in the rear seats and strapped themselves in. Dillon got a torch from the map compartment and did an external inspection. He came back, climbed into the pilot’s seat and closed the door. “Everything looks all right.”

“I don’t think he’ll want to kill us yet,” Ferguson said. “All the other little pranks have been aggravation, but he still needs us to hopefully lead him to that U-boat, so let’s get moving, there’s a good fellow, Dillon.”

Dillon switched on, the engine roared into life, the propeller turned. He carefully checked the illuminated dials on the instrument panel. “Fuel, oil pressure.” He recited the litany. “Looks good to me. Here we go.”

He took the Cessna down the runway and lifted into the night, turning out to sea.

It was a magnificent night, stars glittering in the sky, the sea and the islands below bathed in the hard white light of the full moon. St. John loomed before them. They crossed Ram Head, moving along the southern coast, and it happened, the engine missed a beat, coughed and spluttered.

“What is it?” Ferguson demanded.

“I don’t know,” Dillon said and then checked the instruments and saw what had happened to the oil pressure.

“We’ve got problems,” he said. “Get your life jackets on.”

Carney got the Brigadier’s out and helped him into it. “But surely the whole point of these things is that you don’t have to crash, you can land on the sea,” Ferguson said.

“That’s the theory,” Dillon told him and the engine died totally and the propeller stopped.

They were at nine hundred feet and he took the plane down in a steep dive. “Reef Bay dead ahead,” Carney said.

“Right, now this is how it goes,” Dillon told them. “If we’re lucky, we’ll simply glide down and land on the water. If the waves are too much we might start to tip, so bail out straightaway. How deep is it down there, Carney?”

“Around seven fathoms close in.”

“Right, there’s a third alternative, Brigadier, and that’s going straight under.”

“You’ve just made my night,” Ferguson told him.

“If that happens, trust Carney, he’ll see to you, but on no account waste time trying to open the door on your way down. It’ll just stay closed until we’ve settled and enough water finds its way inside and equalizes the pressure.”

“Thanks very much,” Ferguson said.

“Right, here we go.”

The surface of the bay was very close now and it didn’t look too rough. Dillon dropped the Cessna in for what seemed like a perfect landing and something went wrong straightaway. The plane lurched forward sluggishly, not handling at all, then tipped and plunged beneath the surface nose-down.