Thunder Point (36 page)

Dillon turned, his left arm sweeping Algaro’s right to the side, the Walther discharging into the deck. Dillon closed with him. “If you’re going to do it, do it, don’t talk about it.” They struggled for a moment, feeling each other’s strength. “Why don’t you call for help?”

“Because I’ll kill you myself with my own hands,” Algaro told him through clenched teeth. “For my own pleasure.”

“You’re good at beating up girls, aren’t you?” Dillon said. “How are you with a man?”

Algaro twisted round, exerting all his strength, and pushed Dillon back against the rail at the prow. It was his last mistake, for Dillon let himself go straight over, taking Algaro with him, and the sea was Dillon’s territory, not his.

Algaro dropped the Walther as they went under the water and started to struggle and Dillon held on, pulling him down, aware of the anchor chain against his back. He grabbed for it with one hand and got a forearm across Algaro’s throat. At first he struggled very hard indeed, feet kicking, but quickly weakened. Finally, he was still. Dillon, his own lungs nearly bursting, reached one-handed and unbuckled his weight belt. He passed it around Algaro’s neck and fastened the buckle again, binding him to the anchor chain.

He surfaced, taking in great lungfuls of air. It occurred to him then that Carney would be watching events through the night sight and he turned and raised an arm, then hauled himself back up the anchor chain.

He kept to the shadows, moving along the deck until he came to the main salon. He glanced in a porthole and saw Santiago sitting at the desk, the briefcase open, reading. Dillon crouched down, thinking about it, then made his decision. He took what was left of the Semtex from his dive bag, inserted the two thirty-minute detonator fuses, went and dropped it down one of the engine room air vents, then returned and peered through the porthole again.

Santiago was sitting at the desk, but now he replaced the documents in his briefcase, closed it, yawned and got up and went into the bedroom. Dillon didn’t hesitate. He moved into the companionway, opened the salon door and darted across to the desk, and as he picked up the briefcase, Santiago came back into the room.

The cry that erupted from his mouth was like a howl of anguish. “No!” he cried and Dillon turned and ran for the door. Santiago got the desk drawer open, grabbed a Smith & Wesson and fired blindly.

Dillon was already into the companionway and making for the deck. By now, the ship was aroused and Serra appeared from his cabin at the rear of the bridge, a gun in his hand.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

“Stop him!” Santiago cried. “It’s Dillon.”

Dillon didn’t hesitate, but kept to the shadows, running to the stern and jumped over the rail. He went under as deep as he could, but the case made things awkward. He surfaced, aware that they were firing at him, and struck out for the darkness as fast as possible. In the end, it was Carney who saved him, roaring out of the night and tossing him a line.

“Hang on and let’s get the hell out of here,” he called, boosted speed and took them away into the friendly dark.

Serra said, “Guerra’s dead, his body is still here, but no sign of Solona and Algaro.”

“Never mind that,” Santiago told him. “Dillon and Carney didn’t come all the way in that inflatable from St. John. Carney’s Sport Fisherman must be nearby.”

“True,” Serra said, “and they’ll up anchor and start back straightaway.”

“And the moment they move, you’ll see them on your radar, right? I mean, there’s no other boat moving out to sea from Samson Cay tonight.”

“True, Señor.”

“Then get the anchor up.”

Serra pressed the bridge button for the electric hoist. The motor started to whine. Santiago said, “What now?”

The three remaining members of the crew, Pinto, Noval and Mugica, were down on the forward deck and Serra leaned over the bridge rail. “The anchor line is jamming. Check it.”

Mugica leaned over the prow, then turned. “It’s Algaro. He’s tied to the chain.”

Santiago and Serra went down the ladder and hurried to the prow and looked over. Algaro hung there from the anchor chain, the weight belt around his throat. “Mother of God!” Santiago said. “Pull him up, damn you!” He turned to Serra. “Now let’s get moving.”

“Don’t worry, Señor,” Serra told him. “We’re faster than they are. There’s no way they can get back to St. John without us overtaking them,” and he turned to the ladder and went up to the bridge as Noval and Mugica hauled Algaro’s body in through the chain port.

At Shunt Bay, Ferguson leaned anxiously over the stern of
Sea Raider
as the inflatable coasted in out of the darkness.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Dillon passed the Bormann briefcase up to him. “That’s what happened. Now let’s get out of here.”

He stepped on to the diving platform and Carney passed him the inflatable line and Dillon tied it securely, then went to the deckhouse and worked his way round to the prow and started to pull in the anchor. It came free of the sandy bottom with no difficulty. Behind him, Carney had already gone up to the flying bridge and was starting the engines.

Ferguson joined him. “How did it go?”

“He doesn’t take prisoners, I’ll say that for him,” Carney said. “But let’s get out of here. We don’t have any kind of time to hang about.”

Sea Raider
plowed forward into the night, the wind freshening four to five. Ferguson sat in the swivel chair and Dillon leaned against the rail beside Carney.

“They’re faster than we are, you know that,” Carney said. “And he’s going to keep coming.”

“I know,” Dillon told him. “He doesn’t like to lose.”

“Well, I sure as hell can’t go any faster, we’re doing twenty-two knots and that’s tops.”

It was Ferguson who saw the
Maria Blanco
first. “There’s a light back there, I’m sure there is.”

Carney glanced round. “That’s them all right, couldn’t be anyone else.”

Dillon raised the night sight.

“Yes, it’s the
Maria Blanco
.”

“He’s got good radar on that thing, must have,” Carney said. “No way I can lose him.”

“Oh, yes there is,” Dillon said. “Just keep going.”

Serra, on the bridge of the
Maria Blanco
, held a pair of night glasses to his eyes. “Got it,” he said and passed the glasses to Santiago.

Santiago focused them and saw the outline of
Sea Raider
. “Right, you bastards.” He leaned over the bridge rail and looked down at Mugica, Noval and Pinto, who all waited on the forward deck, holding M16 rifles. “We’ve seen them. Get yourselves ready.”

Serra increased speed, the
Maria Blanco
raced forward over the waves and Santiago raised the glasses again, saw the outline of
Sea Raider
and smiled. “Now, Dillon, now,” he murmured.

The explosion, when it came, was instantaneous, tearing the bottom out of the ship. What happened was so catastrophic that neither Santiago, Captain Serra nor the three remaining crew members had time to take it in as their world disintegrated and the
Maria Blanco
lifted, then plunged beneath the waves.

On the flying bridge of
Sea Raider
what they saw first was a brilliant flash of orange fire and then, a second or two later, the explosion boomed across the water. And then the fire disappeared, extinguished, only darkness remaining. Bob Carney killed the engine instantly.

It was very quiet. Ferguson said, “A long way down.”

Dillon looked back through the night sight. “U180 went further.” He put the night sight in the locker under the instrument panel. “He did say they were carrying explosives, remember?”

Carney said, “We should go back, perhaps there are survivors.”

“You really think so after that?” Dillon said gently. “St. John’s that way.”

Carney switched on the engines, and as they plowed forward into the night Dillon went down the ladder to the deckhouse. He took off his diving suit, pulled on his tracksuit, found a pack of cigarettes, went to the rail.

Ferguson came down the ladder and joined him. “My God!” he said softly.

“I don’t think he had much to do with it, Brigadier,” Dillon said and he lit a cigarette, the Zippo flaring.

It was just after ten the following morning when a nurse showed the three of them into the private room at the St. Thomas Hospital. Dillon was wearing the black cord slacks, the denim shirt and the black flying jacket he’d arrived in on the first day, Ferguson supremely elegant as usual in his Panama, blazer and Guards tie. Jenny was propped up against pillows, her head swathed in white bandages.

Mary, sitting beside her, knitting, got up. “I’ll leave you to it, but don’t you gentlemen overtire her.”

She went out and Jenny managed a weak smile. “My three musketeers.”

“Now that’s kind of fanciful.” Bob Carney took her hand. “How are you?”

“I don’t feel I’m here half the time.”

“That will pass, my dear,” Ferguson said. “I’ve had a word with the Superintendent. Anything you want, any treatment you need, you get. It’s all taken care of.”

“Thank you, Brigadier.”

She turned to Dillon, looked up at him without speaking. Bob Carney said, “I’ll be back, honey, you take care.”

He turned to Ferguson, who nodded, and they went out.

Dillon sat on the bed and took her hand. “You look terrible.”

“I know. How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“How did it all go?”

“We’ve got the Bormann briefcase. The Brigadier has his Learjet waiting at the airport. We’re taking it back to London.”

“The way you put it, you make it sound as if it was easy.”

“It could have been worse. Don’t go on about it, Jenny, there’s no point. Santiago and his friends, that animal, Algaro, they’ll never bother you again.”

“Can you be certain of that?”

“As a coffin lid closing,” he said bleakly.

There was a kind of pain on her face. She closed her eyes briefly, opened them again. “People don’t really change, do they?”

“I am what I am, Jenny,” he said simply. “But then you knew that.”

“Will I see you again?”

“I don’t think that’s likely.” He kissed her hand, got up, went to the door and opened it.

“Dillon,” she called.

He turned. “Yes, Jenny?”

“God bless and take care of yourself.”

The door closed softly, she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.

They allowed Carney to walk out across the tarmac to the Lear with them, a porter pushing a trolley with the luggage. One of the two pilots met them and helped the porter stow the luggage while Dillon, Ferguson and Carney stood at the bottom of the steps.

The Brigadier held up the briefcase. “Thanks for this, Captain Carney. If you ever need help or I can do you a good turn.” He shook hands. “Take care, my friend,” and he went up the steps.

Carney said, “What happens now, in London, I mean?”

“That’s up to the Prime Minister,” Dillon said. “Depends what he wants to do with those documents.”

“It was a long time ago,” Carney said.

“A legitimate point of view.”

Carney hesitated, then said, “This Pamer guy, what about him?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Dillon said calmly.

“Oh, yes you have.” Carney shook his head. “God help you, Dillon, because you’ll never change,” and he turned and walked away across the tarmac.

Dillon joined Ferguson inside and strapped himself in. “A good man that,” Ferguson said.

Dillon nodded. “The best.”

The second pilot pulled up the steps and closed the door, went and joined his colleague in the cockpit. After a while, the engines fired and they moved forward. A few moments later, they were climbing high and out over the sea.

Ferguson looked out. “St. John over there.”

“Yes,” Dillon said.

Ferguson sighed. “I suppose we should discuss what happens when we get back.”

“Not now, Brigadier.” Dillon closed his eyes. “I’m tired. Let’s leave it till later.”

The house at Chocolate Hole had never seemed so empty when Bob Carney entered it. He walked slightly aimlessly from room to room, then went in the kitchen and got a beer from the icebox. As he went to the living room the phone rang.

It was his wife, Karye. “Hi, honey, how are you?”

“I’m fine, just fine. How about the kids?”

“Oh, lively as usual. They miss you. This is an impulse call. We’re at a gas station near Orlando. I just stopped to fill up.”

“I’m sure looking forward to you coming back.”

“It won’t be long now,” she said. “I know it’s been lonely for you. Anything interesting happened?”

A slow smile spread across Carney’s face and he took a deep breath. “Not that I can think of. Same old routine.”

“Bye, honey, I’ll have to go.”

He put the phone down, drank some of his beer, went out on the porch. It was a fine, clear afternoon and he could see the islands on the other side of Pillsbury Sound and beyond. A long way, but not as far as Max Santiago had gone.

It was just before six o’clock the following evening in Ferguson’s office at the Ministry of Defence and Simon Carter sat on the other side of the desk, white-faced and shaken as Ferguson finished talking.

“So what’s to be done about the good Sir Francis?” Ferguson asked. “A Minister of the Crown, behaving not only dishonourably but in what can only be described as a criminal way.”

Dillon, standing by the window in a blue Burberry trenchcoat, lit a cigarette and Carter said, “Does
he
have to be here?”

“Nobody knows more of this affair than Dillon, can’t keep him out of it now.”

Carter picked up the Blue Book file, hesitated, then put it down and unfolded the Windsor Protocol to read it again. “I can’t believe this is genuine.”

“Perhaps not, but the rest of it is.” Ferguson reached across for the documents, replaced them in the briefcase and closed it. “The Prime Minister will see us at Downing Street at eight. Naturally I haven’t invited Sir Francis. I’ll meet you there.”