Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

Johnson writhed on the ground in agony and Dillon picked up the automatic. It was an old Italian Beretta, small caliber, somewhere close to a point-two-two.

“Woman’s gun,” Dillon said, “but it’ll do the job.” He crouched down beside Johnson. “Who do you work for, sonny?”

“Don’t say a word,” Smith called.

“Who said I was going to?” Johnson spat in Dillon’s face. “Get fucked.”

“Suit yourself.”

Dillon rolled him over, put the muzzle of the gun against the back of his left knee and fired. Johnson gave a terrible cry and Dillon took a handful of his hair and pulled his head back.

“Do you want me to do the other one? I’ll put you on sticks if you like.”

“No,” Johnson moaned. “We work for Santiago – Max Santiago.”

“Really?” Dillon said. “And where would I find him?”

“He lives in Puerto Rico, but lately he’s been in Paris.”

“And you did the burglary at Lord North Street?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy. See how easy it was?”

“You stupid bugger,” Smith said to Johnson. “You’ve just dug your own grave.”

Dillon tossed the Beretta over the wall into the Thames. “I’d say he’s been very sensible. Westminster Hospital’s not too far from here, first-class casualty department and free, even for animals like you, thanks to the National Health Service.”

He turned and found Jenny staring at him in a daze and he took her arm. “Come on, love, let’s go home.”

As they walked away Smith called, “I’ll get you for this, Dillon.”

“No you won’t,” Dillon said. “You’ll put it down to experience and hope that this Max Santiago feels the same way.”

They emerged from the gardens and paused at the pavement edge, waiting for a gap in the traffic. Dillon said, “Are you all right?”

“My God!” she said wonderingly. “What kind of man are you, Sean Dillon, to do that?”

“They’d have done worse to you, my love.”

He took her hand and ran with her across the road.

When they reached the house she went straight upstairs and Dillon went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, thinking about things as he waited for it to boil. Max Santiago? Progress indeed, something for Ferguson to get his teeth into there. He was aware of Jenny coming down the stairs and going into the study, made the coffee, put the cups on a tray. As he went to join her he realized she was on the phone.

“British Airways? What’s the last flight to Paris tonight?” There was a pause. “Nine-thirty? Can you reserve me a seat? Grant – Jennifer Grant. Yes, I’ll pick it up at reservations. Yes, Terminal Four, Heathrow.”

She put the phone down and turned as Dillon entered. He put the tray on the desk. “Doing a runner are you?”

“I can’t take it. I don’t understand what’s going on. Ferguson, you and now those men and that gun. I can’t get it out of my mind. I was going away anyway, but I’m going to get out now while I can.”

“To Paris?” he said. “I heard you on the phone.”

“That’s just a jumping-off point. There’s someone I have to see, someone I want to take this to.” She picked up the black metal box containing the ashes. “Henry’s sister.”

“Sister?” Dillon frowned.

“I’m probably about the only person left who knows he had one. There are special reasons for that so don’t ask me and don’t ask me where I’m going after Paris.”

“I see.”

She glanced at her watch. “Seven o’clock, Dillon, and the flight’s at nine-thirty. I can make it, only don’t tell Ferguson, not until I’ve gone. Help me, Dillon, please.”

“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?”