Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

“Certainly, guv.” The driver examined Dillon’s open-necked shirt in the rear-view mirror. “Wasting your time there, guv, dressed like that. They won’t let you in. Jacket-and-tie job. Members and their guests only.”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Dillon told him. “Just take me there.”

When they reached the Garrick, the driver pulled in at the curb and turned. “Shall I wait, guv?”

“Why not? I’ll be straight out again if what you say is true.”

Dillon went up the steps and paused at the desk. The uniformed porter was civil enough. “Can I help you, sir?”

Dillon put on his finest public-school accent. “I’m looking for Brigadier Charles Ferguson. I was told he was dining here tonight. I need to see him most urgently.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow you upstairs, sir. We do require a jacket and tie, but if you care to wait here I’ll have a message sent to the Brigadier. What was the name, sir?”

“Dillon.”

The porter picked up the telephone and spoke to someone. He put the phone down. “He’ll be with you directly, sir.”

Dillon moved forward into the hall, admiring the grand staircase, the oil paintings that covered the walls. After a while Ferguson appeared up there, looked over the rail at him and came down the stairs.

“What on earth do you want, Dillon? I’m halfway through my dinner.”

“Oh, Jesus, Your Honor.” Dillon stepped effortlessly into the Stage Irishman. “It’s so good of you to see me, the grand man like yourself and this place so elegant.”

The porter looked alarmed and Ferguson took Dillon by the arm and propelled him outside to the top of the steps. “Stop playing the fool, my steak will be quite ruined by now.”

“Bad for you at your age, red meat.” Dillon lit a cigarette, the Zippo flaring. “I’ve found out who the opposition is.”

“Good God, who?”

“A name, that’s all I have. Santiago – Max Santiago. He lives in Puerto Rico, but recently he’s been in Paris. By the way, they also did the burglary.”

“How did you find this out?”

“I had a run-in with our two friends from the coroner’s court.”

Ferguson nodded. “I see. I hope you didn’t have to kill anyone?”

“Now would I do a thing like that? I’ll leave it with you, Brigadier, I feel like an early night.”

He went down the steps to the cab and got in. “I told you, guv,” the cabby said.

“Oh, well,” Dillon said. “You can’t win them all. Take me to Lord North Street,” and he leaned back and looked out at the London night scene.

Jack Lane, only recently divorced, lived alone in a flat in West End Lane on the edge of Hampstead. He was cooking a frozen pizza in his microwave oven when the phone rang and his heart sank.

“Jack? Ferguson here. Dillon had a run-in with those two suspicious characters who were at the coroner’s court and the crematorium. They’ve been working for a Max Santiago, resident of Puerto Rico, recently in Paris.”

“Is that all, sir?”

“It’s enough. Get yourself down to the office. See if French Intelligence has anything on him, then try the CIA, the FBI, anybody you can think of. He must be on somebody’s computer. Did you get anything on this Bob Carney fellow, the diver?”

“Yes, sir, an interesting man in more ways than one.”

“Right, you can brief me in the morning, but get cracking on this Santiago thing now. Five hours earlier than us in the States, remember.”

“I’ll try to, sir.”

Lane put the phone down with a groan, opened the microwave oven and looked with distaste at the pizza. What the hell, he’d nothing better to do and he could always pick up some fish and chips on the way to the Ministry.

At his flat, Smith was on his second large Scotch, his right forearm in plaster and held by a sling. He felt terrible and it was beginning to hurt a great deal. He was pouring another Scotch when the phone rang.

Santiago said, “Have you anything for me?”

“Not yet, Mr. Santiago.” Smith searched wildly for something to say. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Shah has been on the phone. Johnson shot and you with a broken arm. ‘Fucking little Irish bastard,’ I believe that was the phrase you used. Presumably Dillon?”

“Well, yes, Mr. Santiago, we did have a run-in with him. We’d got the girl, see, and he managed to jump us. He had a gun.”

“Did he really?” Santiago commented dryly. “And what did you say when he asked you who your employer was?”

Smith answered instinctively, “Not a bloody thing, it was Johnson who…”

He stopped dead and Santiago said, “Carry on, tell me the worst.”

“All right, Mr. Santiago, the stupid bastard did give Dillon your name.”

There was silence for a moment and then Santiago said, “I’m disappointed in you, my friend, most disappointed.” The phone clicked and the line went dead.

Smith knew what that meant. More frightened than he had ever been in his life, he packed a suitcase one-handed, retrieved a thousand pounds mad money he kept in a sugar tin in the kitchen and left. Two minutes later he was behind the wheel of the van and driving away one-handed. He had an old girlfriend in Aberdeen who’d always had a weakness for him. Scotland, that was the place to go. As far away from Johnson as possible.

At the nursing home Shah sat behind his desk, the phone to his ear. After a while he put it down, sighed heavily and went out. He went into the small pharmacy at the side of the operating theater, fitted a syringe together and filled it from a phial he took from the medicine cupboard.

When he opened the door at the end of the corridor, Johnson was sleeping, linked to a drip. Shah stood looking down at him for a moment, then bared the left forearm and inserted the needle. Johnson sucked in air very deeply for about five times, then stopped altogether. Shah checked for vital signs, found none and went out. He paused at the reception desk, picked up the phone and dialed.

A voice said, “Deepdene Funeral Service. How may we serve you?”

“Shah here. I have a disposal for you.”

“Ready now?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Thank you.”

Shah replaced the receiver and went back to his office, humming to himself.

It was almost eleven when Travers returned to Lord North Street and found Dillon sitting in the study reading a book. “Jennifer gone to bed?” Travers asked.

“More than an hour ago. She was very tired.”

“Not surprising, been through a hell of a lot that girl. Fancy a nightcap, Dillon? Can’t offer you Irish, but a good single malt perhaps?”

“Fine by me.”

Travers poured it into two glasses, gave him one and sat opposite. “Cheers. What are you reading?”

“Epictetus.” Dillon held the book up. “He was a Greek philosopher of the Stoic School.”

“I know who he was, Dillon,” Travers said patiently. “I’m just surprised that you do.”

“He says here that a life not put to the test is not worth living. Would you agree to that, Admiral?”

“As long as it doesn’t mean bombing the innocent in the name of some sacred cause or shooting people in the back, then I suppose I do.”

“God forgive you, Admiral, but I never planted a bomb in the way you mean or shot anyone in the back in me life.”

“God forgive me, indeed, Dillon, because for some obscure reason I’m inclined to believe you.” Travers swallowed his whisky and got up. “Good night to you,” he said and went out.

Things had gone better than Smith had expected and he soon had the hang of handling the wheel one-handed, just the fingers of his right hand touching the bottom of the wheel. The rain wasn’t helping, of course, and beyond Watford he missed a turning for the motorway and found himself on a long dark road, no other vehicles in sight, and then headlights were switched on behind and a vehicle came up far too fast.