Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

It started to overtake him, a large black truck, and Smith cursed, frightened to death, knowing what this was, and he frantically worked at the wheel. The truck swerved in, knocking him sideways, and with nowhere to go, the van spun off the road, smashed through a fence and turned over twice on its way down a seventy-foot bank. It came to a crumpled halt and Smith, still conscious as he lay on his side in the cab, could smell petrol as the fractured tank spilled its contents.

There was the noise of someone scrambling down the bank and footsteps approached. “Help me,” Smith moaned, “I’m in here.”

Someone struck a match. It was the last thing he remembered. One final moment of horror as it was flicked toward him through the darkness and the petrol fireballed.

In Paris at Charles de Gaulle Airport it was almost midnight by the time Jenny Grant had retrieved her suitcase and she walked out into the concourse quickly and found an Avis car rental desk.

“You’re still open, thank goodness,” she said as she got her passport and driving license out.

“But of course,” the young woman on duty replied in English. “We always wait until the final arrival of the day, even when there is a delay. How long will you require the car for, mademoiselle?”

“Perhaps a week. I’m not certain, but I’ll be returning here.”

“That’s fine.” The girl busied herself with the paperwork and took a print from her charge card. “Follow me and I’ll take you to the car.”

Ten minutes later Jenny was driving out of the airport sitting behind the wheel of a Citroën saloon and headed west, Normandy the destination. The traveling urn was on the passenger seat beside her. She touched it briefly, then settled back to concentrate on her driving. She had a long way to go, would probably have to drive through the night, but that didn’t matter because London and the terrible events of the last few days were behind her and she was free.

Dillon rose early, was in the kitchen cooking bacon and eggs at seven-thirty when Travers entered in his dressing gown.

“Smells good,” the Admiral said. “Jenny about yet?”

“Well, to be honest with you, Admiral, she’s not been about for some time.” Dillon poured boiling water into a china teapot. “There you go, a nice cup of tea.”

“Never mind that. What are you talking about?”

“Well, drink your tea like a good lad and I’ll tell you. It began with her getting upset and going for a walk.”

Dillon worked his way through his bacon and eggs while he related the events of the previous night. When he was finished the Admiral just sat there frowning. “You took too much on yourself, Dillon.”

“She’d had enough, Admiral,” Dillon told him. “It’s as simple as that and I didn’t see any reason to stop her.”

“And she wouldn’t tell you where she was going?”

“First stop Paris, that’s all I know. After that, to some unknown destination to see Baker’s sister. She’s taking the ashes to her, that’s obvious.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Travers sighed wearily. “I’ll have to tell Ferguson. He won’t like it, won’t like it one little bit.”

“Well it’s time he discovered what an unfair world it is,” Dillon told him and opened the morning paper.

Travers sighed heavily again, gave up, went to his study and sat at the desk. Only then did he reluctantly reach for the phone.

It was just after nine when Jenny Grant braked to a halt outside the Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity in the village of Briac five miles outside Bayeux. She had driven through the night, was totally drained. Iron gates stood open, she drove inside and stopped in a graveled circular drive in front of the steps leading up to the door of the beautiful old building. A young novice, a white working smock over her robes, was raking the gravel.

Jenny got out holding the traveling urn. “I’d like to see the Mother Superior. It’s most urgent. I’ve come a long way.”

The young woman said in good English, “I believe she’s in chapel, we’ll see, shall we?”

She led the way through pleasant gardens to a small chapel, which stood separate from the main building. The door creaked when she opened it. It was a place of shadows, an image of the Virgin Mary floating in candlelight, and the smell of incense was overpowering. The young novice went and whispered to the nun who knelt in prayer at the altar rail, then returned.

“She’ll be with you in a moment.”

She went out and Jenny waited. After a while the Mother Superior crossed herself and stood up. She turned and came toward her, a tall woman in her fifties with a sweet, serene face. “I am the Mother Superior. How may I help you?”

“Sister Maria Baker?”

“That’s right.” She looked puzzled. “Do I know you, my dear?”

“I’m Jenny – Jenny Grant. Henry told me he’d spoken to you about me.”

Sister Maria Baker smiled. “But of course, so you’re Jenny.” And then she looked concerned. “There’s something wrong, I can tell. What is it?”

“Henry was killed in an accident in London the other day.” Jenny held out the traveling urn. “I’ve brought you his ashes.”

“Oh, my dear.” There was pain on Sister Maria Baker’s face and she crossed herself, then took the urn. “May he rest in peace. It was so kind of you to do this thing.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t just that. I don’t know which way to turn. So many awful things have happened.”

Jenny burst into tears and sat down in the nearest pew. Sister Maria Baker put a hand on her head. “What is it, my dear, tell me.”

When Jenny was finished it seemed very quiet in the chapel. Sister Maria Baker said, “Mystery upon mystery here. Only one thing is certain. Henry’s unfortunate discovery of that submarine is of critical importance to many people, but enough of that now.”

“I know,” Jenny said, “and I’ll have to go back to St. John if only to help Sean Dillon. He’s a bad man, sister, I know that, and yet so kind to me. Isn’t that strange?”

“Not really, my dear.” Sister Maria Baker drew her to her feet. “I suspect that Mr. Dillon is no longer so certain that what he longed for was right. But all that can wait. You need a few days of total rest, a time to reflect, and that’s doctor’s orders. I am a doctor, you know, we’re a nursing order. Now let’s find you a room,” and they went out together, leaving the chapel to the quiet.

When Dillon and Travers were shown into the flat at Cavendish Square just before noon, Ferguson was sitting by the fire going over a file. Jack Lane was standing by the window looking out.

Dillon said, “God save all here.”

Ferguson glanced up coldly. “Very amusing, Dillon.”

“Well the correct reply is ‘God save you kindly,’ ” Dillon said, “but we’ll let it pass.”

“What in the hell were you playing at?”

“She wanted to go, Brigadier, she’d had enough for the moment, it was as simple as that. The attack by those two apes in Victoria Tower Gardens finished her off.”

“So you just decided to go along with her?”

“Not her, her needs, Brigadier.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “She told me she wanted to see Baker’s sister and begged me not to ask her where that would be. Said there were special reasons she didn’t want to divulge.”

“Would you be interested to know that Lane has run a check and can’t find any mention of Baker having a sister?”

“Not at all. Jenny said she was probably the only person who knew he had one. Some dark family secret, perhaps.”

“So, she flew to Paris and took off for God knows where?”

Lane cut in. “We did a check at Charles de Gaulle. She hired a car at the Avis desk.”