Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

“And after that, who the hell knows?” Ferguson was coldly angry.

Dillon said, “I told you, she’d had enough.”

“But we need her, God dammit.”

“She’ll return to St. John when she’s ready. In the meantime, we’ll have to manage.” Dillon shrugged. “You can’t have everything in life, not even you.”

Ferguson sat there glaring at him, thoroughly angry, then said, “At least we have some sort of a lead. Tell him, Jack.”

Lane said, “Max Santiago. He’s the driving force behind a hotel group in the States, home in Puerto Rico. Hotels in Florida, Vegas, various other places and a couple of casinos.”

“Is that a fact?” Dillon said.

“Yes, my first break was with the FBI. Their highly illegal sensitive red information file. It’s highly illegal because it lists people who can’t be proved to have broken the law in any way.”

“And why would Santiago be on that?”

“Suspicion of having contacts with the Colombian drug cartel.”

“Really?” Dillon smiled. “The dog.”

“It gets worse. Samson Cay Holding Company, registered in the U.S.A. and Switzerland, goes backwards through three other companies until you get to Santiago’s name.”

“Samson Cay?” Dillon leaned forward. “Now that is interesting. A direct link. But why?”

Lane said, “Santiago’s sixty-three, old aristocratic family, born in Cuba, father a general and very involved with Batista. The family only got out by the skin of their teeth in nineteen fifty-nine when Castro took over. Given asylum in America and eventual citizenship, but according to the FBI file, the interesting thing is they had not much more than the clothes they stood up in.”

“I see,” Dillon said. “So how did good old Max develop a hotel chain that must be worth millions? The drug connection can’t explain that. All that Colombian drug business is much more recent.”

“The plain answer is nobody knows.”

Travers had been sitting listening to all this, looking bewildered. “So what is the connection? To Samson Cay and U180, Martin Bormann, all that stuff?”

“Well, the FBI file took me to the CIA,” Lane said. “They have him on their computer too, but for a different reason. Apparently Santiago’s father was a great friend of General Franco in Spain, an absolutely rabid Fascist.”

“Which could be the link with nineteen forty-five, the end of the war in Europe and Martin Bormann,” Ferguson said.

Dillon nodded. “I see it now. The Kamaradenwerk, Action for Comrades.”

“Could be.” The Brigadier nodded. “More than likely. Just take one aspect. Santiago and his father reach America flat broke and yet mysteriously manage to get their hands on the very large funds necessary to go into business. We know for a fact that the Nazi Party salted away millions all over the world to enable their work to keep going.” He shrugged. “All conjecture, but it makes sense.”

“Except for one thing,” Dillon said.

“And what’s that?”

“How Santiago knew about Baker finding U180. I mean, how did he know about him coming to London, staying at Lord North Street with the Admiral, Jenny, me? He does seem singularly well-informed, Brigadier.”

“I must say Dillon’s got a point,” Travers put in.

Ferguson said, “The point is well taken and we’ll find the answer in time, but for the moment we’ll just have to get on with it. You’ll leave for the Caribbean tomorrow.”

“Just as we planned?” Dillon said.

“Exactly. British Airways to Antigua, then onwards to St. John.”

Dillon said, “Would you think it likely that Max Santiago will turn up there? He’s had his fingers in everything else so far.”

“We’ll just have to see.”

“As I said,” Lane interrupted. “He has a home in Puerto Rico and that’s very convenient for the Virgin Islands. Apparently he runs one of those multi-million-dollar motor yachts.” He looked at his file. “It’s called the Maria Blanco . Captain and a crew of six.”

“If he turns up you’ll just have to do the best you can,” Ferguson said. “That’s what you’re going to be there for. You’ll have your Platinum Card and traveler’s checks for twenty-five thousand dollars. Your cover is quite simple. You’re a wealthy Irishman.”

“God save us, I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Don’t be stupid, Dillon,” Ferguson told him. “You’re a wealthy Irishman with a company in Cork. General electronics, computers and so on. We’ve provided a nice touch for you. When you arrive in Antigua, there’ll be a seaplane waiting. You can fly a seaplane, I presume?”

“I could fly a Jumbo if I had to, Brigadier, but then you knew that.”

“So I did. What kind of plane did you say it was, Jack?”

“A Cessna 206, sir.” Lane turned to Dillon. “Apparently it’s got floats and wheels so you can land on sea or on land.”

“I know the type,” Dillon said. “I’ve flown planes like it.”

“The center of things in St. John is a town called Cruz Bay,” the Inspector carried on. “On occasions they’ve had a commercial seaplane service round there so there’s a ramp in the harbor, facilities and so on.”

Ferguson passed a folder across. “The documents department have done you proud. Two passports, Irish and British in your own name. Being born in Belfast, you’re entitled to those. C.A.A. commercial pilot’s license with a seaplane rating.”

“They think of everything,” Dillon said.

“You’ll also find your tickets and traveler’s checks in there. You’ll be staying at Caneel Bay, one of the finest resorts in the world. Stayed there once myself some years ago. Paradise, Dillon, you’re a lucky chap, paradise on a private peninsula not too far from Cruz Bay.”

Dillon opened the file and leafed through some of the brochures. “Situated on its own private peninsula, seven beaches, three restaurants,” he read aloud. “It sounds my kind of place.”

“It’s anyone’s kind of place,” Ferguson said. “The two best cottages are 7E and 7D. Ambassadors stay there, Dillon, film stars. I believe Kissinger was in 7E once. Also Harry Truman.”

“I’m overwhelmed,” Dillon said.

“It will all help with your image.”

“One thing,” Lane said. “It’s an old tradition there that there are no telephones in the cottages. There are public telephones dotted around, but we’ve arranged for you to have a cellular portable phone. They’ll give it to you when you check in.”

Dillon nodded. “So I get there. Then what do I do?”

“That’s really up to you,” Ferguson said. “We hoped the girl would be there to assist, but thanks to your misplaced gallantry that isn’t on for the moment. However, I would suggest you contact this diver she mentioned, this Bob Carney. He runs a firm called Paradise Watersports, based at Caneel Bay. There’s a brochure there.”

“Teaches tourists to dive,” Lane said.

Dillon found the brochure and glanced through it. It was attractively set out with excellent underwater photos, but the most interesting one was of Captain Bob Carney himself seated at the wheel of a boat, good-looking, tanned and very fit.

“Jesus,” Dillon said. “If you wanted an actor to play that fella you’d have trouble finding someone suitable at Central Casting.”

Ferguson said, “An interesting man, this Carney chap. Tell him, Jack.”

Lane opened another file.

“Born in Mississippi in nineteen forty-eight, but he spent most of his youth in Atlanta. Wife, Karye, a boy of eight, Walker, girl aged five named Wallis. He did a year at the University of Mississippi, then joined the Marines and went to Vietnam. Did two tours, in sixty-eight and sixty-nine.”