Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

She was distressed again and Sister Maria Baker took her hands. “That’s enough, you need sleep. A few days’ rest will work wonders. You’ll remember then what you can’t now, I promise you. Now let’s have you in bed.”

She took Jenny by the hand and led her out.

Ferguson’s Daimler picked Dillon up at seven-thirty the following morning to take him to Gatwick and Travers insisted on accompanying him. The journey out of town at that time in the morning with all the heavy traffic going the other way was relatively quick, and Dillon was ready to go through passport control and security by eight-thirty.

“They’ve already called it, I see,” Travers said.

“So it seems.”

“Look here, Dillon,” Travers said awkwardly. “We’ll never see eye-to-eye, you and me, I mean the IRA and all that stuff, but I want to thank you for what you did for the girl. I liked her – liked her a lot.”

“And so did I.”

Travers shook Dillon’s hand. “Take care, this Santiago sounds bad news.”

“I’ll try, Admiral.”

“Another thing.” Travers sounded more awkward than ever. “Charles Ferguson is a dear friend, but he’s also the most devious old sod I’ve ever known in my life. Watch yourself in the clinches there too.”

“I will, Admiral, I will,” Dillon said, watched the Admiral walk away, then turned and went through.

A nice man, he thought as the Jumbo lifted off and climbed steadily, a decent man, but nobody’s fool and he was right; there was more to all this than the surface of things, nothing was more certain than that, and Ferguson knew what it was. Devious old sod . An apt description.

“Ah, well, I can be just as devious,” Dillon murmured and accepted the glass of champagne the stewardess offered.

The flight to Antigua took a little over eight hours thanks to a tailwind, and they arrived just after two o’clock local time. It was hot, really hot, very noticeable after London. Dillon felt quite cheered and strode ahead of everybody else toward the airport building, wearing black cord slacks and a denim shirt, his black flying jacket over one shoulder. When he reached the entrance a young black woman in a pale blue uniform was standing there with a board bearing his name.

Dillon paused. “I’m Dillon.”

She smiled. “I’m Judy, Mr. Dillon. I’ll see you through immigration and so on and then take you to your plane.”

“You represent the handling agents?” he asked as they walked through.

“That’s right. I need to see your pilot’s license and there are a couple of forms to fill in for the aviation authority, but we can do that while we’re waiting for the luggage to come through.”

Twenty minutes later she was driving him out to the far side of the runway in a courtesy bus, an engineer called Tony in white overalls sitting beside her. The Cessna was parked beside a number of private planes, slightly incongruous because of its floats, with wheels protruding beneath.

“Shouldn’t give you any problems,” Tony said as he stowed Dillon’s two suitcases. “Flies as sweet as a nut. Of course a lot of people are nervous about flying in the islands with a single engine, but the beauty about this baby is you can always come down in the water.”

“Or something like that,” Dillon said.

Tony laughed, reached into the cabin and pointed. “There’s an air log listing all the islands and their airfields and charts. Our chief pilot has marked your course from here to Cruz Bay in St. John. Very straightforward. Around two hundred and fifty miles. Takes about an hour and a half.” He glanced at his watch. “You should be there by four-thirty.”

“It’s American territory, but customs and immigration are expecting you. They’ll be waiting at the ramp at Cruz Bay. When you’re close enough, call in to St. Thomas and they’ll let them know you’re coming. Oh, and there will be a self-drive jeep waiting for you.” Judy smiled. “I think that’s about it.”

“Thanks for everything.” Dillon gave her that special smile of his with total charm and kissed her on the cheek. “Judy, you’ve been great.” He shook Tony’s hand. “Many thanks.”

A moment later he was in the pilot’s seat, closing the door. He strapped himself in, adjusted his earphones, then fired the engine and called the tower. There was a small plane landing and the tower told him to wait. They gave him the good word and he taxied to the end of the runway. There was a short pause, then the go signal and he boosted power, roared down the runway and pulled back the column at exactly the right moment, the Cessna climbing effortlessly out over the azure sea.

It was an hour later that Max Santiago flew into San Juan, where he was escorted through passport control and customs with a minimum of fuss by an airport official to where his chauffeur, Algaro, waited with the black Mercedes limousine.

“At your orders, Señor,” he said in Spanish.

“Good to see you, Algaro,” Santiago said. “Everything is arranged as I requested?”

“Oh yes, Señor. I’ve packed the usual clothes, took them down to the Maria Blanco myself this morning. Captain Serra is expecting you.”

Algaro wasn’t particularly large, five foot seven or eight, but immensely powerful, his hair cropped so short that he almost looked bald. A scar, running from the corner of the left eye to the mouth, combined to give him a sinister and threatening appearance in spite of the smart gray chauffeur’s uniform he wore. He was totally devoted to Santiago, who had saved him from a life sentence for the stabbing to death of a young prostitute two years previously by the liberal dispensing of funds not only to lawyers but corrupt officials.

The luggage arrived at that moment and while the porters stowed it Santiago said, “Good, you needn’t take me to the house. I’ll go straight to the boat.”

“As you say, Señor.” They drove away, turned into the traffic of the main road and Algaro said, “Captain Serra said you asked for a couple of divers in the crew. It’s taken care of.”

“Excellent.” Santiago picked up the local newspaper, which had been left on the seat for him, and opened it.

Algaro watched him in the mirror. “Is there a problem, Señor?”

Santiago laughed. “You’re like an animal, Algaro, you always smell trouble.”

“But that’s what you employ me for, Señor.”

“Quite right.” Santiago folded the newspaper, selected a cigarette from an elegant gold case and lit it. “Yes, my friend, there is a problem, a problem called Dillon.”

“May I know about him, Señor?”

“Why not? You’ll probably have to, how shall I put it, take care of him for me, Algaro.” Santiago smiled. “So listen carefully and learn all about him because this man is good, Algaro, very good indeed.”

It was a perfect afternoon, the limitless blue sky with only the occasional cloud as Dillon drifted across the Caribbean at five thousand feet. It was pure pleasure, the sea constantly changing color below, green and blue, the occasional boat, the reefs and shoals clearly visible at that height.

He passed the islands of Nevis and St. Kitts, calling in to the local airport, moved on flying directly over the tiny Dutch island of Saba. He had a brisk tailwind and made good time, better than he had expected, found St. Croix on his port side on the horizon no more than an hour after leaving Antigua.

Soon after that, the main line of the Virgins lifted out of the heat haze to greet him, St. Thomas to port, the smaller bulk of St. John to starboard, Tortola beyond. He checked the chart and saw Peter Island below Tortola and east of St. John, Norman Island south of it, and south of there was Samson Cay.