Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

Dillon called in to St. Thomas airport to notify them of his approach. The controller said, “Cleared for landing at Cruz Bay. Await customs and immigration officials there.”

Dillon went down low, turning to starboard, found Samson Cay with no difficulty and crossed over at a thousand feet. There was a harbor dotted with yachts, a dock, cottages and a hotel block grouped around the beach amidst palm trees. The airstrip was to the north, no control tower, just an air sock on a pole. There were people lounging on the beach down there. Some stood up and waved. He waggled his wings and flew on, found Cruz Bay fifteen minutes later and drifted in for a perfect landing just outside the harbor.

He entered the harbor and found the ramp with little difficulty. There were several uniformed officials standing there and one or two other people, all black. He taxied forward, let the wheels down and ran up onto the ramp, killed the engine. One of the men in customs uniform held a couple of wedge-shaped blocks by a leather strap and he came and positioned them behind the wheels.

Dillon climbed out. “Lafayette, we are here.”

Everyone laughed genially and the immigration people checked his passport, perfectly happy with the Irish one, while the customs men had a look at the luggage. Everything was sweetness and light and they all departed with mutual expressions of goodwill. As they walked away a young woman in uniform, rose pink this time, who had been waiting patiently at one side, came forward.

“I’ve got your jeep here as ordered, Mr. Dillon. If you could sign for me and show me your license, you can be on your way.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Dillon said and carried the suitcases across and slung them on the backseat.

As he signed, she said, “I’m sorry we didn’t have an automatic in at the moment. I could change it for you tomorrow. I’ve got one being returned.”

“No, thanks, I prefer to be in charge myself.” He smiled. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

“That’s nice of you.” She got in beside him and he drove away. About three hundred yards further on as he came to the road she said, “This is fine.”

There was an extremely attractive looking development opposite. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Mongoose Junction, our version of a shopping mall, but much nicer. There’s also a super bar and a couple of great restaurants.”

“I’ll look it over sometime.”

She got out. “Turn left, follow the main road. Caneel Bay’s only a couple of miles out. There’s a car park for residents. From there it’s a short walk down to Reception.”

“You’ve been very kind,” Dillon told her and drove away.

The Maria Blanco had cost Santiago two million dollars and was his favorite toy. He preferred being on board to staying at his magnificent house above the city of San Juan, particularly since the death of his wife Maria from cancer ten years earlier. Dear Maria, his Maria Blanco, the one soft spot in his life. Of course, this was no ordinary boat, had every conceivable luxury, needed a captain and five or six crew members to man her.

Santiago sat at a table on the upper deck enjoying the sun and a cup of excellent coffee, Algaro standing behind him. The captain, Julian Serra, a burly, black-bearded man in uniform, sat opposite. He, like most of Santiago’s employees, had been with him for years, had frequently taken part in activities of a highly questionable nature.

“So you see, my dear Serra, we have a problem on our hands here. The man Dillon will probably approach this diver, this Bob Carney, when he reaches St. John.”

“Wrecks are notoriously difficult to find, Señor,” Serra told him. “I’ve had experts tell me they’ve missed one by a few yards on occasions. It’s not easy. There’s a lot of sea out there.”

“I agree,” Santiago said. “I still think the girl must have some sort of an answer, but she may take her time returning. In the meantime, we’ll surprise Mr. Dillon as much as possible.” He smiled up at Algaro. “Think you can handle that, Algaro?”

“With pleasure, Señor,” Algaro said.

“Good.” Santiago turned back to Serra. “What about the crew?”

“Guerra, first mate. Solona and Mugica as usual, and I’ve brought in two men with good diving experience, Javier Noval and Vicente Pinto.”

“And they’re reliable?”

“Absolutely.”

“And we’re expected at Samson Cay?”

“Yes, Señor, I spoke to Prieto personally. You wish to stay there?”

“I think so. We could always drop anchor off Paradise Beach at Caneel, of course. I’ll think about it.” Santiago finished his coffee and stood up. “Right, let’s get moving then.”

Dillon took to Caneel from the moment he got there. He parked the jeep and, carrying his own bags, followed the obvious path. There was a magnificent restaurant on a bluff up above him, circular with open sides. Below it was the ruins of a sugar mill from the old plantation days. The vegetation was extremely lush, palm trees everywhere. He paused, noticing a gift shop on the left and set back. More important the smaller shop next to it said “Paradise Watersports,” Carney’s place. He remembered that from the brochure and went and had a look. As he would have expected, there were diving suits of various kinds on display, but the door was locked, so he carried on and came to the front desk lobby.

There were three or four people being dealt with at the desk before him so he dropped his bags and went back outside. There was a very large bar area, open at the sides, but under a huge barnlike roof, a vital necessity in a climate where instant heavy rain showers were common.

Beyond was Caneel Bay, he knew that from the brochure, boats of various kinds at anchor, a pleasant, palm-fringed beach beside another restaurant, people still taking their ease in the early evening sun, one or two windsurfers still out there. Dillon glanced at his watch. It was almost five-thirty and he started to turn away to go back to the front desk when he saw a boat coming in.

It was a 35-foot Sport Fisherman with a flying bridge, sleek and white, but what intrigued Dillon were the dozen or so airtanks stacked in their holders in the stern, and there were four people moving around on deck packing their gear into dive bags. Carney was on the flying bridge, handling the wheel, in jeans and bare feet, stripped to the waist, very tanned, the blond hair bleached by the sun. Dillon recognized him from the photo in the brochure.

The name of the boat was Sea Raider , he saw that as it got closer, moved to the end of the dock as Carney maneuvered it in. One of the dive students tossed a line, Dillon caught it and expertly tied up at the stern, then he moved along to the prow where the boat was bouncing against its fenders, reached over and got the other line.

Dillon lit a cigarette, his Zippo flashing, and Carney killed the engines and came down the ladder. “Thanks,” he called.

Dillon said, “My pleasure, Captain Carney,” and he turned and walked away along the dock.

One of the receptionists from the front desk took him out to his cottage in a small courtesy bus. The grounds were an absolute delight, not only sweeping grassland and palm trees, but every kind of tropical plant imaginable.

“The entire peninsula is private,” she said as they followed a narrow road. “We have seven beaches and, as you’ll notice, most of the cottages are grouped around them.”

“I’ve only seen two restaurants so far,” he commented.

“Yes, Sugar Mill and Beach Terrace. There’s a third at the end of the peninsula, Turtle Bay, that’s more formal. You know, collar and tie and so on. It’s wonderful for an evening drink. You look out over the Windward Passage to dozens of little islands, Carval Rock, Whistling Cay. Of course a lot further away you’ll see Jost Van Dyke and Tortola, but they’re in the British Virgins.”