Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

“It sounds idyllic,” he said.

She braked in a turned circle beside a two-storied, flat-roofed building surrounded by trees and bushes of every description. “Here we are, Cottage Seven.”

There were steps up to the upper level. “It isn’t all one then?” Dillon asked.

She opened the door into a little vestibule. “People do sometimes take it all, but up here it’s divided into two units. Seven D and Seven E.”

The doors faced each other, she unlocked 7D and led the way in. There was a superb shower room, a bar area with a spare icebox. The bedroom-cum-sitting room was enormous and very pleasantly furnished with tiled floor and comfortable chairs and a sofa, and there were venetian blinds at the windows, two enormous fans turning in the ceiling.

“Is this all right?” she asked.

“I should say so.” Dillon nodded at the enormous bed. “Jesus, but a man would have to be a sprinter to catch his wife in that thing.”

She laughed and opened the double doors to the terrace and led the way out. There was a large seating area and a narrow part round the corner that fronted the other windows. There was a grassy slope, trees and a small beach below, three or four large yachts of the ocean-going type at anchor some distance from shore.

“Paradise Beach,” she said.

There was another beach way over to the right with a line of cottages behind it. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Scott Beach and Turtle Bay is a little further on. You could walk there in fifteen minutes, although there is a courtesy bus service with stops dotted round the grounds.”

There was a knock at the door, she went back inside and supervised the bellboy leaving the luggage. Dillon followed her. She turned. “I think that’s everything.”

“There was the question of a telephone,” Dillon said. “You don’t have them in the cottages, I understand.”

“My, but I was forgetting that.” She opened her carrying bag and took out a cellular telephone plus a spare battery and charger. She put it on the coffee table with a card. “Your number and instructions are there.” She laughed. “Now I hope that really is everything.”

Dillon opened the door for her. “You’ve been very kind.”

“Oh, one more thing, our General Manager, Mr. Nicholson, asked me to apologize for not being here to greet you. He had business on St. Thomas.”

“That’s all right. I’m sure we’ll catch up with each other later.”

“I believe he’s Irish too,” she said and left.

Dillon opened the icebox under the bar unit, discovering every kind of drink one could imagine including two half-bottles of champagne. He opened one of them, poured a glass, then went out and stood on the terrace looking out over the water.

“Well, old son, this will do to take along,” he said softly and drank the champagne with conscious pleasure.

In the end, of course, the sparkle on the water was too seductive and he went inside, unpacked, hanging his clothes in the ample wardrobe space, then undressed and found some swimming trunks. A moment later he was hurrying down the grass bank to the little beach, which for the moment he had entirely to himself. The water was incredibly warm and very clear. He waded forward and started to swim, there was a sudden swirl over on his right, an enormous turtle surfaced, looked at him curiously, then moved sedately away.

Dillon laughed aloud for pure pleasure, then swam lazily out to sea in the direction of the moored yachts, turning after some fifty yards to swim back. Behind him, the Maria Blanco came round the point from Caneel Bay and dropped anchor about three hundred yards away.

Santiago had changed his mind about Samson Cay only after Captain Serra had brought him a message from the radio room. An enquiry by ship-to-shore telephone had confirmed that Dillon had arrived at Caneel Bay.

“He’s booked into Cottage Seven,” Serra said.

“Interesting,” Santiago told him. “That’s the best accommodation in the resort.” He thought about it, tapping his fingers on the table, and made his decision. “I know it well, it overlooks Paradise Beach. We’ll anchor there, Serra, for tonight at least.”

“As you say, Señor.”

Serra went back to the bridge and Algaro, who had been standing by the stern rail, poured Santiago another cup of coffee.

Santiago said, “I want you to go ashore tonight. Take someone with you. There’s the Land-Rover Serra leaves permanently in the car park at Mongoose Junction. He’ll give you the keys.”

“What do you require me to do, Señor?”

“Call in at Caneel, see what Dillon is up to. If he goes out, follow him.”

“Do I give him a problem?” Algaro asked hopefully.

“A small one, Algaro,” Santiago smiled. “Nothing too strenuous.”

“My pleasure, Señor,” Algaro said and poured him another cup of coffee.

Dillon didn’t feel like anything too formal, wore only a soft white cotton shirt and cream linen slacks, both by Armani, as he walked through the evening darkness toward Caneel Beach. He carried a small torch in one pocket provided by the management for help with the dark spots. It was such a glorious night that he didn’t need it. The Terrace Restaurant was already doing a fair amount of business, but then Americans liked to dine early, he knew that. He went to the front desk, cashed a traveler’s check for five hundred dollars, then tried the bar.

He had never cared for the usual Caribbean liking for rum punches and fruit drinks, settled for an old fashioned vodka martini cocktail, which the genial black waitress brought for him quite rapidly. A group of musicians were setting up their instruments on the small bandstand and way out across the sea he could see the lights of St. Thomas. It really was very pleasant, too easy to forget he had a job to do. He finished his drink, signed for it and went along to the restaurant, where he introduced himself to the head waiter and was seated.

The menu was tempting enough. He ordered grilled sea scallops, a Caesar salad, followed by Caribbean lobster tail. No Krug but a very acceptable half-bottle of Veuve Clicquot completed the picture.

He was finished by nine o’clock and wandered down to reception. Algaro was sitting in one of the leather armchairs looking at the New York Times . The girl on duty was the one who’d taken Dillon to the cottage.

She smiled. “Everything okay, Mr. Dillon?”

“Perfect. Tell me, do you know a bar called Jenny’s Place?”

“I sure do. It’s on the front, just past Mongoose Junction on your way into town.”

“They stay open late I presume?”

“Usually till around two in the morning.”

“Many thanks.”

He moved away and walked along the dock, lighting a cigarette. Behind him Algaro went out and hurried along the car park by Sugar Mill, laughter drifting down from the people dining up there. He moved past the taxis waiting for customers to where the Land-Rover waited. Felipe Guerra, the Maria Blanco ’s mate, sat behind the wheel.

Algaro got in beside him and Guerra said, “Did you find him?”

“I was within touching distance. He was asking about that bar, Jenny’s Place. You know it? On the front in Cruz Bay.”

“Sure.”

“Let’s take a look. From the sound of it he intends to pay the place a visit.”

“Maybe we can make it interesting for him,” Guerra said and drove away.

Dillon drove past Mongoose Junction, located Jenny’s Place, then turned and went back to the Junction car park. He walked along the front of the harbor through the warm night, went up the steps, glanced up at the red neon sign and entered. The cafe side of things was busy, Mary Jones taking orders while two waitresses, one white, the other black, worked themselves into a frenzy as they attempted to serve everybody. The bar was busy also although Billy Jones seemed to be having no difficulty in managing on his own.