Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

Dillon found a vacant stool at the end of the bar and waited until Billy was free to deal with him. “Irish whisky, whatever you’ve got, and water.”

He noticed Bob Carney seated at the other end of the long bar, a beer in front of him, talking to a couple of men who looked like seamen. Carney was smiling and then as he turned to reach for his beer, became aware of Dillon’s scrutiny and frowned.

Billy brought the whisky and Dillon said, “You’re Billy Jones?”

The other man looked wary. “And who might you be?”

“Dillon’s the name – Sean Dillon. I’m staying at Caneel. Jenny told me to look you up and say hello.”

“Jenny did?” Billy frowned. “When you see Miss Jenny?”

“In London. I went to Henry Baker’s cremation with her.”

“You did?” Billy turned and called to his wife. “Woman, get over here.” She finished taking an order, then joined them. “This is my wife, Mary. Tell her what you just told me.”

“I was with Jenny in London.” Dillon held out his hand. “Sean Dillon. I was at Baker’s funeral, not that there was much doing. She said he was an atheist, so all we did was attend the crematorium.”

Mary crossed herself. “God rest him now, but he did think that way. And Jenny, what about her? Where is she?”

“She was upset,” Dillon said. “She told me Baker had a sister.”

Mary frowned and looked at her husband. “We never knew that. Are you sure, mister?”

“Oh, yes, he had a sister living in France. Jenny wouldn’t say where, simply flew off to Paris from London. Wanted to take his ashes to the sister.”

“And when is she coming back?”

“All she said was she needed a few days to come to terms with the death and so on. As I happened to be coming out here she asked me to say hello.”

“Well I thank you for that,” Mary said. “We’ve been so worried!” A customer called from one of the tables. “I’ll have to go. I’ll see you later.”

She hurried away and Billy grinned. “I’m needed too, but hang around, man, hang around.”

He went to serve three clamouring customers and Dillon savoured his whisky and looked around the room. Algaro and Guerra were drinking beer in a corner booth. They were not looking at him, apparently engaged in conversation. Dillon’s eyes barely paused, passed on, and yet he recognized him from the reception at Caneel, the cropped hair, the brutal face, the scar from eye to the mouth.

“Judas Iscariot come to life,” Dillon murmured. “And what’s your game, son?” for he had learned the hard way over many years never to believe in coincidence.

The two men Carney had been talking to had moved on and he was sitting alone now, the stool next to him vacant. Dillon finished his drink, moved along the bar through the crowd. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Carney’s eyes were very blue in the tanned face. “Should I?”

“Dillon, Sean Dillon.” Dillon eased on to the stool. “I’m staying at Caneel. Cottage Seven. Jenny Grant told me to look you up.”

“You know Jenny?”

“I was just with her in London,” Dillon said. “Her friend, Henry Baker, was killed in an accident over there.”

“I heard about that.”

“Jenny was over for the inquest and the funeral.” Dillon nodded to Billy Jones, who came over. “I’ll have another Irish. Give Captain Carney whatever he wants.”

“I’ll have a beer,” Carney said. “Did Jenny bury him in London?”

“No,” Dillon told him. “Cremation. He had a sister in France.”

“I never knew that.”

“Jenny told me few people did. It seems he preferred it that way. Said she wanted to take the ashes to her. Last I saw of her she was flying to Paris. Said she’d be back here in a few days.”

Billy brought the whisky and the beer and Carney said, “So you’re here on vacation?”

“That’s right. I got in this evening.”

“Would you be the guy who came in the Cessna floatplane?”

“Flew up from Antigua.” Dillon nodded.

“On vacation?”

“Something like that.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “The thing is I’m interested in doing a little diving, and Jenny suggested I speak to you. Said you were the best.”

“That’s nice of her.”

“She said you taught Henry.”

“That’s true.” Carney nodded. “Henry was a good diver, foolish, but still pretty good.”

“Why do you say foolish?”

“It never pays to dive on your own, you should always have a buddy with you. Henry would never listen. He would just up and go whenever he felt like it, and that’s no good when you’re diving regularly. Accidents can happen no matter how well you plan things.” Carney drank some more beer and looked Dillon full in the face. “But then I’d say you’re the kind of man who knows that, Mr. Dillon.”

He had the slow, easy accent of the American southerner as if everything he said was carefully considered.

Dillon said, “Well in the end it was an accident that killed him in London. He looked the wrong way and stepped off the pavement in front of a London bus. He was dead in a second.”

Carney said calmly, “You know the old Arab saying? ‘Everybody has an appointment in Samarra.’ You miss Death in one place, he’ll get you in another. At least for Henry it was quick.”

“That’s a remarkably philosophical attitude,” Dillon told him.

Carney smiled. “I’m a remarkably philosophical fellow, Mr. Dillon. I did two tours in Vietnam. Everything has been a bonus since. So you want to do some diving?”

“That’s right.”

“You any good?”

“I manage,” Dillon told him. “But I’m always willing to learn.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at the dock at Caneel at nine o’clock in the morning.”

“I’ll need some gear.”

“No problem, I’ll open the shop for you.”

“Fine.” Dillon swallowed his whisky. “I’ll see you then.” He hesitated. “Tell me something. You see the two guys in the booth in the far corner? I particularly mean the ugly one with the scar. Do you happen to know who they are?”

“Sure,” Carney said. “They work on a big motor yacht from Puerto Rico that calls in here now and then. It’s owned by a man called Santiago. It’s usually based at Samson Cay, that’s over on the British side of things. The younger guy is the mate, Guerra, the other is a real mean son of a bitch called Algaro.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He half-killed a fisherman outside one of the bars here about nine months ago. He was lucky to get away without doing some prison time. They laid a real hefty fine on him, but his boss paid it, so I heard. He’s the kind of guy to step around.”

“I’ll certainly remember that.” Dillon got up. “Tomorrow then,” and he walked out through the crowd.

Billy came down the bar. “You want another beer, Bob?”

“What I need is something to eat, my wife being away and all,” Carney said. “What did you make of him?”

“Dillon? He said he was in London with Jenny. Happened to be coming down here and she told him to look us up.”

“Well that sure was a hell of a coincidence.” Carney reached for his glass and noticed Algaro and Guerra get up and leave. He almost got up and went after them, but what the hell, it wasn’t his problem, whatever it was, and in any case, Dillon was perfectly capable of looking after himself, he’d never been more certain of anything in his life.

Dillon drove out of Cruz Bay, changing down to climb the steep hill up from the town, thinking about Carney. He’d liked him straightaway, a calm, quiet man of enormous inner strength, but then, remembering his background, that made sense.

He breasted the hill, remembering that in St. John you kept on the left-hand side of the road just like England, was suddenly aware of the headlights coming up behind him very fast. He expected to be overtaken, wasn’t, and as the vehicle behind moved right in on his tail knew he was in trouble. He recognized it as a Land-Rover in his rearview mirror an instant before it bumped him, put his foot down hard and pulled away, driving so fast that he went straight past the turning to Caneel Bay.