Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

“I’ve just been to see the P.M. I understand you’ve been complaining again, old boy? Didn’t do you any good. He’s told me to carry on and use my judgment.”

Carter was furious, but he managed to control himself and glanced at Lane. “Who’s this?”

“My present assistant, Detective Inspector Jack Lane. I’ve borrowed him from Special Branch.”

“That’s against regulations, you can’t do it.”

“That’s as may be, but I’m not a deckhand on your ship. I run my own and, as my time is limited, let’s get down to facts. Dillon arrived in St. John around five o’clock in the evening their time yesterday. He was attacked by two crew members of Santiago’s boat, the Maria Blanco , who ran him off the road in his jeep and fired a shotgun at him.”

“My God!” Pamer said in horror.

Carter frowned. “Is he all right?”

“Oh, yes, a rubber ball our Dillon, always bounces back. Personally I think they were trying it on, hassling him. Of course the interesting thing is how come they knew who he was and knew he was there?”

“Now look here,” Pamer began, “I trust you’re not suggesting any lack of security on our part?”

Carter said, “Shut up, Francis, he’s got a valid point. This Santiago man is far too well informed.” He turned to Ferguson. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Actually, I was thinking of taking a brief holiday,” Ferguson told him. “You know, sun, sea and sand, swaying palms? They tell me the Virgins are lovely at this time of the year.”

Carter nodded. “You’ll stay in touch?”

“Of course, dear old boy.” Ferguson smiled and turned to Lane. “Let’s go, Jack, we’ve lots to do.”

On the way back to the Ministry Ferguson told his chauffeur to pull in beside a mobile sandwich bar on Victoria Embankment. “This man does the best cup of tea in London, Jack.”

The owner greeted him as an old friend. “Rotten day, Brigadier.”

“It was worse on the Hook, Fred,” the Brigadier said and walked with his cup of tea to the wall overlooking the Thames.

As Lane received his cup of tea he said to Fred, “What did he mean, the Hook?”

“That was a really bad place that was, worst position in the whole of Korea. So many dead bodies that every time you dug another trench, arms and legs came out.”

“You knew the Brigadier then?”

“Knew him? I was a platoon sergeant when he was a second lieutenant. He won his first Military Cross carrying me on his back under fire.” Fred grinned. “That’s why I never charge for the tea.”

Lane, impressed, joined Ferguson and leaned on the parapet under the umbrella. “You’ve got a fan there, sir.”

“Fred? Old soldier’s tales. Don’t listen. I’m going to need the Learjet. Direct flight to St. Thomas should be possible.”

“I believe the work on those new tanks the RAF did has extended the range to at least four thousand miles, sir.”

“There you are then.” Ferguson glanced at his watch. “Just after ten. I want that Learjet ready to leave Gatwick no later than one o’clock, Jack. Top priority. Allowing for the time difference, I could be in St. Thomas somewhere between five or six o’clock their time.”

“Do you want me with you, sir?”

“No, you’ll have to hold the fort.”

“You’ll need accommodation, sir. I’ll see to that.”

Ferguson shook his head. “I’ve reserved it at this Caneel place where I booked Dillon in.”

“You mean you were expecting what happened to happen?”

“Something like that.”

“Look, sir,” said Lane in exasperation, “exactly what is going on?”

“When you find out, tell me, Jack.” Ferguson emptied his cup, went and put it on the counter. “Thanks, Fred.” He turned to Lane. “Come on, Jack, must get moving, lots to do before I leave,” and he got into the rear of the Daimler.

Santiago was up early, even went for a swim in the sea, and was seated at the table in the stern enjoying his breakfast in the early morning sunshine when Algaro brought him the telephone.

“It’s Sir Francis,” he said.

“A wonderful morning here,” Santiago said. “How’s London?”

“Cold and wet. I’m just about to have a sandwich lunch and then spend the whole afternoon in interminable Committee meetings. Look, Max, Carter saw the Prime Minister and tried to put the boot into Ferguson because he was employing Dillon.”

“I didn’t imagine Carter to be quite so stupid. Ferguson still got his way of course?”

“Yes, the P.M. backed him to the hilt. More worrying, he asked for another meeting with me and Carter, and told us Dillon had been attacked on his first night in St. John. What on earth was that about?”

“My people were just leaning on him a little, Francis. After all, and as you made clear, he knows of my existence.”

“Yes, but what Ferguson’s now interested in is how you knew who Dillon was, the fact that he was arriving in St. John and so on. He said you were far too well informed, and Carter agreed with him.”

“Did he make any suggestion as to how he thought I was getting my information?”

“No, but he did say he thought he’d join Dillon in St. John for a few days.”

“Did he now? That should prove interesting. I look forward to meeting him.”

Pamer said, genuine despair in his words, “God dammit, Max, they know of your involvement. How long before they know about mine?”

“You’re not on the boards of any of the companies, Francis, and neither was your father. No mention of the name Pamer anywhere, and the great thing about this whole affair is that it is a private war. As I’ve already told you, Ferguson won’t want the American authorities in on this. We’re rather like two dogs squabbling over the same bone.”

“I’m still worried,” Pamer told him. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Keep the information flowing, Francis, and keep your nerve. Nothing else you can do.”

Santiago put the phone down and Algaro said, “More coffee, Señor?”

Santiago nodded. “Brigadier Ferguson is coming.”

“Here to Caneel?” Algaro smiled. “And what would you like me to do about him, Señor?”

“Oh, I’ll think of something,” Santiago said and drank his coffee. “In the meantime, let’s find out what our friend Dillon is up to this morning.”

Guerra went round to Caneel Beach in an inflatable, taking one of the divers with him, a young man called Javier Noval. They wore swimming shorts, tee-shirts and dark glasses, just another couple of tourists. They pulled in amongst other small craft at the dock, Guerra killed the outboard motor and Noval tied up. At that moment Dillon appeared at the end of the dock. He wore a black tracksuit and carried a couple of towels.

“That’s him,” Guerra told Noval. “Get going. I’ll stay out of the way in case he remembers me from last night.”

Bob Carney was manhandling dive tanks from a trolley on to the deck of a small twenty-five-foot dive boat, turned and saw Dillon. He waved and went along the dock to join him, passing Noval, who stopped to light a cigarette close enough to listen to them.

Carney said, “You’re going to need a few things. Let’s go up to the dive shop.”

They moved away. Noval waited and then followed.

There was a wide range of excellent equipment. Dillon chose a three-quarter-length suit of black and green in padded nylon, nothing too heavy, a mask, fins and gloves.

“Have you tried one of these?” Carney opened a box. “A Marathon dive computer. The wonder of the age. Automatic readings on your depth, elapsed time under water, safe time remaining. Even tells you how long you should wait to fly.”

“That’s for me,” Dillon told him. “I always was lousy at mental arithmetic.”