Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

Carney itemized the bill. “I’ll put this on your hotel account.”

Dillon signed it. “So what have you got planned?”

“Oh, nothing too strenuous, you’ll see.” Carney smiled. “Let’s get going,” and he led the way out.

Noval dropped down into the inflatable. “The other man is called Carney. He owns the diving concession here. Paradise Watersports.”

“So they are going diving?” Guerra asked.

“They must be. Dillon was in the shop with him buying equipment.” He glanced up. “Here they come now.”

Dillon and Carney passed above them and got into the dive boat. After a moment Carney fired the engine and Dillon cast off. The boat moved out of the bay, weaving its way through various craft anchored there.

Guerra said, “There’s no name on that boat.”

“ Privateer , that’s what it’s called,” Noval told him. “I asked one of the beach guards. You know, I’ve done most of my diving around Puerto Rico, but I’ve heard of this Carney. He’s big stuff.”

Guerra nodded. “Okay, we’d better get back and let Señor Santiago know what’s happening.”

Noval cast off, Guerra started the outboard, and they moved away.

The Privateer was doing a steady twenty knots, the sea not as calm as it could have been. Dillon held on tight and managed to light a cigarette one-handed.

“Are you prone to sea sickness?” Carney asked.

“Not that I know of,” Dillon shouted above the roar of the engine.

“Good, because it’s going to get worse before it gets better. We’ve not too far to go though.”

Waves swept in, long and steep, the Privateer riding up over them and plunging down, and Dillon hung on, taking in the incredible scenery, the peaks of the islands all around. And then they were very close to a smaller island, turned in toward it and moved into the calmer waters of a bay.

“Congo Cay,” Carney said. “A nice dive.” He went round to the prow, dropped the anchor and came back. “Not much to tell you. Twenty-five to ninety feet. Very little current. There’s a ridge maybe three hundred feet long. If you want to limit your depth you could stay on top of that.”

“Sounds the kind of place you’d bring novices,” Dillon said, pulling on the black and green diving suit.

“All the time,” Carney told him calmly.

Dillon got into his gear quickly and fastened a weight belt round his waist. Carney had already clamped tanks to their inflatable jackets and helped Dillon ease into his while sitting on the side of the boat. Dillon pulled on his gloves.

Carney said, “See you at the anchor.”

Dillon nodded, pulled down his mask, checked that the air was flowing freely through his mouthpiece and went over backwards into the sea. He swam under the keel of the boat until he saw the anchor line and followed it down, pausing only to swallow a couple of times, a technique aimed at equalizing the pressure in his ears when they became uncomfortable.

He reached the ridge, paused with a hand on the anchor and looked at Carney descending to join him through a massive school of silversides. At that moment, an extraordinary thing happened. A black tip reef shark about nine feet in length shot out of the gloom scattering clouds of fish before it, swerved around Carney, then disappeared over the ridge as fast as it had come.

Carney made the okay sign with finger and thumb. Dillon replied in kind and followed him as he led the way along the reef. There were brilliant yellow tube sponges everywhere, and when they went over the edge there was lots of orange sponge attached to the rock faces. The coral outcroppings were multi-colored and very beautiful, and at one point Carney paused, pointing, and Dillon saw a huge eagle ray pass in the distance, wings flapping in slow motion.

It was a very calm, very enjoyable dive, but no big deal, and after about thirty minutes, Dillon realized they’d come full circle because the anchor line was ahead of them. He followed Carney up the line nice and slow, finally swam under the keel and surfaced at the stern. Carney, with practiced ease, was up over the stern pulling his gear behind him. Dillon unstrapped his jacket, slipped out of it and Carney reached down and pulled jacket and tank on board. Dillon joined him a moment later.

Carney busied himself clipping fresh tanks to the jackets and went and pulled in the anchor. Dillon put a towel over his shoulders and lit a cigarette. “The reef shark,” he said. “Does that happen often?”

“Not really,” Carney said.

“Enough to give some people a heart attack.”

“I’ve been diving for years,” Carney told him, “and I’ve never found sharks a problem.”

“Not even a great white?”

“How often would you see one of those? No, nurse sharks in the main and they’re no problem. Around here, reef sharks now and then or lemon sharks. Sure, they could be a problem, but hardly ever. We’re big and they’re big and they just want to keep out of the way. Having said that, did you enjoy the dive?”

“It was fine.” Dillon shrugged.

“Which means you’d like a little more excitement.” Carney started the engine. “Okay, let’s go for one of my big boy dives,” and he gunned the engine and took the Privateer out into open water.

They actually passed at some distance Maria Blanco still at anchor off Paradise Beach, and Guerra was in the deckhouse, scanning the area with binoculars. He recognized the boat and told Captain Serra, who examined the chart and then took a book on dive sites in the Virgin Islands from a drawer in the chart table.

“Keep watching,” he told Guerra and leafed through.

“They’ve anchored,” Guerra told him, “and run up the dive flag.”

“Carval Rock,” Serra said. “That’s where they’re diving.”

At that moment Algaro came in and held the door open for Santiago, who was wearing a blue blazer and a Captain’s cap, a gold rim to the peak. “What’s happening?”

“Carney and Dillon are diving out there, Señor.” Serra indicated the spot and gave Santiago the binoculars.

Santiago could just see the two men moving in the stern of Privateer . He said, “That couldn’t be the site, could it?”

“No way, Señor,” Serra told him. “It’s a difficult place to dive, but hundreds of dives are made there every year.”

“Never mind,” Santiago said. “Put the launch in the water. We’ll go and have a look. We’ll see what these two divers of yours, Noval and Pinto, can do.”

“Very well, Señor, I’ll get things moving,” and Serra went out followed by Guerra.

Algaro said, “You wish me to come too, Señor?”

“Why not?” Santiago said. “Even if Dillon sees you it doesn’t matter. He knows you exist.”

The rock was magnificent, rising up out of a very turbulent sea, birds of every kind perched up there on the ridge, gulls descending in slow motion in the heavy wind.

“Carval Rock,” Carney said. “This is rated an advanced dive. Descends to about eighty or so feet. There’s the wreck of a Cessna over on the other side that crashed a few years back. There are some nice ravines, fissures, one or two short tunnels and wonderful rock and coral cliffs. The problem is the current. Caused by tidal movement through the Pillsbury Sound.”

“How strong?” Dillon asked as he fastened his weight belt.

“One or two knots is fairly common. Above two knots is unswimmable.” He looked over and shook his head. “And I’d say it’s three knots today.”

Dillon lifted his jacket and tank on to the thwart and put it on himself. “Sounds as if it could be interesting.”

“Your funeral.”

Carney got his own gear on and Dillon turned to lean over and wash out his mask and saw a white launch approaching. “We’re going to have company.”