Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

“Damn!” Dillon said.

“Mr. Dillon, you arrived at Cruz Bay in your own floatplane, and the front desk, who keep me informed of such things, tell me you pay with an American Express Platinum Card.”

“What can I say, you’ve got me,” Dillon told him amicably.

“Water taxis are expensive, but not to a man of your means. The front desk will order you one.”

“Thanks.” Dillon crossed to the dock and paused. “Maybe I could buy you a drink tonight. Will you be at Jenny’s Place?”

“Hell, I’m there every night at the moment,” Carney said, “otherwise I’d starve. My wife and kids are away on vacation.”

“I’ll see you then,” Dillon said and turned and walked away along the dock toward the front desk.

The water taxi had seats for a dozen passengers, but he had it to himself. The only crew was a woman in a peaked cap and denims, who sat at the wheel and made for St. Thomas at a considerable rate of knots. It was noisy and there wasn’t much chance to speak, which suited Dillon. He sat there smoking and thinking about the way things had gone so far, Algaro, Max Santiago and the Maria Blanco .

He knew about Santiago, but Santiago knew about him, that was a fact and yet to be explained. There had almost been a touch of comradeship in the way Santiago had waved back at him at Carval Rock. Carney, he liked. In fact, everything about him he liked. For one thing, the American knew his business, but there was power there and real authority. An outstanding example of a quiet man it wouldn’t pay to push.

“Here we go,” the water taxi driver shouted over her shoulder, and Dillon glanced up and saw that they were moving in toward the waterfront of Charlotte Amalie.

It was quite a place and bustling with activity, two enormous cruise liners berthed on the far side of the harbor. The waterfront was lined with buildings in white and pastel colors, shops and restaurants of every description. It had been a Danish colony, he knew that, and the influence still showed in some of the architecture.

He followed a narrow alley called Drake’s Passage that was lined with colorful shops offering everything from designer clothes to gold and jewelry, for this was a free port, and came out into Main Street. He consulted the address Ferguson had given him and crossed to where some taxis waited.

“Can you take me to Cane Street?” he asked the first driver.

“I wouldn’t take your money, man,” the driver told him amiably. “Just take the next turning through to Back Street. Cane is the third on the left.”

Dillon thanked him and moved on. It was hot, very hot, people crowding the pavements, traffic moving slowly in the narrow streets, but Cane Street, when he came to it, was quiet and shaded. The house he wanted was at the far end, clapboard, painted white with a red corrugated iron roof. There was a tiny garden in front of it and steps leading up to a porch on which an ageing black man with gray hair sat on a swing seat reading a newspaper.

He looked up as Dillon approached. “And what can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Earl Stacey,” Dillon told him.

The man peered at him over the top of reading glasses. “You ain’t gonna spoil my day with no bills, are you?”

“Ferguson told me to look you up,” Dillon said, “Brigadier Charles Ferguson. My name is Dillon.”

The other man smiled and removed his glasses. “I’ve been expecting you. Come right this way,” and he pushed open the door and led the way into the house.

“I’m on my own since my wife died last year.” Stacey opened a door, switched on a light and led the way down wooden steps to a cellar. There were wooden shelves up to the ceiling, pots of paint stacked there, cupboards below. He reached in and released some kind of catch and pulled it open like a door revealing another room. He switched on a light.

“Come into my parlor.”

There was all kinds of weaponry, rifles, submachine guns, boxes of ammunition. “It looks like Christmas to me,” Dillon told him.

“You just tell me what you want, man, and Ferguson picks up the tab, that was the arrangement.”

“Rifle first,” Dillon said. “Armalite perhaps. I like the folding stock.”

“I can do better. I got an AK assault rifle here with a folding stock, fires automatic when you want, thirty-round magazine.” He took the weapon from a stand and handed it over.

“Yes, this will do fine,” Dillon told him. “I’ll take it with two extra magazines. I need a handgun now, Walther PPK for preference, and a Carswell silencer. Two extra magazines for that as well.”

“Can do.”

Stacey opened a very large drawer under the bench which ran along one wall. Inside there was an assortment of handguns. He selected a Walther and passed it to Dillon for approval. “Anything else?”

There was a cheap-looking plastic holster with the butt of a pistol sticking out of it and Dillon was intrigued. “What’s that?”

“It’s an ace-in-the-hole.” Stacey took it out. “That metal strip on the back is a magnet. Stick it underneath anywhere and as long as it’s metal it’ll hold fast. The gun don’t look much, point-two-two Belgian, semi-automatic, seven-shot, but I’ve put hollow-nosed rounds in. They fragment bone.”

“I’ll take it,” Dillon said. “One more thing. Would you happen to have any C4 explosive?”

“The kind salvage people use for underwater work?”

“Exactly.”

“No, but I tell you what I do have, something just as good, Semtex. You heard of that stuff?”

“Oh, yes,” Dillon said. “I think you could say I’m familiar with Semtex. One of Czechoslovakia’s more successful products.”

“The terrorist’s favorite weapon.” Stacey took a box down from the shelf. “The Palestinians, the IRA, all those cats use this stuff. You gonna use this underwater yourself?”

“Just to make a hole in a wreck.”

“Then you need some detonation cord, a remote-control unit or I’ve got some chemical detonating pencils here. They work real good. You just break the cap. I got some timed for ten minutes and others for thirty.” He pushed all the items together. “Is that it?”

“A night sight would be useful and a pair of binoculars.”

“I can do them too.” He opened another drawer. “There you go.”

The night sight was small, but powerful, extending if needed like a telescope. The binoculars were by Zeiss and pocket size. “Excellent,” Dillon said.

Stacey went and found an olive-green Army holdall, unzipped it, put the AK assault rifle in first and then the other things. He closed the zip, turned and led the way out, switching off the light and pushing the shelving back into place. Dillon followed him up the cellar stairs and out to the porch.

Stacey offered him the bag. “Mr. Dillon, I get the impression you intend to start World War Three.”

“Maybe we can call a truce,” Dillon said. “Who knows?”

“I wish you luck, my friend. I’ll send my bill to Ferguson.”

Stacey sat down, put on his reading glasses and picked up his newspaper, and Dillon walked out through the small garden and started back toward the waterfront.

He was walking along the side of the harbor to where the water taxis operated from when he saw that the Caneel ferry was in, a gangplank stretching down to the dock. The Captain was standing at the top as Dillon went up.

“You staying at Caneel, sir?”

“I certainly am.”

“We’ll be leaving soon. Just heard someone’s on the way down from the airport.”

Dillon went into the main cabin, put his bag on a seat and accepted a rum punch offered by one of the crew. He glanced out of the window and saw a large taxi bus draw up, a single passenger inside, went and sat down and drank some of his punch. One of the crew came in and put two suitcases in the corner, there was the sound of the gangplank being moved, the Captain went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. Dillon checked his watch. It was five-thirty. He put his plastic cup on the table, lit a cigarette and at the same time was aware of someone slumping down beside him.