Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

“Fancy meeting you, dear boy,” Charles Ferguson said. “Bloody hot, isn’t it?”

Dillon had a quick swim off Paradise Beach, conscious that the Maria Blanco was still at anchor out there, then he went back up to the cottage, had a shower and changed into navy blue linen slacks and a short-sleeved white cotton shirt. He went out, crossed the vestibule and tapped on the door of 7E.

“Come,” Ferguson called.

Dillon entered. The set-up was similar to his own, the bathroom marginally larger as was the other room. Ferguson, in gray flannel slacks and a white Turnbull and Asser shirt, stood in front of the mirror in the small dressing room easing the Guards tie into a neat Windsor knot at his neck.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, took a double-breasted navy blue blazer and pulled it on. “How do I look, dear boy?”

“Like an advertisement for Gieves and Hawkes, the bloody English gentleman abroad.”

“Just because you’re Irish doesn’t mean you have to feel inferior all the time,” Ferguson told him. “Some very reasonable people were Irish, Dillon, my mother for instance, not to mention the Duke of Wellington.”

“Who said that just because a man had been born in a stable didn’t mean he was a horse,” Dillon pointed out.

“Dear me, did he say that? Most unfortunate.” Ferguson picked up a Panama hat and a Malacca cane with a silver handle.

“I never knew you needed a cane,” Dillon said.

“Bought this during the Korean War. Strong as steel because it has a steel core weighted with lead at the tip. Oh, and here’s a rather nice device.”

He turned the silver handle to one side and pulled out a steel poniard about nine inches long.

“Very interesting,” Dillon said.

“Yes, well we are in foreign parts. I call it my pig sticker.” There was a click as Ferguson rammed the poniard home. “Now, are you going to offer me a quick drink before we go out or aren’t you?”

Dillon had negotiated a supply of Krug from room service, had several half-bottles in one of the iceboxes. He filled two glasses and went out to Ferguson on the terrace, picking up the Zeiss field glasses on the way.

“That large white motor yacht out there is the Maria Blanco .”

“Really?” Dillon passed him the Zeiss glasses and the Brigadier had a look. “A sort of minor floating palace I’d say.”

“So it would appear.”

Ferguson still held the glasses to his eyes. “As a young man I was a subaltern in the Korean War. One year of unmitigated hell. I did a tour of duty on a position called the Hook. Just like the First World War. Miles of trenches, barbed wire, mine fields and thousands of Chinese trying to get in. They used to watch us and we used to watch them. It was like a game, a particularly nasty game, which exploded into violence every so often.” He sighed and lowered the glasses. “What on earth am I prattling on about, Dillon?”

“Oh, I’d say you’re going the long way round to the pub to tell me that you suspect Santiago’s watching too.”

“Something like that. Tell me how far things have gone and don’t leave anything out, not a single damn thing.”

When Dillon was finished, he refilled the Brigadier’s glass while Ferguson sat there thinking about it.

“What do you think the next move should be?” Dillon asked.

“Well, now you’ve gone and got yourself tooled up by Stacey I suppose you’re eager for confrontation, a gunfight at the OK Corral?”

“I’ve taken precautions, that’s all,” Dillon said. “And I needed the Semtex to blast a way into the U-boat.”

“If we find it,” Ferguson said. “And not a murmur from the girl.”

“She’ll turn up eventually.”

“And in the meantime?”

“I’d like to take things further with Carney. We really do need him on our side.”

“I can see that, but it would be a question of how to approach him. Would a cash offer help?”

“Not really. If I’m right, Carney is the kind of man who’ll only do a thing if he really wants to or if he thinks it right.”

“Oh, dear.” Ferguson sighed. “Heaven save me from the romantics of this world.” He stood up and glanced at his watch. “Food, Dillon, that’s what I need. Where shall we eat?”

“We could walk up to Turtle Bay Dining Room. That’s more formal, I hear, but excellent. I’ve booked a table.”

“Good, then let’s get moving, and for heaven’s sake put a jacket on. I don’t want people to think I’m dining with a beachcomber.”

Out in the gathering darkness of Caneel Bay, an inflatable from the Maria Blanco nosed in beside Carney’s Sport Fisherman, Sea Raider , the only sound the muted throbbing of the outboard motor. Serra was at the helm and Algaro sat in the stern. As they bumped against the hull of Sea Raider he went up over the rail and into the wheelhouse, took a tiny electronic box from his pocket, reached under the instrument panel until he found metal and put it in place attached by its magnet.

A moment later he was back in the inflatable. “Now the small dive boat, Privateer ,” he said and Serra turned and moved toward it.

Max Santiago, wearing a white linen suit, was sitting in Caneel Bay Bar sipping a mint julep when Algaro came in. He wore a black tee-shirt and a loose-fitting baggy suit in black linen that made him look rather sinister.

“Did everything go well?” Santiago asked.

“Absolutely. I’ve put a bug on both of Carney’s dive boats. That means we can follow wherever he goes without being observed. Ferguson booked in just after six. I checked with the reservations desk. Dillon has booked a table for two up at Turtle Bay Dining Room.”

“Good,” Santiago said. “It might be amusing to join him.”

Captain Serra entered at that moment. “Have you any further orders, Señor?”

“If Dillon does as he did last night, he may probably visit this bar, Jenny’s Place,” Santiago said. “I’ll probably look in there myself.”

“So I’ll take the launch round to Cruz Bay, Señor, to pick you up from there?”

Santiago smiled. “I’ve had a better idea. Go back to the Maria Blanco , pick up some of the crew and take them into Cruz. They can have a drink on me later, let off a little steam if you follow me.”

“Perfectly, Señor.” Serra smiled and went out.

It was just after midnight at the Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity and Jenny Grant, who had gone to bed early, was restless and unable to sleep. She got up, found her cigarettes, lit one and went and sat on the padded windowseat and peered out into driving rain. She could see the light still on in the window of Sister Maria Baker’s office, but then, she never seemed to stop working. Strange how Henry had always kept her very existence a secret. It was as if he’d been somehow ashamed of her, the religious thing. He’d never been able to handle that.

Jenny felt much better than when she had arrived, infinitely more rested and yet restless at the same time. She wondered what was happening in St. John and how Dillon was getting on. She’d liked Dillon, that was the simple truth, in spite of everything in his background of which she thoroughly disapproved. On the other hand, you could only speak as you found, and to her he had been good, kind, considerate and understanding.

She went back to bed, switched off the light and dozed and had a dream of the half-waking sort, the U-boat in dark waters and Henry diving deep. Dear Henry. Such an idiot to have been down there in the first place and somewhere dangerous, somewhere unusual, somewhere people didn’t normally go. It had to be.

She came awake in the instant and spoke out loud in the darkness. “Oh, my God, of course, and so simple.”