Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

“Ending where?” Ferguson said.

“It wouldn’t be anywhere usual. By that I mean somewhere people dive, however regularly, and I’ll tell you something else. It would have to be within one hundred feet.”

“What makes you say that?” Dillon asked.

“Henry was a recreational diver, that means no decompression is necessary if you follow the tables. One hundred and thirty feet is absolute maximum for that kind of sport diving, and at that depth he could only afford ten minutes bottom time before going back up to the surface. To examine the submarine and find the diary.” Carney shook his head. “It just wouldn’t be possible, and Henry was sixty-three years of age. He knew his limitations.”

“So what are you saying?”

“To discover the wreck, enter it, hunt around and find that diary.” Carney shrugged. “I’d say thirty minutes bottom time, so his depth would likely be eighty feet or so. Now dive masters take tourists to that kind of depth all the time, that’s why I mean the location has got to be quite out of the ordinary.”

He frowned and Ferguson said, “You must have some idea.”

“The morning Henry made his discovery must have been the day after the hurricane blew itself out. He’d gone out so early that he was coming back in at around nine-thirty when I was taking a dive party out. We crossed each other and we spoke.”

“What did he say?” Dillon asked.

“I asked him where he’d been. He said French Cap. Told me it was like a millpond out there.”

“Then that’s it,” Ferguson said. “Surely?”

Carney shook his head. “I use French Cap a lot. The water is particularly clear. It’s a great dive. In fact I took my clients out there after meeting Henry that morning and he was right, it was like a millpond. The visibility is spectacular.” He shook his head. “No, if it was there it would have been found before now.”

“Can you think of anywhere else?”

Carney frowned. “There’s always South Drop, that’s even further.”

“You dive there?” Ferguson asked.

“Occasionally. Trouble is if the sea’s rough, it’s a long and uncomfortable trip, but it could be the sort of place. A long ridge running to a hundred and seventy or so on one side and two thousand on the other.”

“Could we take a look at these places?” Ferguson asked.

Carney shook his head and examined the chart again. “I don’t know.”

Ferguson said, “I’d pay you well, Captain Carney.”

“It isn’t that,” Carney said. “Strictly speaking, this thing is in United States territorial waters.”

“Just listen, please,” Ferguson said. “We’re not doing anything wicked here. There are some documents on U180, or so we believe, which could give my government cause for concern. All we want to do is recover them as quickly as possible and no harm done.”

“And Santiago, where does he fit in?”

“He’s obviously after the same thing,” Ferguson said. “Why, I don’t know at this time, but I will, I promise you.”

“You go to the movies, Carney,” Dillon said. “Santiago and his bunch are the bad guys. Blackhats.”

“And I’m a good guy?” Carney laughed out loud. “Get the hell out of here and let me get some sleep. I’ll see you at the dock at nine-thirty.”

Santiago, standing in the stern of the Maria Blanco , looked toward Cottage Seven and the lights which had just come on in both sections.

“So they are back,” he said to Serra, who stood beside him.

“Now that they’ve made contact with Carney they may make their move sometime tomorrow,” Serra said.

“You’ll be able to follow them in the launch whichever boat they are in, thanks to the bugs, at a discreet distance of course.”

“Shall I take the divers?”

“If you like, but I doubt that anything will come of it. Carney doesn’t know where U180 is, Serra, I’m convinced of that. They’ve asked him for suggestions, that’s all. Take the dive-site handbook for this area with you. If they dive somewhere that’s mentioned in the book, you may take it from me it’s a waste of time.” Santiago shook his head. “Frankly, I’m inclined to think that the girl has the answer. We’ll just have to wait for her return. By the way, if we ever did find the U-boat and needed to blast a way in, could Noval and Pinto cope?”

“Most assuredly, Señor, we have supplies of C4 explosive on board and all the necessary detonating equipment.”

“Excellent,” Santiago said. “I wish you luck tomorrow then. Good night, Captain.”

Serra walked away and Algaro slipped out of the dark. “Can I go with the launch in the morning?”

“Ah, revenge, is it?” Santiago laughed. “And why not? Enjoy it while you can, Algaro,” and he laughed as he went down to the salon.

It was a beautiful morning when Dillon and Ferguson went down to the dock. Sea Raider was tied up, no sign of anyone around, and Privateer was moving out to sea with four people seated in the stern.

“Perhaps we got it wrong,” Dillon observed.

“I doubt it,” Ferguson said. “Not that sort of fellow.”

At that moment Carney turned on to the end of the dock and came toward them pushing a trolley loaded with air tanks. “Morning,” he called.

“Thought you’d left us,” Dillon said, looking out toward Privateer .

“Hell, no, that’s just one of my people taking some divers out to Little St. James. I thought we’d use Sea Raider today because we’ve a lot further to go.” He turned to Ferguson. “You a good sailor, Brigadier?”

“My dear chap, I’ve just called in at the gift shop to obtain some seasickness pills of which I’ve taken not one but two.”

He went on board and climbed the ladder to the flying bridge, where he sat in solitary splendor on one of the swivel seats while Dillon and Carney loaded the tanks. When they were finished Carney went up, joined Ferguson and switched on the engines. As they eased away from the dock, Dillon went into the deckhouse. He wasn’t using his net dive bag, had put his diving gear into the olive-green army holdall Stacey had given him in St. Thomas. Underneath was the AK assault rifle, stock folded, and a thirty-round clip inserted ready for action plus an extra magazine. There was also his ace-in-the-hole Belgian semi-automatic which he’d retrieved from the jeep. As with all Sport Fishermen, there was a wheel in the deckhouse as well as on the flying bridge so the boat could be steered from there in rough weather. Dillon felt under the instrument panel until he encountered a metal surface and clamped the holster and gun in place.

He went up the ladder and joined the others. “What’s our course?”

“Pretty well due south through Pillsbury Sound, then south-west to French Cap.” Carney grinned at Ferguson, who swung from side to side as the boat started to lift over waves to the open sea. “You okay, Brigadier?”

“I’ll let you know. I presume you would anticipate our friends from the Maria Blanco following?”

“I’ve been looking, but I haven’t seen anything yet. There’s certainly no sign of the Maria Blanco herself, but then they’d use the white launch we saw at Carval Rock. That’s a good boat. Good for twenty-five or -six knots. I don’t get much more than twenty out of this.” He said to Dillon, “There’s some glasses in the locker if you want to keep a weather eye open.”

Dillon got them out, focused and checked astern. There were a number of yachts and a small vehicle ferry with trucks on board crossing from St. Thomas, but no launch. “Not a sign,” he said.

“Now I find that strange,” Ferguson observed.