Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

“I see,” Santiago said.

“I mean, he was there when my mother arrived and then Bormann, you take my point. Sorry, I should have thought of it before.”

“You should, Francis, but never mind. I’ll attend to it.” Santiago put the phone down and turned to Algaro. “Another job for you, but there’s no rush. I’m going for a lie down. Call me when we get in.”

Later in the afternoon Dillon was lying on a sun lounger on the terrace when Ferguson appeared.

“I’ve just had a thought,” the Brigadier said. “This millionaire’s retreat at Samson Cay. Might be rather fun to have dinner there. Beard the lion in his den.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dillon said. “We could fly over if you like. There’s the airstrip. I passed over it on my way here and that Cessna of mine can put down on land as well as water.”

“Perhaps we can persuade Carney to join us? Ring the front desk on your cellular phone, get the number and ask for the general manager’s name.”

Which Dillon did, writing the details down quickly. “There you go, Carlos Prieto.”

Within two minutes Ferguson was speaking to the gentleman. “Mr. Prieto? Brigadier Charles Ferguson here, I’m staying at Caneel. One of my friends has a floatplane here and we thought it might be rather fun to fly over this evening and join you for dinner. It’s a dual-purpose plane. We could put down on your airstrip. There would be three of us.”

“I regret, Brigadier, but dining facilities are reserved for our residents.”

“What a shame, I’d so hate to disappoint Mr. Santiago.”

There was a slight pause. “Mr. Santiago was expecting you?”

“Check with him, do.”

“A moment, Brigadier.” Prieto phoned the Maria Blanco , for Santiago always preferred to stay on board when at Samson Cay. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Señor, but does the name Ferguson mean anything to you?”

“Brigadier Charles Ferguson?”

“He is on the telephone from Caneel. He wishes to fly over in a floatplane, three of them, for dinner.”

Santiago laughed out loud. “Excellent, Prieto, marvelous, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Prieto said, “We look forward to seeing you, Brigadier. At what time may we expect you?”

“Six-thirty or seven.”

“Excellent.”

Ferguson handed the cellular phone back to Dillon. “Get hold of Carney and tell him to meet us at Jenny’s Place at six in his best bib and tucker. We’ll have a cocktail and wing our way to Samson Cay. Should be a jolly evening,” he said and went out.

It was seven o’clock in the evening when Jenny Grant reached Paris and Charles de Gaulle airport. She returned the hired car, went to the British Airways reservation desk and booked on the next flight to London. It was too late to connect with any flight to Antigua that day, but there was space the following morning on the nine A.M. flight from Gatwick arriving in Antigua just after two in the afternoon, and they even booked her on an onward flight to St. Thomas on one of the Liat inter-island service planes. With luck she would be in St. John by early evening.

She waited for her tickets, went and booked in for the London flight so that she could get rid of her luggage. She went to one of the bars and ordered a glass of wine. Best to stay overnight at Gatwick at one of the airport hotels. She felt good for the first time since she’d heard the news of Henry’s death, excited as well, and couldn’t wait to get back to St. John to see if she was right. She went and bought a phone card at one of the kiosks, found a telephone and rang Jenny’s Place at Cruz Bay. It was Billy Jones who answered.

“Billy? It’s me – Jenny.”

“My goodness, Miss Jenny, where are you?”

“Paris. I’m at the airport. It’s nearly seven-thirty in the evening here. I’m coming back tomorrow, Billy, by way of Antigua, then Liat up to St. Thomas. I’ll see you around six.”

“That’s wonderful. Mary will be thrilled.”

“Billy, has a man called Sean Dillon been in to see you? I told him to look you up.”

“He sure has. He’s been sailing around with Bob Carney, he and a Brigadier Ferguson. In fact, I just heard from Bob. He tells me they’re meeting in here, the three of them, for a drink at six o’clock.”

“Good. Give Dillon a message for me. Tell him I’m coming back because I think I might know where it is.”

“Where what is?” Billy demanded.

“Never mind. Just you give him that message. It’s very important.”

She put the phone down, picked up her hand luggage and still full of excitement and elation, passed through security into the international lounge.

Ferguson and Dillon parked the jeep in the car park at Mongoose Junction and walked along to Jenny’s Place. In blazer and Guards tie, the Panama at a suitable angle, the Brigadier looked extremely impressive. Dillon wore a navy blue silk suit, a white cotton shirt buttoned at the neck. When they entered Jenny’s Place the bar was already half-full with the early evening trade. Bob Carney leaned on the bar wearing white linen slacks and a blue shirt, a blazer on the stool beside him.

He turned and whistled. “A regular fashion parade. Thank God I dressed.”

“Well, we are meeting the Devil face to face, in a manner of speaking.” Ferguson laid his Malacca cane on the bar. “Under the circumstances I think one should make an effort. Champagne, innkeeper,” he said to Billy.

“I thought that might be what you’d want. I got a bottle of Pol Roget on ice right here.” Billy produced it from beneath the bar and thumbed out the cork. “Now the surprise I’ve been saving.”

“And what’s that?” Carney asked.

“Miss Jenny was on the phone from Paris, France. She’s coming home. Should be here right about this time tomorrow.”

“That’s wonderful,” Carney said.

Billy filled three glasses. “And she gave me a special message for you, Mr. Dillon.”

“Oh, and what would that be?” Dillon inquired.

“She said it was important. She said to tell you she’s coming back because she thinks she might know where it is. Does that make any kind of sense to you, because it sure as hell doesn’t to me?”

“All the sense in the world.” Ferguson raised his glass and toasted the others. “To women in general, gentlemen, and Jenny Grant in particular. Bloody marvelous.” He emptied his glass. “Good, into battle,” and he turned and led the way out.

Behind them, the bearded fisherman who had been sitting at the end of the bar listening, got up and left. He walked to a public phone just along the waterfront, took out the piece of paper Serra had given him and rang the Maria Blanco . Santiago was in his cabin getting ready for the evening when Serra hurried in carrying the phone.

“What on earth is it?” Santiago demanded.

“My informant in St. John. He just heard Dillon and his friends talking to Jones, the bartender at Jenny’s Place. Apparently she was on the phone from Paris, will be in St. John tomorrow evening.”

“Interesting,” Santiago said.

“That’s not all, Señor, she sent a message to Dillon to say she was coming back because she thinks she might know where it is.”

Santiago’s face was very pale and he snatched the phone. “Santiago here. Now repeat your story to me.” He listened and finally said, “You’ve done well, my friend, you’ll be taken care of. Continue to keep your eyes open.”

He handed the portable phone to Serra. “You see, everything comes to he who waits,” and he turned back to the mirror.

Ferguson, Dillon and Carney crossed from Mongoose and followed the trail to Lind Point toward the seaplane ramp. Ferguson said, “Rather convenient having a ramp here and so on.”