Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

“Actually we do have a regular seaplane service some of the time,” Carney said. “When it’s operating, you can fly to St. Thomas or St. Croix, even direct to San Juan on Puerto Rico.”

They reached the Cessna and Dillon walked round checking it generally, then pulled the blocks away from the wheels. He opened the rear door. “Okay, my friends, in you go.”

Ferguson went first, followed by Carney. Dillon opened the other door, climbed into the pilot’s seat, slammed and locked the door behind him, strapping himself in. He released the brakes and the plane rolled down the ramp into the water and drifted outwards on the current.

Ferguson looked across the bay in the fading light. “Beautiful evening, but I’ve been thinking. We’ll be flying back in darkness.”

“No, it’s a full moon tonight, Brigadier,” Carney told him.

“I checked the weather forecast,” Dillon added. “Clear, crisp night, perfect conditions. The flight shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. Seat belts fastened, life jackets under the seat.”

He switched on, the engine coughed into life, the propeller turned. He taxied out of harbor, checked to make sure there was no boat traffic and turned into the wind. They drifted up into the air and started to climb, leveling out at a thousand feet. They passed over part of the southern edge of St. John, then Reef Bay and finally Ram Head before striking out to sea toward Norman Island, Samson Cay perhaps four miles south of it. It was a flight totally without incident, and exactly fifteen minutes after leaving Cruz Bay he was making his first pass over the island. The Maria Blanco was lying in the harbor below, three hundred yards off-shore, and there were a number of yachts, still a few people on the beach in the fading light.

“A real rich folks’ hideaway,” Bob Carney said.

“Is that so?” Ferguson said, unimpressed. “Well I hope they do a decent meal, that’s all I’m interested in.”

Carlos Prieto came out of the entrance to reception and looked up as the Cessna passed overhead. There was an ancient Ford station wagon parked at the bottom of the steps, an ageing black man leaning against it.

Prieto said, “There they are, Joseph, get up to the airstrip and bring them in.”

“Right away, sir.” Joseph got behind the wheel and drove off.

As Prieto turned to go inside, Algaro emerged. “Ah, there you are, I’ve been looking for you. Do we have an old black somewhere around called Jackson, Joseph Jackson?”

“We certainly do. He was the driver of that station wagon that just drove off. He’s gone to the airstrip to pick up Brigadier Ferguson and the others. Do you need him for anything important?”

“It can wait,” Algaro told him and went back inside.

Dillon put the Cessna down for a perfect landing, taxied toward the other end of the airstrip, turning into the wind, and switched off. “Not bad, Dillon,” Ferguson told him. “You can fly a plane, I’ll grant you that.”

“You’ve no idea how good that makes me feel,” Dillon said.

They all got out and Joseph Jackson came to meet them. “Car waiting right over here, gents. I’ll take you down to the restaurant. Joseph’s the name, Joseph Jackson. Anything you want, just let me know. I’ve been around this island longer than anybody.”

“Indeed?” Ferguson said. “I don’t suppose you were here in the War? I understand it was unoccupied?”

“That ain’t so,” Jackson said. “There was an old hotel here, belonged to an American family, the Herberts. The hotel was unoccupied during the War, but me and my wife, May, we came over from Tortola to look after things.”

They had reached the station wagon and Ferguson said, “Herbert, you say, they were the owners?”

“Miss Herbert’s father, he gave it to her as a wedding present, then she married a Mr. Vail.” Jackson opened the rear door for Ferguson to get in. “Then she had a daughter.”

Dillon sat beside Ferguson and Carney took the front seat beside Jackson. The old boy was obviously enjoying himself.

“So, Miss Herbert became Mrs. Vail, who had a daughter called Miss Vail?” Dillon said.

Jackson started the engine and cackled out loud. “Only Miss Vail then became Lady Pamer, what do you think of that? A real English lady, just like the movies.”

“Switch off that engine!” Ferguson ordered.

Jackson looked bewildered. “Did I say something?”

Bob Carney reached over and turned the key. Ferguson said, “Miss Vail became Lady Pamer, you’re sure?”

“I knew her, didn’t I? She came here at the end of the War with her baby, little Francis. That must have been in April forty-five.”

There was a heavy silence. Dillon said, “Was anyone else here at the time?”

“German gent named Strasser. He just turned up one night. I think he got a fishing boat to drop him off from Tortola, but Lady Pamer, she was expecting him…”

“And Sir Joseph?”

“He came over from England in June. Mr. Strasser, he moved on. The Pamers left and went back to England after that. Sir Joseph, he used to come back, but that was years ago when the resort was first built.”

“And Sir Francis Pamer?” Ferguson asked.

“Little Francis?” Jackson laughed. “He growed up real fine. I’ve seen him here many times. Can we go now, gents?”

“Of course,” Ferguson said.

Jackson drove away, Dillon took out a cigarette and no one said a word until they reached the front entrance. Ferguson produced his wallet, extracted a ten-pound note and passed it to Jackson. “My thanks.”

“And I thank you,” Jackson told him. “I’ll be ready for you gents when you want to go back.”

The three of them paused at the bottom of the steps. Dillon said, “So now we know how Santiago comes to be so well informed.”

“God in heaven,” Ferguson said. “A Minister of the Crown and one of the oldest families in England.”

“A lot of those people thought Hitler had the right ideas during the nineteen-thirties,” Dillon said. “It fits, Brigadier, it all fits. What about Carter?”

“The British Secret Service was unfortunate enough to employ dear old Kim Philby, Burgess, MacLean, all of whom also worked for the KGB and sold us down the river to Communism without a moment’s hesitation. Since then, there was Blunt, rumours of a fifth man, a sixth.” Ferguson sighed. “In spite of the fact that I don’t care a jot for Simon Carter, I must tell you that I believe he’s an old-fashioned patriot and honest as the day is long.”

Carlos Prieto appeared at the top of the steps. “Brigadier Ferguson, what a pleasure. Señor Santiago is waiting for you in the bar. He’s just come over from the Maria Blanco . He prefers to stay on board while he’s here.”

The lounge bar was busy with the rich and the good as one would expect in such a place. People tended to be older rather than younger, the men especially, mostly American, being rather obviously close to the end of their working lives. There was a preponderance of trousers in fake Scottish plaid swelling over ample bellies, white tuxedos.

“God save me,” Dillon said, “I’ve never seen so many men who resembled dance-band leaders in their prime.”

Ferguson laughed out loud and Santiago, who was seated in a booth by the bar, Algaro bending over him, turned to look at them. He stood up and reached out a hand urbanely. “My dear Brigadier Ferguson, such a pleasure.”

“Señor Santiago,” Ferguson said formally. “I’ve long looked forward to this meeting.” He pointed briefly at Algaro with his Malacca cane. “But do we really have to have this creature present? I mean couldn’t he go and feed the fish or something?”

Algaro looked as if he would have liked to kill him on the spot, but Santiago laughed out loud. “Poor Algaro, an acquired taste, I fear.”