Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

Dillon opened it and took out a bulky file. He leafed through several pages. “This must be the Blue Book, alphabetical list of names, addresses, a paragraph under each, a sort of thumbnail sketch of the individual.”

“See if Pamer is there.”

Dillon checked quickly. “Yes, Major, Sir Joseph Pamer, Military Cross, Member of Parliament, Hatherley Court, Hampshire. There’s an address in Mayfair. The remarks say he’s an associate of Sir Oswald Mosley, politically sound and totally committed to the cause of National Socialism.”

“Really?” Ferguson said dryly.

Dillon looked through several more pages and whistled softly. “Jesus, Brigadier, I know I’m just a little Irish peasant, but some of the names in here, you wouldn’t believe. Some of England’s finest. A few of America’s also.”

Ferguson took the file from him, glanced at a couple of pages, his face grave. “Who would have thought it?” He put the file back in its envelope and passed another. “Try that.”

There were several documents inside and Dillon looked them over briefly. “These are details of numbered bank accounts in Switzerland, various South American countries and the United States.” He handed them back. “Anything else?”

“Just this.” Ferguson passed the envelope to him. “And we know what that must be, the Windsor Protocol.”

Dillon took the letter out and unfolded it. It was written on paper of superb quality, almost like parchment, and was in English. He read it quickly, then passed it over. “Written at a villa in Estoril in Portugal in July 1940, addressed to Hitler and the signature at the bottom seems to be that of the Duke of Windsor.”

“And what does it say?” Carney asked.

“Simple enough. The Duke says too many have already died on both sides, the war is pointless and should be ended as soon as possible. He agrees to take over the throne in the event of a successful German invasion.”

“My God!” Carney said. “If that’s genuine, it’s dynamite.”

“Exactly.” Ferguson folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. “If it is genuine. The Nazis were past masters at forgery.” But his face was sad as he closed the case.

“Now what?” Carney asked.

“We return to St. John where Dillon and I will pack and make our way back to London. I have a Learjet awaiting my orders at St. Thomas.” He held up the case and smiled bleakly. “The Prime Minister is a man who likes to hear bad news as quickly as possible.”

The Maria Blanco had dropped anchor off Paradise Beach mid-morning and Algaro and Guerra, in the launch, had made contact at once. Santiago, sitting at his massive desk in the salon, listened as they went over the events of the previous night, then turned to Serra, who was standing beside him.

“Tell me about the situation as you see it, Captain.”

“A long run out there, Señor, perhaps two and a half hours to come back because they’ll be sailing into the wind all the way. I’d say they’ll be back quite soon, probably just before noon.”

“So what do we do, hit them tonight?” Algaro asked.

“No.” Santiago shook his head. “I’d anticipate Ferguson making a move back to London as soon as possible. According to our information he has a Learjet on standby at St. Thomas airport.” He shook his head. “No, we make our move on the instant.”

“So what are your orders?” Algaro demanded.

“The simple approach is the best. You and Guerra will go ashore in one of the inflatables dressed as tourists. Leave the inflatable on Paradise below Cottage Seven, where Ferguson and Dillon are staying. Serra will give you each a walkie-talkie so you can keep in touch with each other and the ship. You, Algaro, will stay in the general vicinity of the cottage. Read a book on the beach, enjoy the sun, try to look normal if that’s possible.”

“And me, Señor?” Guerra asked.

“You go down to Caneel Beach and wait. When Carney’s boat arrives, notify Algaro. Ferguson and Dillon must return to the cottage to change clothes and pack. That’s when you strike. Once you have the Bormann briefcase, you return in the inflatable and we’ll get out of here. Remember, the briefcase is distinctive. It’s made of aluminium and is silver in appearance.”

“Do we return to San Juan, Señor?” Serra asked.

“No.” Santiago shook his head. “Samson Cay. I want time to consider my next move. The contents of that case will be more than interesting, Serra, they could give my life a whole new meaning.” He opened a drawer at his right hand. There were a number of handguns in there. He selected a Browning Hi Power and pushed it across to Algaro. “Don’t fail me.”

“I won’t,” Algaro said. “If they have that briefcase, we’ll get it for you.”

“Oh, they’ll have it all right.” Santiago smiled. “I have every faith in our friend Dillon. His luck is good.”

When Sea Raider moved in through all the moored yachts to the dock at Caneel Bay, the sun was high in the heavens. There were people wind-surfing out in the bay and the beach was crowded with sun worshippers. Guerra was one of them, sitting on a deck chair in flowered shirt and Bermuda shorts, dark glasses shading his eyes. He saw Dillon step on to the dock to tie up. He returned on board, then came back, the olive-green holdall in one hand. Ferguson followed him carrying the briefcase, Carney walking at his side.

Guerra pulled on a white floppy sunhat that, with the brim down, partially concealed his features, adjusted the dark glasses and moved off the beach along the front of the restaurant to where the path from the dock emerged. He reached it almost at the same time as the three men, and at that moment a young black receptionist hurried out of the front desk lobby.

“Oh, Captain Carney, I saw you coming in. There was an urgent message for you.”

“And what was it?” Carney demanded.

“It was Billy Jones. He said to tell you Jenny Grant had an accident last night. Fell from a balcony at her house up at Gallows Point. She’s there now. They’re moving her over to St. Thomas Hospital real soon.”

“My God!” Carney said and nodded to the girl. “That’s okay, honey, I’ll handle it.”

“Another bloody accident,” Dillon said bitterly and handed the holdall to Ferguson. “I’m going to see her.”

“Yes, of course, dear boy,” Ferguson replied. “I’ll go back to the cottage, have a shower, get packed and so on.”

“I’ll see you later.” Dillon turned to Carney. “Are you coming?”

“I sure as hell am,” Carney told him, and they hurried off toward the car park together.

With the holdall in his right hand and the briefcase in his left, Ferguson set off, following the path that led past the cottages fronting Caneel Bay. Guerra paused in the shelter of some bushes and using the walkie-talkie called up Algaro, who, sitting on the beach at Paradise, answered at once.

“Yes, I hear you.”

“Ferguson is on his way and alone. The others have gone to see the girl.”

“They’ve what?” Algaro was thrown, but quickly pulled himself together. “All right, meet me on the downside of the cottage.”

Guerra switched off and turned. He could see Ferguson a couple of hundred yards further on and hurried after him.

Ferguson put the briefcase on the bed, then pulled off his sweater. He should have felt exhilarated, he told himself looking down at the case, but then too much had happened. Joseph Jackson at Samson Cay, a poor old man who had never done anyone harm in his life, and Jack. He sighed, opened the door to the bar cupboard and found a whisky miniature. He poured it into a glass, added water and drank it slowly. Jack Lane, the best damn copper he had ever worked with. And now Jenny Grant. Her accident so-called was beyond coincidence. Santiago had much to answer for. He took the briefcase from the bed and stood it at the side of the small desk, checked that the front door was locked, then went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.