Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

Guerra and Algaro went up the steps and entered the lobby. Very gently, Guerra tried the door. He shook his head. “Locked.”

Algaro beckoned and led the way out, back down the steps. It was very quiet, no one about, and the garden surrounding the cottage was very luxuriant, shielding a great deal of it from view. Above their heads, a large terrace jutted out, there was a path, some steps, a low wall, a small tree beside it.

“Easy,” Algaro said. “Stand on the wall, brace yourself on the tree and I’ll make a step up for you with my hands. You can reach the terrace rail. I’ll wait at the door.” He handed him the Browning. “Take this.”

Guerra was on the terrace in a matter of seconds. The venetian blinds were down at the windows, but he managed to peer inside through narrow slats. There was no sign of Ferguson. Very gently he tried the handle to the terrace door which opened to his touch. He took out the Browning, aware of the sound of the shower, glanced around the room, saw no immediate sign of the briefcase and went to the outside door and opened it.

Algaro moved in and took the Browning from him. “In the shower, is he?”

“Yes, but I can’t see the briefcase,” Guerra whispered.

But Algaro did, moved quickly to the desk and picked it up triumphantly. “This is it. Let’s go.”

As they turned to the door, Ferguson emerged from the bathroom tying the belt of a terry toweling robe. The dismay on his face was instant, but he didn’t waste breath on words, simply flung himself at them. Algaro struck him across the side of the head with the barrel of the Browning and when Ferguson fell to one knee stamped him sideways into the wall.

“Come on!” Algaro cried to Guerra, pulled open the door and hurried down the steps.

Ferguson managed to get to his feet, dizzy, his head hurting like hell. He staggered across the room, got the terrace door open and went out in time to see Algaro and Guerra running down to the little beach at the bottom of the grass slope. They pushed the inflatable into the water, started the outboard and moved out from the shore. It was only then that Ferguson, looking up, realized that the Maria Blanco was anchored off there.

He never felt so impotent in his life, never so full of rage. He went into the bathroom, got a damp flannel for his head, found the field glasses and focused them on the yacht. He saw Algaro and Guerra go up the ladder and hurry along the stern to where Santiago sat under the awning, Captain Serra beside him. Algaro placed the briefcase on the table. Santiago placed his hands on it, then turned and spoke to Serra. The captain moved away and went on the bridge. A moment later, they started to haul up the anchor and the Maria Blanco began to move.

And then a strange thing happened. As if realizing he was being observed, Santiago raised the briefcase in one hand, waved with the other and went into the salon.

It was Billy who opened the front door to admit Dillon and Bob Carney at the house at Gallows Point. “I’m real glad to see you,” he said.

“How is she?” Carney demanded.

“Not too good. Seems like she fell from the balcony outside her bedroom. When me and Mary found her, she was lying there in the rain.”

“He wants her – the doctor – over to St. Thomas Hospital for a scan. They’re coming to pick her up in an hour,” Mary said.

“Can she speak?” Dillon asked as they went upstairs.

“Came to around an hour ago. It was you she asked for, Mr. Dillon.”

“Did she tell you how it happened?”

“No. In fact, she ain’t said much at all. Listen, I’ll go and make coffee while you stay with her. Come on, Billy,” she told her husband and they went out.

Carney said, “Her face is real bad.”

“I know,” Dillon said grimly, “and she didn’t get that from any accident. If she’d fallen on her face from such a height it would have been smashed completely.”

He took her hand and she opened her eyes. “Dillon?”

“That’s right, Jenny.”

“I’m sorry, Dillon, sorry I let you down.”

“You didn’t let us down, Jenny. We found the U-boat. Carney and I went down together.”

“Sure, Jenny.” Carney leaned over. “We blew a hole in her and we found Bormann’s briefcase.”

She didn’t really know what she was saying, of course, but carried on. “I told him, Dillon, I told him you had gone to Thunder Point.”

“Told who, Jenny?”

“The man with the scar, the big scar from his eye to his mouth.”

“Algaro,” Carney said.

She gripped Dillon’s hand lightly. “He hurt me, Dillon, he really hurt me. Nobody ever hurt me like that,” and she closed her eyes and drifted off again.

When Dillon turned, the rage on his face was a living thing. “He’s a dead man walking, Algaro, I give you my word,” and he brushed past Carney and went downstairs.

The front door was open, Billy sitting on the porch, and Mary was pouring coffee. “You gonna have some?”

“Just a quick one,” Dillon said.

“How is she?”

“Drifted off again,” Carney told her as he came out on the porch.

Dillon nodded to him and moved to the other end of the porch. “Let’s examine the situation. It was probably round about midnight Algaro put the screws on Jenny and found out that we’d gone to Thunder Point.”

“So?”

“No sign of the opposition turning up, either there or on the way back. Does Max Santiago seem the kind of man who’d just give up at this point?”

“No way,” Carney said.

“I agree. I think it much more likely he decided to try and relieve us of Bormann’s briefcase at the earliest opportunity.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

“Good.” Dillon swallowed his black coffee and put the cup down. “Let’s get back to Caneel fast. You check around the general area of Caneel Beach, the bar, the dock and I’ll find Ferguson. We’ll meet up in the bar later.”

They went back to Mary and Billy. “You boys going?” Mary asked.

“Got to,” Dillon said. “What about you?”

“Billy will run things down at the bar, but me, I’m going to St. Thomas with Jenny.”

“Tell her I’ll be in to see her,” Dillon said. “Don’t forget now,” and he hurried down the steps followed by Carney.

When Dillon hammered on the door of 7E it was opened by Ferguson holding a flannel loaded with ice cubes to his head.

“What happened?” Dillon demanded.

“Algaro happened. I was in the shower and the door was locked. God knows how he got in, but I walked out of the bathroom and there he was with one of the other men. I did my best, Dillon, but the bastard had a Browning. Clouted me across the head.”

“Let me see.” Dillon examined it. “It could be worse.”

“They had an inflatable on the beach and took off for Maria Blanco . It was anchored out there.”

Dillon pulled up the venetian blinds in one of the windows. “Well it isn’t now.”

“I wonder where he’s gone, back to San Juan perhaps.” Ferguson scowled. “I saw him in the stern through those field glasses, saw Algaro give him the briefcase. He seemed to know I was watching. He raised the case in one hand and waved with the other.” Ferguson scowled. “Cheeky bastard.”

“I told Carney we’d see him in the bar,” Dillon said. “Come on, we’d better go and break the bad news and decide what we’re going to do.”

In the darkest corner of the bar, Ferguson and Dillon shared a table. The Brigadier was enjoying a large Scotch tinkling with ice while Dillon had contented himself with Evian water and a cigarette. Carney came in quickly to join them and called to the waitress, “Just a cold beer.”

“What happened?”