Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

“I checked with a friend who was out fishing. They passed him heading south-east, which means they must be going to Samson Cay.”

Dillon actually laughed. “Right, you bastard, I’ve got you now.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Ferguson demanded.

“The Maria Blanco will be anchored off Samson tonight, and if you remember, the general manager, Prieto, told us that Santiago always stays on board when he’s there. It’s simple. We’ll go in under cover of darkness and I’ll get the briefcase back, if Carney will run us down there in Sea Raider of course.”

“Try stopping me,” Carney told him.

Ferguson shook his head. “You don’t give up easily, do you, Dillon.”

“I could never see the point.” Dillon poured more Evian water and raised his glass.

It was toward evening as Dillon and Ferguson waited on the dock at Caneel Bay, sitting on the bench, the Irishman smoking a cigarette, the olive-green military holdall on the ground between them.

“I think that’s him now,” Ferguson said and pointed and Dillon saw Sea Raider coming in from the sea, slowly to negotiate the moored yachts. There were still people on the beach, some of them swimming in the evening sun, laughter drifting across the water.

Ferguson said, “From what I know of Santiago, I should think he’d be ready to repel boarders. Do you really think you can pull this off?”

“Anything’s possible, Brigadier.” Dillon shrugged. “You don’t need to come, you know. I’d understand.”

“I’ll overlook the insult this time,” Ferguson said coldly, “but don’t ever say something like that to me again, Dillon.”

Dillon smiled. “Cheer up, Brigadier. I’ve no intention of dying at a place called Samson Cay. After all, I’ve got a dinner at the Garrick Club to look forward to again with you.”

He got up and moved to the edge of the dock as Sea Raider drifted in. He waved up to Carney, jumped across the gap, got the fenders over, then threw a line to the Brigadier. Carney killed the engines and came down the ladder as they finished tying up.

“I’ve refuelled so everything’s shipshape. We can leave any time you like.”

Ferguson passed the holdall to Dillon and stepped across as Dillon took it into the deckhouse and put it on one of the benches.

At that moment the receptionist who’d given them the news about Jenny when they’d come in earlier came along the dock. “I’ve just taken a phone call from Mary Jones at St. Thomas Hospital, Mr. Dillon. She’d like for you to call her back.”

Carney said, “I’ll come with you.”

The Brigadier nodded. “I’ll wait here and keep my fingers crossed.”

Dillon stepped over the side and turned along the dock, Carney at his side.

Mary said, “She’s going to be fine, but a good job she had that scan. There’s what they call a hairline fracture in the skull, but the specialist he say nothing that care and good treatment won’t cure.”

“Fine,” Dillon said. “Don’t forget to tell her I’ll be in to see her.”

Carney was leaning at the entrance of the telephone booth, his face anxious. “Hairline fracture of the skull,” Dillon told him as he hung up. “But she’s going to be okay.”

“Well that’s good,” Carney said as they walked back to the dock.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Dillon said. “Another is that Santiago and Algaro have got a lot to answer for, not to mention that bastard Pamer.”

Ferguson got up and came out of the deckhouse as they arrived. “Good news?”

“It could be worse,” Dillon said and told him.

“Thank God!” Ferguson took a deep breath. “All right, I suppose we’d better get going.”

Carney said, “Sure, but I’d like to know how we’re going to handle this thing. Even in the dark, there’s a limit to how close we can get in Sea Raider without being spotted.”

“It seems to me the smart way would be an approach underwater,” Dillon said. “Only there’s no we about it, Carney. I once told you you were one of the good guys. Santiago and his people, they’re the bad guys and that’s what I am. I’m a bad guy, too. Ask the Brigadier, he’ll tell you. That’s why he hired me for this job in the first place. This is where I earn my keep and it’s a one-man affair.”

“Now look,” Carney said. “I can hold up my end.”

“I know that and you’ve got the medals to prove it. The Brigadier showed me your record, but Vietnam was different. You were stuck in a lousy war that wasn’t really any of your business. I suppose you were just trying to stay alive.”

“And I made it. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Remember when you and the Brigadier were swapping war stories about Vietnam and Korea and you asked me what I knew about war and I told you I’d been at war all my life?”

“So?”

“At an age when I should have been taking girls out to dances I was fighting the kind of war where the battlefield was rooftops and back alleys, leading British paratroopers a dance through the sewers of the Falls Road in Belfast, being chased by the SAS through South Armagh and they’re the best.”

“What are you trying to say to me?” Carney asked.

“That when I go over the rail of the Maria Blanco to recover that briefcase I’ll kill anyone who tries to get in my way.” Dillon shrugged. “Like I said, I can do that without a moment’s hesitation because I’m a bad guy. I don’t think you can, and thank God for it.”

There was silence. Carney turned to Ferguson, who nodded. “He’s right, I’m afraid.”

“Okay,” Carney said reluctantly. “This is the way it goes. I’ll go as close to the Maria Blanco as we dare and drop anchor, then I’ll take you the rest of the way in an inflatable.” Dillon tried to speak and Carney cut him off. “No buts, that’s the way it’s going to be. I’ve got an inflatable moored out there on the buoy with Privateer . We’ll pick it up on the way.”

“All right,” Dillon said. “Have it your way.”

“And I come in, Dillon, if anything goes wrong, I come in.”

“On horseback, bugles blowing?” Dillon laughed. “The South shall rise again? You people never could come to terms with losing the Civil War.”

“There was no Civil War.” Carney went up to the flying bridge. “You must be referring to the war for the independence of the Confederacy. Now let’s get moving.”

He switched on the engines, Dillon stepped over to the dock and untied the lines. A moment later and they were moving out into the bay.

The Maria Blanco was anchored in the bay at Samson Cay and Santiago sat in the salon, reading the documents in Bormann’s briefcase for the third time. He’d never been so fascinated in his life. He examined the personal order from Hitler, the signature, then reread the Windsor Protocol. It was the Blue Book which was the most interesting though. All those names, Members of Parliament, Peers of the Realm, people at the highest levels of society who had supported, however secretly, the cause of National Socialism, but then it was hardly surprising. In the England of the great depression with something like four million people out of work, many would have looked at Germany and thought that Hitler had the right idea.

He got up, went to the bar and poured a glass of dry sherry, then returned to the desk, picked up the telephone and called the radio room. “Get me Sir Francis Pamer in London.”

Pamer was sitting alone at the desk in his office at the House of Commons when the phone rang.

“Francis? Max here.”

Pamer was immediately all attention. “Has anything happened?”