Thunder Point

9

It was nine o’clock the following morning when Ferguson arrived at Downing Street. He had to wait for only five minutes before an aide took him upstairs and showed him into the study where the Prime Minister was seated at his desk, signing one document after another.

He looked up. “Ah, there you are, Brigadier.”

“You asked to see me, Prime Minister?”

“Yes, I’ve had the Deputy Director of the Security Services and Sir Francis on my back about this Virgin Islands affair. Is it true what they tell me, that you’ve taken on this man Dillon to handle things?”

“Yes,” Ferguson said calmly.

“A man with his record? Can you tell me why?”

“Because he’s right for the job, sir. Believe me, I find nothing admirable in Dillon’s past. His work some years ago for the IRA is known to us although nothing has ever been proven against him. The same applies to his activities on the international scene. He’s a gun for hire, Prime Minister. Even the Israelis have used him when it suited them.”

“I can’t say I like it. I think Carter has a point of view.”

“I can pull him out if that is what you wish.”

“But you’d rather not?”

“I think he’s the man for this particular job. To be frank, it’s a dirty one and it has already become apparent since we last spoke that there are people he will have to deal with who play very dirty indeed.”

“I see.” The Prime Minister sighed. “Very well, Brigadier, I leave it to your own good judgment, but do try and make your peace with Carter.”

“I will, Prime Minister,” Ferguson said and withdrew.

Jack Lane was waiting in the Daimler. As it drove away he said, “And what was that all about?”

Ferguson told him. “He’s got a point, of course.”

“You know how I feel, sir, I was always against it. I wouldn’t trust Dillon an inch.”

“Interesting thing about Dillon,” Ferguson said. “One of the things he’s always been known for is a kind of twisted sense of honor. If he gives his word he sticks to it and expects others to do the same.”

“I find that hard to believe, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose most people would.”

Ferguson picked up the car phone and rang through to Simon Carter’s office. He wasn’t there, he was meeting with Pamer at the House of Commons.

“Get a message through to him now,” Ferguson told Carter’s secretary. “Tell him I need to see them both urgently. I’ll meet them on the Terrace at the House in fifteen minutes.” He replaced the phone. “You can come with me, Jack, you’ve never been on the Terrace, have you?”

“What’s going on, sir?”

“Wait and see, Jack, wait and see.”

Rain drifted across the Thames in a fine spray, clearing the Terrace of people. Except for a few who stood under the awnings, drink in hand, everyone else had taken to the bars and cafes. Ferguson stood by the wall holding a large golfer’s umbrella his chauffeur had given him, Lane sheltering with him.

“Doesn’t it fill you with a sense of majesty and awe, Jack, the Mother of Parliaments and all that sort of thing?” Ferguson asked.

“Not with rain pouring down my neck, sir.”

“Ah, there you are.” They turned and saw Carter and Pamer standing in the main entrance to the Terrace. Carter was carrying a black umbrella, which he put up, and he and Pamer joined them.

Ferguson said, “Isn’t this cozy?”

“I’m not in the mood for your feeble attempts at humor, Ferguson, now what do you want?” Carter demanded.

“I’ve just been to see the P.M. I understand you’ve been complaining again, old boy? Didn’t do you any good. He’s told me to carry on and use my judgment.”

Carter was furious, but he managed to control himself and glanced at Lane. “Who’s this?”

“My present assistant, Detective Inspector Jack Lane. I’ve borrowed him from Special Branch.”

“That’s against regulations, you can’t do it.”

“That’s as may be, but I’m not a deckhand on your ship. I run my own and, as my time is limited, let’s get down to facts. Dillon arrived in St. John around five o’clock in the evening their time yesterday. He was attacked by two crew members of Santiago’s boat, the Maria Blanco, who ran him off the road in his jeep and fired a shotgun at him.”

“My God!” Pamer said in horror.

Carter frowned. “Is he all right?”

“Oh, yes, a rubber ball our Dillon, always bounces back. Personally I think they were trying it on, hassling him. Of course the interesting thing is how come they knew who he was and knew he was there?”

“Now look here,” Pamer began, “I trust you’re not suggesting any lack of security on our part?”

Carter said, “Shut up, Francis, he’s got a valid point. This Santiago man is far too well informed.” He turned to Ferguson. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Actually, I was thinking of taking a brief holiday,” Ferguson told him. “You know, sun, sea and sand, swaying palms? They tell me the Virgins are lovely at this time of the year.”

Carter nodded. “You’ll stay in touch?”

“Of course, dear old boy.” Ferguson smiled and turned to Lane. “Let’s go, Jack, we’ve lots to do.”

On the way back to the Ministry Ferguson told his chauffeur to pull in beside a mobile sandwich bar on Victoria Embankment. “This man does the best cup of tea in London, Jack.”

The owner greeted him as an old friend. “Rotten day, Brigadier.”

“It was worse on the Hook, Fred,” the Brigadier said and walked with his cup of tea to the wall overlooking the Thames.

As Lane received his cup of tea he said to Fred, “What did he mean, the Hook?”

“That was a really bad place that was, worst position in the whole of Korea. So many dead bodies that every time you dug another trench, arms and legs came out.”

“You knew the Brigadier then?”

“Knew him? I was a platoon sergeant when he was a second lieutenant. He won his first Military Cross carrying me on his back under fire.” Fred grinned. “That’s why I never charge for the tea.”

Lane, impressed, joined Ferguson and leaned on the parapet under the umbrella. “You’ve got a fan there, sir.”

“Fred? Old soldier’s tales. Don’t listen. I’m going to need the Learjet. Direct flight to St. Thomas should be possible.”

“I believe the work on those new tanks the RAF did has extended the range to at least four thousand miles, sir.”

“There you are then.” Ferguson glanced at his watch. “Just after ten. I want that Learjet ready to leave Gatwick no later than one o’clock, Jack. Top priority. Allowing for the time difference, I could be in St. Thomas somewhere between five or six o’clock their time.”

“Do you want me with you, sir?”

“No, you’ll have to hold the fort.”

“You’ll need accommodation, sir. I’ll see to that.”

Ferguson shook his head. “I’ve reserved it at this Caneel place where I booked Dillon in.”

“You mean you were expecting what happened to happen?”

“Something like that.”

“Look, sir,” said Lane in exasperation, “exactly what is going on?”

“When you find out, tell me, Jack.” Ferguson emptied his cup, went and put it on the counter. “Thanks, Fred.” He turned to Lane. “Come on, Jack, must get moving, lots to do before I leave,” and he got into the rear of the Daimler.

Santiago was up early, even went for a swim in the sea, and was seated at the table in the stern enjoying his breakfast in the early morning sunshine when Algaro brought him the telephone.

“It’s Sir Francis,” he said.

“A wonderful morning here,” Santiago said. “How’s London?”

“Cold and wet. I’m just about to have a sandwich lunch and then spend the whole afternoon in interminable Committee meetings. Look, Max, Carter saw the Prime Minister and tried to put the boot into Ferguson because he was employing Dillon.”

“I didn’t imagine Carter to be quite so stupid. Ferguson still got his way of course?”

“Yes, the P.M. backed him to the hilt. More worrying, he asked for another meeting with me and Carter, and told us Dillon had been attacked on his first night in St. John. What on earth was that about?”

“My people were just leaning on him a little, Francis. After all, and as you made clear, he knows of my existence.”

“Yes, but what Ferguson’s now interested in is how you knew who Dillon was, the fact that he was arriving in St. John and so on. He said you were far too well informed, and Carter agreed with him.”

“Did he make any suggestion as to how he thought I was getting my information?”

“No, but he did say he thought he’d join Dillon in St. John for a few days.”

“Did he now? That should prove interesting. I look forward to meeting him.”

Pamer said, genuine despair in his words, “God dammit, Max, they know of your involvement. How long before they know about mine?”

“You’re not on the boards of any of the companies, Francis, and neither was your father. No mention of the name Pamer anywhere, and the great thing about this whole affair is that it is a private war. As I’ve already told you, Ferguson won’t want the American authorities in on this. We’re rather like two dogs squabbling over the same bone.”

“I’m still worried,” Pamer told him. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Keep the information flowing, Francis, and keep your nerve. Nothing else you can do.”

Santiago put the phone down and Algaro said, “More coffee, Señor?”

Santiago nodded. “Brigadier Ferguson is coming.”

“Here to Caneel?” Algaro smiled. “And what would you like me to do about him, Señor?”

“Oh, I’ll think of something,” Santiago said and drank his coffee. “In the meantime, let’s find out what our friend Dillon is up to this morning.”

Guerra went round to Caneel Beach in an inflatable, taking one of the divers with him, a young man called Javier Noval. They wore swimming shorts, tee-shirts and dark glasses, just another couple of tourists. They pulled in amongst other small craft at the dock, Guerra killed the outboard motor and Noval tied up. At that moment Dillon appeared at the end of the dock. He wore a black tracksuit and carried a couple of towels.

“That’s him,” Guerra told Noval. “Get going. I’ll stay out of the way in case he remembers me from last night.”

Bob Carney was manhandling dive tanks from a trolley on to the deck of a small twenty-five-foot dive boat, turned and saw Dillon. He waved and went along the dock to join him, passing Noval, who stopped to light a cigarette close enough to listen to them.

Carney said, “You’re going to need a few things. Let’s go up to the dive shop.”

They moved away. Noval waited and then followed.

There was a wide range of excellent equipment. Dillon chose a three-quarter-length suit of black and green in padded nylon, nothing too heavy, a mask, fins and gloves.

“Have you tried one of these?” Carney opened a box. “A Marathon dive computer. The wonder of the age. Automatic readings on your depth, elapsed time under water, safe time remaining. Even tells you how long you should wait to fly.”

“That’s for me,” Dillon told him. “I always was lousy at mental arithmetic.”

Carney itemized the bill. “I’ll put this on your hotel account.”

Dillon signed it. “So what have you got planned?”

“Oh, nothing too strenuous, you’ll see.” Carney smiled. “Let’s get going,” and he led the way out.

Noval dropped down into the inflatable. “The other man is called Carney. He owns the diving concession here. Paradise Watersports.”

“So they are going diving?” Guerra asked.

“They must be. Dillon was in the shop with him buying equipment.” He glanced up. “Here they come now.”

Dillon and Carney passed above them and got into the dive boat. After a moment Carney fired the engine and Dillon cast off. The boat moved out of the bay, weaving its way through various craft anchored there.

Guerra said, “There’s no name on that boat.”

“Privateer, that’s what it’s called,” Noval told him. “I asked one of the beach guards. You know, I’ve done most of my diving around Puerto Rico, but I’ve heard of this Carney. He’s big stuff.”

Guerra nodded. “Okay, we’d better get back and let Señor Santiago know what’s happening.”

Noval cast off, Guerra started the outboard, and they moved away.

The Privateer was doing a steady twenty knots, the sea not as calm as it could have been. Dillon held on tight and managed to light a cigarette one-handed.

“Are you prone to sea sickness?” Carney asked.

“Not that I know of,” Dillon shouted above the roar of the engine.

“Good, because it’s going to get worse before it gets better. We’ve not too far to go though.”

Waves swept in, long and steep, the Privateer riding up over them and plunging down, and Dillon hung on, taking in the incredible scenery, the peaks of the islands all around. And then they were very close to a smaller island, turned in toward it and moved into the calmer waters of a bay.

“Congo Cay,” Carney said. “A nice dive.” He went round to the prow, dropped the anchor and came back. “Not much to tell you. Twenty-five to ninety feet. Very little current. There’s a ridge maybe three hundred feet long. If you want to limit your depth you could stay on top of that.”

“Sounds the kind of place you’d bring novices,” Dillon said, pulling on the black and green diving suit.

“All the time,” Carney told him calmly.

Dillon got into his gear quickly and fastened a weight belt round his waist. Carney had already clamped tanks to their inflatable jackets and helped Dillon ease into his while sitting on the side of the boat. Dillon pulled on his gloves.

Carney said, “See you at the anchor.”

Dillon nodded, pulled down his mask, checked that the air was flowing freely through his mouthpiece and went over backwards into the sea. He swam under the keel of the boat until he saw the anchor line and followed it down, pausing only to swallow a couple of times, a technique aimed at equalizing the pressure in his ears when they became uncomfortable.

He reached the ridge, paused with a hand on the anchor and looked at Carney descending to join him through a massive school of silversides. At that moment, an extraordinary thing happened. A black tip reef shark about nine feet in length shot out of the gloom scattering clouds of fish before it, swerved around Carney, then disappeared over the ridge as fast as it had come.

Carney made the okay sign with finger and thumb. Dillon replied in kind and followed him as he led the way along the reef. There were brilliant yellow tube sponges everywhere, and when they went over the edge there was lots of orange sponge attached to the rock faces. The coral outcroppings were multi-colored and very beautiful, and at one point Carney paused, pointing, and Dillon saw a huge eagle ray pass in the distance, wings flapping in slow motion.

It was a very calm, very enjoyable dive, but no big deal, and after about thirty minutes, Dillon realized they’d come full circle because the anchor line was ahead of them. He followed Carney up the line nice and slow, finally swam under the keel and surfaced at the stern. Carney, with practiced ease, was up over the stern pulling his gear behind him. Dillon unstrapped his jacket, slipped out of it and Carney reached down and pulled jacket and tank on board. Dillon joined him a moment later.

Carney busied himself clipping fresh tanks to the jackets and went and pulled in the anchor. Dillon put a towel over his shoulders and lit a cigarette. “The reef shark,” he said. “Does that happen often?”

“Not really,” Carney said.

“Enough to give some people a heart attack.”

“I’ve been diving for years,” Carney told him, “and I’ve never found sharks a problem.”

“Not even a great white?”

“How often would you see one of those? No, nurse sharks in the main and they’re no problem. Around here, reef sharks now and then or lemon sharks. Sure, they could be a problem, but hardly ever. We’re big and they’re big and they just want to keep out of the way. Having said that, did you enjoy the dive?”

“It was fine.” Dillon shrugged.

“Which means you’d like a little more excitement.” Carney started the engine. “Okay, let’s go for one of my big boy dives,” and he gunned the engine and took the Privateer out into open water.

They actually passed at some distance Maria Blanco still at anchor off Paradise Beach, and Guerra was in the deckhouse, scanning the area with binoculars. He recognized the boat and told Captain Serra, who examined the chart and then took a book on dive sites in the Virgin Islands from a drawer in the chart table.

“Keep watching,” he told Guerra and leafed through.

“They’ve anchored,” Guerra told him, “and run up the dive flag.”

“Carval Rock,” Serra said. “That’s where they’re diving.”

At that moment Algaro came in and held the door open for Santiago, who was wearing a blue blazer and a Captain’s cap, a gold rim to the peak. “What’s happening?”

“Carney and Dillon are diving out there, Señor.” Serra indicated the spot and gave Santiago the binoculars.

Santiago could just see the two men moving in the stern of Privateer. He said, “That couldn’t be the site, could it?”

“No way, Señor,” Serra told him. “It’s a difficult place to dive, but hundreds of dives are made there every year.”

“Never mind,” Santiago said. “Put the launch in the water. We’ll go and have a look. We’ll see what these two divers of yours, Noval and Pinto, can do.”

“Very well, Señor, I’ll get things moving,” and Serra went out followed by Guerra.

Algaro said, “You wish me to come too, Señor?”

“Why not?” Santiago said. “Even if Dillon sees you it doesn’t matter. He knows you exist.”

The rock was magnificent, rising up out of a very turbulent sea, birds of every kind perched up there on the ridge, gulls descending in slow motion in the heavy wind.

“Carval Rock,” Carney said. “This is rated an advanced dive. Descends to about eighty or so feet. There’s the wreck of a Cessna over on the other side that crashed a few years back. There are some nice ravines, fissures, one or two short tunnels and wonderful rock and coral cliffs. The problem is the current. Caused by tidal movement through the Pillsbury Sound.”

“How strong?” Dillon asked as he fastened his weight belt.

“One or two knots is fairly common. Above two knots is unswimmable.” He looked over and shook his head. “And I’d say it’s three knots today.”

Dillon lifted his jacket and tank on to the thwart and put it on himself. “Sounds as if it could be interesting.”

“Your funeral.”

Carney got his own gear on and Dillon turned to lean over and wash out his mask and saw a white launch approaching. “We’re going to have company.”

Carney turned to look. “I doubt it. No dive master I know would take his people down in this current today, he’d go somewhere easier.”

The swells were huge now, the Privateer bucking up and down on the anchor line. Dillon went over, paused to check his air supply and started down to what looked like a dense forest below. He paused on the bottom, waiting until Carney had reached him, beckoned and turned toward the rock. Dillon followed, amazed at the strength of the current pushing against him, was aware of a stream of white bubbles over to his left and saw an anchor descend.

On the launch, Santiago sat in the wheelhouse while Serra went to the prow and dropped the anchor. Algaro was helping Noval and Pinto into their diving equipment.

Serra said finally, “They are ready to go, Señor, what are your orders?”

“Tell them to just have a look around,” Santiago said. “No trouble. Leave Carney and Dillon alone.”

“As you say, Señor.”

The two divers were sitting together on the port side. Serra nodded and together they went over backwards into the water.

Dillon followed Carney with increasing difficulty because of the strength of the current up across rock and coral, following a deep channel that led through to the other side of the rocks. The force was quite tremendous and Carney was down on his belly pulling himself through with gloved hands, reaching for one handhold after another, and Dillon went after him, the other man’s fins just three or four feet in front of him.

There was a kind of threshold. Carney was motionless for a while and then passed through, and Dillon had the same problem, faced with a kind of wall of pressure. He clawed at the rocks with agonizing slowness, foot by foot, and suddenly was through and into another world.

The surface was fifty feet above him and as he surged forward, he found himself in the middle of a school of tarpon at least four feet in length. There were yellow tail snappers, horse-eyed jacks, bonita, king mackerel and barracuda, some of them five feet long.

Carney plunged down to the other side, the rock face falling below, and Dillon followed him. They closed together and Dillon was aware of the current as they turned and saw Noval and Pinto trying to come through the cut. Noval almost made it, then lost his grip and was pushed into Pinto and they disappeared back to the other side.

Carney moved on and Dillon followed, down to seventy-five feet, and the current took them now in a fierce three-knot riptide that bounced them along the front of the wall in an upright position. They were surrounded by clouds of silversides, flying through space, the ultimate dream, and Dillon had never felt so excited. It seemed to go on forever, and then the current slackened and Carney was using his fins now and climbing.

Dillon followed through a deep ravine that led into another, waterlike black glass, checked his computer and was surprised to find that they had been under for twenty-five minutes. They moved away from the rock itself now, only three or four feet above the forest of the seabed, and came to a line and anchor. Carney paused to examine it, then turned and shook his head, moving on toward the left, finally arriving at their own anchor. They went up slowly, leaving the line at fifteen feet and swimming to one side of the boat, surfacing at the keel.

Carney reached down to take Dillon’s tank and the Irishman got a foot in the tiny ladder and pulled himself up and over the stern. He felt totally exhilarated, unzipped his diving suit and pulled it off as Carney stowed their tanks.

“Bloody marvelous.”

Carney smiled. “It wasn’t bad, was it?”

He turned and looked across at the launch which was anchored over on the port side, swinging on its anchor chain in the heavy sea. Dillon said, “I wonder what happened to the two divers we saw trying to get through the cut?”

“They couldn’t make it, I guess, that was rough duty down there.” The launch swung round, exposing the stern. “That’s the Maria Blanco’s launch,” Carney added.

“Is that a fact?”

Dillon dried himself slowly with a towel and stood at the rail looking across. He recognized Algaro at once, standing in the stern with Serra, and then Santiago came out of the wheelhouse.

“Who’s the guy in the blazer and cap?” Dillon enquired.

Carney looked across. “That’s Max Santiago, the owner. I’ve seen him in St. John a time or two.”

Santiago was looking across at them and on impulse, Dillon raised an arm and waved. Santiago waved back and at that moment Noval and Pinto surfaced.

“Time to go home,” Carney said and he went round to the prow and heaved in the anchor.

On the way back Dillon said, “The Maria Blanco, where would it anchor when it’s here, Caneel Bay?”

“More likely to be off Paradise Beach.”

“Could we take a look?”

Carney glanced at him, then looked away. “Why not? It’s your charter.”

Dillon got the water bottle from the icebox, drank about a pint, then passed it to Carney and lit a cigarette. Carney drank a little and passed it back.

“You’ve dived before, Mr. Dillon.”

“And that’s a fact,” Dillon agreed.

They were close to Paradise now and Carney throttled back the engine and the Privateer passed between two of the oceangoing yachts that were moored there and came to the Maria Blanco. “There she is,” he said.

There were a couple of crewmen working on deck, who looked up casually as they passed. “Jesus,” Dillon said, that thing must have made a dent in Santiago’s wallet. A couple of million, I’d say.”

“And then some.”

Carney went up to full power and made for Caneel Beach. Dillon lit another cigarette and leaned against the wall of the deckhouse. “Do you get many interesting wrecks in this area?”

“Some,” Carney said. “There’s the Cartanser Senior off Buck Island over to St. Thomas, an old freighter that’s a popular dive, and the General Rodgers. The Coast Guard sank her to get rid of her.”

“No, I was thinking of something more interesting than that,” Dillon said. “I mean you know this area like the back of your hand. Would it be possible for there to be a wreck on some reef out there that you’d never come across?”

Carney slowed as they entered the bay. “Anything’s possible, it’s a big ocean.”

“So there could be something out there just waiting to be discovered?”

The Privateer coasted in beside the dock. Dillon got the stern line, went over and tied up. He did the same with the other line as Carney cut the engine, went back on board and pulled on his track suit.

Carney leaned by the wheel looking at him. “Mr. Dillon, I don’t know what goes on here. All I know for certain is you are one hell of a diver, and that I admire. What all this talk of wrecks means I don’t know and don’t want to as I’m inclined to the quiet life, but I will give you one piece of advice. Your interest in Max Santiago?”

“Oh, yes?” Dillon said, continuing to put his diving equipment in a net diving bag.

“It could be unhealthy. I’ve heard things about him that aren’t good, plenty of people could tell you the same. The way he makes his money, for example.”

“A hotel keeper as I heard it.” Dillon smiled.

“There’s other ways that involve small planes or a fast boat by night to Florida, but what the hell, you’re a grown man.” Carney moved out on deck. “You want to dive with me again?”

“You can count on it. I’ve got business in St. Thomas this afternoon. How would I get there?”

Carney pointed to the other side of the dock where a very large launch was just casting off. “That’s the resort ferry. They run back and forth during the day, but I figure you missed this one.”

“Damn!” Dillon said.

“Mr. Dillon, you arrived at Cruz Bay in your own floatplane, and the front desk, who keep me informed of such things, tell me you pay with an American Express Platinum Card.”

“What can I say, you’ve got me,” Dillon told him amicably.

“Water taxis are expensive, but not to a man of your means. The front desk will order you one.”

“Thanks.” Dillon crossed to the dock and paused. “Maybe I could buy you a drink tonight. Will you be at Jenny’s Place?”

“Hell, I’m there every night at the moment,” Carney said, “otherwise I’d starve. My wife and kids are away on vacation.”

“I’ll see you then,” Dillon said and turned and walked away along the dock toward the front desk.

The water taxi had seats for a dozen passengers, but he had it to himself. The only crew was a woman in a peaked cap and denims, who sat at the wheel and made for St. Thomas at a considerable rate of knots. It was noisy and there wasn’t much chance to speak, which suited Dillon. He sat there smoking and thinking about the way things had gone so far, Algaro, Max Santiago and the Maria Blanco.

He knew about Santiago, but Santiago knew about him, that was a fact and yet to be explained. There had almost been a touch of comradeship in the way Santiago had waved back at him at Carval Rock. Carney, he liked. In fact, everything about him he liked. For one thing, the American knew his business, but there was power there and real authority. An outstanding example of a quiet man it wouldn’t pay to push.

“Here we go,” the water taxi driver shouted over her shoulder, and Dillon glanced up and saw that they were moving in toward the waterfront of Charlotte Amalie.

It was quite a place and bustling with activity, two enormous cruise liners berthed on the far side of the harbor. The waterfront was lined with buildings in white and pastel colors, shops and restaurants of every description. It had been a Danish colony, he knew that, and the influence still showed in some of the architecture.

He followed a narrow alley called Drake’s Passage that was lined with colorful shops offering everything from designer clothes to gold and jewelry, for this was a free port, and came out into Main Street. He consulted the address Ferguson had given him and crossed to where some taxis waited.

“Can you take me to Cane Street?” he asked the first driver.

“I wouldn’t take your money, man,” the driver told him amiably. “Just take the next turning through to Back Street. Cane is the third on the left.”

Dillon thanked him and moved on. It was hot, very hot, people crowding the pavements, traffic moving slowly in the narrow streets, but Cane Street, when he came to it, was quiet and shaded. The house he wanted was at the far end, clapboard, painted white with a red corrugated iron roof. There was a tiny garden in front of it and steps leading up to a porch on which an ageing black man with gray hair sat on a swing seat reading a newspaper.

He looked up as Dillon approached. “And what can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Earl Stacey,” Dillon told him.

The man peered at him over the top of reading glasses. “You ain’t gonna spoil my day with no bills, are you?”

“Ferguson told me to look you up,” Dillon said, “Brigadier Charles Ferguson. My name is Dillon.”

The other man smiled and removed his glasses. “I’ve been expecting you. Come right this way,” and he pushed open the door and led the way into the house.

“I’m on my own since my wife died last year.” Stacey opened a door, switched on a light and led the way down wooden steps to a cellar. There were wooden shelves up to the ceiling, pots of paint stacked there, cupboards below. He reached in and released some kind of catch and pulled it open like a door revealing another room. He switched on a light.

“Come into my parlor.”

There was all kinds of weaponry, rifles, submachine guns, boxes of ammunition. “It looks like Christmas to me,” Dillon told him.

“You just tell me what you want, man, and Ferguson picks up the tab, that was the arrangement.”

“Rifle first,” Dillon said. “Armalite perhaps. I like the folding stock.”

“I can do better. I got an AK assault rifle here with a folding stock, fires automatic when you want, thirty-round magazine.” He took the weapon from a stand and handed it over.

“Yes, this will do fine,” Dillon told him. “I’ll take it with two extra magazines. I need a handgun now, Walther PPK for preference, and a Carswell silencer. Two extra magazines for that as well.”

“Can do.”

Stacey opened a very large drawer under the bench which ran along one wall. Inside there was an assortment of handguns. He selected a Walther and passed it to Dillon for approval. “Anything else?”

There was a cheap-looking plastic holster with the butt of a pistol sticking out of it and Dillon was intrigued. “What’s that?”

“It’s an ace-in-the-hole.” Stacey took it out. “That metal strip on the back is a magnet. Stick it underneath anywhere and as long as it’s metal it’ll hold fast. The gun don’t look much, point-two-two Belgian, semi-automatic, seven-shot, but I’ve put hollow-nosed rounds in. They fragment bone.”

“I’ll take it,” Dillon said. “One more thing. Would you happen to have any C4 explosive?”

“The kind salvage people use for underwater work?”

“Exactly.”

“No, but I tell you what I do have, something just as good, Semtex. You heard of that stuff?”

“Oh, yes,” Dillon said. “I think you could say I’m familiar with Semtex. One of Czechoslovakia’s more successful products.”

“The terrorist’s favorite weapon.” Stacey took a box down from the shelf. “The Palestinians, the IRA, all those cats use this stuff. You gonna use this underwater yourself?”

“Just to make a hole in a wreck.”

“Then you need some detonation cord, a remote-control unit or I’ve got some chemical detonating pencils here. They work real good. You just break the cap. I got some timed for ten minutes and others for thirty.” He pushed all the items together. “Is that it?”

“A night sight would be useful and a pair of binoculars.”

“I can do them too.” He opened another drawer. “There you go.”

The night sight was small, but powerful, extending if needed like a telescope. The binoculars were by Zeiss and pocket size. “Excellent,” Dillon said.

Stacey went and found an olive-green Army holdall, unzipped it, put the AK assault rifle in first and then the other things. He closed the zip, turned and led the way out, switching off the light and pushing the shelving back into place. Dillon followed him up the cellar stairs and out to the porch.

Stacey offered him the bag. “Mr. Dillon, I get the impression you intend to start World War Three.”

“Maybe we can call a truce,” Dillon said. “Who knows?”

“I wish you luck, my friend. I’ll send my bill to Ferguson.”

Stacey sat down, put on his reading glasses and picked up his newspaper, and Dillon walked out through the small garden and started back toward the waterfront.

He was walking along the side of the harbor to where the water taxis operated from when he saw that the Caneel ferry was in, a gangplank stretching down to the dock. The Captain was standing at the top as Dillon went up.

“You staying at Caneel, sir?”

“I certainly am.”

“We’ll be leaving soon. Just heard someone’s on the way down from the airport.”

Dillon went into the main cabin, put his bag on a seat and accepted a rum punch offered by one of the crew. He glanced out of the window and saw a large taxi bus draw up, a single passenger inside, went and sat down and drank some of his punch. One of the crew came in and put two suitcases in the corner, there was the sound of the gangplank being moved, the Captain went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. Dillon checked his watch. It was five-thirty. He put his plastic cup on the table, lit a cigarette and at the same time was aware of someone slumping down beside him.

“Fancy meeting you, dear boy,” Charles Ferguson said. “Bloody hot, isn’t it?”