Thunder Point

10

Dillon had a quick swim off Paradise Beach, conscious that the Maria Blanco was still at anchor out there, then he went back up to the cottage, had a shower and changed into navy blue linen slacks and a short-sleeved white cotton shirt. He went out, crossed the vestibule and tapped on the door of 7E.

“Come,” Ferguson called.

Dillon entered. The set-up was similar to his own, the bathroom marginally larger as was the other room. Ferguson, in gray flannel slacks and a white Turnbull and Asser shirt, stood in front of the mirror in the small dressing room easing the Guards tie into a neat Windsor knot at his neck.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, took a double-breasted navy blue blazer and pulled it on. “How do I look, dear boy?”

“Like an advertisement for Gieves and Hawkes, the bloody English gentleman abroad.”

“Just because you’re Irish doesn’t mean you have to feel inferior all the time,” Ferguson told him. “Some very reasonable people were Irish, Dillon, my mother for instance, not to mention the Duke of Wellington.”

“Who said that just because a man had been born in a stable didn’t mean he was a horse,” Dillon pointed out.

“Dear me, did he say that? Most unfortunate.” Ferguson picked up a Panama hat and a Malacca cane with a silver handle.

“I never knew you needed a cane,” Dillon said.

“Bought this during the Korean War. Strong as steel because it has a steel core weighted with lead at the tip. Oh, and here’s a rather nice device.”

He turned the silver handle to one side and pulled out a steel poniard about nine inches long.

“Very interesting,” Dillon said.

“Yes, well we are in foreign parts. I call it my pig sticker.” There was a click as Ferguson rammed the poniard home. “Now, are you going to offer me a quick drink before we go out or aren’t you?”

Dillon had negotiated a supply of Krug from room service, had several half-bottles in one of the iceboxes. He filled two glasses and went out to Ferguson on the terrace, picking up the Zeiss field glasses on the way.

“That large white motor yacht out there is the Maria Blanco.”

“Really?” Dillon passed him the Zeiss glasses and the Brigadier had a look. “A sort of minor floating palace I’d say.”

“So it would appear.”

Ferguson still held the glasses to his eyes. “As a young man I was a subaltern in the Korean War. One year of unmitigated hell. I did a tour of duty on a position called the Hook. Just like the First World War. Miles of trenches, barbed wire, mine fields and thousands of Chinese trying to get in. They used to watch us and we used to watch them. It was like a game, a particularly nasty game, which exploded into violence every so often.” He sighed and lowered the glasses. “What on earth am I prattling on about, Dillon?”

“Oh, I’d say you’re going the long way round to the pub to tell me that you suspect Santiago’s watching too.”

“Something like that. Tell me how far things have gone and don’t leave anything out, not a single damn thing.”

When Dillon was finished, he refilled the Brigadier’s glass while Ferguson sat there thinking about it.

“What do you think the next move should be?” Dillon asked.

“Well, now you’ve gone and got yourself tooled up by Stacey I suppose you’re eager for confrontation, a gunfight at the OK Corral?”

“I’ve taken precautions, that’s all,” Dillon said. “And I needed the Semtex to blast a way into the U-boat.”

“If we find it,” Ferguson said. “And not a murmur from the girl.”

“She’ll turn up eventually.”

“And in the meantime?”

“I’d like to take things further with Carney. We really do need him on our side.”

“I can see that, but it would be a question of how to approach him. Would a cash offer help?”

“Not really. If I’m right, Carney is the kind of man who’ll only do a thing if he really wants to or if he thinks it right.”

“Oh, dear.” Ferguson sighed. “Heaven save me from the romantics of this world.” He stood up and glanced at his watch. “Food, Dillon, that’s what I need. Where shall we eat?”

“We could walk up to Turtle Bay Dining Room. That’s more formal, I hear, but excellent. I’ve booked a table.”

“Good, then let’s get moving, and for heaven’s sake put a jacket on. I don’t want people to think I’m dining with a beachcomber.”

Out in the gathering darkness of Caneel Bay, an inflatable from the Maria Blanco nosed in beside Carney’s Sport Fisherman, Sea Raider, the only sound the muted throbbing of the outboard motor. Serra was at the helm and Algaro sat in the stern. As they bumped against the hull of Sea Raider he went up over the rail and into the wheelhouse, took a tiny electronic box from his pocket, reached under the instrument panel until he found metal and put it in place attached by its magnet.

A moment later he was back in the inflatable. “Now the small dive boat, Privateer,” he said and Serra turned and moved toward it.

Max Santiago, wearing a white linen suit, was sitting in Caneel Bay Bar sipping a mint julep when Algaro came in. He wore a black tee-shirt and a loose-fitting baggy suit in black linen that made him look rather sinister.

“Did everything go well?” Santiago asked.

“Absolutely. I’ve put a bug on both of Carney’s dive boats. That means we can follow wherever he goes without being observed. Ferguson booked in just after six. I checked with the reservations desk. Dillon has booked a table for two up at Turtle Bay Dining Room.”

“Good,” Santiago said. “It might be amusing to join him.”

Captain Serra entered at that moment. “Have you any further orders, Señor?”

“If Dillon does as he did last night, he may probably visit this bar, Jenny’s Place,” Santiago said. “I’ll probably look in there myself.”

“So I’ll take the launch round to Cruz Bay, Señor, to pick you up from there?”

Santiago smiled. “I’ve had a better idea. Go back to the Maria Blanco, pick up some of the crew and take them into Cruz. They can have a drink on me later, let off a little steam if you follow me.”

“Perfectly, Señor.” Serra smiled and went out.

It was just after midnight at the Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity and Jenny Grant, who had gone to bed early, was restless and unable to sleep. She got up, found her cigarettes, lit one and went and sat on the padded windowseat and peered out into driving rain. She could see the light still on in the window of Sister Maria Baker’s office, but then, she never seemed to stop working. Strange how Henry had always kept her very existence a secret. It was as if he’d been somehow ashamed of her, the religious thing. He’d never been able to handle that.

Jenny felt much better than when she had arrived, infinitely more rested and yet restless at the same time. She wondered what was happening in St. John and how Dillon was getting on. She’d liked Dillon, that was the simple truth, in spite of everything in his background of which she thoroughly disapproved. On the other hand, you could only speak as you found, and to her he had been good, kind, considerate and understanding.

She went back to bed, switched off the light and dozed and had a dream of the half-waking sort, the U-boat in dark waters and Henry diving deep. Dear Henry. Such an idiot to have been down there in the first place and somewhere dangerous, somewhere unusual, somewhere people didn’t normally go. It had to be.

She came awake in the instant and spoke out loud in the darkness. “Oh, my God, of course, and so simple.”

She got out of bed and went to the window. The light was still on in the Mother Superior’s office. She dressed quickly in jeans and sweater and hurried across the courtyard through the rain and knocked on the door.

When she entered, she found Sister Maria Baker seated behind her desk working. She glanced up in surprise. “Why, Jenny, what is it? Can’t you sleep?”

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow, Sister, I just wanted to let you know. I’m going back to St. John.”

“So soon, Jenny? But why?”

“The location of the U-boat that Henry found and that Dillon is looking for? I think I can find it for him. It just came to me as I was falling asleep.”

Ferguson sat on the terrace at Turtle Bay and looked out to the Sir Francis Drake Channel, islands like black cutouts against the dark sky streaked with orange as the sun descended.

“Really is quite extraordinary,” the Brigadier said as they sipped a fruit punch.

“ ‘Sunsets exquisitely dying,’ that’s what the poet said,” Dillon murmured.

The cicadas chirped ceaselessly, night birds calling to each other. He got up and moved to the edge of the terrace and Ferguson said, “Good heavens, I didn’t realize you had a literary bent, dear boy.”

Dillon lit a cigarette, the Zippo flaring. He grinned. “To be frank with you I’m a bloody literary genius, Brigadier. I did Hamlet at the Royal Academy. I can still remember most of the text.” His voice changed suddenly into a remarkable impression of Marlon Brando. “I could have been somebody, I could have been a contender.”

“Don’t get maudlin on me at this stage in your life, Dillon, never pays to look back with regret because you can’t change anything. And you’ve wasted too much time already on that damned cause of yours. I trust you realize that. Stay with the present. The main point which concerns me at the moment is how this wretched man Santiago comes to be so well informed.”

“And wouldn’t I like to know that myself?” Dillon said.

Santiago walked in through the arched gateway, Algaro at his shoulder. He looked around the terrace, saw Dillon and Ferguson and came over. “Mr. Dillon? Max Santiago.”

“I know who you are, Señor,” Dillon replied in excellent Spanish.

Santiago looked surprised. “I must congratulate you, Señor,” he replied in the same language. “Such fluency in a foreigner is rare.” He turned to Ferguson and added in English, “A pleasure to see you at Caneel Bay, Brigadier. Have a nice dinner, gentlemen,” and he left followed by Algaro.

“He knew who you are and he knew you were here,” Dillon said.

“So I noticed.” Ferguson stood up. “Let’s eat, I’m starving.”

The service was good, the food excellent and Ferguson thoroughly enjoyed himself. They split a bottle of Louis Roederer Crystal Champagne and started with grilled sea scallops in a red pepper and saffron sauce, followed by a Caesar salad and then a pan-roasted pheasant. Ferguson, napkin tucked in his collar, devoured everything.

“To be honest, dear boy, I really prefer nursery food, but one must make an effort.”

“An Englishman abroad again?” Dillon inquired.

“Ferguson, I need hardly point out, is the most Scots of Scottish names, Dillon, and as I told you, my mother was Irish.”

“Yes, but Eton, Sandhurst and the Grenadier Guards got mixed up in that little lot somewhere.”

Ferguson poured some more Crystal. “Lovely bottle. You can see right through it. Very unusual.”

“Czar Nicholas designed it himself,” Dillon told him. “Said he wanted to be able to see the champagne.”

“Extraordinary. Never knew that.”

“Didn’t do him any good when the Bolsheviks murdered him.”

“I’m glad you said murdered, Dillon, there’s some hope for you still. What’s friend Santiago doing?”

“Having dinner at the edge of the garden behind you. The ghoul with him, by the way, is called Algaro. He must be his minder. He’s the one who ran me off the road and fired a shotgun.”

“Oh, dear, we can’t have that.” Ferguson asked the waiter for tea instead of coffee. “What do you suggest our next move should be? Santiago is obviously pressing and intends we should know it.”

“I think I need to speak to Carney. If anybody might have some ideas about where that U-boat is, it would be he.”

“That’s not only exquisitely grammatical, dear boy, it makes sense. Do you know where he might be?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Excellent.” Ferguson stood, picked up his Panama and Malacca cane. “Let’s get moving then.”

Dillon drove into the car park at Mongoose Junction and switched off. He took the holstered Belgian semi-automatic from his jacket pocket. “What on earth is that?” Ferguson demanded.

“An ace-in-the-hole. I’ll leave it under the dashboard.”

“Looks like a woman’s gun to me.”

“And like most women it gets the job done, Brigadier, so don’t be sexist.” Dillon clamped the holster under the dashboard. “Okay, let’s go and see if we can find Carney.”

They walked along the front from Mongoose Junction to Jenny’s Place. It was about half-full when they went inside, Billy Jones working the bar, Mary and one waitress between them handling the dinner trade. There were only four tables taken and Carney sat at one.

Captain Serra and three of the crew from the Maria Blanco were at a booth table in the corner. Guerra, the mate, was one of them. Dillon recognized him from the first night, although the fact that Guerra said, “That’s him,” in Spanish and they all stopped talking was sufficient confirmation.

“Hello there.” Mary Jones approached and Dillon smiled.

“We’ll join Bob Carney. A bottle of champagne. Whatever you’ve got!”

“Two glasses.” Ferguson raised his hat politely.

Mary took his arm, her teeth flashing in a delighted smile. “I like this man. Where did you find him? I love a gentleman.”

Billy leaned over the bar. “You put him down, woman.”

“It’s not his fault,” Dillon said. “He’s a Brigadier. All that army training.”

“A Brigadier General.” Her eyes widened.

“Well, yes, that’s true in your army,” Ferguson said uncomfortably.

“Well, you go and join Bob Carney, honey. Mary’s gonna take care of you right now.”

Carney was just finishing an order of steak and french fries, a beer at his elbow, and looked up as they approached. “Mr. Dillon?” he said.

“This is a friend of mine, Brigadier Charles Ferguson,” Dillon told him. “May we join you?”

Carney smiled. “I’m impressed, but I should warn you, Brigadier, all I made was corporal and that was in the Marines.”

“Grenadier Guards,” Ferguson told him, “hope you don’t mind?”

“Hell, no, I guess we elite unit boys have got to stick together. Sit down.” As they each pulled up a chair he went back to his steak and said to Dillon, “You ever in the army, Dillon?”

“Not exactly,” Dillon told him.

“Hell, there’s nothing exact about it, not that you hear about the Irish Army too much except that they seem to spend most of their time fighting for the United Nations in Beirut or Angola or someplace. Of course, there is the other lot, the IRA.” He stopped cutting the last piece of steak for a moment, then carried on. “But no, that wouldn’t be possible, would it, Dillon?”

He smiled and Ferguson said, “My dear chap, be reasonable, what on earth would the IRA be interested in here? What’s more to the point, why would I be involved?”

“I don’t know about that, Brigadier. What I do know is that Dillon here is a mystery to me and a mystery is like a crossword puzzle. I’ve just got to solve it.”

Santiago came in followed by Algaro and the other four stood up. “We’ve got company,” Dillon told Ferguson.

The Brigadier looked round. “Oh, dear,” he said.

Bob Carney pushed his plate away. “Just to save you more questions, Santiago you know and that creep Algaro. The one with the beard is the captain of the Maria Blanco, Serra. The others will be crew.”

Billy Jones brought a bottle of Pol Roget in a bucket, opened it for them, then went across to the booth to take Santiago’s order. Dillon poured the champagne, raised his glass and spoke to Carney in Irish.

“Jesus,” Carney said. “What in the hell are you saying, Dillon?”

“Irish, the language of kings. A very ancient toast. May the wind be always at your back. Appropriate for a ship’s captain. I mean, you do have a master’s ticket amongst other things?”

Carney frowned, then turned to Ferguson. “Let’s see if I can put it together. He works for you?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

At that moment, they heard a woman’s voice say, “Please don’t do that.”

The waitress serving the drinks at Santiago’s table was a small girl, rather pretty with her blonde hair in a plait bound up at the back. She was very young, very vulnerable. Algaro was running his hand over her buttocks and started to move down a leg.

“I hate to see that,” Carney said and his face was hard.

Dillon said, “I couldn’t agree more. To say he’s in from the stable would be an insult to horses.”

The girl pulled away, the crew laughing, and Santiago looked across, his eyes meeting Dillon’s. He smiled, turned and whispered to Algaro, who nodded and got to his feet.

“Now let’s keep our heads here,” Ferguson said.

Algaro crossed to the bar and sat on a vacant stool. As the girl passed, he put an arm round her waist and whispered in her ear. She went red in the face, close to tears. “Leave me alone,” she said and struggled to free herself.

Dillon glanced across. Santiago raised his glass and toasted him, a half-smile on his face, as Algaro slipped a hand up her skirt. Billy Jones was serving at the other end of the bar and he turned to see what was happening. Carney got to his feet, picked up his glass and walked to the bar. He put an arm around the girl’s shoulders and eased her away, then he poured what was left of his beer into Algaro’s crotch.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I didn’t see you there,” and he turned and walked back to the table.

Everyone stopped talking and Dillon took the bottle from the ice bucket and refilled the Brigadier’s glass. Algaro stood up and looked down at his trousers in disbelief. “Why, you little creep, I’m going to break your left arm for that.”

He moved to the table fast, arms extended, and Carney turned, crouching to defend himself, but it was Dillon who struck first, reversed his grip on the champagne bottle and smashed it across the side of Algaro’s skull not once but twice, the bottle splintering, champagne going everywhere. Algaro pulled himself up, hands on the edge of the table, and Dillon, still seated, kicked sideways at the kneecap. Algaro cried out and fell to one side. He lay there for a moment, then forced himself up on to one knee.

Dillon jumped up and raised a knee into the unprotected face. “You’ve never learned to lie down, have you?”

The other members of the crew of the Maria Blanco were on their feet, one of them picking up a chair, and Billy Jones came round the bar in a rush, a baseball bat in his hand. “Can it or I’ll call the law. He asked for it, he got it. Just get him out of here.”

They stopped dead, not so much because of Billy as Santiago, who said in Spanish, “No trouble. Just get him and leave.”

Captain Serra nodded and Guerra, the mate, and Pinto went and helped Algaro to his feet. He appeared dazed, blood on his face, and they led him out followed by the others. Santiago stood up and raised his glass, emptied it and left.

Conversation resumed and Mary brought a brush and pan to sweep up the glass. Billy said to Dillon, “I couldn’t get there fast enough. I thank you guys. How about another bottle of champagne on the house?”

“Include me out, Billy,” Carney said. “Put the meal on my tab. I’m getting too old for this kind of excitement. I’m going home to bed.” He stood up. “Brigadier, it’s been interesting.”

He started toward the door and Dillon called, “I’d like to dive in the morning. Does that suit you?”

“Nine-thirty,” Carney told him. “Be at the dock,” and he turned and went out.

His jeep was in the car park at Mongoose Junction. He walked along there, thinking about what had happened, was unlocking the door when a hand grabbed his shoulder and as he turned, Guerra punched him in the mouth.

“Now then you bastard, let’s teach you some manners.”

Serra stood a yard or two away supporting Algaro, Santiago beside them. Guerra and the other two crew members moved in fast. Carney ducked the first blow and punched the mate in the stomach, half-turning, giving Pinto a reverse elbow strike in the face and then they were all over him. They held him down, pinning his arms, and Algaro shuffled over.

“Now then,” he said.

It was at that precise moment that Dillon and Ferguson, having taken a raincheck on the champagne, turned the corner. The Irishman went in on the run as Algaro raised a foot to stamp down on Carney’s face, sent him staggering and punched the nearest man sideways in the jaw. Carney was already on his feet. Algaro was past it, but when Captain Serra moved in to help the other three it raised the odds and Dillon and Carney prepared to defend themselves, the jeep at their backs, arms raised, waiting. There was a sudden shot, the sound of it flat on the night air. Everyone stopped dead, turned and found Ferguson standing beside Dillon’s jeep holding the Belgian semi-automatic in one hand.

“Now do let’s stop playing silly buggers, shall we?” he said.

There was a pause and Santiago said in Spanish, “Back to the launch.” The crew shuffled away unwillingly, Serra and Guerra supporting Algaro, who still looked dazed.

“Another time, Brigadier,” Santiago said in English and followed them.

Carney wiped a little blood from his mouth with a handkerchief. “Would somebody kindly tell me what in the hell is going on?”

“Yes, we do need to talk, Captain Carney,” Ferguson said briskly, “and sooner rather than later.”

“Okay, I give in.” Carney smiled bleakly. “Follow me and we’ll go to my place. It’s not too far away.”

Carney said, “It’s the damnedest thing I ever heard of.”

“But you accept it’s true?” Ferguson asked. “I have a copy of the translation of the diary in my briefcase at Caneel, which I’d be happy for you to see.”

“The U-boat thing is perfectly possible,” Carney said. “They were in these waters during World War Two, that’s a known fact, and there are locals who’ll tell you stories about how they used to come ashore by night.” He shook his head. “Hitler in the Bunker, Martin Bormann – I’ve read all those books, and it is an interesting thought that if Bormann landed on Samson Cay and didn’t go down with the boat, it would explain all those sightings of him in South America in the years since the war.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “So you accept the existence of U180, but where would it be?”

“Let me get a chart.” Carney went out and came back with one which he unrolled. It was the Virgin Islands chart for St. Thomas up to Virgin Gorda. “There’s Samson Cay south of Norman Island in the British Virgins. If that hurricane twisted, which they sometimes do, and came in from an easterly direction, the U-boat would definitely be driven somewhere toward the west and south from St. John.”

“Ending where?” Ferguson said.

“It wouldn’t be anywhere usual. By that I mean somewhere people dive, however regularly, and I’ll tell you something else. It would have to be within one hundred feet.”

“What makes you say that?” Dillon asked.

“Henry was a recreational diver, that means no decompression is necessary if you follow the tables. One hundred and thirty feet is absolute maximum for that kind of sport diving, and at that depth he could only afford ten minutes bottom time before going back up to the surface. To examine the submarine and find the diary.” Carney shook his head. “It just wouldn’t be possible, and Henry was sixty-three years of age. He knew his limitations.”

“So what are you saying?”

“To discover the wreck, enter it, hunt around and find that diary.” Carney shrugged. “I’d say thirty minutes bottom time, so his depth would likely be eighty feet or so. Now dive masters take tourists to that kind of depth all the time, that’s why I mean the location has got to be quite out of the ordinary.”

He frowned and Ferguson said, “You must have some idea.”

“The morning Henry made his discovery must have been the day after the hurricane blew itself out. He’d gone out so early that he was coming back in at around nine-thirty when I was taking a dive party out. We crossed each other and we spoke.”

“What did he say?” Dillon asked.

“I asked him where he’d been. He said French Cap. Told me it was like a millpond out there.”

“Then that’s it,” Ferguson said. “Surely?”

Carney shook his head. “I use French Cap a lot. The water is particularly clear. It’s a great dive. In fact I took my clients out there after meeting Henry that morning and he was right, it was like a millpond. The visibility is spectacular.” He shook his head. “No, if it was there it would have been found before now.”

“Can you think of anywhere else?”

Carney frowned. “There’s always South Drop, that’s even further.”

“You dive there?” Ferguson asked.

“Occasionally. Trouble is if the sea’s rough, it’s a long and uncomfortable trip, but it could be the sort of place. A long ridge running to a hundred and seventy or so on one side and two thousand on the other.”

“Could we take a look at these places?” Ferguson asked.

Carney shook his head and examined the chart again. “I don’t know.”

Ferguson said, “I’d pay you well, Captain Carney.”

“It isn’t that,” Carney said. “Strictly speaking, this thing is in United States territorial waters.”

“Just listen, please,” Ferguson said. “We’re not doing anything wicked here. There are some documents on U180, or so we believe, which could give my government cause for concern. All we want to do is recover them as quickly as possible and no harm done.”

“And Santiago, where does he fit in?”

“He’s obviously after the same thing,” Ferguson said. “Why, I don’t know at this time, but I will, I promise you.”

“You go to the movies, Carney,” Dillon said. “Santiago and his bunch are the bad guys. Blackhats.”

“And I’m a good guy?” Carney laughed out loud. “Get the hell out of here and let me get some sleep. I’ll see you at the dock at nine-thirty.”

Santiago, standing in the stern of the Maria Blanco, looked toward Cottage Seven and the lights which had just come on in both sections.

“So they are back,” he said to Serra, who stood beside him.

“Now that they’ve made contact with Carney they may make their move sometime tomorrow,” Serra said.

“You’ll be able to follow them in the launch whichever boat they are in, thanks to the bugs, at a discreet distance of course.”

“Shall I take the divers?”

“If you like, but I doubt that anything will come of it. Carney doesn’t know where U180 is, Serra, I’m convinced of that. They’ve asked him for suggestions, that’s all. Take the dive-site handbook for this area with you. If they dive somewhere that’s mentioned in the book, you may take it from me it’s a waste of time.” Santiago shook his head. “Frankly, I’m inclined to think that the girl has the answer. We’ll just have to wait for her return. By the way, if we ever did find the U-boat and needed to blast a way in, could Noval and Pinto cope?”

“Most assuredly, Señor, we have supplies of C4 explosive on board and all the necessary detonating equipment.”

“Excellent,” Santiago said. “I wish you luck tomorrow then. Good night, Captain.”

Serra walked away and Algaro slipped out of the dark. “Can I go with the launch in the morning?”

“Ah, revenge, is it?” Santiago laughed. “And why not? Enjoy it while you can, Algaro,” and he laughed as he went down to the salon.