Thunder Point

12

It was seven o’clock in the evening when Jenny Grant reached Paris and Charles de Gaulle airport. She returned the hired car, went to the British Airways reservation desk and booked on the next flight to London. It was too late to connect with any flight to Antigua that day, but there was space the following morning on the nine A.M. flight from Gatwick arriving in Antigua just after two in the afternoon, and they even booked her on an onward flight to St. Thomas on one of the Liat inter-island service planes. With luck she would be in St. John by early evening.

She waited for her tickets, went and booked in for the London flight so that she could get rid of her luggage. She went to one of the bars and ordered a glass of wine. Best to stay overnight at Gatwick at one of the airport hotels. She felt good for the first time since she’d heard the news of Henry’s death, excited as well, and couldn’t wait to get back to St. John to see if she was right. She went and bought a phone card at one of the kiosks, found a telephone and rang Jenny’s Place at Cruz Bay. It was Billy Jones who answered.

“Billy? It’s me – Jenny.”

“My goodness, Miss Jenny, where are you?”

“Paris. I’m at the airport. It’s nearly seven-thirty in the evening here. I’m coming back tomorrow, Billy, by way of Antigua, then Liat up to St. Thomas. I’ll see you around six.”

“That’s wonderful. Mary will be thrilled.”

“Billy, has a man called Sean Dillon been in to see you? I told him to look you up.”

“He sure has. He’s been sailing around with Bob Carney, he and a Brigadier Ferguson. In fact, I just heard from Bob. He tells me they’re meeting in here, the three of them, for a drink at six o’clock.”

“Good. Give Dillon a message for me. Tell him I’m coming back because I think I might know where it is.”

“Where what is?” Billy demanded.

“Never mind. Just you give him that message. It’s very important.”

She put the phone down, picked up her hand luggage and still full of excitement and elation, passed through security into the international lounge.

Ferguson and Dillon parked the jeep in the car park at Mongoose Junction and walked along to Jenny’s Place. In blazer and Guards tie, the Panama at a suitable angle, the Brigadier looked extremely impressive. Dillon wore a navy blue silk suit, a white cotton shirt buttoned at the neck. When they entered Jenny’s Place the bar was already half-full with the early evening trade. Bob Carney leaned on the bar wearing white linen slacks and a blue shirt, a blazer on the stool beside him.

He turned and whistled. “A regular fashion parade. Thank God I dressed.”

“Well, we are meeting the Devil face to face, in a manner of speaking.” Ferguson laid his Malacca cane on the bar. “Under the circumstances I think one should make an effort. Champagne, innkeeper,” he said to Billy.

“I thought that might be what you’d want. I got a bottle of Pol Roget on ice right here.” Billy produced it from beneath the bar and thumbed out the cork. “Now the surprise I’ve been saving.”

“And what’s that?” Carney asked.

“Miss Jenny was on the phone from Paris, France. She’s coming home. Should be here right about this time tomorrow.”

“That’s wonderful,” Carney said.

Billy filled three glasses. “And she gave me a special message for you, Mr. Dillon.”

“Oh, and what would that be?” Dillon inquired.

“She said it was important. She said to tell you she’s coming back because she thinks she might know where it is. Does that make any kind of sense to you, because it sure as hell doesn’t to me?”

“All the sense in the world.” Ferguson raised his glass and toasted the others. “To women in general, gentlemen, and Jenny Grant in particular. Bloody marvelous.” He emptied his glass. “Good, into battle,” and he turned and led the way out.

Behind them, the bearded fisherman who had been sitting at the end of the bar listening, got up and left. He walked to a public phone just along the waterfront, took out the piece of paper Serra had given him and rang the Maria Blanco. Santiago was in his cabin getting ready for the evening when Serra hurried in carrying the phone.

“What on earth is it?” Santiago demanded.

“My informant in St. John. He just heard Dillon and his friends talking to Jones, the bartender at Jenny’s Place. Apparently she was on the phone from Paris, will be in St. John tomorrow evening.”

“Interesting,” Santiago said.

“That’s not all, Señor, she sent a message to Dillon to say she was coming back because she thinks she might know where it is.”

Santiago’s face was very pale and he snatched the phone. “Santiago here. Now repeat your story to me.” He listened and finally said, “You’ve done well, my friend, you’ll be taken care of. Continue to keep your eyes open.”

He handed the portable phone to Serra. “You see, everything comes to he who waits,” and he turned back to the mirror.

Ferguson, Dillon and Carney crossed from Mongoose and followed the trail to Lind Point toward the seaplane ramp. Ferguson said, “Rather convenient having a ramp here and so on.”

“Actually we do have a regular seaplane service some of the time,” Carney said. “When it’s operating, you can fly to St. Thomas or St. Croix, even direct to San Juan on Puerto Rico.”

They reached the Cessna and Dillon walked round checking it generally, then pulled the blocks away from the wheels. He opened the rear door. “Okay, my friends, in you go.”

Ferguson went first, followed by Carney. Dillon opened the other door, climbed into the pilot’s seat, slammed and locked the door behind him, strapping himself in. He released the brakes and the plane rolled down the ramp into the water and drifted outwards on the current.

Ferguson looked across the bay in the fading light. “Beautiful evening, but I’ve been thinking. We’ll be flying back in darkness.”

“No, it’s a full moon tonight, Brigadier,” Carney told him.

“I checked the weather forecast,” Dillon added. “Clear, crisp night, perfect conditions. The flight shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. Seat belts fastened, life jackets under the seat.”

He switched on, the engine coughed into life, the propeller turned. He taxied out of harbor, checked to make sure there was no boat traffic and turned into the wind. They drifted up into the air and started to climb, leveling out at a thousand feet. They passed over part of the southern edge of St. John, then Reef Bay and finally Ram Head before striking out to sea toward Norman Island, Samson Cay perhaps four miles south of it. It was a flight totally without incident, and exactly fifteen minutes after leaving Cruz Bay he was making his first pass over the island. The Maria Blanco was lying in the harbor below, three hundred yards off-shore, and there were a number of yachts, still a few people on the beach in the fading light.

“A real rich folks’ hideaway,” Bob Carney said.

“Is that so?” Ferguson said, unimpressed. “Well I hope they do a decent meal, that’s all I’m interested in.”

Carlos Prieto came out of the entrance to reception and looked up as the Cessna passed overhead. There was an ancient Ford station wagon parked at the bottom of the steps, an ageing black man leaning against it.

Prieto said, “There they are, Joseph, get up to the airstrip and bring them in.”

“Right away, sir.” Joseph got behind the wheel and drove off.

As Prieto turned to go inside, Algaro emerged. “Ah, there you are, I’ve been looking for you. Do we have an old black somewhere around called Jackson, Joseph Jackson?”

“We certainly do. He was the driver of that station wagon that just drove off. He’s gone to the airstrip to pick up Brigadier Ferguson and the others. Do you need him for anything important?”

“It can wait,” Algaro told him and went back inside.

Dillon put the Cessna down for a perfect landing, taxied toward the other end of the airstrip, turning into the wind, and switched off. “Not bad, Dillon,” Ferguson told him. “You can fly a plane, I’ll grant you that.”

“You’ve no idea how good that makes me feel,” Dillon said.

They all got out and Joseph Jackson came to meet them. “Car waiting right over here, gents. I’ll take you down to the restaurant. Joseph’s the name, Joseph Jackson. Anything you want, just let me know. I’ve been around this island longer than anybody.”

“Indeed?” Ferguson said. “I don’t suppose you were here in the War? I understand it was unoccupied?”

“That ain’t so,” Jackson said. “There was an old hotel here, belonged to an American family, the Herberts. The hotel was unoccupied during the War, but me and my wife, May, we came over from Tortola to look after things.”

They had reached the station wagon and Ferguson said, “Herbert, you say, they were the owners?”

“Miss Herbert’s father, he gave it to her as a wedding present, then she married a Mr. Vail.” Jackson opened the rear door for Ferguson to get in. “Then she had a daughter.”

Dillon sat beside Ferguson and Carney took the front seat beside Jackson. The old boy was obviously enjoying himself.

“So, Miss Herbert became Mrs. Vail, who had a daughter called Miss Vail?” Dillon said.

Jackson started the engine and cackled out loud. “Only Miss Vail then became Lady Pamer, what do you think of that? A real English lady, just like the movies.”

“Switch off that engine!” Ferguson ordered.

Jackson looked bewildered. “Did I say something?”

Bob Carney reached over and turned the key. Ferguson said, “Miss Vail became Lady Pamer, you’re sure?”

“I knew her, didn’t I? She came here at the end of the War with her baby, little Francis. That must have been in April forty-five.”

There was a heavy silence. Dillon said, “Was anyone else here at the time?”

“German gent named Strasser. He just turned up one night. I think he got a fishing boat to drop him off from Tortola, but Lady Pamer, she was expecting him…”

“And Sir Joseph?”

“He came over from England in June. Mr. Strasser, he moved on. The Pamers left and went back to England after that. Sir Joseph, he used to come back, but that was years ago when the resort was first built.”

“And Sir Francis Pamer?” Ferguson asked.

“Little Francis?” Jackson laughed. “He growed up real fine. I’ve seen him here many times. Can we go now, gents?”

“Of course,” Ferguson said.

Jackson drove away, Dillon took out a cigarette and no one said a word until they reached the front entrance. Ferguson produced his wallet, extracted a ten-pound note and passed it to Jackson. “My thanks.”

“And I thank you,” Jackson told him. “I’ll be ready for you gents when you want to go back.”

The three of them paused at the bottom of the steps. Dillon said, “So now we know how Santiago comes to be so well informed.”

“God in heaven,” Ferguson said. “A Minister of the Crown and one of the oldest families in England.”

“A lot of those people thought Hitler had the right ideas during the nineteen-thirties,” Dillon said. “It fits, Brigadier, it all fits. What about Carter?”

“The British Secret Service was unfortunate enough to employ dear old Kim Philby, Burgess, MacLean, all of whom also worked for the KGB and sold us down the river to Communism without a moment’s hesitation. Since then, there was Blunt, rumours of a fifth man, a sixth.” Ferguson sighed. “In spite of the fact that I don’t care a jot for Simon Carter, I must tell you that I believe he’s an old-fashioned patriot and honest as the day is long.”

Carlos Prieto appeared at the top of the steps. “Brigadier Ferguson, what a pleasure. Señor Santiago is waiting for you in the bar. He’s just come over from the Maria Blanco. He prefers to stay on board while he’s here.”

The lounge bar was busy with the rich and the good as one would expect in such a place. People tended to be older rather than younger, the men especially, mostly American, being rather obviously close to the end of their working lives. There was a preponderance of trousers in fake Scottish plaid swelling over ample bellies, white tuxedos.

“God save me,” Dillon said, “I’ve never seen so many men who resembled dance-band leaders in their prime.”

Ferguson laughed out loud and Santiago, who was seated in a booth by the bar, Algaro bending over him, turned to look at them. He stood up and reached out a hand urbanely. “My dear Brigadier Ferguson, such a pleasure.”

“Señor Santiago,” Ferguson said formally. “I’ve long looked forward to this meeting.” He pointed briefly at Algaro with his Malacca cane. “But do we really have to have this creature present? I mean couldn’t he go and feed the fish or something?”

Algaro looked as if he would have liked to kill him on the spot, but Santiago laughed out loud. “Poor Algaro, an acquired taste, I fear.”

“The little devil.” Dillon wagged a finger at Algaro.

“Now go and chew a bone or something, there’s a good boy.”

Santiago turned and said to Algaro in Spanish, “Your turn will come, go and do as I have told you.”

Algaro went out and Ferguson said, “So, here we are. What now?”

“A little champagne perhaps, a pleasant dinner?” Santiago waved to Prieto, who snapped his fingers at a waiter and escorted him with a bottle of Krug in an ice bucket. “One can be civilized, can’t one?”

“Isn’t that a fact?” Dillon checked the label. “Eighty-three. Not bad, Señor.”

“I bow to your judgment.” The waiter filled the glasses and Santiago raised his. “To you, Brigadier Ferguson, to the playing fields of Eton and the continued success of Group Four.”

“You are well informed,” the Brigadier said.

“And you, Captain Carney, what a truly remarkable fellow you are. War hero, sea captain, diver of legendary proportions. Who on earth could they get to play you in the movie?”

“I suppose I’d just have to do it myself,” Carney told him.

“And Mr. Dillon. What can I say to a man whose only rival in his chosen profession has been Carlos.”

“So you know all about us,” Ferguson said. “Very impressive. You must need what’s in that U-boat very badly indeed.”

“Let’s lay our cards on the table, Brigadier. You want what should still be in the captain’s quarters, Bormann’s briefcase containing his personal authorization from the Führer, the Blue Book and the Windsor Protocol.”

There was a pause and it was Carney who said, “Interesting, you didn’t call him Hitler, you said the Führer.”

Santiago’s face was hard. “A great man, a very great man who had a vision of the world as it should be, not as it has turned out.”

“Really?” Ferguson commented. “I’d always understood that if you counted Jews, Gypsies, Russians and war dead from various countries, around twenty-five million people died to prove him wrong.”

“We both want the same thing, you and I,” Santiago said. “The contents of that case. You don’t want them to fall into the wrong hands. The old scandal affecting so many people, the Duke of Windsor, putting the Royal Family in the eye of the storm again. The media would have a field day. As I say, we both want the same thing. I don’t want all that to come out either.”

“So the work continues,” Ferguson said. “The Kamaraden? How many names are on that list, famous names, old names who have prospered since the War in industry and business, all on the back of Nazi money?”

“Jesus,” Dillon said. “It makes the Mafia look like small beer.”

“Come now,” Santiago told him. “Is any of this important after all these years?”

“It sure as hell must be, either to you or close friends,” Carney said, “otherwise why would you go to such trouble?”

“But it is important, Mr. Carney,” Ferguson said. “That’s the point. If the network continues over the years, if sons become involved, grandsons, people in higher places, politicians, for example.” He drank some more champagne. “Imagine, as I say, just for example, having someone high in Government. How useful that would be and then, after so many years, the kind of scandal that could bring everything down around your ears.”

Santiago waved for the waiter to pour more champagne. “I thought you might be sensible, but I see not. I don’t need you, Brigadier, or you, Mr. Carney. I have my own divers.”

“Finding it is not enough,” Carney said. “You’ve got to get into that tin can and that requires expertise.”

“I have divers, Mr. Carney, an ample supply of C4, is that the name of the explosive? I only employ people who know what they are doing.” He smiled. “But this is not getting us anywhere.” He stood up. “At least we can eat like civilized men. Please, gentlemen, join me.”

The Ford station wagon slowed to a halt at the side of the air strip, Algaro sitting in the rear behind Joseph Jackson. “Is this where you wanted, mister?”

“I guess so,” Algaro said. “Those people you brought in from the plane, what were they like?”

“Nice gentlemen,” Jackson said.

“No, what I mean is, were they curious? Did they ask questions?”

Jackson began to feel uncomfortable. “What kind of questions you mean, mister?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Algaro told him. “They talked and you talked. Now what about?”

“Well the English gentleman, he was interested in the old days. I told him how I was caretaker here in the Herbert place during the big War with my wife.”

“And what else did you tell him?”

“Nothing, mister, I swear.” Jackson was frightened now.

Algaro put a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed. “Tell me, damn you!”

“It was nothing much, mister.” Jackson struggled to get away. “About the Pamers.”

“The Pamers?”

“Yes, Lady Pamer and how she came here at the end of the War.”

“Tell me,” Algaro said. “Tell me everything.” He patted him on the side of the face. “It’s all right, just tell the truth.”

Which Jackson did and when he was finished, Algaro said, “There, that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

He slid an arm across Jackson’s throat, put his other hand on top of his head and twisted, breaking the neck so cleanly that the old man was dead in a second. He went round, opened the door and pulled the body out. He positioned it with the head just under the car by the rear wheel, took out a flick knife, sprung it and stabbed the point into the rear offside tire so that it deflated. He got the tool kit out, raised the car on the hydraulic jack, whistling as he pumped it up.

Very quickly, he undid the bolts and removed the tire. He stood back and kicked at the jack and the rear of the station wagon lurched to one side and descended on Jackson. He took out the spare tire and laid it beside the other one, then walked across to the Cessna and stood looking at it for quite some time.

The meal was excellent. West Indian chicken wings with blue cheese, conch chowder followed by baked red snapper. No one opted for dessert and Santiago said, “Coffee?”

“I’d prefer tea,” Dillon told him.

“How very Irish of you.”

“All I could afford as a boy.”

“I’ll join you,” Ferguson said and at that moment Algaro appeared in the doorway.

“You must excuse me, gentlemen.” Santiago got up and went and joined Algaro. “What is it?”

“I found out who the Jackson man was, the old fool driving that Ford taxi.”

“So what happened?”

Algaro told him briefly and Santiago listened intently, watching as the waiter took tea and coffee to the table.

“But it means our friends now know that Sir Francis is involved in this business.”

“It doesn’t make any difference, Señor. We know the girl is returning tomorrow, we know she thinks she knows where the U-boat is. Who needs these people any more?”

“Algaro,” Santiago said. “What have you done?”

As Santiago returned to the table, Ferguson finished his tea and stood up. “Excellent dinner, Santiago, but we really must be going.”

“What a pity. It’s been quite an experience.”

“Hasn’t it? By the way, a couple of presents for you.” Ferguson took the two tracking bugs from his pocket and put them on the table. “Yours, I think. Give my regards to Sir Francis next time you’re in touch, or I could give your regards to him.”

“How well you put it,” Santiago said and sat down.

They reached the front entrance to find Prieto standing at the top of the steps looking flustered. “I’m so sorry, gentlemen, but I’ve no idea what’s happened to the taxi.”

“It’s of no consequence,” Ferguson said. “We can walk there in five or six minutes. Good night to you. Excellent meal,” and he went down the steps.

It was Carney who noticed the station wagon just as they reached the airstrip. “What’s he doing over there?” he said and called, “Jackson?”

There was no reply. They walked across and saw the body at once. Dillon got down on his knees and got as close as he could. He stood up, brushing his clothes. “He’s been dead for some time.”

“The poor bastard,” Carney said. “The jack must have toppled over.”

“A remarkable coincidence,” Ferguson said.

“Exactly.” Dillon nodded. “He tells us all about Francis Pamer and bingo, he’s dead.”

“Just a minute,” Carney put in. “I mean, if Santiago knew about the old boy’s existence, why leave it till now? I’d have thought he’d have got rid of him a lot earlier than this.”

“But not if he didn’t realize he existed,” Ferguson said.

Dillon nodded. “Until somebody told him, somebody who’s been feeding all the other information he needed.”

“You mean, this guy Pamer?” Carney asked.

“Yes, isn’t it perfectly dreadful,” Ferguson said. “Just shows you you can’t trust anyone these days. Now let’s get out of here.”

He and Carney got in the rear seats and strapped themselves in. Dillon got a torch from the map compartment and did an external inspection. He came back, climbed into the pilot’s seat and closed the door. “Everything looks all right.”

“I don’t think he’ll want to kill us yet,” Ferguson said. “All the other little pranks have been aggravation, but he still needs us to hopefully lead him to that U-boat, so let’s get moving, there’s a good fellow, Dillon.”

Dillon switched on, the engine roared into life, the propeller turned. He carefully checked the illuminated dials on the instrument panel. “Fuel, oil pressure.” He recited the litany. “Looks good to me. Here we go.”

He took the Cessna down the runway and lifted into the night, turning out to sea.

It was a magnificent night, stars glittering in the sky, the sea and the islands below bathed in the hard white light of the full moon. St. John loomed before them. They crossed Ram Head, moving along the southern coast, and it happened, the engine missed a beat, coughed and spluttered.

“What is it?” Ferguson demanded.

“I don’t know,” Dillon said and then checked the instruments and saw what had happened to the oil pressure.

“We’ve got problems,” he said. “Get your life jackets on.”

Carney got the Brigadier’s out and helped him into it. “But surely the whole point of these things is that you don’t have to crash, you can land on the sea,” Ferguson said.

“That’s the theory,” Dillon told him and the engine died totally and the propeller stopped.

They were at nine hundred feet and he took the plane down in a steep dive. “Reef Bay dead ahead,” Carney said.

“Right, now this is how it goes,” Dillon told them. “If we’re lucky, we’ll simply glide down and land on the water. If the waves are too much we might start to tip, so bail out straightaway. How deep is it down there, Carney?”

“Around seven fathoms close in.”

“Right, there’s a third alternative, Brigadier, and that’s going straight under.”

“You’ve just made my night,” Ferguson told him.

“If that happens, trust Carney, he’ll see to you, but on no account waste time trying to open the door on your way down. It’ll just stay closed until we’ve settled and enough water finds its way inside and equalizes the pressure.”

“Thanks very much,” Ferguson said.

“Right, here we go.”

The surface of the bay was very close now and it didn’t look too rough. Dillon dropped the Cessna in for what seemed like a perfect landing and something went wrong straightaway. The plane lurched forward sluggishly, not handling at all, then tipped and plunged beneath the surface nose-down.

The water was like black glass, they were already totally submerged and descending, still plenty of air in the cabin, the lights gleaming on the instrument panel. Dillon felt the water rising up over his ankles and suddenly it was waist deep and the instrument panel lights went out.

“Christ almighty!” Ferguson cried.

Carney said, “I’ve unbuckled your belt. Be ready to go any second now.”

The Cessna, still nose-down, touched at that moment a patch of clear sand at the bottom of the bay, lifted a little, then settled to one side, the tip of the port wing braced against a coral ridge. The rays of the full moon drifting down through the water created an astonishing amount of light and Dillon, looking out through the cockpit window as the water level reached his neck, was surprised at how far he could see.

He heard Carney say, “Big breath, Brigadier, I’m opening the door now. Just slide out through and we’ll go up together.”

Dillon took a deep breath himself and as the water passed over his head, opened his door, reached for the wing strut and pulled himself out. He turned, still hanging on the strut, saw Carney clutching at the Brigadier’s sleeve, kicking away from the wing, and then they started up.

It was usually argued that if you went up too fast and didn’t expel air slowly on the way there was a danger of rupturing the lungs, but in a situation like this there was no time for niceties and Dillon floated up, the rays of moonlight filtering down through the clear water, aware of Carney and the Brigadier to the left and above him. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, curiously dreamlike, and then he broke through to the surface and took a deep lungful of salt air.

Carney and Ferguson floated a few yards away. Dillon swam toward them. “Are you all right?”

“Dillon.” Ferguson was gasping for breath. “I owe you dinner. I owe you both a dinner.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Dillon said. “You can take me to the Garrick again.”

“Anywhere you want. Now do you think it’s possible we could get the hell out of here?”

They turned and swam toward the beach, Carney and Dillon on either side of the older man. They staggered out of the water together and sat on the sand recovering.

Carney said, “There’s a house not too far from here. I know the people well. They’ll run us into town.”

“And the plane?” Ferguson asked.

“There’s a good salvage outfit in St. Thomas. I’ll phone the boss at home tonight. They’ll probably get over first thing in the morning. They’ve got a recovery boat with a crane that’ll lift that baby straight off the bottom.” He turned to Dillon. “What went wrong?”

“The oil pressure went haywire and that killed the engine.”

“I must say your landing left much to be desired,” Ferguson said and stood up wearily.

“It was a good landing,” Dillon said. “Things only went sour at the very last moment and there has to be a reason for that. I mean, one thing going wrong is unfortunate, two is highly suspicious.”

“It’ll be interesting to see what those salvage people find,” Carney commented.

As they started across the beach, Dillon said, “Remember when I was checking the plane back at Samson, Brigadier, and you said you didn’t think he’d want to kill us yet?”

“So?” Ferguson said. “What’s your point?”

“Well I think he just tried.”

The man Carney knew at the house nearby got his truck out and ran them down to Mongoose, where they went their separate ways, Carney promising to handle the salvaging of the plane and to report back to them in the morning.

Back at the cottage at Caneel Dillon had a hot shower, standing under it for quite some time thinking about things. Finally, he poured himself a glass of champagne and went and stood on the terrace in the warm night.

He heard his door open and Ferguson came in. “Ah, there you are.” He too wore a robe, but also had a towel around his neck. “I’ll take a glass of that, dear boy, and also the phone. What time is it?”

“Just coming up to midnight.”

“Five o’clock in the morning in London. Time to get up,” and Ferguson dialed the number of Detective Inspector Jack Lane’s flat.

Lane came awake with a groan, switched on the bedside lamp and picked up the phone. “Lane here.”

“It’s me, Jack,” Ferguson told him. “Still in bed, are we?”

“For God’s sake, sir, it’s only five o’clock in the morning.”

“What’s that got to do with it? I’ve got work for you, Jack. I’ve discovered how our friend Santiago has managed to stay so well informed.”

“Really, sir?” Lane was coming awake now.

“Would you believe Sir Francis Pamer?”

“Good God!” Lane flung the bedclothes to one side and sat up. “But why?”

Ferguson gave him a brief account of what had happened, culminating in old Joseph Jackson’s revelations and the plane crash.

Lane said, “It’s difficult to believe.”

“Isn’t it? Anyway, give the Pamer family the works, Jack. Where did old Sir Joseph’s money come from, how does Sir Francis manage to live like a prince? Use all the usual sources.”

“What about the Deputy Director, sir, do I inform him in any way?”

“Simon Carter?” Ferguson laughed out loud. “He’d go through the roof. It would be at least a week before he could bring himself to believe it.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll get moving on things right away.”

Ferguson said, “So, that’s taken care of.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Dillon said. “You were right when you said earlier that you didn’t think Santiago was ready to kill us yet because he needed us. So, assuming the crash was no accident, I wonder what made him change his mind?”

“I’ve no idea, dear boy, but I’m sure we’ll find out.” Ferguson punched the numbers on the cellular phone again. “Ah, Samson Cay Resort? Mr. Prieto, if you please.”

A moment later a voice said, “Prieto here.”

“Charles Ferguson calling from Caneel. Wonderful evening, excellent meal. Do thank Mr. Santiago for me.”

“But of course, Brigadier, it was kind of you to call.”

Ferguson replaced the phone. “That will give the bastard pause for thought. Give me another drop of champagne, dear boy, then I’m off to my bed.”

Dillon filled his glass. “Not before you tell me something.”

Ferguson swallowed half the champagne. “And what would that be?”

“You knew you’d be coming to St. John from the beginning, booked your accommodation at the same time you booked mine and that was before I got here, before it became apparent that Santiago knew my name and who I was and why I was here.”

“Which means what?”

Dillon said, “You knew Pamer was up to no good before I left London.”

“True,” Ferguson said. “I just didn’t have any proof.”

“But how did you know?”

“Process of elimination, dear boy. After all, who knew about the affair at all? Henry Baker, the girl, Admiral Travers, myself, Jack Lane, you, Dillon, the Prime Minister. Every one of you could be instantly discarded.”

“Which only left Carter and Pamer.”

“Sounds like an old-fashioned variety act, doesn’t it? Carter, as I told you earlier and based on my past experience of the man, is totally honest.”

“Which left the good Sir Francis?”

“Exactly and that seemed absurd. As I’ve said before, a baronet, one of England’s oldest families, a Government Minister.” He finished his champagne and put the glass down. “But then, as I think the great Sherlock Holmes once said, when you’ve exhausted all the possibilities, then the impossible must be the answer.” He smiled. “Goodnight, dear boy, I’ll see you in the morning.”