Thunder Point

14

Algaro spoke to Santiago from a public telephone on the waterfront. Santiago listened intently to what he had to say. “So, the girl is dead? That’s unfortunate.”

“No sweat,” Algaro told him. “Just an accident, that’s how it will look. What happens now?”

“Stay where you are and phone me back in five minutes.”

Santiago put the phone down and turned to Serra. “Thunder Point, about ten or twelve miles south of St. John.”

“We’ll have a look on the chart, Señor.” Santiago followed him along to the bridge and Serra switched on the light over the chart table. “Ah, yes, here we are.”

Santiago had a look, frowning slightly. “Dillon and company are on their way there now. They intend to dive at first light. Is there any way we could beat them to it if we left now?”

“I doubt it, Señor, and that’s open sea out there. They’d see the Maria Blanco coming for miles.”

“I take your point,” Santiago said, “and, as we learned the other day, they’re armed.” He examined the chart again and nodded. “No, I think we’ll let them do all the work for us. If they succeed, it will make them feel good. They’ll sail back to St. John happy, maybe even slightly off-guard because they will think they have won the game.”

“And then, Señor?”

“We’ll descend on them when they return to Caneel, possibly at the cottage. We’ll see.”

“So, what are your orders?”

“We’ll sail back to St. John and anchor off Paradise Beach again.” The phone was ringing in the radio room. “That will be Algaro calling back,” and Santiago went to answer it.

Algaro replaced the phone and turned to Guerra. “They intend to let those bastards get on with it and do all the work. We’ll hit them when they get back.”

“What, just you and me?”

“No, stupid, the Maria Blanco will be back off Paradise Beach in the morning. We’ll rendezvous with her then. In the meantime, we’ll go back to the launch and try to catch a little shut-eye.”

Jenny’s head, resting on the pillow, was turned to one side. She looked very pale, made no movement even as the doctor gave her an injection. Mary said, “What do you think, Doctor?”

He shook his head. “Not possible to make a proper diagnosis at this stage. The fact that she’s not regained consciousness is not necessarily bad. No overt signs of broken bones, but hairline fractures are always possible. We’ll see how she is in the morning. Hopefully she’ll have regained consciousness by then.” He shook his head. “That was a long fall. I’ll have her transferred to St. Thomas Hospital. She can have a scan there. You’ll stay with her tonight?”

“Me and Billy won’t move an inch,” Mary told him.

“Good.” The doctor closed his bag. “The slightest change, call me.”

Billy saw him out, then came back up to the bedroom. “Can I get you anything, honey?”

“No, you go and lie down, Billy, I’ll just sit here with her,” Mary said.

“As you say.”

Billy went out and Mary put a chair by the bed, sat down and held Jenny’s hand. “You’ll be fine, baby,” she said softly. “Just fine. Mary’s here.”

At three o’clock they ran into a heavy squall, rain driving in under the canopy over the flying bridge, stinging like bullets. Carney switched off the engine. “We’ll be better off below for a while.”

Dillon followed him down the ladder and they went into the deckhouse where Ferguson lay stretched out on one of the benches, his head propped up against the holdall. He yawned and sat up. “Is there a problem?”

Sea Raider swung to port, buffeted by the wind and rain. “Only a squall,” Carney said. “It’ll blow itself out in half an hour. I could do with a coffee break anyway.”

“A splendid idea.”

Dillon found the thermos and some mugs and Carney produced a plastic box containing ham and cheese sandwiches. They sat in companionable silence for a while eating them, the rain drumming against the roof.

“It’s maybe time we discussed how we’re going to do this thing,” Carney said to Dillon. “For a no-decompression dive at eighty feet, we’re good for forty minutes.”

“So a second dive would be the problem?”

Ferguson said, “I don’t understand the technicalities, would someone explain?”

“The air we breathe is part oxygen, part nitrogen,” Carney told him. “When you dive, the pressure causes nitrogen to be absorbed by the body tissues. The deeper you go, the increase in pressure causes more nitrogen to be absorbed. If you’re down too long or come up too quickly, it can form bubbles in your blood vessels and tissues, just like shaking a bottle of club soda. The end result is decompression sickness.”

“And how can you avoid that?”

“First of all by limiting the time we’re down there, particularly on the first dive. Second time around, we might need a safety stop at fifteen feet.”

“And what does that entail?” Ferguson asked.

“We rise to that depth and just stay there for a while, decompressing slowly.”

“How long for?”

“That depends.”

Dillon lit a cigarette, the Zippo flaring in the gloom. “What we’re really going to have to do is find that submarine fast.”

“And lay the charge on the first dive down,” Carney said.

“Baker did say it was lying on a ledge on the east face.”

Carney nodded. “I figure that to be the big drop side so we won’t waste time going anywhere else.” He swallowed his coffee and got up. “If we had the luck, went straight down, got in the control room and laid that Semtex…” He grinned. “Hell, we could be in like Flynn and out and back up top in twenty minutes.”

“That would make a big difference to the second dive,” Dillon said.

“It surely would.” The rain had stopped, the sea was calm again now and Carney glanced at his watch. “Time to get moving, gents,” and he went back up the ladder to the flying bridge.

In London it was nine o’clock in the morning and Francis Pamer was just finishing a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon which his housekeeper had prepared when the phone rang. He picked it up. “Pamer here.”

“Simon Carter.”

“Morning, Simon,” Pamer said, “any word from Ferguson?”

“No, but something rather shocking which affects Ferguson has happened.”

“What would that be?”

“You know his assistant, the one he borrowed from Special Branch, Detective Inspector Lane?”

Pamer almost choked on the piece of toast he was eating. “Yes, of course I do,” he managed to say.

“Killed last night when he was leaving the Ministry of Defence around midnight. Hit and run. Stolen car apparently, which the police have recovered.”

“How terrible.”

“Thing is, Special Branch aren’t too happy about it. It seems the preliminary medical report indicates that he was hit twice. Of course, that could simply mean the driver panicked and reversed or something. On the other hand, Lane sent a lot of men to prison. There must be many who bore him a grudge.”

“I see,” Pamer said. “So Special Branch are investigating?”

“Oh, yes, you know what the police are like when one of their own gets hit. Free for lunch, Francis?”

“Yes,” Pamer said. “But it would have to be at the House. I’m taking part in the debate on the crisis in Croatia.”

“That’s all right. I’ll see you on the Terrace at twelve-thirty.”

Pamer put the phone down, his hand shaking, and looked at his watch. No sense in ringing Santiago now, it would be four in the morning over there. It would have to wait. He pushed his plate with the rest of his breakfast on it away from him, suddenly revolted, bile rising in his throat. The truth was he had never been so frightened in his life.

Way over toward the east the sun was rising as Sea Raider crept in toward Thunder Point, Carney checking the fathometer. “There it is,” he said as he saw the yellow ridged lines on the black screen. “You get to the anchor,” he told Dillon. “I’ll have to do some maneuvering so you can hit that ridge at seventy feet.”

There was a heavy swell, the boat, with the engines throttled back, just about holding her own. Dillon felt the anchor bite satisfactorily, called up to Carney on the flying bridge and the American switched off the engines.

Carney came down the ladder and looked over the side. “There’s a rough old current running here. Could be three knots at least.”

Ferguson said, “I must say the water seems exceptionally clear. I can see right down to the reef.”

“That’s because we’re so far from the mainland,” Carney said. “It means there is very little particulate matter in the water. In fact, it gives me an idea.”

“What’s that?” Dillon asked.

Carney took off his jeans and tee-shirt. “This water is so clear, I’m going to go trolling. That means I’ll stay at less than ten feet, work my way across and locate the edge of the cliff. If I’m lucky and the water down there is as clear as it looks, I might manage to pinpoint the U-boat.”

He zipped up his diving suit and Dillon helped him into his tank. “Do you want a line?”

Carney shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

He pulled on his mask, sat on the high thwart, waited for the swell to rise high and went over backwards. The water was so clear that they could mark his progress for a while.

“What’s the point of all this?” Ferguson asked.

“Well, by staying at such a shallow depth, it will have no effect on the diving later. It could save time, and time is crucial on this one, Brigadier. If we use too much of it, we just wouldn’t be able to dive again, perhaps for many hours.”

Carney surfaced a hundred yards away and waved his arms. Ferguson got out the old binoculars and focused them. “He’s beckoning.”

Carney’s voice echoed faintly. “Over here.”

Dillon switched on the engines by the deckhouse wheel and throttled down. “Try and get the anchor up, Brigadier, I’ll do my best to give you a bit of movement.”

Ferguson went round to the prow and got to work, while Dillon tried to give him some slack. Finally, it worked, the Brigadier shouted in triumph and hauled in. Dillon throttled down and coasted toward Carney.

When they came alongside, the American called, “Drop the hook right here.”

Ferguson complied, Dillon switched off the engine, Carney swam around to the dive platform, slipped off his jacket and climbed aboard.

“Clearest I’ve ever seen,” he said. “We’re right on the edge of the cliff. There’s been a lot of coral damage recently, maybe because of the hurricane, but I swear I can see something sticking out over a ledge.”

“You’re sure?” Ferguson demanded.

“Hell, nothing’s certain in this life, Brigadier, but if it is the U-boat, we can go straight down and be inside in a matter of minutes. Could make all the difference. Now let’s see what you’ve got in the bag, Dillon.”

Dillon produced the Semtex. “It’ll work better if it’s rolled into a rope and placed around the outer circle of the hatch.”

“You would know, would you?” Carney asked.

“I’ve used the stuff before.”

“Okay, let’s have a look at those chemical detonating fuses.” Dillon passed them to him and Carney examined them. “These are good. I’ve used them before. Ten- or thirty-minute delay. We’ll use a ten.”

Dillon was already into his diving suit and now he sliced a large section off the block of Semtex and first kneaded it, then rolled it between his hands into several long sausages. He put it into his dive bag with the detonating fuses.

“I’m ready when you are.”

Carney helped him on with his gear, then handed him an underwater spot lamp. “I’ll see you at the anchor and remember, Dillon, speed is everything, and be prepared for that current.”

Dillon nodded and did what Carney had done, simply sat on the thwart, waited until the swell lifted and went in backwards.

The water was astonishingly clear and very blue, the ridge below covered with elkhorn coral and large basket sponges in muted shades of orange. As he waited at the anchor, a school of barracuda-like fish called sennet moved past him and when he looked up, there were a number of large jacks overhead.

The current was strong, so fierce that when he held on to the anchor chain his body was extended to one side. He glanced up again and Carney came down toward him, paused for a moment, already drifting sideways, and gestured. Dillon went after him, checking his dive computer, noting that he was at sixty-five feet, followed Carney over the edge of the cliff, looking down into the blue infinity below and saw, to the left, the great scar where the coral had broken away, the bulk of U180, the prow sticking out from the ledge.

They descended to the conning tower, held on to the top of the bridge rail, dropped down from the high gun platform to the ragged fifteen-foot gash in the hull below the conning tower. Dillon hovered as Carney went inside, checked his dive computer and saw that it was seven minutes since leaving Sea Raider. He switched his spot lamp on and went after the American.

It was dark and gloomy, a confusion of twisted metal in spite of the illumination from Carney’s lamp. He was crouched beside the forward hatch, trying to turn the unlocking wheel with no success.

Dillon opened his dive bag, took out the Semtex and handed a coil to Carney. They worked together, Dillon taking the top of the hatch, Carney the bottom, pressing the plastic of the explosive in place until they had completed a full circle. They finished, Carney turned and held out a gloved hand. Dillon passed him two of the chemical detonating pencils. Carney paused, broke the first one and pushed it onto the Semtex at the top of the circular hatch. A small spiral of bubbles appeared at once. Carney did the same at the bottom of the circle with the other.

Dillon glanced at his computer. Seventeen minutes. Carney nodded and Dillon turned and went out through the rent, rose to the edge of the cliff, went straight to the anchor and started up the line, holding on with one hand, Carney just behind him. As they left the line at fifteen feet and moved under the keel of the stern, he checked the computer again. Twenty-one minutes. He broke through to the surface, slipped out of his jacket and climbed on to the diving platform.

“You found it?” Ferguson demanded.

“Just like Carney said,” Dillon told him. “In like Flynn and out again. Twenty minutes, that’s all. Just twenty bloody minutes.”

Carney was changing the tanks for fresh ones. “Sweet Jesus, I’ve never seen such a sight. I’ve been diving twenty years or more and I’ve got to tell you, I’ve never seen anything to beat that.”

Dillon lit a cigarette with his Zippo. “Santiago, eat your heart out.”

“I’d like to take him down, weight him with lead and leave him inside,” Carney said, “except it would be an insult to brave sailors who died down there.”

The surface of the sea lifted, spray scattering, foam appeared, moved outwards in concentric circles over the swell. They stood at the rail watching until the activity dwindled.

Finally Carney said, “That’s it. Let’s get moving.”

They got their diving gear on again. Dillon said, “What happens now? I mean, how long?”

“If we’re lucky and we find what we want straightaway, then there’s no problem. The whole forward part of the boat has been sealed all these years.” Carney tightened his weight belt. “That should mean no silt, very little detritus. Human remains will have dissolved years ago except for a few bones. In other words, it should be relatively clear.” He sat on the thwart and pulled on his fins. “If I think we should stop on the way back, I’ll just signal and hang in there.”

Dillon followed him down, aware of motion in the water, some sort of current like shockwaves that hadn’t been there before. Carney hovered over the edge of the cliff and when Dillon joined him, he saw the problem at once. The force of the explosion had caused the U-boat to move, the stern had lifted, the prow, stretching out over that 2,000-feet drop, was already dipping.

They held on to the bridge rail beside the gun and Dillon could actually feel the boat move. He looked at Carney and the American shook his head. He was right, of course, another few feet higher at the stern and U180 would slide straight over into oblivion, and Dillon couldn’t accept that.

He turned to go down, was aware of Carney’s restraining hand, managed to pull free and jack-knifed, heading for the rent in the hull, pulling himself into the control room. Everything was stirring with the effects from the explosion, the movement of the boat. He switched on his spot lamp and moved forward and saw the great ragged hole where the hatch cover had been.

It was dark in there, far murkier than he had expected, again from the effects of the explosion. He shone his spotlight inside and as he pulled himself through was aware of a strange, eerie noise as if some living creature was groaning in pain, was aware of the boat moving, lurching a little. Too late to retreat now and his own stubbornness refused to let him.

The radio and sound room was on the right, the captain’s quarters opposite to his left, no curtain left now, long since decayed over the years. There was a metal locker, a door hanging off, the skeleton of a bunk. He splayed the beam of the torch around and saw it lying in the corner, coated with filth, a metal briefcase with a handle, just like the one Baker had taken to London.

He ran a hand across it, silver gleamed dully, and then the floor tilted at an alarming angle and everything seemed to be moving. He bounced against the bulkhead, dropping the case, grabbed it again, turned and started through the hatch. His jacket snagged and he stopped dead, struggling frantically, aware of the boat tilting farther. And then Carney was in front of him, reaching through to release him.

The American turned and made for that gash in the hull and Dillon went after him, the whole boat tilting now, sliding, the strange, groaning noises, metal scraping across the edge, and Carney was through, drifting up, and Dillon rose to join him, hovering on the edge of the cliff, and as they turned to look down, the great whalelike shape of U180 slid over the edge and plunged into the void.

Carney made the okay sign, Dillon responded, then followed him across the ridge to the anchor line. He checked his computer. Another twenty minutes, which was fine, and he followed up the line slowly, but Carney was taking no chances. At fifteen feet he stopped and looked down. Dillon nodded, moved up beside him and raised the briefcase in his right hand. He could tell that Carney was smiling.

They stayed there for five minutes, then surfaced at the stern to find Ferguson leaning over anxiously. “Dear God. I thought the end of the world had come,” he said.

They stowed the gear, made everything shipshape. Carney pulled on jeans and a tee-shirt, Dillon his tracksuit. Ferguson got the thermos, poured coffee and added brandy from the half-bottle.

“The whole bloody sea erupted,” he said. “Never seen anything like it. Sort of boiled over. What happened?”

“She was lying on a ledge, Brigadier, you knew that,” Carney said. “Already sticking right out, and the force of the explosion made her start to move.”

“Good God!”

Carney drank some of the coffee. “Christ, that’s good. Anyway, this idiot here decided he was going to go inside anyway.”

“Always suspected you were a fool, Dillon,” Ferguson told him.

“I got the briefcase, didn’t I? It was in the corner of the captain’s quarters on the floor, and then the whole damn boat started to go, taking me with it because I got snagged trying to get back out of the hatch.”

“What happened?”

“A mad, impetuous fool called Bob Carney who’d decided to follow me and pulled me through.”

Carney went and looked over the side, still drinking his coffee. “A long, long way down. That’s the last anyone will ever see of U180. It’s as if she never existed.”

“Oh, yes, she did,” Ferguson said. “And we have this to prove it,” and he held up the briefcase.

There wasn’t much encrusting. Carney got a small wire brush from the tool kit and an old towel. The surface cleaned up surprisingly well, the Kriegsmarine insignia clearly etched into the right-hand corner. Carney unfastened the two clips and tried to raise the lid. It refused to move.

“Shall I force it, Brigadier?”

“Get on with it,” Ferguson told him, his face pale with excitement.

Carney pushed a thin-bladed knife under the edge by the lock, exerted pressure. There was a cracking sound and the lid moved. At that moment it started to rain. Ferguson took the briefcase into the deckhouse, sat down with it on his knees and opened it.

The documents were in sealed envelopes. Ferguson opened the first one, took out a letter and unfolded it. He passed it to Dillon. “My German is a little rusty, you’re the language expert.”

Dillon read it aloud. “From the Leader and Chancellor of the State. Reichsleiter Martin Bormann is acting under my personal orders in a matter of the utmost importance to the State. He is answerable only to me. All personnel, military or civil, without distinction of rank, will assist him in any way he sees fit.” Dillon handed it back. “It’s signed Adolf Hitler.”

“Really?” Ferguson folded it again and put it back in its envelope. “That would fetch a few thousand at auction at Christie’s.” He passed another, larger envelope over. “Try that.”

Dillon opened it and took out a bulky file. He leafed through several pages. “This must be the Blue Book, alphabetical list of names, addresses, a paragraph under each, a sort of thumbnail sketch of the individual.”

“See if Pamer is there.”

Dillon checked quickly. “Yes, Major, Sir Joseph Pamer, Military Cross, Member of Parliament, Hatherley Court, Hampshire. There’s an address in Mayfair. The remarks say he’s an associate of Sir Oswald Mosley, politically sound and totally committed to the cause of National Socialism.”

“Really?” Ferguson said dryly.

Dillon looked through several more pages and whistled softly. “Jesus, Brigadier, I know I’m just a little Irish peasant, but some of the names in here, you wouldn’t believe. Some of England’s finest. A few of America’s also.”

Ferguson took the file from him, glanced at a couple of pages, his face grave. “Who would have thought it?” He put the file back in its envelope and passed another. “Try that.”

There were several documents inside and Dillon looked them over briefly. “These are details of numbered bank accounts in Switzerland, various South American countries and the United States.” He handed them back. “Anything else?”

“Just this.” Ferguson passed the envelope to him. “And we know what that must be, the Windsor Protocol.”

Dillon took the letter out and unfolded it. It was written on paper of superb quality, almost like parchment, and was in English. He read it quickly, then passed it over. “Written at a villa in Estoril in Portugal in July 1940, addressed to Hitler and the signature at the bottom seems to be that of the Duke of Windsor.”

“And what does it say?” Carney asked.

“Simple enough. The Duke says too many have already died on both sides, the war is pointless and should be ended as soon as possible. He agrees to take over the throne in the event of a successful German invasion.”

“My God!” Carney said. “If that’s genuine, it’s dynamite.”

“Exactly.” Ferguson folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. “If it is genuine. The Nazis were past masters at forgery.” But his face was sad as he closed the case.

“Now what?” Carney asked.

“We return to St. John where Dillon and I will pack and make our way back to London. I have a Learjet awaiting my orders at St. Thomas.” He held up the case and smiled bleakly. “The Prime Minister is a man who likes to hear bad news as quickly as possible.”

The Maria Blanco had dropped anchor off Paradise Beach mid-morning and Algaro and Guerra, in the launch, had made contact at once. Santiago, sitting at his massive desk in the salon, listened as they went over the events of the previous night, then turned to Serra, who was standing beside him.

“Tell me about the situation as you see it, Captain.”

“A long run out there, Señor, perhaps two and a half hours to come back because they’ll be sailing into the wind all the way. I’d say they’ll be back quite soon, probably just before noon.”

“So what do we do, hit them tonight?” Algaro asked.

“No.” Santiago shook his head. “I’d anticipate Ferguson making a move back to London as soon as possible. According to our information he has a Learjet on standby at St. Thomas airport.” He shook his head. “No, we make our move on the instant.”

“So what are your orders?” Algaro demanded.

“The simple approach is the best. You and Guerra will go ashore in one of the inflatables dressed as tourists. Leave the inflatable on Paradise below Cottage Seven, where Ferguson and Dillon are staying. Serra will give you each a walkie-talkie so you can keep in touch with each other and the ship. You, Algaro, will stay in the general vicinity of the cottage. Read a book on the beach, enjoy the sun, try to look normal if that’s possible.”

“And me, Señor?” Guerra asked.

“You go down to Caneel Beach and wait. When Carney’s boat arrives, notify Algaro. Ferguson and Dillon must return to the cottage to change clothes and pack. That’s when you strike. Once you have the Bormann briefcase, you return in the inflatable and we’ll get out of here. Remember, the briefcase is distinctive. It’s made of aluminium and is silver in appearance.”

“Do we return to San Juan, Señor?” Serra asked.

“No.” Santiago shook his head. “Samson Cay. I want time to consider my next move. The contents of that case will be more than interesting, Serra, they could give my life a whole new meaning.” He opened a drawer at his right hand. There were a number of handguns in there. He selected a Browning Hi Power and pushed it across to Algaro. “Don’t fail me.”

“I won’t,” Algaro said. “If they have that briefcase, we’ll get it for you.”

“Oh, they’ll have it all right.” Santiago smiled. “I have every faith in our friend Dillon. His luck is good.”

When Sea Raider moved in through all the moored yachts to the dock at Caneel Bay, the sun was high in the heavens. There were people wind-surfing out in the bay and the beach was crowded with sun worshippers. Guerra was one of them, sitting on a deck chair in flowered shirt and Bermuda shorts, dark glasses shading his eyes. He saw Dillon step on to the dock to tie up. He returned on board, then came back, the olive-green holdall in one hand. Ferguson followed him carrying the briefcase, Carney walking at his side.

Guerra pulled on a white floppy sunhat that, with the brim down, partially concealed his features, adjusted the dark glasses and moved off the beach along the front of the restaurant to where the path from the dock emerged. He reached it almost at the same time as the three men, and at that moment a young black receptionist hurried out of the front desk lobby.

“Oh, Captain Carney, I saw you coming in. There was an urgent message for you.”

“And what was it?” Carney demanded.

“It was Billy Jones. He said to tell you Jenny Grant had an accident last night. Fell from a balcony at her house up at Gallows Point. She’s there now. They’re moving her over to St. Thomas Hospital real soon.”

“My God!” Carney said and nodded to the girl. “That’s okay, honey, I’ll handle it.”

“Another bloody accident,” Dillon said bitterly and handed the holdall to Ferguson. “I’m going to see her.”

“Yes, of course, dear boy,” Ferguson replied. “I’ll go back to the cottage, have a shower, get packed and so on.”

“I’ll see you later.” Dillon turned to Carney. “Are you coming?”

“I sure as hell am,” Carney told him, and they hurried off toward the car park together.

With the holdall in his right hand and the briefcase in his left, Ferguson set off, following the path that led past the cottages fronting Caneel Bay. Guerra paused in the shelter of some bushes and using the walkie-talkie called up Algaro, who, sitting on the beach at Paradise, answered at once.

“Yes, I hear you.”

“Ferguson is on his way and alone. The others have gone to see the girl.”

“They’ve what?” Algaro was thrown, but quickly pulled himself together. “All right, meet me on the downside of the cottage.”

Guerra switched off and turned. He could see Ferguson a couple of hundred yards further on and hurried after him.

Ferguson put the briefcase on the bed, then pulled off his sweater. He should have felt exhilarated, he told himself looking down at the case, but then too much had happened. Joseph Jackson at Samson Cay, a poor old man who had never done anyone harm in his life, and Jack. He sighed, opened the door to the bar cupboard and found a whisky miniature. He poured it into a glass, added water and drank it slowly. Jack Lane, the best damn copper he had ever worked with. And now Jenny Grant. Her accident so-called was beyond coincidence. Santiago had much to answer for. He took the briefcase from the bed and stood it at the side of the small desk, checked that the front door was locked, then went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How is she?” Carney demanded.

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

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

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

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

“Did she tell you how it happened?”

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

Carney said, “Her face is real bad.”

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

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

“That’s right, Jenny.”

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

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

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

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

“Told who, Jenny?”

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

“Algaro,” Carney said.

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

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

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

“Just a quick one,” Dillon said.

“How is she?”

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

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

“So?”

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

“No way,” Carney said.

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

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?” Dillon demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

“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.