Thunder Point

5

Dillon was dozing on his bed at Kivo when the sound of a plane circling overhead awoke him. He lay there for a moment listening, aware of the change in the engine note that indicated a landing was being made. A jet by the sound of it. He went to the barred window and peered out. It was raining hard and as he looked out across the walls he saw a Learjet come in out of low cloud and make an approach to the airstrip. It landed perfectly, then taxied forward so that he could see there were no markings. It disappeared from view and he went and got a cigarette, wondering who it could be.

A shouted command drifted up and there was a crackle of rifle fire. He went back to the window, but he could only see part of the courtyard below. One or two soldiers appeared and laughter drifted up, presumably the General clearing out the cells again, and he wondered how many poor bastards had ended up against the wall this time. There was more laughter and then an army truck crossed his line of vision and disappeared.

“You’re in a mess this time, my old son,” he murmured softly. “A hell of a bloody mess,” and he went and lay on the bed, finishing his cigarette and thinking about it.

In Paris, Santiago was about to leave his suite for a lunch appointment when the phone rang. It was Francis Pamer. “I tried to catch you earlier, but you were out,” Pamer told him.

“Business, Francis, that’s why I’m here. What have you got for me?”

“Carter had a word with me. He spoke to Ferguson. He said the girl doesn’t know the location of the U-boat. He said that she knew about it, that Baker had told her about his discovery before he left, but that he hadn’t told her where the damned thing is.”

“Does Ferguson believe her?”

“Apparently,” Pamer told him. “At least that was the impression Carter got.”

“And what’s Ferguson up to now?”

“I don’t know. He just told Carter that he’d keep him posted.”

“What about the girl? Where is she staying?” Santiago asked him.

“With Admiral Travers at Lord North Street. There’s the coroner’s inquest tomorrow. Once that’s over Ferguson’s agreed she can have the body.”

“I see,” Santiago said.

“What do you think, Max?”

“About the girl, you mean? I don’t know. She could be telling the truth. On the other hand, she could be lying and there’s only one way to find that out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, by asking her, Francis, in the proper way, of course. A little persuasion, gentle or otherwise, works wonders.”

“For God’s sake, Max,” Pamer began and Santiago cut him off.

“Just do what’s necessary, keep me posted as regards Ferguson’s plans and I’ll have the girl taken care of. I had intended to return to Puerto Rico tomorrow, but I’ll hang on for another day or two here. In the meantime, I’ll speak to my people in San Juan, tell them to get the Maria Blanco ready for sea. The moment we know for definite that Ferguson intends some sort of operation in the Virgins, I’ll sail down to Samson Cay and use it as a base.”

Pamer said, “Christ, Max, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going with this thing. If it comes out, I’m finished.”

“But it won’t, Francis, because I’ll see that it doesn’t. I’ve always anticipated seeing you in the Cabinet. Very useful to have a friend who’s a British Cabinet Minister. I’ve no intention of allowing that not to happen, so don’t worry.”

Santiago put the phone down, thought about it for a moment, then picked it up again and rang his house in San Juan on the island of Puerto Rico.

Dillon was reading a book, head propped up against the pillow, when the key rattled in the lock, the door opened and Major Branko entered. “Ah, there you are,” he said.

Dillon didn’t bother getting up. “And where else would I be?”

“That sounds a trifle bitter,” Branko told him. “After all, you’re still with us. Cause for a certain amount of gratitude, I should have thought.”

“What do you want?” Dillon asked.

“I’ve brought someone to see you, hardly an old friend, but I’d listen to what he has to say if I were you.”

He stood to one side. Dillon swung his legs to the floor, was starting to get up and Ferguson entered the room followed by Jack Lane.

“Holy Mother of God!” Dillon said and Branko went out and closed the door behind him.

“Dear me, Dillon, but you are up the creek without a paddle, aren’t you?” Ferguson dusted the only chair with his hat and sat. “We’ve never actually made it face to face before, but I imagine you know who I am?”

“Brigadier Charles bloody Ferguson,” Dillon said. “Head of Group Four.”

“And this is Detective Inspector Jack Lane, my assistant, on loan from Special Branch at Scotland Yard so he doesn’t like you.”

Lane’s face was like stone. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, and Dillon said, “Is that a fact?”

“Look at him, Jack,” Ferguson said. “The great Sean Dillon, soldier of the IRA in his day, master assassin, better than Carlos the Jackal, some say.”

“I am looking at him, sir, and all I see is just another killer.”

“Ah, but this one is special, Jack, the man of a thousand faces. Could have been another Olivier if he hadn’t taken to the gun. He can change before your very eyes. Mind you, he cocked up his attempt to blow up the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet at Number Ten during the Gulf War as nobody knows better than you, Jack. By God, you gave us a hard time on that one, Dillon.”

“A pleasure.”

“But you’re behind walls now,” Lane said.

Ferguson nodded. “Twenty years, Jack, twenty years without getting his collar felt once and where does he end up?” He looked around the room. “You must have been out of your mind, Dillon. Medical supplies for the sick and the dying? You?”

“We all have our off days.”

“Stinger missiles as well so you didn’t even check your cargo properly. You must be losing your touch.”

“All right, the show’s over,” Dillon told him. “What do you want?”

Ferguson got up and went to the window. “They’ve been shooting Croatians down there in the courtyard. We heard them as we drove over from the airstrip. They were clearing the bodies away in a truck as we drove in.” He turned. “It’ll be your turn one of these fine mornings, Dillon. Unless you’re sensible, of course.”

Dillon got a cigarette from one of the Rothmans packets and lit it with his Zippo. “You mean I have a choice?” he asked calmly.

“You could say that.” Ferguson sat down again. “You shoot guns rather well, Dillon, fly a plane, speak a number of languages, but the thing I’m interested in at the moment was that underwater job you did for the Israelis. It was you, wasn’t it, who blew up those PLO boats off Beirut?”

“Do you tell me?” Dillon said, sounding very Irish.

“Oh, for God’s sake, sir, let’s leave the bastard to rot,” Lane said.

“Come on, man, don’t be stupid. Was it you, or wasn’t it?” Ferguson demanded.

“As ever was,” Dillon told him.

“Good. Now here’s the situation. I have a job that requires a man of your peculiar talents.”

“A crook he means,” Lane put in.

Ferguson ignored him. “I’m not sure exactly what’s going on at the moment, but it could demand a man who can handle himself if things get rough. What I am certain of is that it would require, at the right moment, considerable diving skills.”

“And where would all this take place?”

“The American Virgin Islands.” Ferguson stood up. “The choice is yours, Dillon. You can stay here and be shot or you can leave now and fly back to London in the Learjet we have at the airstrip with the Inspector and me.”

“And what will Major Branko have to say about it?”

“No problem there. Nice boy. His mother lives in Hampstead. He’s had enough of this Yugoslavian mess, and who can blame him. I’m going to arrange political asylum for him in England.”

Dillon said, “Is there nothing you can’t do?”

“Not that I can think of.”

Dillon hesitated. “I’m a wanted man over there in the UK, you know that.”

“Slate wiped clean, my word on it, which disgusts Inspector Lane here, but that’s the way it is. Of course it also means you’ll have to do exactly as you’re told.”

“Of course.” Dillon picked up his flying jacket and pulled it on. “Yours to command.”

“I thought you’d see sense. Now let’s get out of this disgusting place,” and Ferguson rapped on the door with his Malacca cane.

Dillon finished the diary and closed it. Lane was dozing, his head on a pillow, and the Irishman passed the diary to Ferguson, who sat on the other side of the aisle, but facing him.

“Very interesting,” Dillon said.

“Is that all you’ve got to say?”

The Irishman reached for the bar box, found a miniature of Scotch, poured it into one of the plastic cups provided and added water. “What do you expect me to say? All right, Henry Baker’s death was unfortunate, but he died happy, by God. Finding U180 must have been the biggest thing that ever happened to him.”

“You think so?”

“Every diver’s dream, Brigadier, to find a wreck that’s never been discovered before, preferably stuffed with Spanish doubloons, but if you can’t have that, the wreck on its own will do.”

“Really.”

“You’ve never dived?” Dillon laughed. “A silly question. It’s another world down there, a special feeling, nothing quite like it.” He swallowed some of his whisky. “So this woman you mentioned, this Jenny Grant, she says he didn’t tell her where the U-boat is located?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you believe her?”

Ferguson sighed. “I’m afraid I do. Normally I don’t believe in anyone, but there’s something about her, something special.”

“Falling for a pretty face in your old age,” Dillon said. “Always a mistake that.”

“Don’t be stupid, Dillon,” the Brigadier replied sharply. “She’s a nice girl and there’s something about her, that’s all I mean. You can judge for yourself. We’ll have dinner with Garth Travers and her this evening.”

“All right.” Dillon nodded. “So if she doesn’t know where the damn thing is, what do you expect me to do?”

“Go to the Virgin Islands and find it, that’s what I expect you to do, Dillon. It’s no great hardship, I assure you. I visited St. John a few years back. Lovely spot.”

“For a holiday?”

“You won’t be on holiday, only pretending. You’ll earn your keep.”

“Brigadier,” Dillon said patiently, “the sea is a hell of a big place. Have you any idea how difficult it is to locate a ship down there on the bottom? Even in Caribbean waters with good visibility, you could miss seeing it at a hundred yards.”

“You’ll think of something, you always do, Dillon, isn’t that your special talent?”

“Jesus, but you have the most touching faith in me. All right, let’s get down to brass tacks. Baker’s death? Are you sure that was an accident?”

“Absolutely no question. There were witnesses. He simply looked the wrong way and stepped into the path of the bus. The driver, I might add, is beyond reproach.”

“All right, so what about the burglary at this Admiral Travers’ house, the bug in the telephone?”

Ferguson nodded. “A smell of stinking fish there. All the hallmarks of an opportunistic housebreaking, but the bug says otherwise.”

“Who would it be?”

“God knows, Dillon, but all my instincts tell me there’s someone out there and they’re up to no good.”

“But what?” Dillon said. “That’s the point.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with an answer.”

“So when do you want me to go out to the Virgins?”

“I’m not sure. Two or three days, we’ll see.” Ferguson eased a pillow behind his head.

“And where do I stay while I’m hanging around in London?” Dillon enquired.

“I’ll arrange for you to stay with Admiral Travers in Lord North Street. For the moment, you can earn your keep by keeping an eye on the girl,” Ferguson told him. “Now shut up, there’s a good chap, I need a spot of shut-eye.”

He folded his arms and closed his eyes. Dillon finished his Scotch and leaned back thinking about it.

Ferguson murmured, “Oh, Dillon, just one thing.”

“And what would that be?”

“Dr. Wegner and that young fool Klaus Schmidt, the people you dealt with at Fehring? Well-intentioned amateurs, but the man you bumped into in Vienna who put you in touch with them, Farben? He was acting for me. I got him to set you up, then got someone who works for me to shop you to the Serbs.”

“Believe it or not, Brigadier, but something of the sort had occurred to me. I presume the Stinger missiles were your idea?”

“Wanted to see you behind bars, you see,” Ferguson said. “If I couldn’t get you one way…” He shrugged. “Mind you, this present business has got nothing to do with it. Lucky for you the situation arose.”

“Or you’d have left me to rot.”

“Not really. They’d have shot you sooner or later.”

“Ah, well, what does it matter now?” Dillon said. “You might say it’s all come out in the wash when you think about it,” and he closed his eyes and dozed himself.

At Lord North Street, just before six, it was still raining as Dillon sat at the kitchen table and watched Jenny Grant make the tea. He had only just been introduced, for Ferguson was closeted in the study with Travers.

She turned and smiled. “Would you like some toast or anything?”

“Not really. Would you mind if I smoked?”

“Not at all.” She busied herself with the tea things. “You’re Irish, but you sound different.”

“North of Ireland,” he said. “What you would call Ulster and others the six counties.”

“IRA country?”

“That’s right,” he told her calmly.

She poured the tea. “And what exactly are you doing here, Mr. Dillon? Would I be correct in assuming the Brigadier wants you to keep an eye on me?”

“And why would you think that?”

She sat opposite and sipped some of her tea. “Because you look like that kind of man.”

“And how would you be knowing that sort of person, Miss Grant?”

“Jenny,” she said, “and I used to know all sorts of men, Mr. Dillon, and they were usually the wrong kind.” She brooded for a moment. “But Henry saved me from all that.” She looked up and her eyes glistened. “And now he’s gone.”

“Another cup?” He reached for the pot. “And what do you do in St. John?”

She took a deep breath and tried hard. “I have a cafe and bar called Jenny’s Place. You must visit some time.”

“You know what?” Dillon smiled. “I might just take you up on that,” and he drank some more of his tea.

In the study Travers was aghast. “Good heavens, Charles, IRA? I’m truly shocked.”

“You can be shocked as much as you like, Garth, but I need the little bugger. I hate to admit it, but he’s very, very good. I intend to send him out to St. John once I’ve got things sorted. In the meantime he can stay here and act as your minder, just in case anything untoward happens.”

“All right,” Travers said reluctantly.

“If the girl asks I’ve told him to tell her he’s a diver I’ve brought in to help with this thing.”

“Do you think she’ll believe that? I find her rather a smart young woman.”

“I don’t see why not. He is a diver amongst other things.” Ferguson got up. “By the way, you had a man from my department earlier who replaced the bug in your phone and gave you a cellular telephone, didn’t he?”

“That’s right.”

Ferguson led the way out and they went in the kitchen, where Jenny and Dillon sat at the table. Ferguson said, “Right, you two, I’m off. We’ll all meet for dinner at eight. The River Room at the Savoy, I think.” He turned to Dillon. “That suit you?”

Dillon said, “A jacket-and-tie job, that, and here’s me with only the clothes I’m standing up in.”

“All right, Dillon, you can go shopping tomorrow,” Ferguson said wearily and turned to Travers. “Good thing you’re as small as he is, Garth. You can fix him up with a blazer, I’m sure. See you later.”

The front door banged behind him and Dillon smiled. “Always in a hurry, that man.”

Travers said reluctantly, “All right, you’d better come with me and I’ll show you where you’re sleeping and find you something to wear.”

He led the way out and Dillon winked at Jenny and followed him.

Not too far away the fake telephone engineer who had called himself Smith turned into an alley where an old van was parked and knocked on the rear door. It was opened by Johnson and Smith joined him inside. There were various items of recording equipment and a receiver.

“Anything?” Smith asked.

“Not a thing. It’s been on all day. Housekeeper ordering groceries, asking for a repair man for the washing machine. The Admiral phoned the London Library to order a book and the Army and Navy club about a function next month. Bit of a bore, the whole thing. What about you?”

“I was watching the house a short while ago and Ferguson turned up.”

“You sure?”

“Oh, yes, definitely him. The photos on the file Mr. Santiago has supplied are very good. He had a guy with him.”

“Any ideas?”

“No. Small, very fair hair, black leather flying jacket. He stayed, Ferguson left.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Leave the recorder on. I can do a sweep in the morning and listen to anything interesting. I’ll watch the house while you take some time off. If they go out, I’ll follow and speak to you on the car phone.”

“Okay,” Johnson said. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

They got out of the van, he locked it and they went their separate ways.

Ferguson hadn’t arrived when the Admiral, Dillon and Jenny reached the Savoy and went to the River Room. The table had been ordered, however, and the headwaiter led them to it.

“I suppose we might as well have a drink,” Travers said.

Dillon turned to the wine waiter. “Bottle of Krug, non-vintage.” He smiled amiably at Travers. “I prefer the grape mix.”

“Do you, indeed?” the Admiral said stiffly.

“Yes.” Dillon offered Jenny a cigarette. She was wearing a simple white blouse and black skirt. “You’re looking rather nice.” His voice had changed, and for the moment he was the perfect English gentleman, public-school accent and all.

“Are you ever the same for five minutes together?” she asked.

“Jesus, and wouldn’t that be a bore? Let’s dance.” He reached for her hand and led her to the floor.

“You know you’re not looking too bad yourself,” she said.

“Well the blazer fits, but I find the Navy tie a bit incongruous.”

“Ah, I see it now, you don’t like institutions?”

“Not totally true. The first time I came to the River Room, I belonged to a famous institution, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art.”

“You’re kidding me?” she said.

“No, I was a student there for one year only and I was offered a job with the National Theatre. I played Lyngstrand in Ibsen’s ‘Lady From the Sea,’ the one who was coughing his guts up all the time.”

“And after that?”

“Oh, there were family commitments. I had to go home to Ireland.”

“What a shame. What have you been doing lately?”

He told the truth for once. “I’ve been flying medical supplies into Yugoslavia.”

“Oh, you’re a pilot.”

“Some of the time. I’ve been a lot of things. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker. Diver.”

“A diver?” She showed her surprise. “Really? You’re not having me on?”

“No, why should I?”

She leaned back as they circled the floor. “You know, I get a funny feeling about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it may sound crazy, but if someone asked me to speculate about you, for some totally illogical reason I’d say you were a soldier.”

Dillon’s smile was slightly lopsided. “Now what gave me away?”

“I’m right then.” She was delighted with herself. “You were once a soldier.”

“I suppose you could put it that way.”

The music stopped, he took her back to the table and excused himself. “I’m just going to see what cigarettes they have in the bar.”

As he went away, the Admiral said, “Look, my dear, no sense in getting too involved with him, you know, not your sort.”

“Oh, don’t be an old snob, Admiral.” She lit a cigarette.

“He seems perfectly nice to me. He’s just been flying medical supplies into Yugoslavia and he used to be a soldier.”

Travers snorted and came right out with it. “Soldier of the bloody IRA.”

She frowned. “You can’t be serious.”

“Infamous character,” Travers said. “Worse than Carlos. They’ve been after him for years all over the place. Only reason he’s here is because Charles has done a deal with him. He’s going to help out with this thing, go to St. John, find the submarine and so on. Apparently the damned man’s also a diver.”

“I can’t believe it.”

As Dillon came out of the bar, he met Ferguson arriving and they came down to the table together.

“You’re looking well, my dear,” Ferguson said to Jenny. “The coroner’s inquest is at ten-thirty tomorrow, by the way. No need for you to go as Garth here made the formal identification.”

“But I’d prefer to be there,” she said.

“Very well, if that’s what you’d like.”

“How soon after that can we arrange cremation?”

“That is what you want?”

“His ashes, yes,” she said calmly. “I’m not expecting a service. Henry was an atheist.”

“Really.” Ferguson shrugged. “Well, if you’re happy to use our people, they could do it virtually straightaway.”

“Tomorrow afternoon?”

“I suppose so.”

“Good. If you would arrange that I’d be grateful. If you’re ordering I’d like caviar to start, a steak medium rare and a salad on the side.”

“Would you now?” Ferguson said.

“It’s called celebrating life.” She reached for Dillon’s hand. “And I’d like to dance again.” She smiled. “It’s not often I get the chance to do the foxtrot with an IRA gunman.”

There were no more than five or six people in the small oak-paneled court in Westminster the following morning. Jenny sat at the front bench with Travers and Ferguson, and Dillon stood at the back near the Court usher, once more in his flying jacket. There was a brief pause while one of the people sitting at the front approached the bench and received some sort of warrant from the Clerk of the Court. As he went out, Smith and Johnson came into the court and sat on a bench on the other side of the aisle from Dillon. They were both respectably dressed in jacket and tie, but one look was enough for Dillon. Twenty years of entirely the wrong kind of living had given him an instinct for such things.

The Clerk of the Court got things started. “Rise for her Majesty’s Coroner.”

The Coroner was old with very white hair and wore a gray suit. Jenny was surprised. She’d expected robes. He opened the file before him. “This is an unusual case and I have taken note of the facts placed before me and have decided that in consequence the presence of a jury is not necessary. Is Brigadier Charles Ferguson in court?”

Ferguson stood up. “Yes, sir.”

“I see you have served a D notice in this matter on behalf of the Ministry of Defence and this court accepts that there must be reasons for doing so affecting National Security. I accept the order and will have it entered into these proceedings. I will also, at this point, make it clear to any member of the press present that it is an offense punishable by a term of imprisonment to report details of any case covered by a D notice.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ferguson sat down.

“As the witnesses’ statements given to the police in this unfortunate matter seem perfectly straightforward, I only need official identification of the deceased to be able to close these proceedings.”

The Clerk of the Court nodded to Travers, who got up and went to the stand. The Coroner glanced at his papers. “You are Rear Admiral Garth Travers?”

“I am, sir.”

“And your relationship with the deceased?”

“A close friend of many years on vacation from St. John in the American Virgin Islands, staying with me at my house in Lord North Street.”

“And you made the official identification?” Travers nodded. “Is Miss Jennifer Grant in court?” She stood awkwardly and he said, “I have a power of attorney here in your name. You wish to claim the body?”

“I do, sir.”

“So be it and so ordered. My Clerk will issue the necessary warrant. You have the sympathy of the court, Miss Grant.”

“Thank you.”

As she sat, the Clerk called, “Rise for Her Majesty’s Coroner.”

They all did so and the Coroner went out. Travers turned to Jenny. “All right, my dear?”

“Fine,” she said, but her face was pale.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Charles is just getting the warrant. He’ll catch us up.”

They passed Dillon and went out. Smith and Johnson got up and filed out with the other people while Ferguson busied himself with the Clerk of the Court.

It was sunny outside and yet Jenny shivered slightly and drew her collar about her throat. “It’s cold.”

“You could probably do with a hot drink,” Travers said, concerned.

Dillon was standing on the top step as Ferguson joined him. Smith and Johnson had paused a little distance away by the bus stop for Smith to take out a cigarette and Johnson was lighting it for him.

Dillon said to Ferguson, “Do you know those two?”

“Why, should I?” the Brigadier asked.

At that moment a bus stopped, Smith and Johnson and a couple of other people boarded it and it pulled away. “Brigadier, I’ve lasted all these years by trusting my instincts and they tell me we’ve got a couple of bad guys there. What were they doing at the inquest anyway?”

“Perhaps you’re right, Dillon. On the other hand, there are many people who view Court proceedings of any sort as free entertainment.”

“Is that a fact now?”

The Daimler drew in to the pavement at the bottom of the steps and Jack Lane got out and joined them. “Everything go off all right, sir?”

“Yes, Jack.” Ferguson handed him the Court order. “Give that to old Cox. Tell him we’d like the cremation carried out this afternoon.” He glanced at Jenny. “Three o’clock suit you?”

She nodded, paler than ever now. “No problem.”

Ferguson turned to Lane. “You heard. There were a couple of men in Court, by the way. Dillon had his doubts about them.”

“How could he tell?” Lane asked, ignoring the Irishman. “Were they wearing black hats?”

“Jesus, would you listen to the man?” Dillon said. “Such wit in him.”

Lane scowled, took an envelope from his pocket and held it out to Ferguson. “As you ordered, sir.”

“Give it to him then.”

Lane pushed it into Dillon’s hand. “A damn sight more than you deserve.”

“What have we got here then?” Dillon started to open the envelope.

“You need clothes, don’t you?” Ferguson said. “There’s a charge card for you in there and a thousand pounds.”

Dillon took the rather handsome piece of plastic out. It was an American Express Platinum Card in his own name. “Sweet Joseph and Mary, isn’t this going a little over the top, even for you, Brigadier?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. It’s all part of a new persona I’m creating for you. You’ll be told at the right time.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “Then I’ll be on my way. I’ll get spending.”

“And don’t forget a couple of suitcases, Dillon,” Ferguson said. “You’re going to need them. Lightweight clothing, it’s hot out there at this time of year, and if it’s not too much trouble, try and look like a gentleman.”

“Wait for me,” Jenny called and turned to the other two men. “I’ll go with Dillon. Nothing else to do and it will help me kill time. I’ll see you back at the house, Admiral.”

She went down the steps and hurried after Dillon. “What do you think?” Travers asked.

“Oh, she has depths, that girl, she’ll make out,” Ferguson said. “Now let’s get moving,” and he led the way down to the car.

As the Daimler was driving along Whitehall toward the Ministry of Defence, the car phone sounded. Lane, sitting on the pull-down seat, his back to the chauffeur, answered, then glanced up at Ferguson, a hand over the receiver.

“The Deputy Director, Brigadier. He says he’d like an updating on how things are going. Wonders whether you could meet him and Sir Francis at Parliament. Afternoon tea on the Terrace.”

“The cremation is at three,” Ferguson said.

“You don’t need to be there,” Travers told him. “I’ll see to it.”

“But I’d like to be there,” Ferguson said. “It’s the civilized thing to do. The girl needs our support.” He said to Lane, “Four-thirty to five. Best I can do.”

Lane confirmed the appointment and Travers said, “Very decent of you, Charles.”

“Me, decent?” Ferguson looked positively wicked. “I’ll take Dillon along and introduce him. Just imagine, Sean Dillon, the Carlos of our times, on the Terrace of the Houses of Parliament. I can’t wait to see Simon Carter’s face,” and he started to laugh helplessly.

Dillon and Jenny made for Harrods. “Try and look like a gentleman, that’s what the man said,” he reminded her. “What do you suggest?”

“A decent suit for general purposes, gray flannel perhaps and a blazer. A nice loose linen jacket and slacks, it really does get hot in St. John at this time of the year, really hot.”

“I’m yours to command,” he assured her.

They ended up in the bar upstairs with two suitcases filled with his purchases. “Strange having to buy an entire wardrobe,” she said. “Socks, shirts, underwear. What on earth happened to you?”

“Let’s say I had to leave where I was in a hurry.” He called over a waiter and ordered two glasses of champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches.

“You like your champagne,” she said.

Dillon smiled. “As a great man once said, there are only two things that never let you down in this life. Champagne and scrambled eggs.”

“That’s ridiculous, scrambled eggs go off very quickly. Anyway, what about people? Can’t you rely on them?”

“I never had much of a chance of finding out. My mother died giving birth to me and I was her first, so no brothers or sisters. Then I was an actor. Few friends there. Your average actor would shoot his dear old granny if he thought it would get him the part.”

“You haven’t mentioned your father. Is he still around?”

“No, he was killed back in seventy-one in Belfast. He got caught in the cross-fire of a firefight. Shot dead by a British army patrol.”

“So you joined the IRA?”

“Something like that.”

“Guns and bombs, you thought that would be an answer?”

“There was a great Irishman called Michael Collins who led the fight for Irish freedom back in the early twenties. His favorite saying was something Lenin once said: ‘The purpose of terrorism is to terrorize, it’s the only way a small country can hope to take on a great nation and have any chance of winning.’ ”

“There’s got to be a better way,” she said. “People are fundamentally decent. Take Henry. I was a tramp, Dillon, drugged up to my eyeballs and working the streets in Miami. Any man could have me as long as the price was right and then along came Henry Baker, a decent and kindly man. He saw me through the drug unit, helped me rehabilitate, took me to St. John to share his house, set me up in business.” She was close to tears. “And he never asked me for a thing, Dillon, never laid a hand on me. Isn’t that the strangest thing?”

A life spent mainly on the move and one step ahead of trouble had left Dillon with little time for women. They were there on occasions to satisfy an urge, but no more than that and he’d never pretended otherwise, but now, sitting there opposite Jenny Grant, he felt a kind of warmth and sympathy that was new to him.

Jesus, Sean, don’t go falling for her, now there’s a good lad, he thought, but reached over and put a hand on one of hers. “It will pass, girl, dear, everything does, the one sure thing in this wicked old life. Now have a sandwich, it’ll do you good.”

The crematorium was in Hampstead, a red brick building, reasonably functional looking but surrounded by rather pleasant parkland. There were poplar trees, beds of roses and other flowers of every description. The Daimler arrived with Dillon sitting up front beside the chauffeur, and Ferguson, Travers and the girl in the rear. Old Mr. Cox was waiting for them at the top of the steps, discreetly dressed in black.

“As you’ve asked for no kind of service I’ve already had the coffin taken in,” he said to Ferguson. “Presumably the young lady would like a final look?”

“Thank you,” Jenny said.

She followed him, Travers with a hand on her arm, and Ferguson and Dillon brought up the rear. The chapel was very plain, a few rows of chairs, a lectern, a cross on the wall. The coffin stood on a velvet-draped dais pointing at a curtained section of the wall. Music played faintly from some hidden tape recorder, dreary anodyne stuff. It was all very depressing.

“Would you care to see the deceased again?” Mr. Cox asked Jenny.

“No, thank you. I just wanted to say goodbye. Let him go now.”

She was totally dry-eyed as Cox pressed a button on a box in the wall and the coffin rolled forward, parting the curtains, and disappeared.

“What’s through there?” she asked.

“The furnace room.” Cox seemed embarrassed. “The ovens.”

“When can I have the ashes?”

“Later this afternoon. What would your needs be in that direction? Of course some people prefer to strew the ashes in our beautiful garden, but we do have a columbarium where the urn may be displayed with a suitable plaque.”

“No, I’ll take them with me.”

“That won’t be possible at the moment. It takes time, I’m afraid.”

Travers said, “Perhaps you could have the ashes delivered to my house in Lord North Street in a suitable receptacle.” He was embarrassed.

Cox said, “Of course.” He turned to Jenny. “I presume you’ll be flying back to the Caribbean, Miss Grant? We do provide a suitable container.”

“Thank you. Can we go now?” she asked Ferguson.

Travers and Jenny got into the Daimler and Dillon paused at the top of the steps. There was a car parked close to the entrance to the drive and Smith was standing beside it, looking across at them. Dillon recognized him instantly, but in the same moment, Smith got in the car and it shot away.

As Ferguson emerged from the chapel Dillon said, “One of those two men I saw at the inquest was standing over there a moment ago. Just driven away.”

“Really? Did you get the number?”

“Didn’t have a chance to see it, the angle the car was at. Blue Renault, I think. You don’t seem too worried.”

“Why should I be, I’ve got you, haven’t I? Now get in the car, there’s a good chap.” As they drove away he patted Jenny’s hand. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Ferguson told her. “If Henry didn’t tell you the exact location of the submarine, can you think of anyone else he might have spoken to?”

“No,” she said firmly. “If he didn’t tell me, then he didn’t tell anyone.”

“No other diver maybe, I mean, he must have friends who dive as well, or another diver who might be able to help.”

“Well there’s always Bob Carney,” she said, “the diver I told you about. He knows the Virgin Isles like the back of his hand.”

“So, if anybody could help it would most likely be he?” Ferguson asked.

“I suppose so, but I wouldn’t count on it. There’s a lot of water out there.”

The Daimler turned into Lord North Street and stopped. Travers got out first and reached a hand to Jenny. Ferguson said, “Dillon and I have work to do. We’ll see you later.”

Dillon turned in surprise. “What’s this?”

“I’ve an appointment to meet the Deputy Director of the Security Services, Simon Carter, and a Junior Minister called Sir Francis Pamer on the Terrace at the Houses of Parliament. I’m supposed to keep them informed of my plans and I thought it might be amusing to take you along. After all, Dillon, Simon Carter’s been trying to get his hands on you for years.”

“Holy Mother of God,” Dillon said, “but you’re a wicked man, Brigadier.”

Ferguson picked up the car phone and dialed Lane at the Ministry of Defence. “Jack, American called Bob Carney, resident St. John, presently a diver. Everything you can get. The CIA should help.”

He put the phone down and Dillon said, “And what are you up to now, you old fox?”

But Ferguson made no reply, simply folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes.