Thunder Point

by Jack Higgins

  “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.”