rest in peace. It was so kind of you to do this thing.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t just that. I don’t know which way to turn. So many awful things have happened.”
Jenny burst into tears and sat down in the nearest pew. Sister Maria Baker put a hand on her head. “What is it, my dear, tell me.”
When Jenny was finished it seemed very quiet in the chapel. Sister Maria Baker said, “Mystery upon mystery here. Only one thing is certain. Henry’s unfortunate discovery of that submarine is of critical importance to many people, but enough of that now.”
“I know,” Jenny said, “and I’ll have to go back to St. John if only to help Sean Dillon. He’s a bad man, sister, I know that, and yet so kind to me. Isn’t that strange?”
“Not really, my dear.” Sister Maria Baker drew her to her feet. “I suspect that Mr. Dillon is no longer so certain that what he longed for was right. But all that can wait. You need a few days of total rest, a time to reflect, and that’s doctor’s orders. I
When Dillon and Travers were shown into the flat at Cavendish Square just before noon, Ferguson was sitting by the fire going over a file. Jack Lane was standing by the window looking out.
Dillon said, “God save all here.”
Ferguson glanced up coldly. “Very amusing, Dillon.”
“Well the correct reply is ‘God save you kindly,’ ” Dillon said, “but we’ll let it pass.”
“What in the hell were you playing at?”
“She wanted to go, Brigadier, she’d had enough for the moment, it was as simple as that. The attack by those two apes in Victoria Tower Gardens finished her off.”
“So you just decided to go along with her?”
“Not her, her needs, Brigadier.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “She told me she wanted to see Baker’s sister and begged me not to ask her where that would be. Said there were special reasons she didn’t want to divulge.”
“Would you be interested to know that Lane has run a check and can’t find any mention of Baker having a sister?”
“Not at all. Jenny said she was probably the only person who knew he had one. Some dark family secret, perhaps.”
“So, she flew to Paris and took off for God knows where?”
Lane cut in. “We did a check at Charles de Gaulle. She hired a car at the Avis desk.”
“And after that, who the hell knows?” Ferguson was coldly angry.
Dillon said, “I told you, she’d had enough.”
“But we need her, God dammit.”
“She’ll return to St. John when she’s ready. In the meantime, we’ll have to manage.” Dillon shrugged. “You can’t have everything in life, not even you.”
Ferguson sat there glaring at him, thoroughly angry, then said, “At least we have some sort of a lead. Tell him, Jack.”
Lane said, “Max Santiago. He’s the driving force behind a hotel group in the States, home in Puerto Rico. Hotels in Florida, Vegas, various other places and a couple of casinos.”
“Is that a fact?” Dillon said.
“Yes, my first break was with the FBI. Their highly illegal sensitive red information file. It’s highly illegal because it lists people who can’t be proved to have broken the law in any way.”
“And why would Santiago be on that?”
“Suspicion of having contacts with the Colombian drug cartel.”
“Really?” Dillon smiled. “The dog.”
“It gets worse. Samson Cay Holding Company, registered in the U.S.A. and Switzerland, goes backwards through three other companies until you get to Santiago’s name.”
“Samson Cay?” Dillon leaned forward. “Now that is interesting. A direct link. But why?”
Lane said, “Santiago’s sixty-three, old aristocratic family, born in Cuba, father a general and very involved with Batista. The family only got out by the skin of their teeth in nineteen fifty-nine when Castro took over. Given asylum in America and eventual citizenship, but according to the FBI file, the interesting thing is they had not much more than the clothes they stood up in.”
“I see,” Dillon said. “So how did good old Max develop a hotel chain that must be worth millions? The drug connection can’t explain that. All that Colombian drug business is much more recent.”
“The plain answer is nobody knows.”
Travers had been sitting listening to all this, looking bewildered. “So what is the connection? To Samson Cay and U180, Martin Bormann, all that stuff?”
“Well, the FBI file took me to the CIA,” Lane said. “They have him on their computer too, but for a different reason. Apparently Santiago’s father was a great friend of General Franco in Spain, an absolutely rabid Fascist.”
“Which could be the link with nineteen forty-five, the end of the war in Europe and Martin Bormann,” Ferguson said.
Dillon nodded. “I see it now. The Kamaradenwerk, Action for Comrades.”
“Could be.” The Brigadier nodded. “More than likely. Just take one aspect. Santiago and his father reach America flat broke and yet mysteriously manage to get their hands on the very large funds necessary to go into business. We know for a fact that the Nazi Party salted away millions all over the world to enable their work to keep going.” He shrugged. “All conjecture, but it makes sense.”
“Except for one thing,” Dillon said.
“And what’s that?”
“How Santiago knew about Baker finding U180. I mean, how did he know about him coming to London, staying at Lord North Street with the Admiral, Jenny, me? He does seem singularly well-informed, Brigadier.”
“I must say Dillon’s got a point,” Travers put in.
Ferguson said, “The point is well taken and we’ll find the answer in time, but for the moment we’ll just have to get on with it. You’ll leave for the Caribbean tomorrow.”
“Just as we planned?” Dillon said.
“Exactly. British Airways to Antigua, then onwards to St. John.”
Dillon said, “Would you think it likely that Max Santiago will turn up there? He’s had his fingers in everything else so far.”
“We’ll just have to see.”
“As I said,” Lane interrupted. “He has a home in Puerto Rico and that’s very convenient for the Virgin Islands. Apparently he runs one of those multi-million-dollar motor yachts.” He looked at his file. “It’s called the
“If he turns up you’ll just have to do the best you can,” Ferguson said. “That’s what you’re going to be there for. You’ll have your Platinum Card and traveler’s checks for twenty-five thousand dollars. Your cover is quite simple. You’re a wealthy Irishman.”
“God save us, I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“Don’t be stupid, Dillon,” Ferguson told him. “You’re a wealthy Irishman with a company in Cork. General electronics, computers and so on. We’ve provided a nice touch for you. When you arrive in Antigua, there’ll be a seaplane waiting. You
“I could fly a Jumbo if I had to, Brigadier, but then you knew that.”
“So I did. What kind of plane did you say it was, Jack?”
“A Cessna 206, sir.” Lane turned to Dillon. “Apparently it’s got floats and wheels so you can land on sea or on land.”
“I know the type,” Dillon said. “I’ve flown planes like it.”
“The center of things in St. John is a town called Cruz Bay,” the Inspector carried on. “On occasions they’ve had a commercial seaplane service round there so there’s a ramp in the harbor, facilities and so on.”
Ferguson passed a folder across. “The documents department have done you proud. Two passports, Irish and
