They sat in the corner and the barman brought the bottle over in an ice bucket and opened it. He filled three glasses and retired. Ferguson thanked him, then took an envelope from his pocket and passed it across. “Just in case things get rough, there’s the name of a contact of mine in Charlotte Amalie, that’s the main town in St. Thomas. What you might call a dealer in hardware.”
“Hardware?” Travers looked bewildered. “What on earth would he need with hardware?”
Dillon put the envelope in his pocket. “You’re a lovely fella, Admiral, and long may you stay that way.”
Ferguson toasted Dillon. “Good luck, my friend, you’re going to need it.” He emptied his glass. “Now let’s eat.”
There was something in his eyes, something that said there was more to this, much more, had to be, Dillon told himself, but he got up obediently and followed Travers and the Brigadier out of the bar.
And at Briac at the Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity, Jenny sat alone in the rear pew of the chapel, resting her arms on the backrest of the pew in front of her, gazing at the flickering candlelight at the altar and brooding. The door creaked open and Sister Maria Baker entered.
“There you are. You should be in bed.”
“I know, Sister, but I was restless and wanted to think about things.”
Sister Maria Baker sat down beside her. “Such as?”
“Dillon for one thing. He’s done many terrible things. He was a member of the IRA, for example, and when those two men attacked me last night…” She shivered. “He was so coldly savage, so ruthless, and yet to me he was kindness itself and so understanding.”
“So?”
Jenny turned to her. “I’m not a good Christian. In fact, when Henry found me, I was a very great sinner, but I do want to understand God, I really do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Why does God allow violence and killing to take place at all? Why does he allow the violence in Dillon?”
“The simplest thing to answer, my child. What God does allow is free will. He gives us all a choice. You, me, and the Dillons of this world.”
“I suppose so.” Jenny sighed. “But I will have to go back to St. John and not just to help Dillon, but somehow for Henry too.”
“Why do you feel so strongly?”
“Because Henry really didn’t tell me where he discovered that U-boat, which means the secret must have died with him, and yet I have the oddest feeling that it didn’t, that the information is back there in St. John, but I just can’t think straight. It won’t come, Sister.”
She was distressed again and Sister Maria Baker took her hands. “That’s enough, you need sleep. A few days’ rest will work wonders. You’ll remember then what you can’t now, I promise you. Now let’s have you in bed.”
She took Jenny by the hand and led her out.
Ferguson’s Daimler picked Dillon up at seven-thirty the following morning to take him to Gatwick and Travers insisted on accompanying him. The journey out of town at that time in the morning with all the heavy traffic going the other way was relatively quick, and Dillon was ready to go through passport control and security by eight- thirty.
“They’ve already called it, I see,” Travers said.
“So it seems.”
“Look here, Dillon,” Travers said awkwardly. “We’ll never see eye-to-eye, you and me, I mean the IRA and all that stuff, but I want to thank you for what you did for the girl. I liked her – liked her a lot.”
“And so did I.”
Travers shook Dillon’s hand. “Take care, this Santiago sounds bad news.”
“I’ll try, Admiral.”
“Another thing.” Travers sounded more awkward than ever. “Charles Ferguson is a dear friend, but he’s also the most devious old sod I’ve ever known in my life. Watch yourself in the clinches there too.”
“I will, Admiral, I will,” Dillon said, watched the Admiral walk away, then turned and went through.
A nice man, he thought as the Jumbo lifted off and climbed steadily, a decent man, but nobody’s fool and he was right; there
“Ah, well, I can be just as devious,” Dillon murmured and accepted the glass of champagne the stewardess offered.
8
The flight to Antigua took a little over eight hours thanks to a tailwind, and they arrived just after two o’clock local time. It was hot, really hot, very noticeable after London. Dillon felt quite cheered and strode ahead of everybody else toward the airport building, wearing black cord slacks and a denim shirt, his black flying jacket over one shoulder. When he reached the entrance a young black woman in a pale blue uniform was standing there with a board bearing his name.
Dillon paused. “I’m Dillon.”
She smiled. “I’m Judy, Mr. Dillon. I’ll see you through immigration and so on and then take you to your plane.”
“You represent the handling agents?” he asked as they walked through.
“That’s right. I need to see your pilot’s license and there are a couple of forms to fill in for the aviation authority, but we can do that while we’re waiting for the luggage to come through.”
Twenty minutes later she was driving him out to the far side of the runway in a courtesy bus, an engineer called Tony in white overalls sitting beside her. The Cessna was parked beside a number of private planes, slightly incongruous because of its floats, with wheels protruding beneath.
“Shouldn’t give you any problems,” Tony said as he stowed Dillon’s two suitcases. “Flies as sweet as a nut. Of course a lot of people are nervous about flying in the islands with a single engine, but the beauty about this baby is you can always come down in the water.”
“Or something like that,” Dillon said.
Tony laughed, reached into the cabin and pointed. “There’s an air log listing all the islands and their airfields and charts. Our chief pilot has marked your course from here to Cruz Bay in St. John. Very straightforward. Around two hundred and fifty miles. Takes about an hour and a half.” He glanced at his watch. “You should be there by four-thirty.”
“It’s American territory, but customs and immigration are expecting you. They’ll be waiting at the ramp at Cruz Bay. When you’re close enough, call in to St. Thomas and they’ll let them know you’re coming. Oh, and there will be a self-drive jeep waiting for you.” Judy smiled. “I think that’s about it.”
“Thanks for everything.” Dillon gave her that special smile of his with total charm and kissed her on the cheek. “Judy, you’ve been great.” He shook Tony’s hand. “Many thanks.”
A moment later he was in the pilot’s seat, closing the door. He strapped himself in, adjusted his earphones, then fired the engine and called the tower. There was a small plane landing and the tower told him to wait. They gave him the good word and he taxied to the end of the runway. There was a short pause, then the go signal and he boosted power, roared down the runway and pulled back the column at exactly the right moment, the Cessna climbing effortlessly out over the azure sea.
It was an hour later that Max Santiago flew into San Juan, where he was escorted through passport control and customs with a minimum of fuss by an airport official to where his chauffeur, Algaro, waited with the black Mercedes limousine.
