“At your orders, Senor,” he said in Spanish.
“Good to see you, Algaro,” Santiago said. “Everything is arranged as I requested?”
“Oh yes, Senor. I’ve packed the usual clothes, took them down to the
Algaro wasn’t particularly large, five foot seven or eight, but immensely powerful, his hair cropped so short that he almost looked bald. A scar, running from the corner of the left eye to the mouth, combined to give him a sinister and threatening appearance in spite of the smart gray chauffeur’s uniform he wore. He was totally devoted to Santiago, who had saved him from a life sentence for the stabbing to death of a young prostitute two years previously by the liberal dispensing of funds not only to lawyers but corrupt officials.
The luggage arrived at that moment and while the porters stowed it Santiago said, “Good, you needn’t take me to the house. I’ll go straight to the boat.”
“As you say, Senor.” They drove away, turned into the traffic of the main road and Algaro said, “Captain Serra said you asked for a couple of divers in the crew. It’s taken care of.”
“Excellent.” Santiago picked up the local newspaper, which had been left on the seat for him, and opened it.
Algaro watched him in the mirror. “Is there a problem, Senor?”
Santiago laughed. “You’re like an animal, Algaro, you always smell trouble.”
“But that’s what you employ me for, Senor.”
“Quite right.” Santiago folded the newspaper, selected a cigarette from an elegant gold case and lit it. “Yes, my friend, there is a problem, a problem called Dillon.”
“May I know about him, Senor?”
“Why not? You’ll probably have to, how shall I put it, take care of him for me, Algaro.” Santiago smiled. “So listen carefully and learn all about him because this man is good, Algaro, very good indeed.”
It was a perfect afternoon, the limitless blue sky with only the occasional cloud as Dillon drifted across the Caribbean at five thousand feet. It was pure pleasure, the sea constantly changing color below, green and blue, the occasional boat, the reefs and shoals clearly visible at that height.
He passed the islands of Nevis and St. Kitts, calling in to the local airport, moved on flying directly over the tiny Dutch island of Saba. He had a brisk tailwind and made good time, better than he had expected, found St. Croix on his port side on the horizon no more than an hour after leaving Antigua.
Soon after that, the main line of the Virgins lifted out of the heat haze to greet him, St. Thomas to port, the smaller bulk of St. John to starboard, Tortola beyond. He checked the chart and saw Peter Island below Tortola and east of St. John, Norman Island south of it, and south of there was Samson Cay.
Dillon called in to St. Thomas airport to notify them of his approach. The controller said, “Cleared for landing at Cruz Bay. Await customs and immigration officials there.”
Dillon went down low, turning to starboard, found Samson Cay with no difficulty and crossed over at a thousand feet. There was a harbor dotted with yachts, a dock, cottages and a hotel block grouped around the beach amidst palm trees. The airstrip was to the north, no control tower, just an air sock on a pole. There were people lounging on the beach down there. Some stood up and waved. He waggled his wings and flew on, found Cruz Bay fifteen minutes later and drifted in for a perfect landing just outside the harbor.
He entered the harbor and found the ramp with little difficulty. There were several uniformed officials standing there and one or two other people, all black. He taxied forward, let the wheels down and ran up onto the ramp, killed the engine. One of the men in customs uniform held a couple of wedge-shaped blocks by a leather strap and he came and positioned them behind the wheels.
Dillon climbed out. “Lafayette, we are here.”
Everyone laughed genially and the immigration people checked his passport, perfectly happy with the Irish one, while the customs men had a look at the luggage. Everything was sweetness and light and they all departed with mutual expressions of goodwill. As they walked away a young woman in uniform, rose pink this time, who had been waiting patiently at one side, came forward.
“I’ve got your jeep here as ordered, Mr. Dillon. If you could sign for me and show me your license, you can be on your way.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Dillon said and carried the suitcases across and slung them on the backseat.
As he signed, she said, “I’m sorry we didn’t have an automatic in at the moment. I could change it for you tomorrow. I’ve got one being returned.”
“No, thanks, I prefer to be in charge myself.” He smiled. “Can I drop you somewhere?”
“That’s nice of you.” She got in beside him and he drove away. About three hundred yards further on as he came to the road she said, “This is fine.”
There was an extremely attractive looking development opposite. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Mongoose Junction, our version of a shopping mall, but much nicer. There’s also a super bar and a couple of great restaurants.”
“I’ll look it over sometime.”
She got out. “Turn left, follow the main road. Caneel Bay’s only a couple of miles out. There’s a car park for residents. From there it’s a short walk down to Reception.”
“You’ve been very kind,” Dillon told her and drove away.
The
Santiago sat at a table on the upper deck enjoying the sun and a cup of excellent coffee, Algaro standing behind him. The captain, Julian Serra, a burly, black-bearded man in uniform, sat opposite. He, like most of Santiago’s employees, had been with him for years, had frequently taken part in activities of a highly questionable nature.
“So you see, my dear Serra, we have a problem on our hands here. The man Dillon will probably approach this diver, this Bob Carney, when he reaches St. John.”
“Wrecks are notoriously difficult to find, Senor,” Serra told him. “I’ve had experts tell me they’ve missed one by a few yards on occasions. It’s not easy. There’s a lot of sea out there.”
“I agree,” Santiago said. “I still think the girl must have some sort of an answer, but she may take her time returning. In the meantime, we’ll surprise Mr. Dillon as much as possible.” He smiled up at Algaro. “Think you can handle that, Algaro?”
“With pleasure, Senor,” Algaro said.
“Good.” Santiago turned back to Serra. “What about the crew?”
“Guerra, first mate. Solona and Mugica as usual, and I’ve brought in two men with good diving experience, Javier Noval and Vicente Pinto.”
“And they’re reliable?”
“Absolutely.”
“And we’re expected at Samson Cay?”
“Yes, Senor, I spoke to Prieto personally. You wish to stay there?”
“I think so. We could always drop anchor off Paradise Beach at Caneel, of course. I’ll think about it.” Santiago finished his coffee and stood up. “Right, let’s get moving then.”
Dillon took to Caneel from the moment he got there. He parked the jeep and, carrying his own bags, followed the obvious path. There was a magnificent restaurant on a bluff up above him, circular with open sides. Below it was the ruins of a sugar mill from the old plantation days. The vegetation was extremely lush, palm trees everywhere. He paused, noticing a gift shop on the left and set back. More important the smaller shop next to it said “Paradise Watersports,” Carney’s place. He remembered that from the brochure and went and had a look. As he would have expected, there were diving suits of various kinds on display, but the door was locked, so he carried on and came to the front desk lobby.
