Thunder Point

“Is that a fact?”

Dillon dried himself slowly with a towel and stood at the rail looking across. He recognized Algaro at once, standing in the stern with Serra, and then Santiago came out of the wheelhouse.

“Who’s the guy in the blazer and cap?” Dillon enquired.

Carney looked across. “That’s Max Santiago, the owner. I’ve seen him in St. John a time or two.”

Santiago was looking across at them and on impulse, Dillon raised an arm and waved. Santiago waved back and at that moment Noval and Pinto surfaced.

“Time to go home,” Carney said and he went round to the prow and heaved in the anchor.

On the way back Dillon said, “The Maria Blanco, where would it anchor when it’s here, Caneel Bay?”

“More likely to be off Paradise Beach.”

“Could we take a look?”

Carney glanced at him, then looked away. “Why not? It’s your charter.”

Dillon got the water bottle from the icebox, drank about a pint, then passed it to Carney and lit a cigarette. Carney drank a little and passed it back.

“You’ve dived before, Mr. Dillon.”

“And that’s a fact,” Dillon agreed.

They were close to Paradise now and Carney throttled back the engine and the Privateer passed between two of the oceangoing yachts that were moored there and came to the Maria Blanco. “There she is,” he said.

There were a couple of crewmen working on deck, who looked up casually as they passed. “Jesus,” Dillon said, that thing must have made a dent in Santiago’s wallet. A couple of million, I’d say.”

“And then some.”

Carney went up to full power and made for Caneel Beach. Dillon lit another cigarette and leaned against the wall of the deckhouse. “Do you get many interesting wrecks in this area?”

“Some,” Carney said. “There’s the Cartanser Senior off Buck Island over to St. Thomas, an old freighter that’s a popular dive, and the General Rodgers. The Coast Guard sank her to get rid of her.”

“No, I was thinking of something more interesting than that,” Dillon said. “I mean you know this area like the back of your hand. Would it be possible for there to be a wreck on some reef out there that you’d never come across?”

Carney slowed as they entered the bay. “Anything’s possible, it’s a big ocean.”

“So there could be something out there just waiting to be discovered?”

The Privateer coasted in beside the dock. Dillon got the stern line, went over and tied up. He did the same with the other line as Carney cut the engine, went back on board and pulled on his track suit.

Carney leaned by the wheel looking at him. “Mr. Dillon, I don’t know what goes on here. All I know for certain is you are one hell of a diver, and that I admire. What all this talk of wrecks means I don’t know and don’t want to as I’m inclined to the quiet life, but I will give you one piece of advice. Your interest in Max Santiago?”

“Oh, yes?” Dillon said, continuing to put his diving equipment in a net diving bag.

“It could be unhealthy. I’ve heard things about him that aren’t good, plenty of people could tell you the same. The way he makes his money, for example.”

“A hotel keeper as I heard it.” Dillon smiled.

“There’s other ways that involve small planes or a fast boat by night to Florida, but what the hell, you’re a grown man.” Carney moved out on deck. “You want to dive with me again?”

“You can count on it. I’ve got business in St. Thomas this afternoon. How would I get there?”

Carney pointed to the other side of the dock where a very large launch was just casting off. “That’s the resort ferry. They run back and forth during the day, but I figure you missed this one.”

“Damn!” Dillon said.

“Mr. Dillon, you arrived at Cruz Bay in your own floatplane, and the front desk, who keep me informed of such things, tell me you pay with an American Express Platinum Card.”

“What can I say, you’ve got me,” Dillon told him amicably.

“Water taxis are expensive, but not to a man of your means. The front desk will order you one.”

“Thanks.” Dillon crossed to the dock and paused. “Maybe I could buy you a drink tonight. Will you be at Jenny’s Place?”

“Hell, I’m there every night at the moment,” Carney said, “otherwise I’d starve. My wife and kids are away on vacation.”

“I’ll see you then,” Dillon said and turned and walked away along the dock toward the front desk.

The water taxi had seats for a dozen passengers, but he had it to himself. The only crew was a woman in a peaked cap and denims, who sat at the wheel and made for St. Thomas at a considerable rate of knots. It was noisy and there wasn’t much chance to speak, which suited Dillon. He sat there smoking and thinking about the way things had gone so far, Algaro, Max Santiago and the Maria Blanco.

He knew about Santiago, but Santiago knew about him, that was a fact and yet to be explained. There had almost been a touch of comradeship in the way Santiago had waved back at him at Carval Rock. Carney, he liked. In fact, everything about him he liked. For one thing, the American knew his business, but there was power there and real authority. An outstanding example of a quiet man it wouldn’t pay to push.

“Here we go,” the water taxi driver shouted over her shoulder, and Dillon glanced up and saw that they were moving in toward the waterfront of Charlotte Amalie.

It was quite a place and bustling with activity, two enormous cruise liners berthed on the far side of the harbor. The waterfront was lined with buildings in white and pastel colors, shops and restaurants of every description. It had been a Danish colony, he knew that, and the influence still showed in some of the architecture.

He followed a narrow alley called Drake’s Passage that was lined with colorful shops offering everything from designer clothes to gold and jewelry, for this was a free port, and came out into Main Street. He consulted the address Ferguson had given him and crossed to where some taxis waited.

“Can you take me to Cane Street?” he asked the first driver.

“I wouldn’t take your money, man,” the driver told him amiably. “Just take the next turning through to Back Street. Cane is the third on the left.”

Dillon thanked him and moved on. It was hot, very hot, people crowding the pavements, traffic moving slowly in the narrow streets, but Cane Street, when he came to it, was quiet and shaded. The house he wanted was at the far end, clapboard, painted white with a red corrugated iron roof. There was a tiny garden in front of it and steps leading up to a porch on which an ageing black man with gray hair sat on a swing seat reading a newspaper.

He looked up as Dillon approached. “And what can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Earl Stacey,” Dillon told him.

The man peered at him over the top of reading glasses. “You ain’t gonna spoil my day with no bills, are you?”

“Ferguson told me to look you up,” Dillon said, “Brigadier Charles Ferguson. My name is Dillon.”

The other man smiled and removed his glasses. “I’ve been expecting you. Come right this way,” and he pushed open the door and led the way into the house.

“I’m on my own since my wife died last year.” Stacey opened a door, switched on a light and led the way down wooden steps to a cellar. There were wooden shelves up to the ceiling, pots of paint stacked there, cupboards below. He reached in and released some kind of catch and pulled it open like a door revealing another room. He switched on a light.

“Come into my parlor.”

There was all kinds of weaponry, rifles, submachine guns, boxes of ammunition. “It looks like Christmas to me,” Dillon told him.