“You just tell me what you want, man, and Ferguson picks up the tab, that was the arrangement.”
“Rifle first,” Dillon said. “Armalite perhaps. I like the folding stock.”
“I can do better. I got an AK assault rifle here with a folding stock, fires automatic when you want, thirty-round magazine.” He took the weapon from a stand and handed it over.
“Yes, this will do fine,” Dillon told him. “I’ll take it with two extra magazines. I need a handgun now, Walther PPK for preference, and a Carswell silencer. Two extra magazines for that as well.”
“Can do.”
Stacey opened a very large drawer under the bench which ran along one wall. Inside there was an assortment of handguns. He selected a Walther and passed it to Dillon for approval. “Anything else?”
There was a cheap-looking plastic holster with the butt of a pistol sticking out of it and Dillon was intrigued. “What’s that?”
“It’s an ace-in-the-hole.” Stacey took it out. “That metal strip on the back is a magnet. Stick it underneath anywhere and as long as it’s metal it’ll hold fast. The gun don’t look much, point-two-two Belgian, semi-automatic, seven-shot, but I’ve put hollow-nosed rounds in. They fragment bone.”
“I’ll take it,” Dillon said. “One more thing. Would you happen to have any C4 explosive?”
“The kind salvage people use for underwater work?”
“Exactly.”
“No, but I tell you what I do have, something just as good, Semtex. You heard of that stuff?”
“Oh, yes,” Dillon said. “I think you could say I’m familiar with Semtex. One of Czechoslovakia’s more successful products.”
“The terrorist’s favorite weapon.” Stacey took a box down from the shelf. “The Palestinians, the IRA, all those cats use this stuff. You gonna use this underwater yourself?”
“Just to make a hole in a wreck.”
“Then you need some detonation cord, a remote-control unit or I’ve got some chemical detonating pencils here. They work real good. You just break the cap. I got some timed for ten minutes and others for thirty.” He pushed all the items together. “Is that it?”
“A night sight would be useful and a pair of binoculars.”
“I can do them too.” He opened another drawer. “There you go.”
The night sight was small, but powerful, extending if needed like a telescope. The binoculars were by Zeiss and pocket size. “Excellent,” Dillon said.
Stacey went and found an olive-green Army holdall, unzipped it, put the AK assault rifle in first and then the other things. He closed the zip, turned and led the way out, switching off the light and pushing the shelving back into place. Dillon followed him up the cellar stairs and out to the porch.
Stacey offered him the bag. “Mr. Dillon, I get the impression you intend to start World War Three.”
“Maybe we can call a truce,” Dillon said. “Who knows?”
“I wish you luck, my friend. I’ll send my bill to Ferguson.”
Stacey sat down, put on his reading glasses and picked up his newspaper, and Dillon walked out through the small garden and started back toward the waterfront.
He was walking along the side of the harbor to where the water taxis operated from when he saw that the Caneel ferry was in, a gangplank stretching down to the dock. The Captain was standing at the top as Dillon went up.
“You staying at Caneel, sir?”
“I certainly am.”
“We’ll be leaving soon. Just heard someone’s on the way down from the airport.”
Dillon went into the main cabin, put his bag on a seat and accepted a rum punch offered by one of the crew. He glanced out of the window and saw a large taxi bus draw up, a single passenger inside, went and sat down and drank some of his punch. One of the crew came in and put two suitcases in the corner, there was the sound of the gangplank being moved, the Captain went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. Dillon checked his watch. It was five-thirty. He put his plastic cup on the table, lit a cigarette and at the same time was aware of someone slumping down beside him.
“Fancy meeting you, dear boy,” Charles Ferguson said. “Bloody hot, isn’t it?”
10
Dillon had a quick swim off Paradise Beach, conscious that the
“Come,” Ferguson called.
Dillon entered. The set-up was similar to his own, the bathroom marginally larger as was the other room. Ferguson, in gray flannel slacks and a white Turnbull and Asser shirt, stood in front of the mirror in the small dressing room easing the Guards tie into a neat Windsor knot at his neck.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, took a double-breasted navy blue blazer and pulled it on. “How do I look, dear boy?”
“Like an advertisement for Gieves and Hawkes, the bloody English gentleman abroad.”
“Just because you’re Irish doesn’t mean you have to feel inferior all the time,” Ferguson told him. “Some very reasonable people were Irish, Dillon, my mother for instance, not to mention the Duke of Wellington.”
“Who said that just because a man had been born in a stable didn’t mean he was a horse,” Dillon pointed out.
“Dear me, did he say that? Most unfortunate.” Ferguson picked up a Panama hat and a Malacca cane with a silver handle.
“I never knew you needed a cane,” Dillon said.
“Bought this during the Korean War. Strong as steel because it has a steel core weighted with lead at the tip. Oh, and here’s a rather nice device.”
He turned the silver handle to one side and pulled out a steel poniard about nine inches long.
“Very interesting,” Dillon said.
“Yes, well we are in foreign parts. I call it my pig sticker.” There was a click as Ferguson rammed the poniard home. “Now, are you going to offer me a quick drink before we go out or aren’t you?”
Dillon had negotiated a supply of Krug from room service, had several half-bottles in one of the iceboxes. He filled two glasses and went out to Ferguson on the terrace, picking up the Zeiss field glasses on the way.
“That large white motor yacht out there is the
“Really?” Dillon passed him the Zeiss glasses and the Brigadier had a look. “A sort of minor floating palace I’d say.”
“So it would appear.”
Ferguson still held the glasses to his eyes. “As a young man I was a subaltern in the Korean War. One year of unmitigated hell. I did a tour of duty on a position called the Hook. Just like the First World War. Miles of trenches, barbed wire, mine fields and thousands of Chinese trying to get in. They used to watch us and we used to watch them. It was like a game, a particularly nasty game, which exploded into violence every so often.” He sighed and lowered the glasses. “What on earth am I prattling on about, Dillon?”
“Oh, I’d say you’re going the long way round to the pub to tell me that you suspect Santiago’s watching too.”
“Something like that. Tell me how far things have gone and don’t leave anything out, not a single damn thing.”
When Dillon was finished, he refilled the Brigadier’s glass while Ferguson sat there thinking about it.
“What do you think the next move should be?” Dillon asked.
