Thunder Point

“Well, now you’ve gone and got yourself tooled up by Stacey I suppose you’re eager for confrontation, a gunfight at the OK Corral?”

“I’ve taken precautions, that’s all,” Dillon said. “And I needed the Semtex to blast a way into the U-boat.”

“If we find it,” Ferguson said. “And not a murmur from the girl.”

“She’ll turn up eventually.”

“And in the meantime?”

“I’d like to take things further with Carney. We really do need him on our side.”

“I can see that, but it would be a question of how to approach him. Would a cash offer help?”

“Not really. If I’m right, Carney is the kind of man who’ll only do a thing if he really wants to or if he thinks it right.”

“Oh, dear.” Ferguson sighed. “Heaven save me from the romantics of this world.” He stood up and glanced at his watch. “Food, Dillon, that’s what I need. Where shall we eat?”

“We could walk up to Turtle Bay Dining Room. That’s more formal, I hear, but excellent. I’ve booked a table.”

“Good, then let’s get moving, and for heaven’s sake put a jacket on. I don’t want people to think I’m dining with a beachcomber.”

Out in the gathering darkness of Caneel Bay, an inflatable from the Maria Blanco nosed in beside Carney’s Sport Fisherman, Sea Raider, the only sound the muted throbbing of the outboard motor. Serra was at the helm and Algaro sat in the stern. As they bumped against the hull of Sea Raider he went up over the rail and into the wheelhouse, took a tiny electronic box from his pocket, reached under the instrument panel until he found metal and put it in place attached by its magnet.

A moment later he was back in the inflatable. “Now the small dive boat, Privateer,” he said and Serra turned and moved toward it.

Max Santiago, wearing a white linen suit, was sitting in Caneel Bay Bar sipping a mint julep when Algaro came in. He wore a black tee-shirt and a loose-fitting baggy suit in black linen that made him look rather sinister.

“Did everything go well?” Santiago asked.

“Absolutely. I’ve put a bug on both of Carney’s dive boats. That means we can follow wherever he goes without being observed. Ferguson booked in just after six. I checked with the reservations desk. Dillon has booked a table for two up at Turtle Bay Dining Room.”

“Good,” Santiago said. “It might be amusing to join him.”

Captain Serra entered at that moment. “Have you any further orders, Senor?”

“If Dillon does as he did last night, he may probably visit this bar, Jenny’s Place,” Santiago said. “I’ll probably look in there myself.”

“So I’ll take the launch round to Cruz Bay, Senor, to pick you up from there?”

Santiago smiled. “I’ve had a better idea. Go back to the Maria Blanco, pick up some of the crew and take them into Cruz. They can have a drink on me later, let off a little steam if you follow me.”

“Perfectly, Senor.” Serra smiled and went out.

It was just after midnight at the Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity and Jenny Grant, who had gone to bed early, was restless and unable to sleep. She got up, found her cigarettes, lit one and went and sat on the padded windowseat and peered out into driving rain. She could see the light still on in the window of Sister Maria Baker’s office, but then, she never seemed to stop working. Strange how Henry had always kept her very existence a secret. It was as if he’d been somehow ashamed of her, the religious thing. He’d never been able to handle that.

Jenny felt much better than when she had arrived, infinitely more rested and yet restless at the same time. She wondered what was happening in St. John and how Dillon was getting on. She’d liked Dillon, that was the simple truth, in spite of everything in his background of which she thoroughly disapproved. On the other hand, you could only speak as you found, and to her he had been good, kind, considerate and understanding.

She went back to bed, switched off the light and dozed and had a dream of the half-waking sort, the U-boat in dark waters and Henry diving deep. Dear Henry. Such an idiot to have been down there in the first place and somewhere dangerous, somewhere unusual, somewhere people didn’t normally go. It had to be.

She came awake in the instant and spoke out loud in the darkness. “Oh, my God, of course, and so simple.”

She got out of bed and went to the window. The light was still on in the Mother Superior’s office. She dressed quickly in jeans and sweater and hurried across the courtyard through the rain and knocked on the door.

When she entered, she found Sister Maria Baker seated behind her desk working. She glanced up in surprise. “Why, Jenny, what is it? Can’t you sleep?”

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow, Sister, I just wanted to let you know. I’m going back to St. John.”

“So soon, Jenny? But why?”

“The location of the U-boat that Henry found and that Dillon is looking for? I think I can find it for him. It just came to me as I was falling asleep.”

Ferguson sat on the terrace at Turtle Bay and looked out to the Sir Francis Drake Channel, islands like black cutouts against the dark sky streaked with orange as the sun descended.

“Really is quite extraordinary,” the Brigadier said as they sipped a fruit punch.

“ ‘Sunsets exquisitely dying,’ that’s what the poet said,” Dillon murmured.

The cicadas chirped ceaselessly, night birds calling to each other. He got up and moved to the edge of the terrace and Ferguson said, “Good heavens, I didn’t realize you had a literary bent, dear boy.”

Dillon lit a cigarette, the Zippo flaring. He grinned. “To be frank with you I’m a bloody literary genius, Brigadier. I did Hamlet at the Royal Academy. I can still remember most of the text.” His voice changed suddenly into a remarkable impression of Marlon Brando. “I could have been somebody, I could have been a contender.”

“Don’t get maudlin on me at this stage in your life, Dillon, never pays to look back with regret because you can’t change anything. And you’ve wasted too much time already on that damned cause of yours. I trust you realize that. Stay with the present. The main point which concerns me at the moment is how this wretched man Santiago comes to be so well informed.”

“And wouldn’t I like to know that myself?” Dillon said.

Santiago walked in through the arched gateway, Algaro at his shoulder. He looked around the terrace, saw Dillon and Ferguson and came over. “Mr. Dillon? Max Santiago.”

“I know who you are, Senor,” Dillon replied in excellent Spanish.

Santiago looked surprised. “I must congratulate you, Senor,” he replied in the same language. “Such fluency in a foreigner is rare.” He turned to Ferguson and added in English, “A pleasure to see you at Caneel Bay, Brigadier. Have a nice dinner, gentlemen,” and he left followed by Algaro.

“He knew who you are and he knew you were here,” Dillon said.

“So I noticed.” Ferguson stood up. “Let’s eat, I’m starving.”

The service was good, the food excellent and Ferguson thoroughly enjoyed himself. They split a bottle of Louis Roederer Crystal Champagne and started with grilled sea scallops in a red pepper and saffron sauce, followed by a Caesar salad and then a pan-roasted pheasant. Ferguson, napkin tucked in his collar, devoured everything.

“To be honest, dear boy, I really prefer nursery food, but one must make an effort.”

“An Englishman abroad again?” Dillon inquired.

“Ferguson, I need hardly point out, is the most Scots of Scottish names, Dillon, and as I told you, my mother was Irish.”

“Yes, but Eton, Sandhurst and the Grenadier Guards got mixed up in that little lot somewhere.”

Ferguson poured some more Crystal. “Lovely bottle. You can see right through it. Very unusual.”

“Czar Nicholas designed it himself,” Dillon told him. “Said he wanted to be able to see the champagne.”

“Extraordinary. Never knew that.”