Thunder Point

“Didn’t do him any good when the Bolsheviks murdered him.”

“I’m glad you said murdered, Dillon, there’s some hope for you still. What’s friend Santiago doing?”

“Having dinner at the edge of the garden behind you. The ghoul with him, by the way, is called Algaro. He must be his minder. He’s the one who ran me off the road and fired a shotgun.”

“Oh, dear, we can’t have that.” Ferguson asked the waiter for tea instead of coffee. “What do you suggest our next move should be? Santiago is obviously pressing and intends we should know it.”

“I think I need to speak to Carney. If anybody might have some ideas about where that U-boat is, it would be he.”

“That’s not only exquisitely grammatical, dear boy, it makes sense. Do you know where he might be?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Excellent.” Ferguson stood, picked up his Panama and Malacca cane. “Let’s get moving then.”

Dillon drove into the car park at Mongoose Junction and switched off. He took the holstered Belgian semi- automatic from his jacket pocket. “What on earth is that?” Ferguson demanded.

“An ace-in-the-hole. I’ll leave it under the dashboard.”

“Looks like a woman’s gun to me.”

“And like most women it gets the job done, Brigadier, so don’t be sexist.” Dillon clamped the holster under the dashboard. “Okay, let’s go and see if we can find Carney.”

They walked along the front from Mongoose Junction to Jenny’s Place. It was about half-full when they went inside, Billy Jones working the bar, Mary and one waitress between them handling the dinner trade. There were only four tables taken and Carney sat at one.

Captain Serra and three of the crew from the Maria Blanco were at a booth table in the corner. Guerra, the mate, was one of them. Dillon recognized him from the first night, although the fact that Guerra said, “That’s him,” in Spanish and they all stopped talking was sufficient confirmation.

“Hello there.” Mary Jones approached and Dillon smiled.

“We’ll join Bob Carney. A bottle of champagne. Whatever you’ve got!”

“Two glasses.” Ferguson raised his hat politely.

Mary took his arm, her teeth flashing in a delighted smile. “I like this man. Where did you find him? I love a gentleman.”

Billy leaned over the bar. “You put him down, woman.”

“It’s not his fault,” Dillon said. “He’s a Brigadier. All that army training.”

“A Brigadier General.” Her eyes widened.

“Well, yes, that’s true in your army,” Ferguson said uncomfortably.

“Well, you go and join Bob Carney, honey. Mary’s gonna take care of you right now.”

Carney was just finishing an order of steak and french fries, a beer at his elbow, and looked up as they approached. “Mr. Dillon?” he said.

“This is a friend of mine, Brigadier Charles Ferguson,” Dillon told him. “May we join you?”

Carney smiled. “I’m impressed, but I should warn you, Brigadier, all I made was corporal and that was in the Marines.”

“Grenadier Guards,” Ferguson told him, “hope you don’t mind?”

“Hell, no, I guess we elite unit boys have got to stick together. Sit down.” As they each pulled up a chair he went back to his steak and said to Dillon, “You ever in the army, Dillon?”

“Not exactly,” Dillon told him.

“Hell, there’s nothing exact about it, not that you hear about the Irish Army too much except that they seem to spend most of their time fighting for the United Nations in Beirut or Angola or someplace. Of course, there is the other lot, the IRA.” He stopped cutting the last piece of steak for a moment, then carried on. “But no, that wouldn’t be possible, would it, Dillon?”

He smiled and Ferguson said, “My dear chap, be reasonable, what on earth would the IRA be interested in here? What’s more to the point, why would I be involved?”

“I don’t know about that, Brigadier. What I do know is that Dillon here is a mystery to me and a mystery is like a crossword puzzle. I’ve just got to solve it.”

Santiago came in followed by Algaro and the other four stood up. “We’ve got company,” Dillon told Ferguson.

The Brigadier looked round. “Oh, dear,” he said.

Bob Carney pushed his plate away. “Just to save you more questions, Santiago you know and that creep Algaro. The one with the beard is the captain of the Maria Blanco, Serra. The others will be crew.”

Billy Jones brought a bottle of Pol Roget in a bucket, opened it for them, then went across to the booth to take Santiago’s order. Dillon poured the champagne, raised his glass and spoke to Carney in Irish.

“Jesus,” Carney said. “What in the hell are you saying, Dillon?”

“Irish, the language of kings. A very ancient toast. May the wind be always at your back. Appropriate for a ship’s captain. I mean, you do have a master’s ticket amongst other things?”

Carney frowned, then turned to Ferguson. “Let’s see if I can put it together. He works for you?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

At that moment, they heard a woman’s voice say, “Please don’t do that.”

The waitress serving the drinks at Santiago’s table was a small girl, rather pretty with her blonde hair in a plait bound up at the back. She was very young, very vulnerable. Algaro was running his hand over her buttocks and started to move down a leg.

“I hate to see that,” Carney said and his face was hard.

Dillon said, “I couldn’t agree more. To say he’s in from the stable would be an insult to horses.”

The girl pulled away, the crew laughing, and Santiago looked across, his eyes meeting Dillon’s. He smiled, turned and whispered to Algaro, who nodded and got to his feet.

“Now let’s keep our heads here,” Ferguson said.

Algaro crossed to the bar and sat on a vacant stool. As the girl passed, he put an arm round her waist and whispered in her ear. She went red in the face, close to tears. “Leave me alone,” she said and struggled to free herself.

Dillon glanced across. Santiago raised his glass and toasted him, a half-smile on his face, as Algaro slipped a hand up her skirt. Billy Jones was serving at the other end of the bar and he turned to see what was happening. Carney got to his feet, picked up his glass and walked to the bar. He put an arm around the girl’s shoulders and eased her away, then he poured what was left of his beer into Algaro’s crotch.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I didn’t see you there,” and he turned and walked back to the table.

Everyone stopped talking and Dillon took the bottle from the ice bucket and refilled the Brigadier’s glass. Algaro stood up and looked down at his trousers in disbelief. “Why, you little creep, I’m going to break your left arm for that.”

He moved to the table fast, arms extended, and Carney turned, crouching to defend himself, but it was Dillon who struck first, reversed his grip on the champagne bottle and smashed it across the side of Algaro’s skull not once but twice, the bottle splintering, champagne going everywhere. Algaro pulled himself up, hands on the edge of the table, and Dillon, still seated, kicked sideways at the kneecap. Algaro cried out and fell to one side. He lay there for a moment, then forced himself up on to one knee.

Dillon jumped up and raised a knee into the unprotected face. “You’ve never learned to lie down, have you?”

The other members of the crew of the Maria Blanco were on their feet, one of them picking up a chair, and Billy Jones came round the bar in a rush, a baseball bat in his hand. “Can it or I’ll call the law. He asked for it, he got it. Just get him out of here.”

They stopped dead, not so much because of Billy as Santiago, who said in Spanish, “No trouble. Just get him and leave.”

Captain Serra nodded and Guerra, the mate, and Pinto went and helped Algaro to his feet. He appeared dazed, blood on his face, and they led him out followed by the others. Santiago stood up and raised his glass, emptied it