and left.
Conversation resumed and Mary brought a brush and pan to sweep up the glass. Billy said to Dillon, “I couldn’t get there fast enough. I thank you guys. How about another bottle of champagne on the house?”
“Include me out, Billy,” Carney said. “Put the meal on my tab. I’m getting too old for this kind of excitement. I’m going home to bed.” He stood up. “Brigadier, it’s been interesting.”
He started toward the door and Dillon called, “I’d like to dive in the morning. Does that suit you?”
“Nine-thirty,” Carney told him. “Be at the dock,” and he turned and went out.
His jeep was in the car park at Mongoose Junction. He walked along there, thinking about what had happened, was unlocking the door when a hand grabbed his shoulder and as he turned, Guerra punched him in the mouth.
“Now then you bastard, let’s teach you some manners.”
Serra stood a yard or two away supporting Algaro, Santiago beside them. Guerra and the other two crew members moved in fast. Carney ducked the first blow and punched the mate in the stomach, half-turning, giving Pinto a reverse elbow strike in the face and then they were all over him. They held him down, pinning his arms, and Algaro shuffled over.
“Now then,” he said.
It was at that precise moment that Dillon and Ferguson, having taken a raincheck on the champagne, turned the corner. The Irishman went in on the run as Algaro raised a foot to stamp down on Carney’s face, sent him staggering and punched the nearest man sideways in the jaw. Carney was already on his feet. Algaro was past it, but when Captain Serra moved in to help the other three it raised the odds and Dillon and Carney prepared to defend themselves, the jeep at their backs, arms raised, waiting. There was a sudden shot, the sound of it flat on the night air. Everyone stopped dead, turned and found Ferguson standing beside Dillon’s jeep holding the Belgian semi-automatic in one hand.
“Now do let’s stop playing silly buggers, shall we?” he said.
There was a pause and Santiago said in Spanish, “Back to the launch.” The crew shuffled away unwillingly, Serra and Guerra supporting Algaro, who still looked dazed.
“Another time, Brigadier,” Santiago said in English and followed them.
Carney wiped a little blood from his mouth with a handkerchief. “Would somebody kindly tell me what in the hell is going on?”
“Yes, we do need to talk, Captain Carney,” Ferguson said briskly, “and sooner rather than later.”
“Okay, I give in.” Carney smiled bleakly. “Follow me and we’ll go to my place. It’s not too far away.”
Carney said, “It’s the damnedest thing I ever heard of.”
“But you accept it’s true?” Ferguson asked. “I have a copy of the translation of the diary in my briefcase at Caneel, which I’d be happy for you to see.”
“The U-boat thing is perfectly possible,” Carney said. “They were in these waters during World War Two, that’s a known fact, and there are locals who’ll tell you stories about how they used to come ashore by night.” He shook his head. “Hitler in the Bunker, Martin Bormann – I’ve read all those books, and it is an interesting thought that if Bormann landed on Samson Cay and didn’t go down with the boat, it would explain all those sightings of him in South America in the years since the war.”
“Good,” Dillon said. “So you accept the existence of U180, but where would it be?”
“Let me get a chart.” Carney went out and came back with one which he unrolled. It was the Virgin Islands chart for St. Thomas up to Virgin Gorda. “There’s Samson Cay south of Norman Island in the British Virgins. If that hurricane twisted, which they sometimes do, and came in from an easterly direction, the U-boat would definitely be driven somewhere toward the west and south from St. John.”
“Ending where?” Ferguson said.
“It wouldn’t be anywhere usual. By that I mean somewhere people dive, however regularly, and I’ll tell you something else. It would have to be within one hundred feet.”
“What makes you say that?” Dillon asked.
“Henry was a recreational diver, that means no decompression is necessary if you follow the tables. One hundred and thirty feet is absolute maximum for that kind of sport diving, and at that depth he could only afford ten minutes bottom time before going back up to the surface. To examine the submarine and find the diary.” Carney shook his head. “It just wouldn’t be possible, and Henry was sixty-three years of age. He knew his limitations.”
“So what are you saying?”
“To discover the wreck, enter it, hunt around and find that diary.” Carney shrugged. “I’d say thirty minutes bottom time, so his depth would likely be eighty feet or so. Now dive masters take tourists to that kind of depth all the time, that’s why I mean the location has got to be quite out of the ordinary.”
He frowned and Ferguson said, “You must have some idea.”
“The morning Henry made his discovery must have been the day after the hurricane blew itself out. He’d gone out so early that he was coming back in at around nine-thirty when I was taking a dive party out. We crossed each other and we spoke.”
“What did he say?” Dillon asked.
“I asked him where he’d been. He said French Cap. Told me it was like a millpond out there.”
“Then that’s it,” Ferguson said. “Surely?”
Carney shook his head. “I use French Cap a lot. The water is particularly clear. It’s a great dive. In fact I took my clients out there after meeting Henry that morning and he was right, it was like a millpond. The visibility is spectacular.” He shook his head. “No, if it was there it would have been found before now.”
“Can you think of anywhere else?”
Carney frowned. “There’s always South Drop, that’s even further.”
“You dive there?” Ferguson asked.
“Occasionally. Trouble is if the sea’s rough, it’s a long and uncomfortable trip, but it could be the sort of place. A long ridge running to a hundred and seventy or so on one side and two thousand on the other.”
“Could we take a look at these places?” Ferguson asked.
Carney shook his head and examined the chart again. “I don’t know.”
Ferguson said, “I’d pay you well, Captain Carney.”
“It isn’t that,” Carney said. “Strictly speaking, this thing is in United States territorial waters.”
“Just listen, please,” Ferguson said. “We’re not doing anything wicked here. There are some documents on U180, or so we believe, which could give my government cause for concern. All we want to do is recover them as quickly as possible and no harm done.”
“And Santiago, where does he fit in?”
“He’s obviously after the same thing,” Ferguson said. “Why, I don’t know at this time, but I will, I promise you.”
“You go to the movies, Carney,” Dillon said. “Santiago and his bunch are the bad guys. Blackhats.”
“And I’m a good guy?” Carney laughed out loud. “Get the hell out of here and let me get some sleep. I’ll see you at the dock at nine-thirty.”
Santiago, standing in the stern of the
“So they are back,” he said to Serra, who stood beside him.
“Now that they’ve made contact with Carney they may make their move sometime tomorrow,” Serra said.
“You’ll be able to follow them in the launch whichever boat they are in, thanks to the bugs, at a discreet distance of course.”
“Shall I take the divers?”
“If you like, but I doubt that anything will come of it. Carney doesn’t know where U180 is, Serra, I’m convinced of that. They’ve asked him for suggestions, that’s all. Take the dive-site handbook for this area with you. If they dive somewhere that’s mentioned in the book, you may take it from me it’s a waste of time.” Santiago shook his head. “Frankly, I’m inclined to think that the girl has the answer. We’ll just have to wait for her return. By the way, if we ever did find the U-boat and needed to blast a way in, could Noval and Pinto cope?”
