cleanly that the old man was dead in a second. He went round, opened the door and pulled the body out. He positioned it with the head just under the car by the rear wheel, took out a flick knife, sprung it and stabbed the point into the rear offside tire so that it deflated. He got the tool kit out, raised the car on the hydraulic jack, whistling as he pumped it up.
Very quickly, he undid the bolts and removed the tire. He stood back and kicked at the jack and the rear of the station wagon lurched to one side and descended on Jackson. He took out the spare tire and laid it beside the other one, then walked across to the Cessna and stood looking at it for quite some time.
The meal was excellent. West Indian chicken wings with blue cheese, conch chowder followed by baked red snapper. No one opted for dessert and Santiago said, “Coffee?”
“I’d prefer tea,” Dillon told him.
“How very Irish of you.”
“All I could afford as a boy.”
“I’ll join you,” Ferguson said and at that moment Algaro appeared in the doorway.
“You must excuse me, gentlemen.” Santiago got up and went and joined Algaro. “What is it?”
“I found out who the Jackson man was, the old fool driving that Ford taxi.”
“So what happened?”
Algaro told him briefly and Santiago listened intently, watching as the waiter took tea and coffee to the table.
“But it means our friends now know that Sir Francis is involved in this business.”
“It doesn’t make any difference, Senor. We know the girl is returning tomorrow, we know she thinks she knows where the U-boat is. Who needs these people any more?”
“Algaro,” Santiago said. “What have you done?”
As Santiago returned to the table, Ferguson finished his tea and stood up. “Excellent dinner, Santiago, but we really must be going.”
“What a pity. It’s been quite an experience.”
“Hasn’t it? By the way, a couple of presents for you.” Ferguson took the two tracking bugs from his pocket and put them on the table. “Yours, I think. Give my regards to Sir Francis next time you’re in touch, or I could give your regards to him.”
“How well you put it,” Santiago said and sat down.
They reached the front entrance to find Prieto standing at the top of the steps looking flustered. “I’m so sorry, gentlemen, but I’ve no idea what’s happened to the taxi.”
“It’s of no consequence,” Ferguson said. “We can walk there in five or six minutes. Good night to you. Excellent meal,” and he went down the steps.
It was Carney who noticed the station wagon just as they reached the airstrip. “What’s he doing over there?” he said and called, “Jackson?”
There was no reply. They walked across and saw the body at once. Dillon got down on his knees and got as close as he could. He stood up, brushing his clothes. “He’s been dead for some time.”
“The poor bastard,” Carney said. “The jack must have toppled over.”
“A remarkable coincidence,” Ferguson said.
“Exactly.” Dillon nodded. “He tells us all about Francis Pamer and bingo, he’s dead.”
“Just a minute,” Carney put in. “I mean, if Santiago knew about the old boy’s existence, why leave it till now? I’d have thought he’d have got rid of him a lot earlier than this.”
“But not if he didn’t realize he existed,” Ferguson said.
Dillon nodded. “Until somebody told him, somebody who’s been feeding all the other information he needed.”
“You mean, this guy Pamer?” Carney asked.
“Yes, isn’t it perfectly dreadful,” Ferguson said. “Just shows you you can’t trust anyone these days. Now let’s get out of here.”
He and Carney got in the rear seats and strapped themselves in. Dillon got a torch from the map compartment and did an external inspection. He came back, climbed into the pilot’s seat and closed the door. “Everything looks all right.”
“I don’t think he’ll want to kill us yet,” Ferguson said. “All the other little pranks have been aggravation, but he still needs us to hopefully lead him to that U-boat, so let’s get moving, there’s a good fellow, Dillon.”
Dillon switched on, the engine roared into life, the propeller turned. He carefully checked the illuminated dials on the instrument panel. “Fuel, oil pressure.” He recited the litany. “Looks good to me. Here we go.”
He took the Cessna down the runway and lifted into the night, turning out to sea.
It was a magnificent night, stars glittering in the sky, the sea and the islands below bathed in the hard white light of the full moon. St. John loomed before them. They crossed Ram Head, moving along the southern coast, and it happened, the engine missed a beat, coughed and spluttered.
“What is it?” Ferguson demanded.
“I don’t know,” Dillon said and then checked the instruments and saw what had happened to the oil pressure.
“We’ve got problems,” he said. “Get your life jackets on.”
Carney got the Brigadier’s out and helped him into it. “But surely the whole point of these things is that you don’t have to crash, you can land on the sea,” Ferguson said.
“That’s the theory,” Dillon told him and the engine died totally and the propeller stopped.
They were at nine hundred feet and he took the plane down in a steep dive. “Reef Bay dead ahead,” Carney said.
“Right, now this is how it goes,” Dillon told them. “If we’re lucky, we’ll simply glide down and land on the water. If the waves are too much we might start to tip, so bail out straightaway. How deep is it down there, Carney?”
“Around seven fathoms close in.”
“Right, there’s a third alternative, Brigadier, and that’s going straight under.”
“You’ve just made my night,” Ferguson told him.
“If that happens, trust Carney, he’ll see to you, but on no account waste time trying to open the door on your way down. It’ll just stay closed until we’ve settled and enough water finds its way inside and equalizes the pressure.”
“Thanks very much,” Ferguson said.
“Right, here we go.”
The surface of the bay was very close now and it didn’t look too rough. Dillon dropped the Cessna in for what seemed like a perfect landing and something went wrong straightaway. The plane lurched forward sluggishly, not handling at all, then tipped and plunged beneath the surface nose-down.
The water was like black glass, they were already totally submerged and descending, still plenty of air in the cabin, the lights gleaming on the instrument panel. Dillon felt the water rising up over his ankles and suddenly it was waist deep and the instrument panel lights went out.
“Christ almighty!” Ferguson cried.
Carney said, “I’ve unbuckled your belt. Be ready to go any second now.”
The Cessna, still nose-down, touched at that moment a patch of clear sand at the bottom of the bay, lifted a little, then settled to one side, the tip of the port wing braced against a coral ridge. The rays of the full moon drifting down through the water created an astonishing amount of light and Dillon, looking out through the cockpit window as the water level reached his neck, was surprised at how far he could see.
He heard Carney say, “Big breath, Brigadier, I’m opening the door now. Just slide out through and we’ll go up together.”
Dillon took a deep breath himself and as the water passed over his head, opened his door, reached for the wing
