Thunder Point

each a walkie-talkie so you can keep in touch with each other and the ship. You, Algaro, will stay in the general vicinity of the cottage. Read a book on the beach, enjoy the sun, try to look normal if that’s possible.”

“And me, Senor?” Guerra asked.

“You go down to Caneel Beach and wait. When Carney’s boat arrives, notify Algaro. Ferguson and Dillon must return to the cottage to change clothes and pack. That’s when you strike. Once you have the Bormann briefcase, you return in the inflatable and we’ll get out of here. Remember, the briefcase is distinctive. It’s made of aluminium and is silver in appearance.”

“Do we return to San Juan, Senor?” Serra asked.

“No.” Santiago shook his head. “Samson Cay. I want time to consider my next move. The contents of that case will be more than interesting, Serra, they could give my life a whole new meaning.” He opened a drawer at his right hand. There were a number of handguns in there. He selected a Browning Hi Power and pushed it across to Algaro. “Don’t fail me.”

“I won’t,” Algaro said. “If they have that briefcase, we’ll get it for you.”

“Oh, they’ll have it all right.” Santiago smiled. “I have every faith in our friend Dillon. His luck is good.”

When Sea Raider moved in through all the moored yachts to the dock at Caneel Bay, the sun was high in the heavens. There were people wind-surfing out in the bay and the beach was crowded with sun worshippers. Guerra was one of them, sitting on a deck chair in flowered shirt and Bermuda shorts, dark glasses shading his eyes. He saw Dillon step on to the dock to tie up. He returned on board, then came back, the olive-green holdall in one hand. Ferguson followed him carrying the briefcase, Carney walking at his side.

Guerra pulled on a white floppy sunhat that, with the brim down, partially concealed his features, adjusted the dark glasses and moved off the beach along the front of the restaurant to where the path from the dock emerged. He reached it almost at the same time as the three men, and at that moment a young black receptionist hurried out of the front desk lobby.

“Oh, Captain Carney, I saw you coming in. There was an urgent message for you.”

“And what was it?” Carney demanded.

“It was Billy Jones. He said to tell you Jenny Grant had an accident last night. Fell from a balcony at her house up at Gallows Point. She’s there now. They’re moving her over to St. Thomas Hospital real soon.”

“My God!” Carney said and nodded to the girl. “That’s okay, honey, I’ll handle it.”

“Another bloody accident,” Dillon said bitterly and handed the holdall to Ferguson. “I’m going to see her.”

“Yes, of course, dear boy,” Ferguson replied. “I’ll go back to the cottage, have a shower, get packed and so on.”

“I’ll see you later.” Dillon turned to Carney. “Are you coming?”

“I sure as hell am,” Carney told him, and they hurried off toward the car park together.

With the holdall in his right hand and the briefcase in his left, Ferguson set off, following the path that led past the cottages fronting Caneel Bay. Guerra paused in the shelter of some bushes and using the walkie-talkie called up Algaro, who, sitting on the beach at Paradise, answered at once.

“Yes, I hear you.”

“Ferguson is on his way and alone. The others have gone to see the girl.”

“They’ve what?” Algaro was thrown, but quickly pulled himself together. “All right, meet me on the downside of the cottage.”

Guerra switched off and turned. He could see Ferguson a couple of hundred yards further on and hurried after him.

Ferguson put the briefcase on the bed, then pulled off his sweater. He should have felt exhilarated, he told himself looking down at the case, but then too much had happened. Joseph Jackson at Samson Cay, a poor old man who had never done anyone harm in his life, and Jack. He sighed, opened the door to the bar cupboard and found a whisky miniature. He poured it into a glass, added water and drank it slowly. Jack Lane, the best damn copper he had ever worked with. And now Jenny Grant. Her accident so-called was beyond coincidence. Santiago had much to answer for. He took the briefcase from the bed and stood it at the side of the small desk, checked that the front door was locked, then went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Guerra and Algaro went up the steps and entered the lobby. Very gently, Guerra tried the door. He shook his head. “Locked.”

Algaro beckoned and led the way out, back down the steps. It was very quiet, no one about, and the garden surrounding the cottage was very luxuriant, shielding a great deal of it from view. Above their heads, a large terrace jutted out, there was a path, some steps, a low wall, a small tree beside it.

“Easy,” Algaro said. “Stand on the wall, brace yourself on the tree and I’ll make a step up for you with my hands. You can reach the terrace rail. I’ll wait at the door.” He handed him the Browning. “Take this.”

Guerra was on the terrace in a matter of seconds. The venetian blinds were down at the windows, but he managed to peer inside through narrow slats. There was no sign of Ferguson. Very gently he tried the handle to the terrace door which opened to his touch. He took out the Browning, aware of the sound of the shower, glanced around the room, saw no immediate sign of the briefcase and went to the outside door and opened it.

Algaro moved in and took the Browning from him. “In the shower, is he?”

“Yes, but I can’t see the briefcase,” Guerra whispered.

But Algaro did, moved quickly to the desk and picked it up triumphantly. “This is it. Let’s go.”

As they turned to the door, Ferguson emerged from the bathroom tying the belt of a terry toweling robe. The dismay on his face was instant, but he didn’t waste breath on words, simply flung himself at them. Algaro struck him across the side of the head with the barrel of the Browning and when Ferguson fell to one knee stamped him sideways into the wall.

“Come on!” Algaro cried to Guerra, pulled open the door and hurried down the steps.

Ferguson managed to get to his feet, dizzy, his head hurting like hell. He staggered across the room, got the terrace door open and went out in time to see Algaro and Guerra running down to the little beach at the bottom of the grass slope. They pushed the inflatable into the water, started the outboard and moved out from the shore. It was only then that Ferguson, looking up, realized that the Maria Blanco was anchored off there.

He never felt so impotent in his life, never so full of rage. He went into the bathroom, got a damp flannel for his head, found the field glasses and focused them on the yacht. He saw Algaro and Guerra go up the ladder and hurry along the stern to where Santiago sat under the awning, Captain Serra beside him. Algaro placed the briefcase on the table. Santiago placed his hands on it, then turned and spoke to Serra. The captain moved away and went on the bridge. A moment later, they started to haul up the anchor and the Maria Blanco began to move.

And then a strange thing happened. As if realizing he was being observed, Santiago raised the briefcase in one hand, waved with the other and went into the salon.

It was Billy who opened the front door to admit Dillon and Bob Carney at the house at Gallows Point. “I’m real glad to see you,” he said.

“How is she?” Carney demanded.

“Not too good. Seems like she fell from the balcony outside her bedroom. When me and Mary found her, she was lying there in the rain.”

“He wants her – the doctor – over to St. Thomas Hospital for a scan. They’re coming to pick her up in an hour,” Mary said.

“Can she speak?” Dillon asked as they went upstairs.

“Came to around an hour ago. It was you she asked for, Mr. Dillon.”

“Did she tell you how it happened?”

“No. In fact, she ain’t said much at all. Listen, I’ll go and make coffee while you stay with her. Come on, Billy,” she told her husband and they went out.

Carney said, “Her face is real bad.”