Thunder Point

“Fine.” Dillon smiled. “Break out the thermos, Brigadier, and we’ll have some coffee and then it’s action stations.”

Santiago had enjoyed an excellent meal, starting with caviar, followed by grilled filet mignon with artichoke hearts, washed down by a bottle of Chateau Palmer 1966. Deliberate self-indulgence because he felt on top of the world. He liked things to go well and the Bormann affair had gone very well indeed. It was like a wonderful game. The information contained in the documents was so startling that the possibilities were endless.

He asked for a cigar, Cuban, of course, just like the old days before that madman Castro had ruined everything. Prieto brought him a Romeo and Julietta, trimmed the end and warmed it for him.

“The meal, it was satisfactory, Senor Santiago?”

“The meal, it was bloody marvelous, Prieto.” Santiago patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stood up, picked up the Bormann briefcase from the floor beside the table and walked to the door where Algaro was waiting. “We’ll go back to the ship now, Algaro.”

“As you say, Senor.”

Santiago went down the steps and walked along the dock to the launch, savouring the night, the scent of his cigar. Yes, life could really be very good.

Carney took the inflatable round the point, the outboard motor throttled down, the noise of it a murmur in the night. There were yachts in the bay scattered here and there and a few smaller craft. Maria Blanco, anchored three hundred yards out, was by far the largest.

Carney killed the engine, took a couple of short wooden oars from the bottom of the boat and fitted them into the rowlocks. “Manpower the rest of the way,” he said. “The way I see it and with those other boats around, I can get you maybe fifty yards away without being spotted.”

“That’s fine.”

Dillon was already wearing his jacket and tank and a black nylon diving cowl Carney had found him. He took the Walther from his dive bag, screwed the Carswell silencer into place and slipped the weapon inside his jacket.

“You’d better pray you don’t get a misfire,” Carney said as he rowed. “Water does funny things to guns. I learned that in Vietnam in those damn paddy fields.”

“No problem with a Walther, it’s a Rolls-Royce,” Dillon said.

They couldn’t see each other, their faces a pale blur in the darkness. Carney said, “You actually enjoy this kind of thing?”

“I’m not too sure if enjoy is the right word exactly.”

“I knew guys in Vietnam like that, Special Forces mainly. They kept drawing these hard assignments and then a strange thing happened. They ended up wanting more. Couldn’t get enough. Is that how you feel, Dillon?”

“There’s a poem by Browning,” Dillon told him. “Something about our interest being on the dangerous edge of things. When I was young and foolish in those early days with the IRA and the SAS chasing the hell out of me all over South Armagh, I also discovered a funny thing. I loved it more than anything I’d ever known. I lived more in a day, really lived, than in a year back in London.”

“I understand that,” Carney said. “It’s like being on some sort of drug, but it can only end one way. On your back in the gutter in some Belfast street.”

“Oh, you’ve no need to worry about that,” Dillon told him. “Those days are over. I’ll never go back to that.”

Carney paused, sniffing. “I think I can smell cigar smoke.”

They floated there in the darkness and the launch emerged on the other side of a couple of yachts and moved to the bottom of the Maria Blanco’s steel stairway under the light. Serra was on deck looking over. Guerra hurried down to take the line and tied up and Santiago went up to the deck followed by Algaro.

“Looks like he’s carrying the briefcase with him,” Carney said.

Dillon got the night sight from his dive bag and focused it. “You’re right. He’s probably afraid to let it out of his sight.”

“What now?” Carney said.

“We’ll hang on for a little while, give them a chance to settle down.”

Santiago and Serra descended from the bridge to the main deck. Guerra and Solona stood at the bottom of the ladder, each armed with an M16 rifle. Algaro stood by the rail.

“Two hours on and four off. We’ll rotate during the night and we’ll leave the security lights on.”

“That seems more than adequate. We might as well turn in now,” Santiago said. “Good night, Captain.”

He went along to the salon and Algaro followed him. “Do you need me any more tonight, Senor?”

“I don’t think so, Algaro, you can go to bed.”

Algaro withdrew, Santiago put the briefcase on the desk, then he took off his jacket and went and poured a cognac. He returned to the desk, sat down and leaned back, sipping his cognac and just looking at the briefcase. Finally, as he knew he would, he opened it and started to go through the documents again.

Dillon focused the night sight. He picked out Solona in the shadows by a lifeboat in the prow. Guerra, in the stern, had made no attempt to hide, sat on one of the chairs under the awning smoking a cigarette, his rifle on the table.

Dillon handed Carney the night sight. “All yours. I’m on my way.”

He dropped back over the side of the inflatable, descended to ten feet and approached the ship. He surfaced at the stern of the launch, which was tied up at the bottom of the steel stairway. Suddenly, Solona appeared up above on the platform. Dillon eased under the water, aware of footsteps descending. Solona paused halfway down and lit a cigarette, the match flaring in cupped hands. Dillon surfaced gently at the stern of the launch, took the Walther from inside his jacket and extended his arm.

“Over here,” he whispered in Spanish.

Solona glanced up, the match still flaring, and the silenced Walther coughed as Dillon shot him between the eyes. Solona fell back and to one side, slid over the rail and dropped ten feet into the water.

It didn’t make too much of a splash, but Guerra noticed it and got to his feet. “Hey, Solona, is that you?”

“Yes,” Dillon called softly in Spanish. “No problem.”

He could hear Guerra walking along the deck above, went under and swam to the anchor. He opened his jacket, unzipped his diving suit and forced the Walther inside. Then he slipped out of the jacket and tank, clipped them to the anchor line and hauled himself up the chain, sliding in through the port.

Algaro, lying on his bunk, was only wearing a pair of boxer shorts because of the oppressive heat. For that reason, he had the porthole open and heard Guerra calling to Solona; he also heard Dillon’s reply. He frowned, went to the porthole and listened.

Guerra called softly again, “Where are you, Solona?”

Algaro picked up the revolver on his bedside locker and went out.

Guerra called again, “Where are you, Solona?” and moved to the forward deck, the M16 ready.

“Over here, amigo,” Dillon said and as Guerra turned, shot him twice in the heart, driving him back against the bulkhead.

Dillon went forward cautiously, leaned over to check that he was dead. There was no sound behind, for Algaro was bare-footed, but Dillon was suddenly aware of the barrel of the revolver against his neck.

“Now then, you bastard, I’ve got you.” Algaro reached over and took the Walther. “So, a real professional’s weapon? I like that. In fact I like it so much I’m going to keep it.” He tossed the revolver over the rail into the sea. “Now turn round. I’m going to give you two in the belly so you take a long time.”

Bob Carney, watching events through the night sight, had seen Algaro’s approach, had never been so frustrated in his life at his inability to do something about it, was never totally certain what happened afterwards because everything moved so fast.

Dillon turned, his left arm sweeping Algaro’s right to the side, the Walther discharging into the deck. Dillon