Thunder Point

meet you there.”

Carter got up. “Very well.”

He went to the door, was reaching for the handle when Ferguson said, “Oh, and Carter.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t do anything stupid like phoning Pamer. I’d stay well clear of this if I were you.”

Carter’s face sagged, he turned wearily and went out.

It was ten minutes later and Sir Francis Pamer was clearing his desk at the House of Commons before leaving for the evening when his phone rang. “Pamer here,” he said.

“Charles Ferguson.”

“Ah, you’re back, Brigadier,” Pamer said warily.

“We need to meet,” Ferguson told him.

“Quite impossible tonight, I have a most important function, dinner with the Lord Mayor of London. Can’t miss that.”

“Max Santiago is dead,” Ferguson said, “and I have here, on my desk, the Bormann briefcase. The Blue Book makes very interesting reading. Your father is featured prominently on page eighteen.”

“Oh, dear God!” Pamer slumped down on his chair.

“I wouldn’t speak to Simon Carter about this if I were you,” Ferguson said. “That wouldn’t really be to your advantage.”

“Of course not, anything you say.” Pamer hesitated. “You haven’t spoken to the Prime Minister then?”

“No, I thought it best to see you first.”

“I’m very grateful, Brigadier, I’m sure we can work something out.”

“You know Charing Cross Pier?”

“Of course.”

“One of the river boats, the Queen of Denmark, leaves there at six forty-five. I’ll meet you on board. You’ll need an umbrella, by the way, it’s raining rather hard.”

Ferguson put down the phone and turned to Dillon, who was still standing by the window. “That’s it then.”

“How did he sound?” Dillon asked.

“Terrified.” Ferguson got up, went to the old-fashioned hall stand he kept in the corner and took down his overcoat, the type known to Guards officers as a British warm, and pulled it on. “But then, he would be, poor sod.”

“Don’t expect me to have any sympathy for him.” Dillon picked up the briefcase from the desk. “Come on, let’s get on with it,” and he opened the door and led the way out.

When Pamer arrived at Charing Cross Pier the fog was so thick that he could hardly see across the Thames. He bought his ticket from a steward at the head of the gangplank. The Queen of Denmark was scheduled to call in at Westminster Pier and eventually Cadogan Pier at Chelsea Embankment. A popular run on a fine summer evening, but on a night like this, there were few passengers.

Pamer had a look in the lower saloon where there were half-a-dozen passengers and a companionway to the upper saloon where he encountered only two ageing ladies talking to each other in whispers. He opened a glass door and went outside, and looked down. There was someone standing at the rail in the stern holding an umbrella over his head. He went back inside, descended the companionway and went out on deck, opening his umbrella against the driving rain.

“That you, Ferguson?”

He went forward hesitantly, his hand on the butt of the pistol in his right-hand raincoat pocket. It was a very rare weapon from the exclusive collection of World War Two handguns his father had left him, a Volka specially designed for use by the Hungarian Secret Service and as silenced as a pistol could be. He’d kept it in his desk at the Commons for years. The Queen of Denmark was moving away from the pier now and starting her passage upriver. Fog swirled up from the surface of the water, the light from the saloon above was yellow and sickly. There were no rear windows to the lower saloon. They were alone in their own private space.

Ferguson turned from the rail. “Ah, there you are.” He held up the briefcase. “Well, there it is. The Prime Minister’s having a look at eight o’clock.”

“Please, Ferguson,” Pamer pleaded. “Don’t do this to me. It’s not my fault that my father was a Fascist.”

“Quite right. It’s also not your fault that your father’s immense fortune in post-war years came from his association with the Nazi movement, the Kamaradenwerk. I can even excuse as simply weakness of character the way you’ve been happy over the years to accept a large, continuing income from Samson Cay Holdings, mostly money produced by Max Santiago’s more dubious enterprises. The drug business, for example.”

“Now look here,” Pamer began.

“Don’t bother to deny it. I’d asked Jack Lane to investigate your family’s financial background, not realizing I was sentencing him to death, of course. He’d really made progress before he was killed, or should I say murdered? I found his findings in his desk earlier today.”

“It wasn’t my fault, any of it,” Pamer said wildly. “All my father and his bloody love affair with Hitler. I had my family name to think of, Ferguson, my position in the Government.”

“Oh, yes,” Ferguson conceded. “Rather selfish of you, but understandable. What I can’t forgive is the fact that you acted as Santiago’s lap dog from the very beginning, fed him every piece of information you could. You sold me out, you sold out Dillon, putting us in danger of our very lives. It was your actions that resulted in Jennifer Grant being attacked twice, once in London where God knows what would have happened if Dillon hadn’t intervened. The second time in St. John, where she was severely injured and almost died. She’s in a hospital now.”

“I knew none of this, I swear.”

“Oh, everything was arranged by Santiago, I grant you that. What I’m talking about is responsibility. On Samson Cay, a poor old man called Joseph Jackson who gave me my first clue to the truth behind the whole affair, the man who was caretaker at the old Herbert Hotel in 1945, was brutally murdered just after talking to me. Now that was obviously the work of Santiago’s people, but how did he know of the existence of the old man in the first place? Because you told him.”

“You can’t prove that, you can’t prove any of it.”

“True, just as I can’t prove exactly what happened to Jack Lane, but I’ll make an educated guess. Those were computer printouts I found in his desk. That means he was doing a computer sweep on your family affairs. I presume one of your staff noticed. Normally, you wouldn’t have been concerned, it happens to Crown Ministers all the time, but in the light of recent events, you panicked, feared the worst, and phoned Santiago, who took care of it for you.” Ferguson sighed. “I often think the direct dialing system a curse. In the old days it would have taken the international operator at least four hours to connect you to a place like the Virgins. These days all you do is punch a rather long series of numbers.”

Pamer took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “As regards my family’s business interests, that was my father’s affair, not mine. I’ll plead ignorance if you persist with this thing. I know the law, Ferguson, and you seem to have forgotten that I was a working barrister for a short while.”

“Actually I had,” Ferguson said.

“Santiago being dead, the only thing you have left is my father’s inclusion in the Blue Book. Hardly my fault.” He seemed to have recovered his nerve. “You can’t prove a thing. I’ll tough it out, Ferguson.”

Ferguson turned and looked at the river. “As I said, I could understand your panic, an ancient name tarnished, your political career threatened, but the attacks on that girl, the death of that old man, the cold-blooded murder of Inspector Lane – on those charges you are every bit as culpable as the men who carried them out.”

“Prove it,” Pamer said, clutching his umbrella in both hands.

“Goodbye, Sir Francis,” Charles Ferguson said and turned and walked away.

Pamer was trembling, and he’d totally forgotten about the Volka in his pocket. Too late now for any wild ideas like relieving Ferguson of the briefcase at gunpoint. He took a deep breath and coughed as the fog bit at the back of his throat. He fumbled for his cigarette case, got one to his mouth and tried to find his lighter.