Thunder Point Read online

  “Cheeky bastard!” Ferguson said as he reached the security checkpoint.

  It was manned not by the security guards usually found at such places, but by very large policemen whose efficiency was in no doubt. Ferguson stated his business and produced his security card.

  “Wonderful,” Dillon said. “They all looked about seven feet tall, just like coppers used to do.”

  They came to the Central Lobby where people with an appointment to see their MP waited. It was extremely busy and Ferguson moved on, through a further corridor and down more stairs, finally leading the way out through an entrance on to the Terrace overlooking the Thames.

  Once again, there were lots of people about, some with a glass in their hand enjoying a drink, Westminster Bridge to the left, the Embankment on the far side of the river. A row of tall, rather Victorian-looking lamps ran along the parapet. The synthetic carpetlike covering on the ground was green, but further along it changed to red, a distinct line marking the difference.

  “Why the change in color?” Dillon asked.

  “Everything in the Commons is green,” Ferguson said. “The carpets, the leather of the chairs. Red for the House of Lords. That part of the Terrace up there is the Lords’.”

  “Jesus, but you English do love your class distinction, Brigadier.”

  As Dillon lit a cigarette with his Zippo, Ferguson said, “Here they are now. Behave yourself, there’s a good chap.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Dillon said as Simon Carter and Sir Francis Pamer approached.

  “There you are, Charles,” Carter said. “We were looking for you.”

  “People all over the place,” Pamer said. “Like a damned souk these days. Now what’s happening, Brigadier? Where are we at with this business?”

  “Well let’s go and sit down and I’ll tell you. Dillon here’s going to handle things at the sharp end.”

  “All right,” Pamer said. “What do you fancy, afternoon tea?”

  “A drink would be more to my taste,” Ferguson told him. “And I’m pressed for time.”

  Pamer led the way along to the Terrace bar and they found seats in the corner. He and Carter ordered gin and tonics, Ferguson Scotch. Dillon smiled with total charm at the waiter. “I’ll have an Irish and water, Bushmills if you have it.”

  He had deliberately stressed his Ulster accent and Carter was frowning. “Dillon, did you say? I don’t think we’ve met before.”

  “No,” Dillon said amiably, “although not for want of trying on your part, Mr. Carter. Sean Dillon.”

  Carter’s face was very pale now and he turned to Ferguson. “Is this some sort of practical joke?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Carter shut up as the waiter brought the drinks and as soon as he had gone, continued. “Sean Dillon? Is he who I think he is?”

  “As ever was,” Dillon told him.

  Carter ignored him. “And you’d bring a damned scoundrel like this, here to this particular place, Ferguson? A man that the Intelligence services have hunted for years.”

  “That may be,” Ferguson said calmly. “But he’s working for Group Four now, all taken care of under my authority, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  “Ferguson, you go too far.” Carter was seething.

  “Yes, I’m told that often, but to business. To give you a résumé of what’s happened. There was a burglary at Lord North Street, which may or may not have been genuine. However, we did discover a bug in the telephone which could indicate some kind of opposition. Have you any agents working the case?” he asked Carter.

  “Certainly not. I’d have told you.”

  “Interesting. When we were at the inquest on Baker this morning Dillon noticed two men who gave him pause for thought. He noticed one of them again later when we were at the crematorium.”

  Carter frowned. “But who could it be?”

  “God knows, but it’s another reason for having Dillon on the job. The girl still insists she doesn’t know the site of the submarine.”

  “Do you believe her?” Pamer put in.

  “I do,” Dillon said. “She’s not the sort to lie.”

  “And you would know, of course,” Carter said acidly.

  Dillon shrugged. “Why should she lie about it? What would be the point?”

  “But she must know something,” Pamer said. “At the very least she must have some sort of a clue.”

  “Who knows?” Ferguson said. “But at this stage of the game we must proceed on the assumption that she doesn’t.”

  “So what happens next?” Carter demanded.

  “Dillon will proceed to St. John and take it from there. The girl mentioned a diver, a man named Carney, Bob Carney, who was a close friend of Baker. Apparently he knows the area like the back of his hand. The girl can make a suitable introduction, persuade him to help.”

  “But there’s no guarantee he can find the damned thing,” Pamer said.

  “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Ferguson looked at his watch. “We’ll have to go.”

  He stood and led the way outside. They paused by the wall on the edge of the Terrace. Carter said, “So that’s it then?”

  “Yes,” Ferguson told him. “Dillon and the girl will probably leave for St. John tomorrow or the day after.”

  “Well I can’t say I like it.”

  “No one is asking you to.” Ferguson nodded to Dillon. “Let’s get moving.”

  He moved away and Dillon smiled at the two of them with all his considerable charm. “It’s been a sincere sensation, but one thing, Mr. Carter.” He leaned over the parapet and looked down at the brown water of the Thames. “Only fifteen feet, I’d say, maybe less when the tide’s up. All that security at the front door and nothing here. I’d think about that if I were you.”

  “Two-knot current out there,” Pamer said. “Not that I can swim myself. Never could. Should be enough to keep the wolves at bay.”

  Dillon walked away and Carter said, “It makes my skin crawl to think of that little swine walking around here, a free man. Ferguson must be crazy.”

  Pamer said, “Yes, I see your point, but what do you think about the girl? Do you believe her?”

  “I’m not sure,” Carter said. “And Dillon has a point. Why would she lie?”

  “So we’re no further forward?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. She knows the area, she knew Baker intimately, the kind of places he went to and so on. Even if she doesn’t know the actual location she may be able to work it out with this Carney fellow to help her, the diver.”

  “And Dillon, of course.”

  “Yes, well, I prefer to forget about him and under the circumstances, what I could do with is another drink,” and Carter turned and led the way into the bar.

  At his suite in Paris Max Santiago listened patiently while Pamer gave him details of the meeting on the Terrace.

  “Astonishing,” he said when Pamer had finished. “If this Dillon is the kind of man you describe, he would be a formidable opponent.”

  “But what about the girl?”

  “I don’t know, Francis, we’ll have to see. I’ll be in touch.”

  He put the phone down momentarily, picked it up again and rang Smith in London and when he answered, told him exactly what he wanted him to do.

  It was just after six and Dillon was in the study reading the evening paper by the fire when the doorbell sounded. He went and opened it and found old Mr. Cox standing there, a hearse parked at the curb. He was holding a cardboard box in his hands.

  “Is Miss Grant at home?”

  “Yes, I’ll get her for you,” Dillon told him.

  “No need.” Cox handed him the box. “The ashes. They’re in a traveling urn inside. Give her my best respects.”

  He went down to the hearse and Dillon closed the door. The Admiral had gone out to an early evening function at his club, but Jenny was in the kitchen. Dillon called to her and she came out.

  “What is it?”


  He held up the box. “Mr. Cox just left this for you,” and turned and went into the study and put it on the table. She stood beside him, looking at it, then gently opened the lid and took out what was inside. It wasn’t really an urn, just a square box in dark, patterned metal with a clasp holding the lid in place. The brass plate said: Henry Baker 1929-1992.

  She put it down on the table and slumped into a chair. “That’s what it all comes down to at the final end of things, five pounds of gray ash in a metal box.”

  She broke then and started to cry in total anguish. Dillon put his hands on her shoulders for a moment only. “Just let it come, it’ll do you good. I’ll make you a cup of coffee,” and he turned and went along to the kitchen.

  She sat there for a moment and it was as if she couldn’t breathe. She had to get out, needed air. She got up, went into the hall, took the Admiral’s old trenchcoat down from the stand and pulled it on. When she opened the door it had started to rain. She belted the coat and hurried along the pavement and Smith, sitting in the van with Johnson, saw her pass the entrance to the alley.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Let’s get on with it,” and he got out and went after her, Johnson at his heels.

  Dillon went along the hall to the study, the cup of coffee in his hand, and was aware first of the silence. He went into the study, put down the cup and went back to the hall.

  “Jenny?” he called and then noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

  “For God’s sake,” he said, took down his flying jacket and went out, putting it on. There was no sign of her, the street deserted. He’d have to take a chance, turned left and ran along the pavement toward Great Peter Street.

  It was raining very hard now and he paused on the corner for a moment, looking left and then right, and saw her at the far end where the street met Millbank. She was waiting for a gap in the traffic, saw her chance and darted across to Victoria Tower Gardens by the river, and Dillon also saw something else, Smith and Johnson crossing the road behind her. At that distance, he didn’t actually recognize them, but it was enough. He swore savagely and started to run.

  It was almost dark as Jenny crossed to the wall overlooking the Thames. There was a lamp about every twenty feet, rain slanting in a silver spray through a yellow light, and a seagoing freighter moved downstream, its red and green navigation lights plain. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself and felt better. It was at that moment she heard a movement behind her, turned and found Smith and Johnson standing there.

  She knew she was in trouble at once. “What do you want?” she demanded and started to edge away.

  “No need to panic, darling,” Smith said. “A little conversation is all we need, a few answers.”

  She turned to run and Johnson was on her like a flash, pinning her arms and forcing her back against the wall. “Jenny, isn’t it?” he asked and as she struggled desperately, he smiled. “I like that, do it some more.”

  “Leave off,” Smith told him. “Can’t you ever think of anything except what’s in your pants?” Johnson eased away, but moved round to hold her from the rear and Smith said, “Now about this U-boat in the Virgin Islands. You don’t really expect us to believe you don’t know where it is?”

  She tried to struggle and Johnson said, “Go on, answer the man or I’ll give you a slapping.”

  A voice called, “Put her down. I mean, she doesn’t know where you’ve been, does she? She might catch something.”

  Dillon’s Zippo lighter flared as he lit the cigarette that dangled from the corner of his mouth. He walked forward and Smith went to meet him. “You want trouble, you’ve got it, you little squirt,” and he swung a tremendous punch.

  Dillon swayed to one side, reaching for the wrist, twisted it so that Smith cried out in agony, falling to one knee. Dillon’s clenched fist swung down in a hammer blow of tremendous force across the extended arm, snapping the forearm. Smith cried out again, fell over on his side.

  Johnson said, “You little bastard.”

  He threw Jenny to one side and took an automatic pistol from his left-hand raincoat pocket. Dillon moved in fast, blocking the arm to the side, so that the only shot Johnson got off went into the ground. At the same time the Irishman half-turned, throwing the other man across his extended leg, ramming his heel down so hard that he fractured two of Johnson’s ribs.

  Johnson writhed on the ground in agony and Dillon picked up the automatic. It was an old Italian Beretta, small caliber, somewhere close to a point-two-two.

  “Woman’s gun,” Dillon said, “but it’ll do the job.” He crouched down beside Johnson. “Who do you work for, sonny?”

  “Don’t say a word,” Smith called.

  “Who said I was going to?” Johnson spat in Dillon’s face. “Get fucked.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Dillon rolled him over, put the muzzle of the gun against the back of his left knee and fired. Johnson gave a terrible cry and Dillon took a handful of his hair and pulled his head back.

  “Do you want me to do the other one? I’ll put you on sticks if you like.”

  “No,” Johnson moaned. “We work for Santiago – Max Santiago.”

  “Really?” Dillon said. “And where would I find him?”

  “He lives in Puerto Rico, but lately he’s been in Paris.”

  “And you did the burglary at Lord North Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good boy. See how easy it was?”

  “You stupid bugger,” Smith said to Johnson. “You’ve just dug your own grave.”

  Dillon tossed the Beretta over the wall into the Thames. “I’d say he’s been very sensible. Westminster Hospital’s not too far from here, first-class casualty department and free, even for animals like you, thanks to the National Health Service.”

  He turned and found Jenny staring at him in a daze and he took her arm. “Come on, love, let’s go home.”

  As they walked away Smith called, “I’ll get you for this, Dillon.”

  “No you won’t,” Dillon said. “You’ll put it down to experience and hope that this Max Santiago feels the same way.”

  They emerged from the gardens and paused at the pavement edge, waiting for a gap in the traffic. Dillon said, “Are you all right?”

  “My God!” she said wonderingly. “What kind of man are you, Sean Dillon, to do that?”

  “They’d have done worse to you, my love.”

  He took her hand and ran with her across the road.

  When they reached the house she went straight upstairs and Dillon went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, thinking about things as he waited for it to boil. Max Santiago? Progress indeed, something for Ferguson to get his teeth into there. He was aware of Jenny coming down the stairs and going into the study, made the coffee, put the cups on a tray. As he went to join her he realized she was on the phone.

  “British Airways? What’s the last flight to Paris tonight?” There was a pause. “Nine-thirty? Can you reserve me a seat? Grant – Jennifer Grant. Yes, I’ll pick it up at reservations. Yes, Terminal Four, Heathrow.”

  She put the phone down and turned as Dillon entered. He put the tray on the desk. “Doing a runner are you?”

  “I can’t take it. I don’t understand what’s going on. Ferguson, you and now those men and that gun. I can’t get it out of my mind. I was going away anyway, but I’m going to get out now while I can.”

  “To Paris?” he said. “I heard you on the phone.”

  “That’s just a jumping-off point. There’s someone I have to see, someone I want to take this to.” She picked up the black metal box containing the ashes. “Henry’s sister.”

  “Sister?” Dillon frowned.

  “I’m probably about the only person left who knows he had one. There are special reasons for that so don’t ask me and don’t ask me where I’m going after Paris.”

  “I see.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Seven o’clock, Dillon, and the flight’s at nine-thirty. I can make
it, only don’t tell Ferguson, not until I’ve gone. Help me, Dillon, please.”

  “Then don’t waste time in talking about it,” he said. “Go and get your bags now and I’ll ring for a taxi.”

  “Will you, Dillon, honestly?”

  “I’ll go with you myself.”

  She turned and hurried out and Dillon sighed and said softly, “You daft bastard, what’s getting into you?” and he picked up the phone.

  It was very quiet in the waiting room of the small private nursing home in Farsley Street. Smith sat in an upright chair against the wall, his right forearm encased in plaster and held in a sling. The half hour after their encounter with Dillon had been a nightmare. They couldn’t afford to go to a public hospital because that would have meant the police, so he’d had to go and get the van from the alley by Lord North Street from where he’d driven one-handed to Victoria Tower Gardens to retrieve Johnson. The trip to Farsley Street had been even worse. Dr. Shah emerged from the operating theater, a small, gray-haired Pakistani in green cap and gown, a mask hanging around his neck.

  “How is he?” Smith asked.

  “As well as can be expected with a split kneecap. He’ll limp for the rest of his life.”

  “That fucking little Irish bastard,” Smith said.

  “You boys can never stay out of trouble, can you? Does Mr. Santiago know about it?”

  “Why should he?” Smith was alarmed. “Nothing to do with him this one.”

  “I thought it might, that’s all. He phoned me from Paris the other day on business so I knew he was around.”

  “No, not his bag this.” Smith got up. “I’ll get myself off home. I’ll be in to see him tomorrow.”

  He went out of the glass front door. Shah watched him go, then walked past the reception desk, empty at that time of night, and went into his office. He always believed in covering himself. He picked up the phone and rang Santiago at the Ritz in Paris.

  The traffic at that time in the evening was light and they were at Heathrow by eight o’clock. Jenny picked up her ticket at the reservation desk and went and booked in for the flight. She put her case through, but carried the traveling urn.