Thunder Point Page 14

  Ferguson sat there glaring at him, thoroughly angry, then said, “At least we have some sort of a lead. Tell him, Jack.”

  Lane said, “Max Santiago. He’s the driving force behind a hotel group in the States, home in Puerto Rico. Hotels in Florida, Vegas, various other places and a couple of casinos.”

  “Is that a fact?” Dillon said.

  “Yes, my first break was with the FBI. Their highly illegal sensitive red information file. It’s highly illegal because it lists people who can’t be proved to have broken the law in any way.”

  “And why would Santiago be on that?”

  “Suspicion of having contacts with the Colombian drug cartel.”

  “Really?” Dillon smiled. “The dog.”

  “It gets worse. Samson Cay Holding Company, registered in the U.S.A. and Switzerland, goes backwards through three other companies until you get to Santiago’s name.”

  “Samson Cay?” Dillon leaned forward. “Now that is interesting. A direct link. But why?”

  Lane said, “Santiago’s sixty-three, old aristocratic family, born in Cuba, father a general and very involved with Batista. The family only got out by the skin of their teeth in nineteen fifty-nine when Castro took over. Given asylum in America and eventual citizenship, but according to the FBI file, the interesting thing is they had not much more than the clothes they stood up in.”

  “I see,” Dillon said. “So how did good old Max develop a hotel chain that must be worth millions? The drug connection can’t explain that. All that Colombian drug business is much more recent.”

  “The plain answer is nobody knows.”

  Travers had been sitting listening to all this, looking bewildered. “So what is the connection? To Samson Cay and U180, Martin Bormann, all that stuff?”

  “Well, the FBI file took me to the CIA,” Lane said. “They have him on their computer too, but for a different reason. Apparently Santiago’s father was a great friend of General Franco in Spain, an absolutely rabid Fascist.”

  “Which could be the link with nineteen forty-five, the end of the war in Europe and Martin Bormann,” Ferguson said.

  Dillon nodded. “I see it now. The Kamaradenwerk, Action for Comrades.”

  “Could be.” The Brigadier nodded. “More than likely. Just take one aspect. Santiago and his father reach America flat broke and yet mysteriously manage to get their hands on the very large funds necessary to go into business. We know for a fact that the Nazi Party salted away millions all over the world to enable their work to keep going.” He shrugged. “All conjecture, but it makes sense.”

  “Except for one thing,” Dillon said.

  “And what’s that?”

  “How Santiago knew about Baker finding U180. I mean, how did he know about him coming to London, staying at Lord North Street with the Admiral, Jenny, me? He does seem singularly well-informed, Brigadier.”

  “I must say Dillon’s got a point,” Travers put in.

  Ferguson said, “The point is well taken and we’ll find the answer in time, but for the moment we’ll just have to get on with it. You’ll leave for the Caribbean tomorrow.”

  “Just as we planned?” Dillon said.

  “Exactly. British Airways to Antigua, then onwards to St. John.”

  Dillon said, “Would you think it likely that Max Santiago will turn up there? He’s had his fingers in everything else so far.”

  “We’ll just have to see.”

  “As I said,” Lane interrupted. “He has a home in Puerto Rico and that’s very convenient for the Virgin Islands. Apparently he runs one of those multi-million-dollar motor yachts.” He looked at his file. “It’s called the Maria Blanco. Captain and a crew of six.”

  “If he turns up you’ll just have to do the best you can,” Ferguson said. “That’s what you’re going to be there for. You’ll have your Platinum Card and traveler’s checks for twenty-five thousand dollars. Your cover is quite simple. You’re a wealthy Irishman.”

  “God save us, I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Dillon,” Ferguson told him. “You’re a wealthy Irishman with a company in Cork. General electronics, computers and so on. We’ve provided a nice touch for you. When you arrive in Antigua, there’ll be a seaplane waiting. You can fly a seaplane, I presume?”

  “I could fly a Jumbo if I had to, Brigadier, but then you knew that.”

  “So I did. What kind of plane did you say it was, Jack?”

  “A Cessna 206, sir.” Lane turned to Dillon. “Apparently it’s got floats and wheels so you can land on sea or on land.”

  “I know the type,” Dillon said. “I’ve flown planes like it.”

  “The center of things in St. John is a town called Cruz Bay,” the Inspector carried on. “On occasions they’ve had a commercial seaplane service round there so there’s a ramp in the harbor, facilities and so on.”

  Ferguson passed a folder across. “The documents department have done you proud. Two passports, Irish and British in your own name. Being born in Belfast, you’re entitled to those. C.A.A. commercial pilot’s license with a seaplane rating.”

  “They think of everything,” Dillon said.

  “You’ll also find your tickets and traveler’s checks in there. You’ll be staying at Caneel Bay, one of the finest resorts in the world. Stayed there once myself some years ago. Paradise, Dillon, you’re a lucky chap, paradise on a private peninsula not too far from Cruz Bay.”

  Dillon opened the file and leafed through some of the brochures. “Situated on its own private peninsula, seven beaches, three restaurants,” he read aloud. “It sounds my kind of place.”

  “It’s anyone’s kind of place,” Ferguson said. “The two best cottages are 7E and 7D. Ambassadors stay there, Dillon, film stars. I believe Kissinger was in 7E once. Also Harry Truman.”

  “I’m overwhelmed,” Dillon said.

  “It will all help with your image.”

  “One thing,” Lane said. “It’s an old tradition there that there are no telephones in the cottages. There are public telephones dotted around, but we’ve arranged for you to have a cellular portable phone. They’ll give it to you when you check in.”

  Dillon nodded. “So I get there. Then what do I do?”

  “That’s really up to you,” Ferguson said. “We hoped the girl would be there to assist, but thanks to your misplaced gallantry that isn’t on for the moment. However, I would suggest you contact this diver she mentioned, this Bob Carney. He runs a firm called Paradise Watersports, based at Caneel Bay. There’s a brochure there.”

  “Teaches tourists to dive,” Lane said.

  Dillon found the brochure and glanced through it. It was attractively set out with excellent underwater photos, but the most interesting one was of Captain Bob Carney himself seated at the wheel of a boat, good-looking, tanned and very fit.

  “Jesus,” Dillon said. “If you wanted an actor to play that fella you’d have trouble finding someone suitable at Central Casting.”

  Ferguson said, “An interesting man, this Carney chap. Tell him, Jack.”

  Lane opened another file.

  “Born in Mississippi in nineteen forty-eight, but he spent most of his youth in Atlanta. Wife, Karye, a boy of eight, Walker, girl aged five named Wallis. He did a year at the University of Mississippi, then joined the Marines and went to Vietnam. Did two tours, in sixty-eight and sixty-nine.”

  “I always heard that was a bad time,” Dillon said.

  “Toward the end of his service he was with the 2nd Combined Action Group. He was wounded, received two Purple Hearts, the Vietnamese Cross of Valour and was recommended for a Bronze Star. That one got lost in channels.”

  “And afterwards he took to diving?”

  “Not at first. He went to Georgia State University, courtesy of the Marine Corps, and did a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy. Did a year in a graduate school in Oceanography.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  Lane consulted t
he file. “He has a captain’s ticket up to sixteen hundred tons, ran supply boats in the Mexican Gulf to the oil rigs, was a welder and diver in the oilfields. Went to St. John in seventy-nine.” Lane closed the file.

  “So there’s your man,” Ferguson said. “You’ve got to get him on our side, Dillon. Offer him anything, money no object, within reason, that is.”

  Dillon smiled. “I’m surprised at you, Brigadier. Money is never number one on the list to men like Carney.”

  “That’s as may be.” Ferguson got up. “That’s it then, I’ll see you again before you leave in the morning. What time is his plane, Jack?”

  “Nine o’clock, sir, gets into Antigua just after two in the afternoon their time.”

  “Then I certainly won’t see you.” Ferguson sighed. “I suppose I must see you off in the right style. Bring him to the Garrick for dinner at seven-thirty, Garth, but now you must excuse me.”

  “He’s all heart, isn’t he?” Dillon said to the Admiral as they emerged onto the pavement.

  “Never would have thought of describing him in quite that way,” Travers said and raised his umbrella at a passing cab.

  It was perhaps an hour later that Ferguson met Simon Carter in the snug of a public house called the St. George not too far from the Ministry of Defence.

  He ordered a gin and tonic. “Thought I’d better bring you up to date,” he said. “There’s a lot happened.”

  “Tell me,” Carter said.

  So Ferguson did, the attack on Jenny by Smith and Johnson, Santiago, Jenny’s flight, everything. When he finished, Carter sat there thinking about it.

  “The Santiago thing – that’s very interesting. Your chap Lane may have a point, the Fascist angle, General Franco and all that.”

  “It would certainly fit, but Dillon’s right. None of it explains how Santiago seems to be so well informed.”

  “So what do you intend to do about him?”

  “Nothing I can do officially,” Ferguson said. “He’s an American citizen, a multi-millionaire businessman and in the eyes of the world, highly respected. I mean, that stuff on the FBI and CIA files is confidential.”

  “And there is the fact that we don’t want to involve the Americans in this in any way,” Carter pointed out.

  “Heaven forbid, the last thing we want.”

  “So we’re in Dillon’s hands,” the Deputy Director said.

  “I know and I don’t like it one little bit.” Ferguson stood up. “You’ll let Pamer know where we’re at.”

  “Of course,” Carter told him. “Perhaps this Carney chap, the diver you mentioned, can give Dillon a lead.”

  “I’ll keep you posted,” Ferguson said and went out.

  In Paris, Santiago, who was going to a black-tie dinner at the American Embassy, was adjusting his tie in the mirror when the phone rang. It was Pamer, and Santiago listened while he brought him up to date.

  “So they know your name, Max.” Pamer was very agitated. “And all thanks to those damned men who were working for you.”

  “Forget them,” Santiago said. “They’re yesterday’s news.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Francis, you’re a big boy now. Try to act like one.”

  Pamer was horrified. “All right, Max, but what are we going to do?”

  “They can’t lay a finger on me, Francis, I’m an American citizen, and they won’t want to include the American Government in this thing. In fact, Ferguson is acting quite illegally in sending Dillon to operate in another country’s sovereign territory. The U-boat is in American waters, remember?”

  “So what will you do?”

  “I’ll fly to Puerto Rico in the morning, then sail down to Samson Cay and operate from there. Dillon must stay at either the Hyatt or at Caneel Bay if he uses a hotel, and a simple phone call will confirm that. I suspect Caneel Bay if he wishes to cultivate the diver, this Carney.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “A pity about the girl. She’ll turn up eventually though, and I still feel she could be the key to this thing. She could know more than she realizes.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “For your sake particularly, I hope so too, Francis.”

  Dillon, suitably attired in his blazer and a Guards tie, followed Travers up the imposing stairway at the Garrick Club. “Jesus, they’ve got more portraits here than the National Gallery,” he said and followed Travers through to the bar where Ferguson waited.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said. “I’m one ahead of you. Thought we’d have a spot of champagne, Dillon, just to wish you bon voyage. You prefer Krug as I recall.”

  They sat in the corner and the barman brought the bottle over in an ice bucket and opened it. He filled three glasses and retired. Ferguson thanked him, then took an envelope from his pocket and passed it across. “Just in case things get rough, there’s the name of a contact of mine in Charlotte Amalie, that’s the main town in St. Thomas. What you might call a dealer in hardware.”

  “Hardware?” Travers looked bewildered. “What on earth would he need with hardware?”

  Dillon put the envelope in his pocket. “You’re a lovely fella, Admiral, and long may you stay that way.”

  Ferguson toasted Dillon. “Good luck, my friend, you’re going to need it.” He emptied his glass. “Now let’s eat.”

  There was something in his eyes, something that said there was more to this, much more, had to be, Dillon told himself, but he got up obediently and followed Travers and the Brigadier out of the bar.

  And at Briac at the Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity, Jenny sat alone in the rear pew of the chapel, resting her arms on the backrest of the pew in front of her, gazing at the flickering candlelight at the altar and brooding. The door creaked open and Sister Maria Baker entered.

  “There you are. You should be in bed.”

  “I know, Sister, but I was restless and wanted to think about things.”

  Sister Maria Baker sat down beside her. “Such as?”

  “Dillon for one thing. He’s done many terrible things. He was a member of the IRA, for example, and when those two men attacked me last night…” She shivered. “He was so coldly savage, so ruthless, and yet to me he was kindness itself and so understanding.”

  “So?”

  Jenny turned to her. “I’m not a good Christian. In fact, when Henry found me, I was a very great sinner, but I do want to understand God, I really do.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Why does God allow violence and killing to take place at all? Why does he allow the violence in Dillon?”

  “The simplest thing to answer, my child. What God does allow is free will. He gives us all a choice. You, me, and the Dillons of this world.”

  “I suppose so.” Jenny sighed. “But I will have to go back to St. John and not just to help Dillon, but somehow for Henry too.”

  “Why do you feel so strongly?”

  “Because Henry really didn’t tell me where he discovered that U-boat, which means the secret must have died with him, and yet I have the oddest feeling that it didn’t, that the information is back there in St. John, but I just can’t think straight. It won’t come, Sister.”

  She was distressed again and Sister Maria Baker took her hands. “That’s enough, you need sleep. A few days’ rest will work wonders. You’ll remember then what you can’t now, I promise you. Now let’s have you in bed.”

  She took Jenny by the hand and led her out.

  Ferguson’s Daimler picked Dillon up at seven-thirty the following morning to take him to Gatwick and Travers insisted on accompanying him. The journey out of town at that time in the morning with all the heavy traffic going the other way was relatively quick, and Dillon was ready to go through passport control and security by eight-thirty.

  “They’ve already called it, I see,” Travers said.

  “So it seems.”

  “Look here, Dillon,” Travers said awkwardly. “We’l
l never see eye-to-eye, you and me, I mean the IRA and all that stuff, but I want to thank you for what you did for the girl. I liked her – liked her a lot.”

  “And so did I.”

  Travers shook Dillon’s hand. “Take care, this Santiago sounds bad news.”

  “I’ll try, Admiral.”

  “Another thing.” Travers sounded more awkward than ever. “Charles Ferguson is a dear friend, but he’s also the most devious old sod I’ve ever known in my life. Watch yourself in the clinches there too.”

  “I will, Admiral, I will,” Dillon said, watched the Admiral walk away, then turned and went through.

  A nice man, he thought as the Jumbo lifted off and climbed steadily, a decent man, but nobody’s fool and he was right; there was more to all this than the surface of things, nothing was more certain than that, and Ferguson knew what it was. Devious old sod. An apt description.

  “Ah, well, I can be just as devious,” Dillon murmured and accepted the glass of champagne the stewardess offered.

  8

  The flight to Antigua took a little over eight hours thanks to a tailwind, and they arrived just after two o’clock local time. It was hot, really hot, very noticeable after London. Dillon felt quite cheered and strode ahead of everybody else toward the airport building, wearing black cord slacks and a denim shirt, his black flying jacket over one shoulder. When he reached the entrance a young black woman in a pale blue uniform was standing there with a board bearing his name.

  Dillon paused. “I’m Dillon.”

  She smiled. “I’m Judy, Mr. Dillon. I’ll see you through immigration and so on and then take you to your plane.”

  “You represent the handling agents?” he asked as they walked through.

  “That’s right. I need to see your pilot’s license and there are a couple of forms to fill in for the aviation authority, but we can do that while we’re waiting for the luggage to come through.”

  Twenty minutes later she was driving him out to the far side of the runway in a courtesy bus, an engineer called Tony in white overalls sitting beside her. The Cessna was parked beside a number of private planes, slightly incongruous because of its floats, with wheels protruding beneath.