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  “Shouldn’t give you any problems,” Tony said as he stowed Dillon’s two suitcases. “Flies as sweet as a nut. Of course a lot of people are nervous about flying in the islands with a single engine, but the beauty about this baby is you can always come down in the water.”

  “Or something like that,” Dillon said.

  Tony laughed, reached into the cabin and pointed. “There’s an air log listing all the islands and their airfields and charts. Our chief pilot has marked your course from here to Cruz Bay in St. John. Very straightforward. Around two hundred and fifty miles. Takes about an hour and a half.” He glanced at his watch. “You should be there by four-thirty.”

  “It’s American territory, but customs and immigration are expecting you. They’ll be waiting at the ramp at Cruz Bay. When you’re close enough, call in to St. Thomas and they’ll let them know you’re coming. Oh, and there will be a self-drive jeep waiting for you.” Judy smiled. “I think that’s about it.”

  “Thanks for everything.” Dillon gave her that special smile of his with total charm and kissed her on the cheek. “Judy, you’ve been great.” He shook Tony’s hand. “Many thanks.”

  A moment later he was in the pilot’s seat, closing the door. He strapped himself in, adjusted his earphones, then fired the engine and called the tower. There was a small plane landing and the tower told him to wait. They gave him the good word and he taxied to the end of the runway. There was a short pause, then the go signal and he boosted power, roared down the runway and pulled back the column at exactly the right moment, the Cessna climbing effortlessly out over the azure sea.

  It was an hour later that Max Santiago flew into San Juan, where he was escorted through passport control and customs with a minimum of fuss by an airport official to where his chauffeur, Algaro, waited with the black Mercedes limousine.

  “At your orders, Señor,” he said in Spanish.

  “Good to see you, Algaro,” Santiago said. “Everything is arranged as I requested?”

  “Oh yes, Señor. I’ve packed the usual clothes, took them down to the Maria Blanco myself this morning. Captain Serra is expecting you.”

  Algaro wasn’t particularly large, five foot seven or eight, but immensely powerful, his hair cropped so short that he almost looked bald. A scar, running from the corner of the left eye to the mouth, combined to give him a sinister and threatening appearance in spite of the smart gray chauffeur’s uniform he wore. He was totally devoted to Santiago, who had saved him from a life sentence for the stabbing to death of a young prostitute two years previously by the liberal dispensing of funds not only to lawyers but corrupt officials.

  The luggage arrived at that moment and while the porters stowed it Santiago said, “Good, you needn’t take me to the house. I’ll go straight to the boat.”

  “As you say, Señor.” They drove away, turned into the traffic of the main road and Algaro said, “Captain Serra said you asked for a couple of divers in the crew. It’s taken care of.”

  “Excellent.” Santiago picked up the local newspaper, which had been left on the seat for him, and opened it.

  Algaro watched him in the mirror. “Is there a problem, Señor?”

  Santiago laughed. “You’re like an animal, Algaro, you always smell trouble.”

  “But that’s what you employ me for, Señor.”

  “Quite right.” Santiago folded the newspaper, selected a cigarette from an elegant gold case and lit it. “Yes, my friend, there is a problem, a problem called Dillon.”

  “May I know about him, Señor?”

  “Why not? You’ll probably have to, how shall I put it, take care of him for me, Algaro.” Santiago smiled. “So listen carefully and learn all about him because this man is good, Algaro, very good indeed.”

  It was a perfect afternoon, the limitless blue sky with only the occasional cloud as Dillon drifted across the Caribbean at five thousand feet. It was pure pleasure, the sea constantly changing color below, green and blue, the occasional boat, the reefs and shoals clearly visible at that height.

  He passed the islands of Nevis and St. Kitts, calling in to the local airport, moved on flying directly over the tiny Dutch island of Saba. He had a brisk tailwind and made good time, better than he had expected, found St. Croix on his port side on the horizon no more than an hour after leaving Antigua.

  Soon after that, the main line of the Virgins lifted out of the heat haze to greet him, St. Thomas to port, the smaller bulk of St. John to starboard, Tortola beyond. He checked the chart and saw Peter Island below Tortola and east of St. John, Norman Island south of it, and south of there was Samson Cay.

  Dillon called in to St. Thomas airport to notify them of his approach. The controller said, “Cleared for landing at Cruz Bay. Await customs and immigration officials there.”

  Dillon went down low, turning to starboard, found Samson Cay with no difficulty and crossed over at a thousand feet. There was a harbor dotted with yachts, a dock, cottages and a hotel block grouped around the beach amidst palm trees. The airstrip was to the north, no control tower, just an air sock on a pole. There were people lounging on the beach down there. Some stood up and waved. He waggled his wings and flew on, found Cruz Bay fifteen minutes later and drifted in for a perfect landing just outside the harbor.

  He entered the harbor and found the ramp with little difficulty. There were several uniformed officials standing there and one or two other people, all black. He taxied forward, let the wheels down and ran up onto the ramp, killed the engine. One of the men in customs uniform held a couple of wedge-shaped blocks by a leather strap and he came and positioned them behind the wheels.

  Dillon climbed out. “Lafayette, we are here.”

  Everyone laughed genially and the immigration people checked his passport, perfectly happy with the Irish one, while the customs men had a look at the luggage. Everything was sweetness and light and they all departed with mutual expressions of goodwill. As they walked away a young woman in uniform, rose pink this time, who had been waiting patiently at one side, came forward.

  “I’ve got your jeep here as ordered, Mr. Dillon. If you could sign for me and show me your license, you can be on your way.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Dillon said and carried the suitcases across and slung them on the backseat.

  As he signed, she said, “I’m sorry we didn’t have an automatic in at the moment. I could change it for you tomorrow. I’ve got one being returned.”

  “No, thanks, I prefer to be in charge myself.” He smiled. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

  “That’s nice of you.” She got in beside him and he drove away. About three hundred yards further on as he came to the road she said, “This is fine.”

  There was an extremely attractive looking development opposite. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Mongoose Junction, our version of a shopping mall, but much nicer. There’s also a super bar and a couple of great restaurants.”

  “I’ll look it over sometime.”

  She got out. “Turn left, follow the main road. Caneel Bay’s only a couple of miles out. There’s a car park for residents. From there it’s a short walk down to Reception.”

  “You’ve been very kind,” Dillon told her and drove away.

  The Maria Blanco had cost Santiago two million dollars and was his favorite toy. He preferred being on board to staying at his magnificent house above the city of San Juan, particularly since the death of his wife Maria from cancer ten years earlier. Dear Maria, his Maria Blanco, the one soft spot in his life. Of course, this was no ordinary boat, had every conceivable luxury, needed a captain and five or six crew members to man her.

  Santiago sat at a table on the upper deck enjoying the sun and a cup of excellent coffee, Algaro standing behind him. The captain, Julian Serra, a burly, black-bearded man in uniform, sat opposite. He, like most of Santiago’s employees, had been with him for years, had frequently taken part in activities of a highly questionable nature.

  “
So you see, my dear Serra, we have a problem on our hands here. The man Dillon will probably approach this diver, this Bob Carney, when he reaches St. John.”

  “Wrecks are notoriously difficult to find, Señor,” Serra told him. “I’ve had experts tell me they’ve missed one by a few yards on occasions. It’s not easy. There’s a lot of sea out there.”

  “I agree,” Santiago said. “I still think the girl must have some sort of an answer, but she may take her time returning. In the meantime, we’ll surprise Mr. Dillon as much as possible.” He smiled up at Algaro. “Think you can handle that, Algaro?”

  “With pleasure, Señor,” Algaro said.

  “Good.” Santiago turned back to Serra. “What about the crew?”

  “Guerra, first mate. Solona and Mugica as usual, and I’ve brought in two men with good diving experience, Javier Noval and Vicente Pinto.”

  “And they’re reliable?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And we’re expected at Samson Cay?”

  “Yes, Señor, I spoke to Prieto personally. You wish to stay there?”

  “I think so. We could always drop anchor off Paradise Beach at Caneel, of course. I’ll think about it.” Santiago finished his coffee and stood up. “Right, let’s get moving then.”

  Dillon took to Caneel from the moment he got there. He parked the jeep and, carrying his own bags, followed the obvious path. There was a magnificent restaurant on a bluff up above him, circular with open sides. Below it was the ruins of a sugar mill from the old plantation days. The vegetation was extremely lush, palm trees everywhere. He paused, noticing a gift shop on the left and set back. More important the smaller shop next to it said “Paradise Watersports,” Carney’s place. He remembered that from the brochure and went and had a look. As he would have expected, there were diving suits of various kinds on display, but the door was locked, so he carried on and came to the front desk lobby.

  There were three or four people being dealt with at the desk before him so he dropped his bags and went back outside. There was a very large bar area, open at the sides, but under a huge barnlike roof, a vital necessity in a climate where instant heavy rain showers were common.

  Beyond was Caneel Bay, he knew that from the brochure, boats of various kinds at anchor, a pleasant, palm-fringed beach beside another restaurant, people still taking their ease in the early evening sun, one or two windsurfers still out there. Dillon glanced at his watch. It was almost five-thirty and he started to turn away to go back to the front desk when he saw a boat coming in.

  It was a 35-foot Sport Fisherman with a flying bridge, sleek and white, but what intrigued Dillon were the dozen or so airtanks stacked in their holders in the stern, and there were four people moving around on deck packing their gear into dive bags. Carney was on the flying bridge, handling the wheel, in jeans and bare feet, stripped to the waist, very tanned, the blond hair bleached by the sun. Dillon recognized him from the photo in the brochure.

  The name of the boat was Sea Raider, he saw that as it got closer, moved to the end of the dock as Carney maneuvered it in. One of the dive students tossed a line, Dillon caught it and expertly tied up at the stern, then he moved along to the prow where the boat was bouncing against its fenders, reached over and got the other line.

  Dillon lit a cigarette, his Zippo flashing, and Carney killed the engines and came down the ladder. “Thanks,” he called.

  Dillon said, “My pleasure, Captain Carney,” and he turned and walked away along the dock.

  One of the receptionists from the front desk took him out to his cottage in a small courtesy bus. The grounds were an absolute delight, not only sweeping grassland and palm trees, but every kind of tropical plant imaginable.

  “The entire peninsula is private,” she said as they followed a narrow road. “We have seven beaches and, as you’ll notice, most of the cottages are grouped around them.”

  “I’ve only seen two restaurants so far,” he commented.

  “Yes, Sugar Mill and Beach Terrace. There’s a third at the end of the peninsula, Turtle Bay, that’s more formal. You know, collar and tie and so on. It’s wonderful for an evening drink. You look out over the Windward Passage to dozens of little islands, Carval Rock, Whistling Cay. Of course a lot further away you’ll see Jost Van Dyke and Tortola, but they’re in the British Virgins.”

  “It sounds idyllic,” he said.

  She braked in a turned circle beside a two-storied, flat-roofed building surrounded by trees and bushes of every description. “Here we are, Cottage Seven.”

  There were steps up to the upper level. “It isn’t all one then?” Dillon asked.

  She opened the door into a little vestibule. “People do sometimes take it all, but up here it’s divided into two units. Seven D and Seven E.”

  The doors faced each other, she unlocked 7D and led the way in. There was a superb shower room, a bar area with a spare icebox. The bedroom-cum-sitting room was enormous and very pleasantly furnished with tiled floor and comfortable chairs and a sofa, and there were venetian blinds at the windows, two enormous fans turning in the ceiling.

  “Is this all right?” she asked.

  “I should say so.” Dillon nodded at the enormous bed. “Jesus, but a man would have to be a sprinter to catch his wife in that thing.”

  She laughed and opened the double doors to the terrace and led the way out. There was a large seating area and a narrow part round the corner that fronted the other windows. There was a grassy slope, trees and a small beach below, three or four large yachts of the ocean-going type at anchor some distance from shore.

  “Paradise Beach,” she said.

  There was another beach way over to the right with a line of cottages behind it. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Scott Beach and Turtle Bay is a little further on. You could walk there in fifteen minutes, although there is a courtesy bus service with stops dotted round the grounds.”

  There was a knock at the door, she went back inside and supervised the bellboy leaving the luggage. Dillon followed her. She turned. “I think that’s everything.”

  “There was the question of a telephone,” Dillon said. “You don’t have them in the cottages, I understand.”

  “My, but I was forgetting that.” She opened her carrying bag and took out a cellular telephone plus a spare battery and charger. She put it on the coffee table with a card. “Your number and instructions are there.” She laughed. “Now I hope that really is everything.”

  Dillon opened the door for her. “You’ve been very kind.”

  “Oh, one more thing, our General Manager, Mr. Nicholson, asked me to apologize for not being here to greet you. He had business on St. Thomas.”

  “That’s all right. I’m sure we’ll catch up with each other later.”

  “I believe he’s Irish too,” she said and left.

  Dillon opened the icebox under the bar unit, discovering every kind of drink one could imagine including two half-bottles of champagne. He opened one of them, poured a glass, then went out and stood on the terrace looking out over the water.

  “Well, old son, this will do to take along,” he said softly and drank the champagne with conscious pleasure.

  In the end, of course, the sparkle on the water was too seductive and he went inside, unpacked, hanging his clothes in the ample wardrobe space, then undressed and found some swimming trunks. A moment later he was hurrying down the grass bank to the little beach, which for the moment he had entirely to himself. The water was incredibly warm and very clear. He waded forward and started to swim, there was a sudden swirl over on his right, an enormous turtle surfaced, looked at him curiously, then moved sedately away.

  Dillon laughed aloud for pure pleasure, then swam lazily out to sea in the direction of the moored yachts, turning after some fifty yards to swim back. Behind him, the Maria Blanco came round the point from Caneel Bay and dropped anchor about three hundred yards away.

  Santiago had changed his mind about Samson Ca
y only after Captain Serra had brought him a message from the radio room. An enquiry by ship-to-shore telephone had confirmed that Dillon had arrived at Caneel Bay.

  “He’s booked into Cottage Seven,” Serra said.

  “Interesting,” Santiago told him. “That’s the best accommodation in the resort.” He thought about it, tapping his fingers on the table, and made his decision. “I know it well, it overlooks Paradise Beach. We’ll anchor there, Serra, for tonight at least.”

  “As you say, Señor.”

  Serra went back to the bridge and Algaro, who had been standing by the stern rail, poured Santiago another cup of coffee.

  Santiago said, “I want you to go ashore tonight. Take someone with you. There’s the Land-Rover Serra leaves permanently in the car park at Mongoose Junction. He’ll give you the keys.”

  “What do you require me to do, Señor?”

  “Call in at Caneel, see what Dillon is up to. If he goes out, follow him.”

  “Do I give him a problem?” Algaro asked hopefully.

  “A small one, Algaro,” Santiago smiled. “Nothing too strenuous.”

  “My pleasure, Señor,” Algaro said and poured him another cup of coffee.

  Dillon didn’t feel like anything too formal, wore only a soft white cotton shirt and cream linen slacks, both by Armani, as he walked through the evening darkness toward Caneel Beach. He carried a small torch in one pocket provided by the management for help with the dark spots. It was such a glorious night that he didn’t need it. The Terrace Restaurant was already doing a fair amount of business, but then Americans liked to dine early, he knew that. He went to the front desk, cashed a traveler’s check for five hundred dollars, then tried the bar.

  He had never cared for the usual Caribbean liking for rum punches and fruit drinks, settled for an old fashioned vodka martini cocktail, which the genial black waitress brought for him quite rapidly. A group of musicians were setting up their instruments on the small bandstand and way out across the sea he could see the lights of St. Thomas. It really was very pleasant, too easy to forget he had a job to do. He finished his drink, signed for it and went along to the restaurant, where he introduced himself to the head waiter and was seated.