Thunder Point (17 page)

“Never mind that. What are you talking about?”

“Well, drink your tea like a good lad and I’ll tell you. It began with her getting upset and going for a walk.”

Dillon worked his way through his bacon and eggs while he related the events of the previous night. When he was finished the Admiral just sat there frowning. “You took too much on yourself, Dillon.”

“She’d had enough, Admiral,” Dillon told him. “It’s as simple as that and I didn’t see any reason to stop her.”

“And she wouldn’t tell you where she was going?”

“First stop Paris, that’s all I know. After that, to some unknown destination to see Baker’s sister. She’s taking the ashes to her, that’s obvious.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Travers sighed wearily. “I’ll have to tell Ferguson. He won’t like it, won’t like it one little bit.”

“Well it’s time he discovered what an unfair world it is,” Dillon told him and opened the morning paper.

Travers sighed heavily again, gave up, went to his study and sat at the desk. Only then did he reluctantly reach for the phone.

It was just after nine when Jenny Grant braked to a halt outside the Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity in the village of Briac five miles outside Bayeux. She had driven through the night, was totally drained. Iron gates stood open, she drove inside and stopped in a graveled circular drive in front of the steps leading up to the door of the beautiful old building. A young novice, a white working smock over her robes, was raking the gravel.

Jenny got out holding the traveling urn. “I’d like to see the Mother Superior. It’s most urgent. I’ve come a long way.”

The young woman said in good English, “I believe she’s in chapel, we’ll see, shall we?”

She led the way through pleasant gardens to a small chapel, which stood separate from the main building. The door creaked when she opened it. It was a place of shadows, an image of the Virgin Mary floating in candlelight, and the smell of incense was overpowering. The young novice went and whispered to the nun who knelt in prayer at the altar rail, then returned.

“She’ll be with you in a moment.”

She went out and Jenny waited. After a while the Mother Superior crossed herself and stood up. She turned and came toward her, a tall woman in her fifties with a sweet, serene face. “I am the Mother Superior. How may I help you?”

“Sister Maria Baker?”

“That’s right.” She looked puzzled. “Do I know you, my dear?”

“I’m Jenny — Jenny Grant. Henry told me he’d spoken to you about me.”

Sister Maria Baker smiled. “But of course, so you’re Jenny.” And then she looked concerned. “There’s something wrong, I can tell. What is it?”

“Henry was killed in an accident in London the other day.” Jenny held out the traveling urn. “I’ve brought you his ashes.”

“Oh, my dear.” There was pain on Sister Maria Baker’s face and she crossed herself, then took the urn. “May he rest in peace. It was so kind of you to do this thing.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t just that. I don’t know which way to turn. So many awful things have happened.”

Jenny burst into tears and sat down in the nearest pew. Sister Maria Baker put a hand on her head. “What is it, my dear, tell me.”

When Jenny was finished it seemed very quiet in the chapel. Sister Maria Baker said, “Mystery upon mystery here. Only one thing is certain. Henry’s unfortunate discovery of that submarine is of critical importance to many people, but enough of that now.”

“I know,” Jenny said, “and I’ll have to go back to St. John if only to help Sean Dillon. He’s a bad man, sister, I know that, and yet so kind to me. Isn’t that strange?”

“Not really, my dear.” Sister Maria Baker drew her to her feet. “I suspect that Mr. Dillon is no longer so certain that what he longed for was right. But all that can wait. You need a few days of total rest, a time to reflect, and that’s doctor’s orders. I
am
a doctor, you know, we’re a nursing order. Now let’s find you a room,” and they went out together, leaving the chapel to the quiet.

When Dillon and Travers were shown into the flat at Cavendish Square just before noon, Ferguson was sitting by the fire going over a file. Jack Lane was standing by the window looking out.

Dillon said, “God save all here.”

Ferguson glanced up coldly. “Very amusing, Dillon.”

“Well the correct reply is ‘God save you kindly,’ ” Dillon said, “but we’ll let it pass.”

“What in the hell were you playing at?”

“She wanted to go, Brigadier, she’d had enough for the moment, it was as simple as that. The attack by those two apes in Victoria Tower Gardens finished her off.”

“So you just decided to go along with her?”

“Not her, her needs, Brigadier.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “She told me she wanted to see Baker’s sister and begged me not to ask her where that would be. Said there were special reasons she didn’t want to divulge.”

“Would you be interested to know that Lane has run a check and can’t find any mention of Baker having a sister?”

“Not at all. Jenny said she was probably the only person who knew he had one. Some dark family secret, perhaps.”

“So, she flew to Paris and took off for God knows where?”

Lane cut in. “We did a check at Charles de Gaulle. She hired a car at the Avis desk.”

“And after that, who the hell knows?” Ferguson was coldly angry.

Dillon said, “I told you, she’d had enough.”

“But we need her, God dammit.”

“She’ll return to St. John when she’s ready. In the meantime, we’ll have to manage.” Dillon shrugged. “You can’t have everything in life, not even you.”

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 the 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.”