Thunder Point (20 page)

“I was within touching distance. He was asking about that bar, Jenny’s Place. You know it? On the front in Cruz Bay.”

“Sure.”

“Let’s take a look. From the sound of it he intends to pay the place a visit.”

“Maybe we can make it interesting for him,” Guerra said and drove away.

Dillon drove past Mongoose Junction, located Jenny’s Place, then turned and went back to the Junction car park. He walked along the front of the harbor through the warm night, went up the steps, glanced up at the red neon sign and entered. The cafe side of things was busy, Mary Jones taking orders while two waitresses, one white, the other black, worked themselves into a frenzy as they attempted to serve everybody. The bar was busy also although Billy Jones seemed to be having no difficulty in managing on his own.

Dillon found a vacant stool at the end of the bar and waited until Billy was free to deal with him. “Irish whisky, whatever you’ve got, and water.”

He noticed Bob Carney seated at the other end of the long bar, a beer in front of him, talking to a couple of men who looked like seamen. Carney was smiling and then as he turned to reach for his beer, became aware of Dillon’s scrutiny and frowned.

Billy brought the whisky and Dillon said, “You’re Billy Jones?”

The other man looked wary. “And who might you be?”

“Dillon’s the name — Sean Dillon. I’m staying at Caneel. Jenny told me to look you up and say hello.”

“Jenny did?” Billy frowned. “When you see Miss Jenny?”

“In London. I went to Henry Baker’s cremation with her.”

“You did?” Billy turned and called to his wife. “Woman, get over here.” She finished taking an order, then joined them. “This is my wife, Mary. Tell her what you just told me.”

“I was with Jenny in London.” Dillon held out his hand. “Sean Dillon. I was at Baker’s funeral, not that there was much doing. She said he was an atheist, so all we did was attend the crematorium.”

Mary crossed herself. “God rest him now, but he did think that way. And Jenny, what about her? Where is she?”

“She was upset,” Dillon said. “She told me Baker had a sister.”

Mary frowned and looked at her husband. “We never knew that. Are you sure, mister?”

“Oh, yes, he had a sister living in France. Jenny wouldn’t say where, simply flew off to Paris from London. Wanted to take his ashes to the sister.”

“And when is she coming back?”

“All she said was she needed a few days to come to terms with the death and so on. As I happened to be coming out here she asked me to say hello.”

“Well I thank you for that,” Mary said. “We’ve been so worried!” A customer called from one of the tables. “I’ll have to go. I’ll see you later.”

She hurried away and Billy grinned. “I’m needed too, but hang around, man, hang around.”

He went to serve three clamouring customers and Dillon savoured his whisky and looked around the room. Algaro and Guerra were drinking beer in a corner booth. They were not looking at him, apparently engaged in conversation. Dillon’s eyes barely paused, passed on, and yet he recognized him from the reception at Caneel, the cropped hair, the brutal face, the scar from eye to the mouth.

“Judas Iscariot come to life,” Dillon murmured. “And what’s your game, son?” for he had learned the hard way over many years never to believe in coincidence.

The two men Carney had been talking to had moved on and he was sitting alone now, the stool next to him vacant. Dillon finished his drink, moved along the bar through the crowd. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Carney’s eyes were very blue in the tanned face. “Should I?”

“Dillon, Sean Dillon.” Dillon eased on to the stool. “I’m staying at Caneel. Cottage Seven. Jenny Grant told me to look you up.”

“You know Jenny?”

“I was just with her in London,” Dillon said. “Her friend, Henry Baker, was killed in an accident over there.”

“I heard about that.”

“Jenny was over for the inquest and the funeral.” Dillon nodded to Billy Jones, who came over. “I’ll have another Irish. Give Captain Carney whatever he wants.”

“I’ll have a beer,” Carney said. “Did Jenny bury him in London?”

“No,” Dillon told him. “Cremation. He had a sister in France.”

“I never knew that.”

“Jenny told me few people did. It seems he preferred it that way. Said she wanted to take the ashes to her. Last I saw of her she was flying to Paris. Said she’d be back here in a few days.”

Billy brought the whisky and the beer and Carney said, “So you’re here on vacation?”

“That’s right. I got in this evening.”

“Would you be the guy who came in the Cessna floatplane?”

“Flew up from Antigua.” Dillon nodded.

“On vacation?”

“Something like that.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “The thing is I’m interested in doing a little diving, and Jenny suggested I speak to you. Said you were the best.”

“That’s nice of her.”

“She said you taught Henry.”

“That’s true.” Carney nodded. “Henry was a good diver, foolish, but still pretty good.”

“Why do you say foolish?”

“It never pays to dive on your own, you should always have a buddy with you. Henry would never listen. He would just up and go whenever he felt like it, and that’s no good when you’re diving regularly. Accidents can happen no matter how well you plan things.” Carney drank some more beer and looked Dillon full in the face. “But then I’d say you’re the kind of man who knows that, Mr. Dillon.”

He had the slow, easy accent of the American southerner as if everything he said was carefully considered.

Dillon said, “Well in the end it was an accident that killed him in London. He looked the wrong way and stepped off the pavement in front of a London bus. He was dead in a second.”

Carney said calmly, “You know the old Arab saying? ‘Everybody has an appointment in Samarra.’ You miss Death in one place, he’ll get you in another. At least for Henry it was quick.”

“That’s a remarkably philosophical attitude,” Dillon told him.

Carney smiled. “I’m a remarkably philosophical fellow, Mr. Dillon. I did two tours in Vietnam. Everything has been a bonus since. So you want to do some diving?”

“That’s right.”

“You any good?”

“I manage,” Dillon told him. “But I’m always willing to learn.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at the dock at Caneel at nine o’clock in the morning.”

“I’ll need some gear.”

“No problem, I’ll open the shop for you.”

“Fine.” Dillon swallowed his whisky. “I’ll see you then.” He hesitated. “Tell me something. You see the two guys in the booth in the far corner? I particularly mean the ugly one with the scar. Do you happen to know who they are?”

“Sure,” Carney said. “They work on a big motor yacht from Puerto Rico that calls in here now and then. It’s owned by a man called Santiago. It’s usually based at Samson Cay, that’s over on the British side of things. The younger guy is the mate, Guerra, the other is a real mean son of a bitch called Algaro.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He half-killed a fisherman outside one of the bars here about nine months ago. He was lucky to get away without doing some prison time. They laid a real hefty fine on him, but his boss paid it, so I heard. He’s the kind of guy to step around.”

“I’ll certainly remember that.” Dillon got up. “Tomorrow then,” and he walked out through the crowd.

Billy came down the bar. “You want another beer, Bob?”

“What I need is something to eat, my wife being away and all,” Carney said. “What did you make of him?”

“Dillon? He said he was in London with Jenny. Happened to be coming down here and she told him to look us up.”

“Well that sure was a hell of a coincidence.” Carney reached for his glass and noticed Algaro and Guerra get up and leave. He almost got up and went after them, but what the hell, it wasn’t his problem, whatever it was, and in any case, Dillon was perfectly capable of looking after himself, he’d never been more certain of anything in his life.

Dillon drove out of Cruz Bay, changing down to climb the steep hill up from the town, thinking about Carney. He’d liked him straightaway, a calm, quiet man of enormous inner strength, but then, remembering his background, that made sense.

He breasted the hill, remembering that in St. John you kept on the left-hand side of the road just like England, was suddenly aware of the headlights coming up behind him very fast. He expected to be overtaken, wasn’t, and as the vehicle behind moved right in on his tail knew he was in trouble. He recognized it as a Land-Rover in his rearview mirror an instant before it bumped him, put his foot down hard and pulled away, driving so fast that he went straight past the turning to Caneel Bay.

The Land-Rover had the edge and suddenly it swerved out to the right-hand side of the road and moved alongside. He caught a brief glimpse of Algaro’s face, illuminated in the light from the dashboard as he gripped the wheel, and then the Land-Rover swerved in and Dillon spun off the road into the brush, bounced down a shallow slope and came to a halt.

Dillon rolled out of the jeep and got behind a tree. The Land-Rover had stopped and there was silence for a moment. Suddenly a shotgun roared, pellets scything through the branches overhead.

There was silence and then laughter. A voice called, “Welcome to St. John, Mr. Dillon,” and the Land-Rover drove away.

Dillon waited until the sound had faded into the night, then he got back into the jeep, engaged four-wheel drive, reversed up the slope onto the road and drove back toward the Caneel turning.

In London it was three-thirty in the morning when the phone rang at the side of Charles Ferguson’s bed in his flat at Cavendish Square. He came awake on the instant and reached for it.

“Ferguson here.”

Dillon stood on the terrace, a drink in one hand, the cellular telephone in the other. “It’s me,” he said, “ringing you from the tranquil Virgin Islands, only they’re not so tranquil.”

“For God’s sake, Dillon, do you know what time it is?”

“Yes, time for a few questions and hopefully some answers. A couple of goons just tried to run me off the road, old son, and guess who they were? Crewmen off Santiago’s yacht, the
Maria Blanco
. They also loosed off a shotgun in my direction.”

Ferguson was immediately alert, sat up and tossed the bedclothes aside. “Are you certain?”

“Of course I am.” Dillon was not particularly angry, but made it sound as if he were. “Listen, you devious old sod, I want to know what’s going on. I’ve only been in the damned place a few hours and yet they know me by name. I’d say they were expecting me, as they’re here too, and how could that be, Brigadier?”

“I don’t know,” Ferguson told him. “That’s all I can say for the moment. You’re settled in all right?”

“Brigadier, I have an insane desire to laugh,” Dillon told him. “But yes, I’m settled in, the cottage is fine, the view sublime and I’m diving with Bob Carney in the morning.”

“Good, get on with it, then, and watch yourself.”

“Watch myself?” Dillon said. “Is that the best you can do?”

“Stop whining, Dillon,” Ferguson told him. “This sort of thing’s exactly why I chose you for the job. You’re still in one piece, right?”

“Just about.”

“There you are then. They’re trying to put the frighteners on you, that’s all.”

“That’s all, he says.”

“Leave it with me. I’ll be in touch.”

Ferguson put the phone down, switching off the light, and lay there thinking about it. After a while he drifted into sleep again.

Dillon went to the small bar. There were tea and coffee bags there. He boiled the water and opted for a cup of tea, taking it out on the terrace, looking out into the bay where there were lights on some of the boats. More to things than met the eye, he was more convinced than ever, and he hadn’t liked the shotgun. It made him feel naked. There was an answer to that of course, a visit to the address Ferguson had given him in St. Thomas, the hardware specialist. That could come in the afternoon after he’d dived with Carney.

The moment he and Guerra were back on board Algaro reported to Santiago. When he was finished Santiago said, “You did well.”

Algaro said, “He won’t do anything about it, will he, Señor, the police I mean?”

“Of course not, he doesn’t want the authorities to know why he’s here, that’s the beauty of it. That U-boat is in American waters, so legally it should be reported to the Coast Guard, but that’s the last thing Dillon and this Brigadier Ferguson he works for want.”

Algaro said, “I see.”

“Go to bed now,” Santiago told him.

Algaro departed and Santiago went to the rail. He could see a light in Cottage Seven. At that moment it went out. “Sleep well, Mr. Dillon,” he said softly, turned and went below.

It was nine o’clock the following morning when Ferguson arrived at Downing Street. He had to wait for only five minutes before an aide took him upstairs and showed him into the study where the Prime Minister was seated at his desk, signing one document after another.

He looked up. “Ah, there you are, Brigadier.”

“You asked to see me, Prime Minister?”

“Yes, I’ve had the Deputy Director of the Security Services and Sir Francis on my back about this Virgin Islands affair. Is it true what they tell me, that you’ve taken on this man Dillon to handle things?”

“Yes,” Ferguson said calmly.

“A man with his record? Can you tell me why?”

“Because he’s right for the job, sir. Believe me, I find nothing admirable in Dillon’s past. His work some years ago for the IRA is known to us although nothing has ever been proven against him. The same applies to his activities on the international scene. He’s a gun for hire, Prime Minister. Even the Israelis have used him when it suited them.”

“I can’t say I like it. I think Carter has a point of view.”

“I can pull him out if that is what you wish.”

“But you’d rather not?”

“I think he’s the man for this particular job. To be frank, it’s a dirty one and it has already become apparent since we last spoke that there are people he will have to deal with who play very dirty indeed.”