Thunder Point

by Jack Higgins

  “What a pity. It’s been quite an experience.”

  “Hasn’t it? By the way, a couple of presents for you.” Ferguson took the two tracking bugs from his pocket and put them on the table. “Yours, I think. Give my regards to Sir Francis next time you’re in touch, or I could give your regards to him.”

  “How well you put it,” Santiago said and sat down.

  They reached the front entrance to find Prieto standing at the top of the steps looking flustered. “I’m so sorry, gentlemen, but I’ve no idea what’s happened to the taxi.”

  “It’s of no consequence,” Ferguson said. “We can walk there in five or six minutes. Good night to you. Excellent meal,” and he went down the steps.

  It was Carney who noticed the station wagon just as they reached the airstrip. “What’s he doing over there?” he said and called, “Jackson?”

  There was no reply. They walked across and saw the body at once. Dillon got down on his knees and got as close as he could. He stood up, brushing his clothes. “He’s been dead for some time.”

  “The poor bastard,” Carney said. “The jack must have toppled over.”

  “A remarkable coincidence,” Ferguson said.

  “Exactly.” Dillon nodded. “He tells us all about Francis Pamer and bingo, he’s dead.”

  “Just a minute,” Carney put in. “I mean, if Santiago knew about the old boy’s existence, why leave it till now? I’d have thought he’d have got rid of him a lot earlier than this.”

  “But not if he didn’t realize he existed,” Ferguson said.

  Dillon nodded. “Until somebody told him, somebody who’s been feeding all the other information he needed.”

  “You mean, this guy Pamer?” Carney asked.

  “Yes, isn’t it perfectly dreadful,” Ferguson said. “Just shows you you can’t trust anyone these days. Now let’s get out of here.”

  He and Carney got in the rear seats and strapped themselves in. Dillon got a torch from the map compartment and did an external inspection. He came back, climbed into the pilot’s seat and closed the door. “Everything looks all right.”

  “I don’t think he’ll want to kill us yet,” Ferguson said. “All the other little pranks have been aggravation, but he still needs us to hopefully lead him to that U-boat, so let’s get moving, there’s a good fellow, Dillon.”

  Dillon switched on, the engine roared into life, the propeller turned. He carefully checked the illuminated dials on the instrument panel. “Fuel, oil pressure.” He recited the litany. “Looks good to me. Here we go.”

  He took the Cessna down the runway and lifted into the night, turning out to sea.

  It was a magnificent night, stars glittering in the sky, the sea and the islands below bathed in the hard white light of the full moon. St. John loomed before them. They crossed Ram Head, moving along the southern coast, and it happened, the engine missed a beat, coughed and spluttered.

  “What is it?” Ferguson demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Dillon said and then checked the instruments and saw what had happened to the oil pressure.

  “We’ve got problems,” he said. “Get your life jackets on.”

  Carney got the Brigadier’s out and helped him into it. “But surely the whole point of these things is that you don’t have to crash, you can land on the sea,” Ferguson said.

  “That’s the theory,” Dillon told him and the engine died totally and the propeller stopped.

  They were at nine hundred feet and he took the plane down in a steep dive. “Reef Bay dead ahead,” Carney said.

  “Right, now this is how it goes,” Dillon told them. “If we’re lucky, we’ll simply glide down and land on the water. If the waves are too much we might start to tip, so bail out straightaway. How deep is it down there, Carney?”

  “Around seven fathoms close in.”

  “Right, there’s a third alternative, Brigadier, and that’s going straight under.”

  “You’ve just made my night,” Ferguson told him.

  “If that happens, trust Carney, he’ll see to you, but on no account waste time trying to open the door on your way down. It’ll just stay closed until we’ve settled and enough water finds its way inside and equalizes the pressure.”

  “Thanks very much,” Ferguson said.

  “Right, here we go.”

  The surface of the bay was very close now and it didn’t look too rough. Dillon dropped the Cessna in for what seemed like a perfect landing and something went wrong straightaway. The plane lurched forward sluggishly, not handling at all, then tipped and plunged beneath the surface nose-down.

  The water was like black glass, they were already totally submerged and descending, still plenty of air in the cabin, the lights gleaming on the instrument panel. Dillon felt the water rising up over his ankles and suddenly it was waist deep and the instrument panel lights went out.

  “Christ almighty!” Ferguson cried.

  Carney said, “I’ve unbuckled your belt. Be ready to go any second now.”

  The Cessna, still nose-down, touched at that moment a patch of clear sand at the bottom of the bay, lifted a little, then settled to one side, the tip of the port wing braced against a coral ridge. The rays of the full moon drifting down through the water created an astonishing amount of light and Dillon, looking out through the cockpit window as the water level reached his neck, was surprised at how far he could see.

  He heard Carney say, “Big breath, Brigadier, I’m opening the door now. Just slide out through and we’ll go up together.”

  Dillon took a deep breath himself and as the water passed over his head, opened his door, reached for the wing strut and pulled himself out. He turned, still hanging on the strut, saw Carney clutching at the Brigadier’s sleeve, kicking away from the wing, and then they started up.

  It was usually argued that if you went up too fast and didn’t expel air slowly on the way there was a danger of rupturing the lungs, but in a situation like this there was no time for niceties and Dillon floated up, the rays of moonlight filtering down through the clear water, aware of Carney and the Brigadier to the left and above him. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, curiously dreamlike, and then he broke through to the surface and took a deep lungful of salt air.

  Carney and Ferguson floated a few yards away. Dillon swam toward them. “Are you all right?”

  “Dillon.” Ferguson was gasping for breath. “I owe you dinner. I owe you both a dinner.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Dillon said. “You can take me to the Garrick again.”

  “Anywhere you want. Now do you think it’s possible we could get the hell out of here?”

  They turned and swam toward the beach, Carney and Dillon on either side of the older man. They staggered out of the water together and sat on the sand recovering.

  Carney said, “There’s a house not too far from here. I know the people well. They’ll run us into town.”

  “And the plane?” Ferguson asked.

  “There’s a good salvage outfit in St. Thomas. I’ll phone the boss at home tonight. They’ll probably get over first thing in the morning. They’ve got a recovery boat with a crane that’ll lift that baby straight off the bottom.” He turned to Dillon. “What went wrong?”

  “The oil pressure went haywire and that killed the engine.”

  “I must say your landing left much to be desired,” Ferguson said and stood up wearily.

  “It was a good landing,” Dillon said. “Things only went sour at the very last moment and there has to be a reason for that. I mean, one thing going wrong is unfortunate, two is highly suspicious.”

  “It’ll be interesting to see what those salvage people find,” Carney commented.

  As they started across the beach, Dillon said, “Remember when I was checking the plane back at Samson, Brigadier, and you said you didn’t think he’d want to kill us yet?”

  “So?” Ferguson said. “What’s your point?”

  “Well I think he just tried.�
��

  The man Carney knew at the house nearby got his truck out and ran them down to Mongoose, where they went their separate ways, Carney promising to handle the salvaging of the plane and to report back to them in the morning.

  Back at the cottage at Caneel Dillon had a hot shower, standing under it for quite some time thinking about things. Finally, he poured himself a glass of champagne and went and stood on the terrace in the warm night.

  He heard his door open and Ferguson came in. “Ah, there you are.” He too wore a robe, but also had a towel around his neck. “I’ll take a glass of that, dear boy, and also the phone. What time is it?”

  “Just coming up to midnight.”

  “Five o’clock in the morning in London. Time to get up,” and Ferguson dialed the number of Detective Inspector Jack Lane’s flat.

  Lane came awake with a groan, switched on the bedside lamp and picked up the phone. “Lane here.”

  “It’s me, Jack,” Ferguson told him. “Still in bed, are we?”

  “For God’s sake, sir, it’s only five o’clock in the morning.”

  “What’s that got to do with it? I’ve got work for you, Jack. I’ve discovered how our friend Santiago has managed to stay so well informed.”

  “Really, sir?” Lane was coming awake now.

  “Would you believe Sir Francis Pamer?”

  “Good God!” Lane flung the bedclothes to one side and sat up. “But why?”

  Ferguson gave him a brief account of what had happened, culminating in old Joseph Jackson’s revelations and the plane crash.

  Lane said, “It’s difficult to believe.”

  “Isn’t it? Anyway, give the Pamer family the works, Jack. Where did old Sir Joseph’s money come from, how does Sir Francis manage to live like a prince? Use all the usual sources.”

  “What about the Deputy Director, sir, do I inform him in any way?”

  “Simon Carter?” Ferguson laughed out loud. “He’d go through the roof. It would be at least a week before he could bring himself to believe it.”

  “Very well, sir. I’ll get moving on things right away.”

  Ferguson said, “So, that’s taken care of.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Dillon said. “You were right when you said earlier that you didn’t think Santiago was ready to kill us yet because he needed us. So, assuming the crash was no accident, I wonder what made him change his mind?”

  “I’ve no idea, dear boy, but I’m sure we’ll find out.” Ferguson punched the numbers on the cellular phone again. “Ah, Samson Cay Resort? Mr. Prieto, if you please.”

  A moment later a voice said, “Prieto here.”

  “Charles Ferguson calling from Caneel. Wonderful evening, excellent meal. Do thank Mr. Santiago for me.”

  “But of course, Brigadier, it was kind of you to call.”

  Ferguson replaced the phone. “That will give the bastard pause for thought. Give me another drop of champagne, dear boy, then I’m off to my bed.”

  Dillon filled his glass. “Not before you tell me something.”

  Ferguson swallowed half the champagne. “And what would that be?”

  “You knew you’d be coming to St. John from the beginning, booked your accommodation at the same time you booked mine and that was before I got here, before it became apparent that Santiago knew my name and who I was and why I was here.”

  “Which means what?”

  Dillon said, “You knew Pamer was up to no good before I left London.”

  “True,” Ferguson said. “I just didn’t have any proof.”

  “But how did you know?”

  “Process of elimination, dear boy. After all, who knew about the affair at all? Henry Baker, the girl, Admiral Travers, myself, Jack Lane, you, Dillon, the Prime Minister. Every one of you could be instantly discarded.”

  “Which only left Carter and Pamer.”

  “Sounds like an old-fashioned variety act, doesn’t it? Carter, as I told you earlier and based on my past experience of the man, is totally honest.”

  “Which left the good Sir Francis?”

  “Exactly and that seemed absurd. As I’ve said before, a baronet, one of England’s oldest families, a Government Minister.” He finished his champagne and put the glass down. “But then, as I think the great Sherlock Holmes once said, when you’ve exhausted all the possibilities, then the impossible must be the answer.” He smiled. “Goodnight, dear boy, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  13

  The following morning Santiago went for a swim in the sea, then sat in the stern under the awnings, had coffee and toast and a few grapes while he thought about things. Algaro waited by the rail patiently, saying nothing.

  “I wonder what went wrong,” Santiago said. “After all, it would be unusual for you to make a mistake, Algaro.”

  “I know my business, I did what was necessary, Señor, believe me.”

  At that moment Captain Serra presented himself. “I’ve just had a call from my man in Cruz Bay, Señor. It appears the Cessna crashed in Reef Bay last night, that’s on the south coast of St. John. It finished up forty feet down on the bottom. Ferguson, Carney and Dillon all survived.

  “Damn them to hell!” Algaro said angrily.

  “Soon enough.” Santiago sat there, frowning.

  Serra said, “Have you any order, Señor?”

  “Yes.” Santiago turned to Algaro. “After lunch, you take Guerra and go to St. John in the launch. The girl should arrive at around six in the evening.”

  “You wish us to bring her to you, Señor?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Just find out what she knows, I’m sure that’s not beyond your capability.”

  Algaro’s smile was quite evil. “At your orders, Señor,” and he withdrew.

  Serra waited patiently while Santiago poured more coffee. “How long will the launch take to make the run to Cruz Bay?” Santiago asked.

  “Depending on the weather, two to two and a half hours, Señor.”

  “About the same time as the Maria Blanco would take?”

  “Yes, Señor.”

  Santiago nodded. “I may want to return to our mooring at Paradise some time tonight. I’m not sure. It depends on events. In any case, get me Sir Francis in London.”

  It took twenty minutes for Serra to run Pamer to earth and he finally located him at a function at the Dorchester. He sounded rather irritated when he came to the phone. “Who is this? I hope it’s important, I’ve got a speech to make.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll do marvelously, Francis.”

  There was a pause and Pamer said, “Oh, it’s you, Max, how are things?”

  “We succeeded in locating the old man you mentioned, Jackson. What a mind. Quite remarkable. Remembered everything about nineteen forty-five in sharpest detail.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Pamer.

  Santiago, who had never seen any point in not facing up to the facts of any situation, carried on, “Luckily for you, he had an accident when changing a wheel on his car and has gone to a better place.”

  “Please, Max, I don’t want to know this.”

  “Don’t be silly, Francis, this is hold-on-to-your-nerves time, particularly as the old boy told everything he knew to Ferguson before my man helped him on his way. Unfortunate that.”

  “Ferguson knows?” Pamer felt as if he were about to choke and tore at his tie. “About my mother and father, Samson Cay, Martin Bormann?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But what are we going to do?”

  “Get rid of Ferguson obviously, Dillon as well, and Carney. The girl arrives this evening and my information is that she knows where the U-boat is. She’ll be of no further use after that, of course.”

  “For God’s sake, no,” Pamer implored and suddenly turned quite cold. “I’ve just thought of something. My secretary asked me if there was anything wrong with my financial affairs this morning. When I asked her why, she told me she’d noticed a trace being run through the computer. I didn�
��t think anything of it. I mean, when you’re a Minister, they keep these various checks going for your own protection.”

  “Right,” Santiago said. “Have the source checked at once and report back to me.”

  He handed the phone to Serra. “You know, Serra,” he said, “it’s a constant source of amazement to me, the frequency with which I become involved with stupid people.”

  When Ferguson, Dillon and Carney drove down to Reef Bay in Carney’s jeep, they could see the Cessna suspended on the end of the crane at the stern of the salvage boat, clear of the water. There were three men on deck in diving suits and one in a peaked cap, denim shirt and jeans. Carney whistled, the man turned, waved then, dropped into an inflatable at the side of the boat, started the outboard and aimed for shore.

  He came up the beach holding Ferguson’s Malacca cane, and said to Carney, “This belong to somebody?”

  Ferguson reached for it. “I’m deeply indebted to you. Means a great deal to me.”

  Carney introduced them. “What’s the verdict, or haven’t you had time yet?”

  “Hell, it’s open and shut,” the salvage captain said and turned to Dillon. “Bo tells me your oil pressure gauge went wild?”

  “That’s true.”

  “Not surprising. The filler cap was blown off. That kind of pressure is usually only generated when there’s a substantial amount of water in the oil. As the engine heats up, the water turns to steam and there you go.”

  “Wouldn’t you say it was kind of strange to have that much water in the oil?” Carney asked.

  “Not for me to say. What is certain is some vandal or other intended you harm. Somebody went to work on the bottom of the floats with what looks like a fire axe, that’s why your landing was fouled. The moment you hit the water, it poured into those floats.” He shrugged. “The rest, you know. Anyway, we’ll haul her back to St. Thomas. I’ll arrange repairs and keep you posted.” He shook his head. “You guys were real lucky,” and he went back to the inflatable and returned to the salvage boat.