by Jack Higgins
“It could be worse,” Dillon said and told him.
“Thank God!” Ferguson took a deep breath. “All right, I suppose we’d better get going.”
Carney said, “Sure, but I’d like to know how we’re going to handle this thing. Even in the dark, there’s a limit to how close we can get in Sea Raider without being spotted.”
“It seems to me the smart way would be an approach underwater,” Dillon said. “Only there’s no we about it, Carney. I once told you you were one of the good guys. Santiago and his people, they’re the bad guys and that’s what I am. I’m a bad guy, too. Ask the Brigadier, he’ll tell you. That’s why he hired me for this job in the first place. This is where I earn my keep and it’s a one-man affair.”
“Now look,” Carney said. “I can hold up my end.”
“I know that and you’ve got the medals to prove it. The Brigadier showed me your record, but Vietnam was different. You were stuck in a lousy war that wasn’t really any of your business. I suppose you were just trying to stay alive.”
“And I made it. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Remember when you and the Brigadier were swapping war stories about Vietnam and Korea and you asked me what I knew about war and I told you I’d been at war all my life?”
“So?”
“At an age when I should have been taking girls out to dances I was fighting the kind of war where the battlefield was rooftops and back alleys, leading British paratroopers a dance through the sewers of the Falls Road in Belfast, being chased by the SAS through South Armagh and they’re the best.”
“What are you trying to say to me?” Carney asked.
“That when I go over the rail of the Maria Blanco to recover that briefcase I’ll kill anyone who tries to get in my way.” Dillon shrugged. “Like I said, I can do that without a moment’s hesitation because I’m a bad guy. I don’t think you can, and thank God for it.”
There was silence. Carney turned to Ferguson, who nodded. “He’s right, I’m afraid.”
“Okay,” Carney said reluctantly. “This is the way it goes. I’ll go as close to the Maria Blanco as we dare and drop anchor, then I’ll take you the rest of the way in an inflatable.” Dillon tried to speak and Carney cut him off. “No buts, that’s the way it’s going to be. I’ve got an inflatable moored out there on the buoy with Privateer. We’ll pick it up on the way.”
“All right,” Dillon said. “Have it your way.”
“And I come in, Dillon, if anything goes wrong, I come in.”
“On horseback, bugles blowing?” Dillon laughed. “The South shall rise again? You people never could come to terms with losing the Civil War.”
“There was no Civil War.” Carney went up to the flying bridge. “You must be referring to the war for the independence of the Confederacy. Now let’s get moving.”
He switched on the engines, Dillon stepped over to the dock and untied the lines. A moment later and they were moving out into the bay.
The Maria Blanco was anchored in the bay at Samson Cay and Santiago sat in the salon, reading the documents in Bormann’s briefcase for the third time. He’d never been so fascinated in his life. He examined the personal order from Hitler, the signature, then reread the Windsor Protocol. It was the Blue Book which was the most interesting though. All those names, Members of Parliament, Peers of the Realm, people at the highest levels of society who had supported, however secretly, the cause of National Socialism, but then it was hardly surprising. In the England of the great depression with something like four million people out of work, many would have looked at Germany and thought that Hitler had the right idea.
He got up, went to the bar and poured a glass of dry sherry, then returned to the desk, picked up the telephone and called the radio room. “Get me Sir Francis Pamer in London.”
Pamer was sitting alone at the desk in his office at the House of Commons when the phone rang.
“Francis? Max here.”
Pamer was immediately all attention. “Has anything happened?”
“You could say that. I’ve got it, Francis, right here on my desk, Bormann’s briefcase, and Korvettenkapitän Paul Friemel was right. The Reichsleiter wasn’t just shooting his mouth off while drunk. It’s all here, Francis. Hitler’s order to him, details of numbered bank accounts, the Windsor Protocol. Now there’s an impressive-looking document. If they forged it, I can only say they did a good job.”
“My God!” Pamer said.
“And the Blue Book, Francis, absolutely fascinating stuff. Such famous names and a neat little background paragraph for each. Here’s an interesting one. I’ll read it to you. Major, Sir Joseph Pamer, Military Cross, Member of Parliament, Hatherley Court, Hampshire, an associate of Sir Oswald Mosley, politically sound, totally committed to the cause of National Socialism.”
“No.” Pamer groaned and there was sudden sweat on his face. “I can’t believe it.”
“I wonder what your local Conservative Association would make of that? Still, all’s well that ends well, as they say. A good thing I’ve got it and no one else.”
“You’ll destroy it of course?” Pamer said. “I mean, you’ll destroy the whole bloody lot?”
“Leave it to me, Francis, I’ll see to everything,” Santiago said. “Just like I always do. I’ll be in touch soon.”
He put down the phone and started to laugh, was still laughing when Captain Serra came in. “Have you any orders, Señor?”
Santiago looked at his watch. It was just after seven. “Yes, I’ll go ashore for a couple of hours and eat at the restaurant.”
“Very well, Señor.”
“And make sure the deck is patrolled tonight, Serra, just in case our friends decide to pay us a visit.”
“I don’t think we need worry, Señor, they’d have trouble getting close to us without being spotted, but we’ll take every precaution.”
“Good, make the launch ready, I’ll be with you in a moment,” and Santiago went into the bedroom, taking the briefcase with him.
Sea Raider crept to the west side of Samson Cay, round the point from the resort and the main anchorage. Carney switched off the engines, came down the ladder as Dillon went in to the prow and dropped the anchor.
“Shunt Bay they call this,” Carney said. “I’ve been here before, a long time ago. Only four or five fathoms, clear sand bottom. You can’t get down to it because of the cliffs so when guests want to swim here they bring them round from the resort by boat. We’ll be safe here at this time of night.”
Ferguson checked his watch. “Ten o’clock. What time will you go?”
“Maybe another hour. I’ll see.” Dillon went into the deckhouse, opened the holdall and took out the AK47 assault rifle and passed it to Ferguson. “Just in case.”
“Let’s hope not.” Ferguson put it on the bench.
Dillon took the Walther from the holdall, checked it and put it in the dive bag with the Carswell silencer. Then he put in what was left of the Semtex and a couple of detonating fuses, the thirty-minute ones.
“You really are going to war,” Ferguson said.
“You better believe it.” Dillon slipped the night sight into the bag also.
Carney said, “I’ll take you as close as I can in the inflatable, and hope to see you on the way back.”
“Fine.” Dillon smiled. “Break out the thermos, Brigadier, and we’ll have some coffee and then it’s action stations.”
Santiago had enjoyed an excellent meal, starting with caviar, followed by grilled filet mignon with artichoke hearts, washed down by a bottle of Chateau Palmer 1966. Deliberate self-indulgence because he felt on top of the world. He liked things to go well and the Bormann affair had gone very well indeed. It was like a wonderful game. The information contained in the documents was so startling that the possibilities were endless.
He asked for a cigar, Cuban, of course, just like the old days before that madman Castro had ruined everything. Prieto brought him a Romeo and Julietta, trimmed the end a
nd warmed it for him.
“The meal, it was satisfactory, Señor Santiago?”
“The meal, it was bloody marvelous, Prieto.” Santiago patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stood up, picked up the Bormann briefcase from the floor beside the table and walked to the door where Algaro was waiting. “We’ll go back to the ship now, Algaro.”
“As you say, Señor.”
Santiago went down the steps and walked along the dock to the launch, savouring the night, the scent of his cigar. Yes, life could really be very good.
Carney took the inflatable round the point, the outboard motor throttled down, the noise of it a murmur in the night. There were yachts in the bay scattered here and there and a few smaller craft. Maria Blanco, anchored three hundred yards out, was by far the largest.
Carney killed the engine, took a couple of short wooden oars from the bottom of the boat and fitted them into the rowlocks. “Manpower the rest of the way,” he said. “The way I see it and with those other boats around, I can get you maybe fifty yards away without being spotted.”
“That’s fine.”
Dillon was already wearing his jacket and tank and a black nylon diving cowl Carney had found him. He took the Walther from his dive bag, screwed the Carswell silencer into place and slipped the weapon inside his jacket.
“You’d better pray you don’t get a misfire,” Carney said as he rowed. “Water does funny things to guns. I learned that in Vietnam in those damn paddy fields.”
“No problem with a Walther, it’s a Rolls-Royce,” Dillon said.
They couldn’t see each other, their faces a pale blur in the darkness. Carney said, “You actually enjoy this kind of thing?”
“I’m not too sure if enjoy is the right word exactly.”
“I knew guys in Vietnam like that, Special Forces mainly. They kept drawing these hard assignments and then a strange thing happened. They ended up wanting more. Couldn’t get enough. Is that how you feel, Dillon?”
“There’s a poem by Browning,” Dillon told him. “Something about our interest being on the dangerous edge of things. When I was young and foolish in those early days with the IRA and the SAS chasing the hell out of me all over South Armagh, I also discovered a funny thing. I loved it more than anything I’d ever known. I lived more in a day, really lived, than in a year back in London.”
“I understand that,” Carney said. “It’s like being on some sort of drug, but it can only end one way. On your back in the gutter in some Belfast street.”
“Oh, you’ve no need to worry about that,” Dillon told him. “Those days are over. I’ll never go back to that.”
Carney paused, sniffing. “I think I can smell cigar smoke.”
They floated there in the darkness and the launch emerged on the other side of a couple of yachts and moved to the bottom of the Maria Blanco’s steel stairway under the light. Serra was on deck looking over. Guerra hurried down to take the line and tied up and Santiago went up to the deck followed by Algaro.
“Looks like he’s carrying the briefcase with him,” Carney said.
Dillon got the night sight from his dive bag and focused it. “You’re right. He’s probably afraid to let it out of his sight.”
“What now?” Carney said.
“We’ll hang on for a little while, give them a chance to settle down.”
Santiago and Serra descended from the bridge to the main deck. Guerra and Solona stood at the bottom of the ladder, each armed with an M16 rifle. Algaro stood by the rail.
“Two hours on and four off. We’ll rotate during the night and we’ll leave the security lights on.”
“That seems more than adequate. We might as well turn in now,” Santiago said. “Good night, Captain.”
He went along to the salon and Algaro followed him. “Do you need me any more tonight, Señor?”
“I don’t think so, Algaro, you can go to bed.”
Algaro withdrew, Santiago put the briefcase on the desk, then he took off his jacket and went and poured a cognac. He returned to the desk, sat down and leaned back, sipping his cognac and just looking at the briefcase. Finally, as he knew he would, he opened it and started to go through the documents again.
Dillon focused the night sight. He picked out Solona in the shadows by a lifeboat in the prow. Guerra, in the stern, had made no attempt to hide, sat on one of the chairs under the awning smoking a cigarette, his rifle on the table.
Dillon handed Carney the night sight. “All yours. I’m on my way.”
He dropped back over the side of the inflatable, descended to ten feet and approached the ship. He surfaced at the stern of the launch, which was tied up at the bottom of the steel stairway. Suddenly, Solona appeared up above on the platform. Dillon eased under the water, aware of footsteps descending. Solona paused halfway down and lit a cigarette, the match flaring in cupped hands. Dillon surfaced gently at the stern of the launch, took the Walther from inside his jacket and extended his arm.
“Over here,” he whispered in Spanish.
Solona glanced up, the match still flaring, and the silenced Walther coughed as Dillon shot him between the eyes. Solona fell back and to one side, slid over the rail and dropped ten feet into the water.
It didn’t make too much of a splash, but Guerra noticed it and got to his feet. “Hey, Solona, is that you?”
“Yes,” Dillon called softly in Spanish. “No problem.”
He could hear Guerra walking along the deck above, went under and swam to the anchor. He opened his jacket, unzipped his diving suit and forced the Walther inside. Then he slipped out of the jacket and tank, clipped them to the anchor line and hauled himself up the chain, sliding in through the port.
Algaro, lying on his bunk, was only wearing a pair of boxer shorts because of the oppressive heat. For that reason, he had the porthole open and heard Guerra calling to Solona; he also heard Dillon’s reply. He frowned, went to the porthole and listened.
Guerra called softly again, “Where are you, Solona?”
Algaro picked up the revolver on his bedside locker and went out.
Guerra called again, “Where are you, Solona?” and moved to the forward deck, the M16 ready.
“Over here, amigo,” Dillon said and as Guerra turned, shot him twice in the heart, driving him back against the bulkhead.
Dillon went forward cautiously, leaned over to check that he was dead. There was no sound behind, for Algaro was bare-footed, but Dillon was suddenly aware of the barrel of the revolver against his neck.
“Now then, you bastard, I’ve got you.” Algaro reached over and took the Walther. “So, a real professional’s weapon? I like that. In fact I like it so much I’m going to keep it.” He tossed the revolver over the rail into the sea. “Now turn round. I’m going to give you two in the belly so you take a long time.”
Bob Carney, watching events through the night sight, had seen Algaro’s approach, had never been so frustrated in his life at his inability to do something about it, was never totally certain what happened afterwards because everything moved so fast.
Dillon turned, his left arm sweeping Algaro’s right to the side, the Walther discharging into the deck. Dillon closed with him. “If you’re going to do it, do it, don’t talk about it.” They struggled for a moment, feeling each other’s strength. “Why don’t you call for help?”
“Because I’ll kill you myself with my own hands,” Algaro told him through clenched teeth. “For my own pleasure.”
“You’re good at beating up girls, aren’t you?” Dillon said. “How are you with a man?”
Algaro twisted round, exerting all his strength, and pushed Dillon back against the rail at the prow. It was his last mistake, for Dillon let himself go straight over, taking Algaro with him, and the sea was Dillon’s territory, not his.
Algaro dropped the Walther as they went under the water and started to struggle and Dillon held on, pulling him down, aware of the anchor chain against his back. He grabbed for it with
one hand and got a forearm across Algaro’s throat. At first he struggled very hard indeed, feet kicking, but quickly weakened. Finally, he was still. Dillon, his own lungs nearly bursting, reached one-handed and unbuckled his weight belt. He passed it around Algaro’s neck and fastened the buckle again, binding him to the anchor chain.
He surfaced, taking in great lungfuls of air. It occurred to him then that Carney would be watching events through the night sight and he turned and raised an arm, then hauled himself back up the anchor chain.
He kept to the shadows, moving along the deck until he came to the main salon. He glanced in a porthole and saw Santiago sitting at the desk, the briefcase open, reading. Dillon crouched down, thinking about it, then made his decision. He took what was left of the Semtex from his dive bag, inserted the two thirty-minute detonator fuses, went and dropped it down one of the engine room air vents, then returned and peered through the porthole again.
Santiago was sitting at the desk, but now he replaced the documents in his briefcase, closed it, yawned and got up and went into the bedroom. Dillon didn’t hesitate. He moved into the companionway, opened the salon door and darted across to the desk, and as he picked up the briefcase, Santiago came back into the room.
The cry that erupted from his mouth was like a howl of anguish. “No!” he cried and Dillon turned and ran for the door. Santiago got the desk drawer open, grabbed a Smith amp; Wesson and fired blindly.
Dillon was already into the companionway and making for the deck. By now, the ship was aroused and Serra appeared from his cabin at the rear of the bridge, a gun in his hand.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Stop him!” Santiago cried. “It’s Dillon.”
Dillon didn’t hesitate, but kept to the shadows, running to the stern and jumped over the rail. He went under as deep as he could, but the case made things awkward. He surfaced, aware that they were firing at him, and struck out for the darkness as fast as possible. In the end, it was Carney who saved him, roaring out of the night and tossing him a line.