by Jack Higgins
“Hang on and let’s get the hell out of here,” he called, boosted speed and took them away into the friendly dark.
Serra said, “Guerra’s dead, his body is still here, but no sign of Solona and Algaro.”
“Never mind that,” Santiago told him. “Dillon and Carney didn’t come all the way in that inflatable from St. John. Carney’s Sport Fisherman must be nearby.”
“True,” Serra said, “and they’ll up anchor and start back straightaway.”
“And the moment they move, you’ll see them on your radar, right? I mean, there’s no other boat moving out to sea from Samson Cay tonight.”
“True, Señor.”
“Then get the anchor up.”
Serra pressed the bridge button for the electric hoist. The motor started to whine. Santiago said, “What now?”
The three remaining members of the crew, Pinto, Noval and Mugica, were down on the forward deck and Serra leaned over the bridge rail. “The anchor line is jamming. Check it.”
Mugica leaned over the prow, then turned. “It’s Algaro. He’s tied to the chain.”
Santiago and Serra went down the ladder and hurried to the prow and looked over. Algaro hung there from the anchor chain, the weight belt around his throat. “Mother of God!” Santiago said. “Pull him up, damn you!” He turned to Serra. “Now let’s get moving.”
“Don’t worry, Señor,” Serra told him. “We’re faster than they are. There’s no way they can get back to St. John without us overtaking them,” and he turned to the ladder and went up to the bridge as Noval and Mugica hauled Algaro’s body in through the chain port.
At Shunt Bay, Ferguson leaned anxiously over the stern of Sea Raider as the inflatable coasted in out of the darkness.
“What happened?” he demanded.
Dillon passed the Bormann briefcase up to him. “That’s what happened. Now let’s get out of here.”
He stepped on to the diving platform and Carney passed him the inflatable line and Dillon tied it securely, then went to the deckhouse and worked his way round to the prow and started to pull in the anchor. It came free of the sandy bottom with no difficulty. Behind him, Carney had already gone up to the flying bridge and was starting the engines.
Ferguson joined him. “How did it go?”
“He doesn’t take prisoners, I’ll say that for him,” Carney said. “But let’s get out of here. We don’t have any kind of time to hang about.”
Sea Raider plowed forward into the night, the wind freshening four to five. Ferguson sat in the swivel chair and Dillon leaned against the rail beside Carney.
“They’re faster than we are, you know that,” Carney said. “And he’s going to keep coming.”
“I know,” Dillon told him. “He doesn’t like to lose.”
“Well, I sure as hell can’t go any faster, we’re doing twenty-two knots and that’s tops.”
It was Ferguson who saw the Maria Blanco first. “There’s a light back there, I’m sure there is.”
Carney glanced round. “That’s them all right, couldn’t be anyone else.”
Dillon raised the night sight.
“Yes, it’s the Maria Blanco.”
“He’s got good radar on that thing, must have,” Carney said. “No way I can lose him.”
“Oh, yes there is,” Dillon said. “Just keep going.”
Serra, on the bridge of the Maria Blanco, held a pair of night glasses to his eyes. “Got it,” he said and passed the glasses to Santiago.
Santiago focused them and saw the outline of Sea Raider. “Right, you bastards.” He leaned over the bridge rail and looked down at Mugica, Noval and Pinto, who all waited on the forward deck, holding M16 rifles. “We’ve seen them. Get yourselves ready.”
Serra increased speed, the Maria Blanco raced forward over the waves and Santiago raised the glasses again, saw the outline of Sea Raider and smiled. “Now, Dillon, now,” he murmured.
The explosion, when it came, was instantaneous, tearing the bottom out of the ship. What happened was so catastrophic that neither Santiago, Captain Serra nor the three remaining crew members had time to take it in as their world disintegrated and the Maria Blanco lifted, then plunged beneath the waves.
On the flying bridge of Sea Raider what they saw first was a brilliant flash of orange fire and then, a second or two later, the explosion boomed across the water. And then the fire disappeared, extinguished, only darkness remaining. Bob Carney killed the engine instantly.
It was very quiet. Ferguson said, “A long way down.”
Dillon looked back through the night sight. “U180 went further.” He put the night sight in the locker under the instrument panel. “He did say they were carrying explosives, remember?”
Carney said, “We should go back, perhaps there are survivors.”
“You really think so after that?” Dillon said gently. “St. John’s that way.”
Carney switched on the engines, and as they plowed forward into the night Dillon went down the ladder to the deckhouse. He took off his diving suit, pulled on his tracksuit, found a pack of cigarettes, went to the rail.
Ferguson came down the ladder and joined him. “My God!” he said softly.
“I don’t think he had much to do with it, Brigadier,” Dillon said and he lit a cigarette, the Zippo flaring.
It was just after ten the following morning when a nurse showed the three of them into the private room at the St. Thomas Hospital. Dillon was wearing the black cord slacks, the denim shirt and the black flying jacket he’d arrived in on the first day, Ferguson supremely elegant as usual in his Panama, blazer and Guards tie. Jenny was propped up against pillows, her head swathed in white bandages.
Mary, sitting beside her, knitting, got up. “I’ll leave you to it, but don’t you gentlemen overtire her.”
She went out and Jenny managed a weak smile. “My three musketeers.”
“Now that’s kind of fanciful.” Bob Carney took her hand. “How are you?”
“I don’t feel I’m here half the time.”
“That will pass, my dear,” Ferguson said. “I’ve had a word with the Superintendent. Anything you want, any treatment you need, you get. It’s all taken care of.”
“Thank you, Brigadier.”
She turned to Dillon, looked up at him without speaking. Bob Carney said, “I’ll be back, honey, you take care.”
He turned to Ferguson, who nodded, and they went out.
Dillon sat on the bed and took her hand. “You look terrible.”
“I know. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“How did it all go?”
“We’ve got the Bormann briefcase. The Brigadier has his Learjet waiting at the airport. We’re taking it back to London.”
“The way you put it, you make it sound as if it was easy.”
“It could have been worse. Don’t go on about it, Jenny, there’s no point. Santiago and his friends, that animal, Algaro, they’ll never bother you again.”
“Can you be certain of that?”
“As a coffin lid closing,” he said bleakly.
There was a kind of pain on her face. She closed her eyes briefly, opened them again. “People don’t really change, do they?”
“I am what I am, Jenny,” he said simply. “But then you knew that.”
“Will I see you again?”
“I don’t think that’s likely.” He kissed her hand, got up, went to the door and opened it.
“Dillon,” she called.
He turned. “Yes, Jenny?”
“God bless and take care of yourself.”
The door closed softly, she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.
They allowed Carney to walk out across the tarmac to the Lear with them, a porter pushing a trolley with the luggage. One of the two pilots met them and helped the porter stow the luggage while Dillon, Ferguson and Carney stood at the bottom of the steps.
The Brigadier held up the briefcase. “Thanks for this, Captain C
arney. If you ever need help or I can do you a good turn.” He shook hands. “Take care, my friend,” and he went up the steps.
Carney said, “What happens now, in London, I mean?”
“That’s up to the Prime Minister,” Dillon said. “Depends what he wants to do with those documents.”
“It was a long time ago,” Carney said.
“A legitimate point of view.”
Carney hesitated, then said, “This Pamer guy, what about him?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Dillon said calmly.
“Oh, yes you have.” Carney shook his head. “God help you, Dillon, because you’ll never change,” and he turned and walked away across the tarmac.
Dillon joined Ferguson inside and strapped himself in. “A good man that,” Ferguson said.
Dillon nodded. “The best.”
The second pilot pulled up the steps and closed the door, went and joined his colleague in the cockpit. After a while, the engines fired and they moved forward. A few moments later, they were climbing high and out over the sea.
Ferguson looked out. “St. John over there.”
“Yes,” Dillon said.
Ferguson sighed. “I suppose we should discuss what happens when we get back.”
“Not now, Brigadier.” Dillon closed his eyes. “I’m tired. Let’s leave it till later.”
The house at Chocolate Hole had never seemed so empty when Bob Carney entered it. He walked slightly aimlessly from room to room, then went in the kitchen and got a beer from the icebox. As he went to the living room the phone rang.
It was his wife, Karye. “Hi, honey, how are you?”
“I’m fine, just fine. How about the kids?”
“Oh, lively as usual. They miss you. This is an impulse call. We’re at a gas station near Orlando. I just stopped to fill up.”
“I’m sure looking forward to you coming back.”
“It won’t be long now,” she said. “I know it’s been lonely for you. Anything interesting happened?”
A slow smile spread across Carney’s face and he took a deep breath. “Not that I can think of. Same old routine.”
“Bye, honey, I’ll have to go.”
He put the phone down, drank some of his beer, went out on the porch. It was a fine, clear afternoon and he could see the islands on the other side of Pillsbury Sound and beyond. A long way, but not as far as Max Santiago had gone.
16
It was just before six o’clock the following evening in Ferguson’s office at the Ministry of Defence and Simon Carter sat on the other side of the desk, white-faced and shaken as Ferguson finished talking.
“So what’s to be done about the good Sir Francis?” Ferguson asked. “A Minister of the Crown, behaving not only dishonourably but in what can only be described as a criminal way.”
Dillon, standing by the window in a blue Burberry trenchcoat, lit a cigarette and Carter said, “Does he have to be here?”
“Nobody knows more of this affair than Dillon, can’t keep him out of it now.”
Carter picked up the Blue Book file, hesitated, then put it down and unfolded the Windsor Protocol to read it again. “I can’t believe this is genuine.”
“Perhaps not, but the rest of it is.” Ferguson reached across for the documents, replaced them in the briefcase and closed it. “The Prime Minister will see us at Downing Street at eight. Naturally I haven’t invited Sir Francis. I’ll meet you there.”
Carter got up. “Very well.”
He went to the door, was reaching for the handle when Ferguson said, “Oh, and Carter.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t do anything stupid like phoning Pamer. I’d stay well clear of this if I were you.”
Carter’s face sagged, he turned wearily and went out.
It was ten minutes later and Sir Francis Pamer was clearing his desk at the House of Commons before leaving for the evening when his phone rang. “Pamer here,” he said.
“Charles Ferguson.”
“Ah, you’re back, Brigadier,” Pamer said warily.
“We need to meet,” Ferguson told him.
“Quite impossible tonight, I have a most important function, dinner with the Lord Mayor of London. Can’t miss that.”
“Max Santiago is dead,” Ferguson said, “and I have here, on my desk, the Bormann briefcase. The Blue Book makes very interesting reading. Your father is featured prominently on page eighteen.”
“Oh, dear God!” Pamer slumped down on his chair.
“I wouldn’t speak to Simon Carter about this if I were you,” Ferguson said. “That wouldn’t really be to your advantage.”
“Of course not, anything you say.” Pamer hesitated. “You haven’t spoken to the Prime Minister then?”
“No, I thought it best to see you first.”
“I’m very grateful, Brigadier, I’m sure we can work something out.”
“You know Charing Cross Pier?”
“Of course.”
“One of the river boats, the Queen of Denmark, leaves there at six forty-five. I’ll meet you on board. You’ll need an umbrella, by the way, it’s raining rather hard.”
Ferguson put down the phone and turned to Dillon, who was still standing by the window. “That’s it then.”
“How did he sound?” Dillon asked.
“Terrified.” Ferguson got up, went to the old-fashioned hall stand he kept in the corner and took down his overcoat, the type known to Guards officers as a British warm, and pulled it on. “But then, he would be, poor sod.”
“Don’t expect me to have any sympathy for him.” Dillon picked up the briefcase from the desk. “Come on, let’s get on with it,” and he opened the door and led the way out.
When Pamer arrived at Charing Cross Pier the fog was so thick that he could hardly see across the Thames. He bought his ticket from a steward at the head of the gangplank. The Queen of Denmark was scheduled to call in at Westminster Pier and eventually Cadogan Pier at Chelsea Embankment. A popular run on a fine summer evening, but on a night like this, there were few passengers.
Pamer had a look in the lower saloon where there were half-a-dozen passengers and a companionway to the upper saloon where he encountered only two ageing ladies talking to each other in whispers. He opened a glass door and went outside, and looked down. There was someone standing at the rail in the stern holding an umbrella over his head. He went back inside, descended the companionway and went out on deck, opening his umbrella against the driving rain.
“That you, Ferguson?”
He went forward hesitantly, his hand on the butt of the pistol in his right-hand raincoat pocket. It was a very rare weapon from the exclusive collection of World War Two handguns his father had left him, a Volka specially designed for use by the Hungarian Secret Service and as silenced as a pistol could be. He’d kept it in his desk at the Commons for years. The Queen of Denmark was moving away from the pier now and starting her passage upriver. Fog swirled up from the surface of the water, the light from the saloon above was yellow and sickly. There were no rear windows to the lower saloon. They were alone in their own private space.
Ferguson turned from the rail. “Ah, there you are.” He held up the briefcase. “Well, there it is. The Prime Minister’s having a look at eight o’clock.”
“Please, Ferguson,” Pamer pleaded. “Don’t do this to me. It’s not my fault that my father was a Fascist.”
“Quite right. It’s also not your fault that your father’s immense fortune in post-war years came from his association with the Nazi movement, the Kamaradenwerk. I can even excuse as simply weakness of character the way you’ve been happy over the years to accept a large, continuing income from Samson Cay Holdings, mostly money produced by Max Santiago’s more dubious enterprises. The drug business, for example.”
“Now look here,” Pamer began.
“Don’t bother to deny it. I’d asked Jack Lane to investigate your family’s financial background, not realizing I was sentencing
him to death, of course. He’d really made progress before he was killed, or should I say murdered? I found his findings in his desk earlier today.”
“It wasn’t my fault, any of it,” Pamer said wildly. “All my father and his bloody love affair with Hitler. I had my family name to think of, Ferguson, my position in the Government.”
“Oh, yes,” Ferguson conceded. “Rather selfish of you, but understandable. What I can’t forgive is the fact that you acted as Santiago’s lap dog from the very beginning, fed him every piece of information you could. You sold me out, you sold out Dillon, putting us in danger of our very lives. It was your actions that resulted in Jennifer Grant being attacked twice, once in London where God knows what would have happened if Dillon hadn’t intervened. The second time in St. John, where she was severely injured and almost died. She’s in a hospital now.”
“I knew none of this, I swear.”
“Oh, everything was arranged by Santiago, I grant you that. What I’m talking about is responsibility. On Samson Cay, a poor old man called Joseph Jackson who gave me my first clue to the truth behind the whole affair, the man who was caretaker at the old Herbert Hotel in 1945, was brutally murdered just after talking to me. Now that was obviously the work of Santiago’s people, but how did he know of the existence of the old man in the first place? Because you told him.”
“You can’t prove that, you can’t prove any of it.”
“True, just as I can’t prove exactly what happened to Jack Lane, but I’ll make an educated guess. Those were computer printouts I found in his desk. That means he was doing a computer sweep on your family affairs. I presume one of your staff noticed. Normally, you wouldn’t have been concerned, it happens to Crown Ministers all the time, but in the light of recent events, you panicked, feared the worst, and phoned Santiago, who took care of it for you.” Ferguson sighed. “I often think the direct dialing system a curse. In the old days it would have taken the international operator at least four hours to connect you to a place like the Virgins. These days all you do is punch a rather long series of numbers.”