Thunder Point Part 20

Carney moved on and Dillon followed, down to seventy-five feet, and the current took them now in a fierce three-knot riptide that bounced them along the front of the wall in an upright position. They were surrounded by clouds of silversides, flying through s.p.a.ce, the ultimate dream, and Dillon had never felt so excited. It seemed to go on forever, and then the current slackened and Carney was using his fins now and climbing.

Dillon followed through a deep ravine that led into another, waterlike black gla.s.s, checked his computer and was surprised to find that they had been under for twenty-five minutes. They moved away from the rock itself now, only three or four feet above the forest of the seabed, and came to a line and anchor. Carney paused to examine it, then turned and shook his head, moving on toward the left, finally arriving at their own anchor. They went up slowly, leaving the line at fifteen feet and swimming to one side of the boat, surfacing at the keel.

Carney reached down to take Dillon's tank and the Irishman got a foot in the tiny ladder and pulled himself up and over the stern. He felt totally exhilarated, unzipped his diving suit and pulled it off as Carney stowed their tanks.

"b.l.o.o.d.y marvelous."

Carney smiled. "It wasn't bad, was it?"

He turned and looked across at the launch which was anch.o.r.ed over on the port side, swinging on its anchor chain in the heavy sea. Dillon said, "I wonder what happened to the two divers we saw trying to get through the cut?"

"They couldn't make it, I guess, that was rough duty down there." The launch swung round, exposing the stern. "That's the Maria Blanco Maria Blanco's launch," Carney added.

"Is that a fact?"

Dillon dried himself slowly with a towel and stood at the rail looking across. He recognized Algaro at once, standing in the stern with Serra, and then Santiago came out of the wheelhouse.

"Who's the guy in the blazer and cap?" Dillon enquired.

Carney looked across. "That's Max Santiago, the owner. I've seen him in St. John a time or two."

Santiago was looking across at them and on impulse, Dillon raised an arm and waved. Santiago waved back and at that moment Noval and Pinto surfaced.

"Time to go home," Carney said and he went round to the prow and heaved in the anchor.

On the way back Dillon said, "The Maria Blanco Maria Blanco, where would it anchor when it's here, Caneel Bay?"

"More likely to be off Paradise Beach."

"Could we take a look?"

Carney glanced at him, then looked away. "Why not? It's your charter."

Dillon got the water bottle from the icebox, drank about a pint, then pa.s.sed it to Carney and lit a cigarette. Carney drank a little and pa.s.sed it back.

"You've dived before, Mr. Dillon."

"And that's a fact," Dillon agreed.

They were close to Paradise now and Carney throttled back the engine and the Privateer Privateer pa.s.sed between two of the oceangoing yachts that were moored there and came to the pa.s.sed between two of the oceangoing yachts that were moored there and came to the Maria Blanco Maria Blanco. "There she is," he said.

There were a couple of crewmen working on deck, who looked up casually as they pa.s.sed. "Jesus," Dillon said, that thing must have made a dent in Santiago's wallet. A couple of million, I'd say."

"And then some."

Carney went up to full power and made for Caneel Beach. Dillon lit another cigarette and leaned against the wall of the deckhouse. "Do you get many interesting wrecks in this area?"

"Some," Carney said. "There's the Cartanser Senior Cartanser Senior off Buck Island over to St. Thomas, an old freighter that's a popular dive, and the off Buck Island over to St. Thomas, an old freighter that's a popular dive, and the General Rodgers General Rodgers. The Coast Guard sank her to get rid of her."

"No, I was thinking of something more interesting than that," Dillon said. "I mean you know this area like the back of your hand. Would it be possible for there to be a wreck on some reef out there that you'd never come across?"

Carney slowed as they entered the bay. "Anything's possible, it's a big ocean."

"So there could be something out there just waiting to be discovered?"

The Privateer Privateer coasted in beside the dock. Dillon got the stern line, went over and tied up. He did the same with the other line as Carney cut the engine, went back on board and pulled on his track suit. coasted in beside the dock. Dillon got the stern line, went over and tied up. He did the same with the other line as Carney cut the engine, went back on board and pulled on his track suit.

Carney leaned by the wheel looking at him. "Mr. Dillon, I don't know what goes on here. All I know for certain is you are one h.e.l.l of a diver, and that I admire. What all this talk of wrecks means I don't know and don't want to as I'm inclined to the quiet life, but I will give you one piece of advice. Your interest in Max Santiago?"

"Oh, yes?" Dillon said, continuing to put his diving equipment in a net diving bag.

"It could be unhealthy. I've heard things about him that aren't good, plenty of people could tell you the same. The way he makes his money, for example."

"A hotel keeper as I heard it." Dillon smiled.

"There's other ways that involve small planes or a fast boat by night to Florida, but what the h.e.l.l, you're a grown man." Carney moved out on deck. "You want to dive with me again?"

"You can count on it. I've got business in St. Thomas this afternoon. How would I get there?"

Carney pointed to the other side of the dock where a very large launch was just casting off. "That's the resort ferry. They run back and forth during the day, but I figure you missed this one."

"d.a.m.n!" Dillon said.

"Mr. Dillon, you arrived at Cruz Bay in your own floatplane, and the front desk, who keep me informed of such things, tell me you pay with an American Express Platinum Card."

"What can I say, you've got me," Dillon told him amicably.

"Water taxis are expensive, but not to a man of your means. The front desk will order you one."

"Thanks." Dillon crossed to the dock and paused. "Maybe I could buy you a drink tonight. Will you be at Jenny's Place?"

"h.e.l.l, I'm there every night at the moment," Carney said, "otherwise I'd starve. My wife and kids are away on vacation."

"I'll see you then," Dillon said and turned and walked away along the dock toward the front desk.

The water taxi had seats for a dozen pa.s.sengers, but he had it to himself. The only crew was a woman in a peaked cap and denims, who sat at the wheel and made for St. Thomas at a considerable rate of knots. It was noisy and there wasn't much chance to speak, which suited Dillon. He sat there smoking and thinking about the way things had gone so far, Algaro, Max Santiago and the Maria Blanco Maria Blanco.

He knew about Santiago, but Santiago knew about him, that was a fact and yet to be explained. There had almost been a touch of comrades.h.i.+p in the way Santiago had waved back at him at Carval Rock. Carney, he liked. In fact, everything about him he liked. For one thing, the American knew his business, but there was power there and real authority. An outstanding example of a quiet man it wouldn't pay to push.

"Here we go," the water taxi driver shouted over her shoulder, and Dillon glanced up and saw that they were moving in toward the waterfront of Charlotte Amalie.

It was quite a place and bustling with activity, two enormous cruise liners berthed on the far side of the harbor. The waterfront was lined with buildings in white and pastel colors, shops and restaurants of every description. It had been a Danish colony, he knew that, and the influence still showed in some of the architecture.

He followed a narrow alley called Drake's Pa.s.sage that was lined with colorful shops offering everything from designer clothes to gold and jewelry, for this was a free port, and came out into Main Street. He consulted the address Ferguson had given him and crossed to where some taxis waited.

"Can you take me to Cane Street?" he asked the first driver.

"I wouldn't take your money, man," the driver told him amiably. "Just take the next turning through to Back Street. Cane is the third on the left."

Dillon thanked him and moved on. It was hot, very hot, people crowding the pavements, traffic moving slowly in the narrow streets, but Cane Street, when he came to it, was quiet and shaded. The house he wanted was at the far end, clapboard, painted white with a red corrugated iron roof. There was a tiny garden in front of it and steps leading up to a porch on which an ageing black man with gray hair sat on a swing seat reading a newspaper.

He looked up as Dillon approached. "And what can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for Earl Stacey," Dillon told him.

The man peered at him over the top of reading gla.s.ses. "You ain't gonna spoil my day with no bills, are you?"

"Ferguson told me to look you up," Dillon said, "Brigadier Charles Ferguson. My name is Dillon."

The other man smiled and removed his gla.s.ses. "I've been expecting you. Come right this way," and he pushed open the door and led the way into the house.

"I'm on my own since my wife died last year." Stacey opened a door, switched on a light and led the way down wooden steps to a cellar. There were wooden shelves up to the ceiling, pots of paint stacked there, cupboards below. He reached in and released some kind of catch and pulled it open like a door revealing another room. He switched on a light.

"Come into my parlor."

There was all kinds of weaponry, rifles, submachine guns, boxes of ammunition. "It looks like Christmas to me," Dillon told him.

"You just tell me what you want, man, and Ferguson picks up the tab, that was the arrangement."

"Rifle first," Dillon said. "Armalite perhaps. I like the folding stock."

"I can do better. I got an AK a.s.sault rifle here with a folding stock, fires automatic when you want, thirty-round magazine." He took the weapon from a stand and handed it over.

"Yes, this will do fine," Dillon told him. "I'll take it with two extra magazines. I need a handgun now, Walther PPK for preference, and a Carswell silencer. Two extra magazines for that as well."

"Can do."

Stacey opened a very large drawer under the bench which ran along one wall. Inside there was an a.s.sortment of handguns. He selected a Walther and pa.s.sed it to Dillon for approval. "Anything else?"

There was a cheap-looking plastic holster with the b.u.t.t of a pistol sticking out of it and Dillon was intrigued. "What's that?"

"It's an ace-in-the-hole." Stacey took it out. "That metal strip on the back is a magnet. Stick it underneath anywhere and as long as it's metal it'll hold fast. The gun don't look much, point-two-two Belgian, semi-automatic, seven-shot, but I've put hollow-nosed rounds in. They fragment bone."

"I'll take it," Dillon said. "One more thing. Would you happen to have any C4 explosive?"

"The kind salvage people use for underwater work?"

"Exactly."

"No, but I tell you what I do have, something just as good, Semtex. You heard of that stuff?"

"Oh, yes," Dillon said. "I think you could say I'm familiar with Semtex. One of Czechoslovakia's more successful products."

"The terrorist's favorite weapon." Stacey took a box down from the shelf. "The Palestinians, the IRA, all those cats use this stuff. You gonna use this underwater yourself?"

"Just to make a hole in a wreck."

"Then you need some detonation cord, a remote-control unit or I've got some chemical detonating pencils here. They work real good. You just break the cap. I got some timed for ten minutes and others for thirty." He pushed all the items together. "Is that it?"

"A night sight would be useful and a pair of binoculars."

"I can do them too." He opened another drawer. "There you go."

The night sight was small, but powerful, extending if needed like a telescope. The binoculars were by Zeiss and pocket size. "Excellent," Dillon said.

Stacey went and found an olive-green Army holdall, unzipped it, put the AK a.s.sault rifle in first and then the other things. He closed the zip, turned and led the way out, switching off the light and pus.h.i.+ng the shelving back into place. Dillon followed him up the cellar stairs and out to the porch.

Stacey offered him the bag. "Mr. Dillon, I get the impression you intend to start World War Three."

"Maybe we can call a truce," Dillon said. "Who knows?"

"I wish you luck, my friend. I'll send my bill to Ferguson."

Stacey sat down, put on his reading gla.s.ses and picked up his newspaper, and Dillon walked out through the small garden and started back toward the waterfront.

He was walking along the side of the harbor to where the water taxis operated from when he saw that the Caneel ferry was in, a gangplank stretching down to the dock. The Captain was standing at the top as Dillon went up.

"You staying at Caneel, sir?"

"I certainly am."

"We'll be leaving soon. Just heard someone's on the way down from the airport."

Dillon went into the main cabin, put his bag on a seat and accepted a rum punch offered by one of the crew. He glanced out of the window and saw a large taxi bus draw up, a single pa.s.senger inside, went and sat down and drank some of his punch. One of the crew came in and put two suitcases in the corner, there was the sound of the gangplank being moved, the Captain went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. Dillon checked his watch. It was five-thirty. He put his plastic cup on the table, lit a cigarette and at the same time was aware of someone slumping down beside him.

"Fancy meeting you, dear boy," Charles Ferguson said. "b.l.o.o.d.y hot, isn't it?"

10.

Dillon had a quick swim off Paradise Beach, conscious that the Maria Blanco Maria Blanco was still at anchor out there, then he went back up to the cottage, had a shower and changed into navy blue linen slacks and a short-sleeved white cotton s.h.i.+rt. He went out, crossed the vestibule and tapped on the door of 7E. was still at anchor out there, then he went back up to the cottage, had a shower and changed into navy blue linen slacks and a short-sleeved white cotton s.h.i.+rt. He went out, crossed the vestibule and tapped on the door of 7E.

"Come," Ferguson called.

Dillon entered. The set-up was similar to his own, the bathroom marginally larger as was the other room. Ferguson, in gray flannel slacks and a white Turnbull and a.s.ser s.h.i.+rt, stood in front of the mirror in the small dressing room easing the Guards tie into a neat Windsor knot at his neck.

"Ah, there you are," he said, took a double-breasted navy blue blazer and pulled it on. "How do I look, dear boy?"

"Like an advertis.e.m.e.nt for Gieves and Hawkes, the b.l.o.o.d.y English gentleman abroad."

"Just because you're Irish doesn't mean you have to feel inferior all the time," Ferguson told him. "Some very reasonable people were Irish, Dillon, my mother for instance, not to mention the Duke of Wellington."

"Who said that just because a man had been born in a stable didn't mean he was a horse," Dillon pointed out.

"Dear me, did he say that? Most unfortunate." Ferguson picked up a Panama hat and a Malacca cane with a silver handle.