"For your sake particularly, I hope so too, Francis."

Dillon, suitably attired in his blazer and a Guards tie, followed Travers up the imposing stairway at the Garrick Club. "Jesus, they've got more portraits here than the National Gallery," he said and followed Travers through to the bar where Ferguson waited.

"Ah, there you are," he said. "I'm one ahead of you. Thought we'd have a spot of champagne, Dillon, just to wish you bon voyage. You prefer Krug as I recall."

They sat in the corner and the barman brought the bottle over in an ice bucket and opened it. He filled three gla.s.ses and retired. Ferguson thanked him, then took an envelope from his pocket and pa.s.sed it across. "Just in case things get rough, there's the name of a contact of mine in Charlotte Amalie, that's the main town in St. Thomas. What you might call a dealer in hardware."

"Hardware?" Travers looked bewildered. "What on earth would he need with hardware?"

Dillon put the envelope in his pocket. "You're a lovely fella, Admiral, and long may you stay that way."

Ferguson toasted Dillon. "Good luck, my friend, you're going to need it." He emptied his gla.s.s. "Now let's eat."

There was something in his eyes, something that said there was more to this, much more, had to be, Dillon told himself, but he got up obediently and followed Travers and the Brigadier out of the bar.

And at Briac at the Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity, Jenny sat alone in the rear pew of the chapel, resting her arms on the backrest of the pew in front of her, gazing at the flickering candlelight at the altar and brooding. The door creaked open and Sister Maria Baker entered.

"There you are. You should be in bed."

"I know, Sister, but I was restless and wanted to think about things."

Sister Maria Baker sat down beside her. "Such as?"

"Dillon for one thing. He's done many terrible things. He was a member of the IRA, for example, and when those two men attacked me last night..." She shivered. "He was so coldly savage, so ruthless, and yet to me he was kindness itself and so understanding."

"So?"

Jenny turned to her. "I'm not a good Christian. In fact, when Henry found me, I was a very great sinner, but I do want to understand G.o.d, I really do."

"So what's the problem?"

"Why does G.o.d allow violence and killing to take place at all? Why does he allow the violence in Dillon?"

"The simplest thing to answer, my child. What G.o.d does allow is free will. He gives us all a choice. You, me, and the Dillons of this world."

"I suppose so." Jenny sighed. "But I will have to go back to St. John and not just to help Dillon, but somehow for Henry too."

"Why do you feel so strongly?"

"Because Henry really didn't tell me where he discovered that U-boat, which means the secret must have died with him, and yet I have the oddest feeling that it didn't, that the information is back there in St. John, but I just can't think straight. It won't come, Sister."

She was distressed again and Sister Maria Baker took her hands. "That's enough, you need sleep. A few days' rest will work wonders. You'll remember then what you can't now, I promise you. Now let's have you in bed."

She took Jenny by the hand and led her out.

Ferguson's Daimler picked Dillon up at seven-thirty the following morning to take him to Gatwick and Travers insisted on accompanying him. The journey out of town at that time in the morning with all the heavy traffic going the other way was relatively quick, and Dillon was ready to go through pa.s.sport control and security by eight-thirty.

"They've already called it, I see," Travers said.

"So it seems."

"Look here, Dillon," Travers said awkwardly. "We'll never see eye-to-eye, you and me, I mean the IRA and all that stuff, but I want to thank you for what you did for the girl. I liked her - liked her a lot."

"And so did I."

Travers shook Dillon's hand. "Take care, this Santiago sounds bad news."

"I'll try, Admiral."

"Another thing." Travers sounded more awkward than ever. "Charles Ferguson is a dear friend, but he's also the most devious old sod I've ever known in my life. Watch yourself in the clinches there too."

"I will, Admiral, I will," Dillon said, watched the Admiral walk away, then turned and went through.

A nice man, he thought as the Jumbo lifted off and climbed steadily, a decent man, but n.o.body's fool and he was right; there was was more to all this than the surface of things, nothing was more certain than that, and Ferguson knew what it was. more to all this than the surface of things, nothing was more certain than that, and Ferguson knew what it was. Devious old sod Devious old sod. An apt description.

"Ah, well, I can be just as devious," Dillon murmured and accepted the gla.s.s of champagne the stewardess offered.

8.

The flight to Antigua took a little over eight hours thanks to a tailwind, and they arrived just after two o'clock local time. It was hot, really hot, very noticeable after London. Dillon felt quite cheered and strode ahead of everybody else toward the airport building, wearing black cord slacks and a denim shirt, his black flying jacket over one shoulder. When he reached the entrance a young black woman in a pale blue uniform was standing there with a board bearing his name.

Dillon paused. "I'm Dillon."

She smiled. "I'm Judy, Mr. Dillon. I'll see you through immigration and so on and then take you to your plane."

"You represent the handling agents?" he asked as they walked through.

"That's right. I need to see your pilot's license and there are a couple of forms to fill in for the aviation authority, but we can do that while we're waiting for the luggage to come through."

Twenty minutes later she was driving him out to the far side of the runway in a courtesy bus, an engineer called Tony in white overalls sitting beside her. The Cessna was parked beside a number of private planes, slightly incongruous because of its floats, with wheels protruding beneath.

"Shouldn't give you any problems," Tony said as he stowed Dillon's two suitcases. "Flies as sweet as a nut. Of course a lot of people are nervous about flying in the islands with a single engine, but the beauty about this baby is you can always come down in the water."

"Or something like that," Dillon said.

Tony laughed, reached into the cabin and pointed. "There's an air log listing all the islands and their airfields and charts. Our chief pilot has marked your course from here to Cruz Bay in St. John. Very straightforward. Around two hundred and fifty miles. Takes about an hour and a half." He glanced at his watch. "You should be there by four-thirty."

"It's American territory, but customs and immigration are expecting you. They'll be waiting at the ramp at Cruz Bay. When you're close enough, call in to St. Thomas and they'll let them know you're coming. Oh, and there will be a self-drive jeep waiting for you." Judy smiled. "I think that's about it."

"Thanks for everything." Dillon gave her that special smile of his with total charm and kissed her on the cheek. "Judy, you've been great." He shook Tony's hand. "Many thanks."

A moment later he was in the pilot's seat, closing the door. He strapped himself in, adjusted his earphones, then fired the engine and called the tower. There was a small plane landing and the tower told him to wait. They gave him the good word and he taxied to the end of the runway. There was a short pause, then the go signal and he boosted power, roared down the runway and pulled back the column at exactly the right moment, the Cessna climbing effortlessly out over the azure sea.

It was an hour later that Max Santiago flew into San Juan, where he was escorted through pa.s.sport control and customs with a minimum of fuss by an airport official to where his chauffeur, Algaro, waited with the black Mercedes limousine.

"At your orders, Senor," he said in Spanish.

"Good to see you, Algaro," Santiago said. "Everything is arranged as I requested?"

"Oh yes, Senor. I've packed the usual clothes, took them down to the Maria Blanco Maria Blanco myself this morning. Captain Serra is expecting you." myself this morning. Captain Serra is expecting you."

Algaro wasn't particularly large, five foot seven or eight, but immensely powerful, his hair cropped so short that he almost looked bald. A scar, running from the corner of the left eye to the mouth, combined to give him a sinister and threatening appearance in spite of the smart gray chauffeur's uniform he wore. He was totally devoted to Santiago, who had saved him from a life sentence for the stabbing to death of a young prost.i.tute two years previously by the liberal dispensing of funds not only to lawyers but corrupt officials.

The luggage arrived at that moment and while the porters stowed it Santiago said, "Good, you needn't take me to the house. I'll go straight to the boat."

"As you say, Senor." They drove away, turned into the traffic of the main road and Algaro said, "Captain Serra said you asked for a couple of divers in the crew. It's taken care of."

"Excellent." Santiago picked up the local newspaper, which had been left on the seat for him, and opened it.

Algaro watched him in the mirror. "Is there a problem, Senor?"

Santiago laughed. "You're like an animal, Algaro, you always smell trouble."

"But that's what you employ me for, Senor."

"Quite right." Santiago folded the newspaper, selected a cigarette from an elegant gold case and lit it. "Yes, my friend, there is a problem, a problem called Dillon."

"May I know about him, Senor?"

"Why not? You'll probably have to, how shall I put it, take care of him for me, Algaro." Santiago smiled. "So listen carefully and learn all about him because this man is good, Algaro, very good indeed."

It was a perfect afternoon, the limitless blue sky with only the occasional cloud as Dillon drifted across the Caribbean at five thousand feet. It was pure pleasure, the sea constantly changing color below, green and blue, the occasional boat, the reefs and shoals clearly visible at that height.

He pa.s.sed the islands of Nevis and St. Kitts, calling in to the local airport, moved on flying directly over the tiny Dutch island of Saba. He had a brisk tailwind and made good time, better than he had expected, found St. Croix on his port side on the horizon no more than an hour after leaving Antigua.

Soon after that, the main line of the Virgins lifted out of the heat haze to greet him, St. Thomas to port, the smaller bulk of St. John to starboard, Tortola beyond. He checked the chart and saw Peter Island below Tortola and east of St. John, Norman Island south of it, and south of there was Samson Cay.

Dillon called in to St. Thomas airport to notify them of his approach. The controller said, "Cleared for landing at Cruz Bay. Await customs and immigration officials there."

Dillon went down low, turning to starboard, found Samson Cay with no difficulty and crossed over at a thousand feet. There was a harbor dotted with yachts, a dock, cottages and a hotel block grouped around the beach amidst palm trees. The airstrip was to the north, no control tower, just an air sock on a pole. There were people lounging on the beach down there. Some stood up and waved. He waggled his wings and flew on, found Cruz Bay fifteen minutes later and drifted in for a perfect landing just outside the harbor.

He entered the harbor and found the ramp with little difficulty. There were several uniformed officials standing there and one or two other people, all black. He taxied forward, let the wheels down and ran up onto the ramp, killed the engine. One of the men in customs uniform held a couple of wedge-shaped blocks by a leather strap and he came and positioned them behind the wheels.

Dillon climbed out. "Lafayette, we are here."

Everyone laughed genially and the immigration people checked his pa.s.sport, perfectly happy with the Irish one, while the customs men had a look at the luggage. Everything was sweetness and light and they all departed with mutual expressions of goodwill. As they walked away a young woman in uniform, rose pink this time, who had been waiting patiently at one side, came forward.

"I've got your jeep here as ordered, Mr. Dillon. If you could sign for me and show me your license, you can be on your way."

"That's very kind of you," Dillon said and carried the suitcases across and slung them on the backseat.

As he signed, she said, "I'm sorry we didn't have an automatic in at the moment. I could change it for you tomorrow. I've got one being returned."

"No, thanks, I prefer to be in charge myself." He smiled. "Can I drop you somewhere?"

"That's nice of you." She got in beside him and he drove away. About three hundred yards further on as he came to the road she said, "This is fine."

There was an extremely attractive looking development opposite. "What's that?" he asked.

"Mongoose Junction, our version of a shopping mall, but much nicer. There's also a super bar and a couple of great restaurants."

"I'll look it over sometime."

She got out. "Turn left, follow the main road. Caneel Bay's only a couple of miles out. There's a car park for residents. From there it's a short walk down to Reception."

"You've been very kind," Dillon told her and drove away.

The Maria Blanco Maria Blanco had cost Santiago two million dollars and was his favorite toy. He preferred being on board to staying at his magnificent house above the city of San Juan, particularly since the death of his wife Maria from cancer ten years earlier. Dear Maria, his Maria Blanco, the one soft spot in his life. Of course, this was no ordinary boat, had every conceivable luxury, needed a captain and five or six crew members to man her. had cost Santiago two million dollars and was his favorite toy. He preferred being on board to staying at his magnificent house above the city of San Juan, particularly since the death of his wife Maria from cancer ten years earlier. Dear Maria, his Maria Blanco, the one soft spot in his life. Of course, this was no ordinary boat, had every conceivable luxury, needed a captain and five or six crew members to man her.

Santiago sat at a table on the upper deck enjoying the sun and a cup of excellent coffee, Algaro standing behind him. The captain, Julian Serra, a burly, black-bearded man in uniform, sat opposite. He, like most of Santiago's employees, had been with him for years, had frequently taken part in activities of a highly questionable nature.

"So you see, my dear Serra, we have a problem on our hands here. The man Dillon will probably approach this diver, this Bob Carney, when he reaches St. John."

"Wrecks are notoriously difficult to find, Senor," Serra told him. "I've had experts tell me they've missed one by a few yards on occasions. It's not easy. There's a lot of sea out there."

"I agree," Santiago said. "I still think the girl must have some sort of an answer, but she may take her time returning. In the meantime, we'll surprise Mr. Dillon as much as possible." He smiled up at Algaro. "Think you can handle that, Algaro?"

"With pleasure, Senor," Algaro said.

"Good." Santiago turned back to Serra. "What about the crew?"

"Guerra, first mate. Solona and Mugica as usual, and I've brought in two men with good diving experience, Javier Noval and Vicente Pinto."

"And they're reliable?"

"Absolutely."

"And we're expected at Samson Cay?"

"Yes, Senor, I spoke to Prieto personally. You wish to stay there?"

"I think so. We could always drop anchor off Paradise Beach at Caneel, of course. I'll think about it." Santiago finished his coffee and stood up. "Right, let's get moving then."

Dillon took to Caneel from the moment he got there. He parked the jeep and, carrying his own bags, followed the obvious path. There was a magnificent restaurant on a bluff up above him, circular with open sides. Below it was the ruins of a sugar mill from the old plantation days. The vegetation was extremely lush, palm trees everywhere. He paused, noticing a gift shop on the left and set back. More important the smaller shop next to it said "Paradise Watersports," Carney's place. He remembered that from the brochure and went and had a look. As he would have expected, there were diving suits of various kinds on display, but the door was locked, so he carried on and came to the front desk lobby.

There were three or four people being dealt with at the desk before him so he dropped his bags and went back outside. There was a very large bar area, open at the sides, but under a huge barnlike roof, a vital necessity in a climate where instant heavy rain showers were common.

Beyond was Caneel Bay, he knew that from the brochure, boats of various kinds at anchor, a pleasant, palm-fringed beach beside another restaurant, people still taking their ease in the early evening sun, one or two windsurfers still out there. Dillon glanced at his watch. It was almost five-thirty and he started to turn away to go back to the front desk when he saw a boat coming in.

It was a 35-foot Sport Fisherman with a flying bridge, sleek and white, but what intrigued Dillon were the dozen or so airtanks stacked in their holders in the stern, and there were four people moving around on deck packing their gear into dive bags. Carney was on the flying bridge, handling the wheel, in jeans and bare feet, stripped to the waist, very tanned, the blond hair bleached by the sun. Dillon recognized him from the photo in the brochure.

The name of the boat was Sea Raider Sea Raider, he saw that as it got closer, moved to the end of the dock as Carney maneuvered it in. One of the dive students tossed a line, Dillon caught it and expertly tied up at the stern, then he moved along to the prow where the boat was bouncing against its fenders, reached over and got the other line.

Dillon lit a cigarette, his Zippo flashing, and Carney killed the engines and came down the ladder. "Thanks," he called.