“Don’t get maudlin on me at this stage in your life, Dillon, never pays to look back with regret because you can’t change anything. And you’ve wasted too much time already on that damned cause of yours. I trust you realize that. Stay with the present. The main point which concerns me at the moment is how this wretched man Santiago comes to be so well informed.”
“And wouldn’t I like to know that myself?” Dillon said.
Santiago walked in through the arched gateway, Algaro at his shoulder. He looked around the terrace, saw Dillon and Ferguson and came over. “Mr. Dillon? Max Santiago.”
“I know who you are, Señor,” Dillon replied in excellent Spanish.
Santiago looked surprised. “I must congratulate you, Señor,” he replied in the same language. “Such fluency in a foreigner is rare.” He turned to Ferguson and added in English, “A pleasure to see you at Caneel Bay, Brigadier. Have a nice dinner, gentlemen,” and he left followed by Algaro.
“He knew who you are and he knew you were here,” Dillon said.
“So I noticed.” Ferguson stood up. “Let’s eat, I’m starving.”
The service was good, the food excellent and Ferguson thoroughly enjoyed himself. They split a bottle of Louis Roederer Crystal Champagne and started with grilled sea scallops in a red pepper and saffron sauce, followed by a Caesar salad and then a pan-roasted pheasant. Ferguson, napkin tucked in his collar, devoured everything.
“To be honest, dear boy, I really prefer nursery food, but one must make an effort.”
“An Englishman abroad again?” Dillon inquired.
“Ferguson, I need hardly point out, is the most Scots of Scottish names, Dillon, and as I told you, my mother was Irish.”
“Yes, but Eton, Sandhurst and the Grenadier Guards got mixed up in that little lot somewhere.”
Ferguson poured some more Crystal. “Lovely bottle. You can see right through it. Very unusual.”
“Czar Nicholas designed it himself,” Dillon told him. “Said he wanted to be able to see the champagne.”
“Extraordinary. Never knew that.”
“Didn’t do him any good when the Bolsheviks murdered him.”
“I’m glad you said murdered, Dillon, there’s some hope for you still. What’s friend Santiago doing?”
“Having dinner at the edge of the garden behind you. The ghoul with him, by the way, is called Algaro. He must be his minder. He’s the one who ran me off the road and fired a shotgun.”
“Oh, dear, we can’t have that.” Ferguson asked the waiter for tea instead of coffee. “What do you suggest our next move should be? Santiago is obviously pressing and intends we should know it.”
“I think I need to speak to Carney. If anybody might have some ideas about where that U-boat is, it would be he.”
“That’s not only exquisitely grammatical, dear boy, it makes sense. Do you know where he might be?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Excellent.” Ferguson stood, picked up his Panama and Malacca cane. “Let’s get moving then.”
Dillon drove into the car park at Mongoose Junction and switched off. He took the holstered Belgian semi-automatic from his jacket pocket. “What on earth is that?” Ferguson demanded.
“An ace-in-the-hole. I’ll leave it under the dashboard.”
“Looks like a woman’s gun to me.”
“And like most women it gets the job done, Brigadier, so don’t be sexist.” Dillon clamped the holster under the dashboard. “Okay, let’s go and see if we can find Carney.”
They walked along the front from Mongoose Junction to Jenny’s Place. It was about half-full when they went inside, Billy Jones working the bar, Mary and one waitress between them handling the dinner trade. There were only four tables taken and Carney sat at one.
Captain Serra and three of the crew from the
Maria Blanco
were at a booth table in the corner. Guerra, the mate, was one of them. Dillon recognized him from the first night, although the fact that Guerra said, “That’s him,” in Spanish and they all stopped talking was sufficient confirmation.
“Hello there.” Mary Jones approached and Dillon smiled.
“We’ll join Bob Carney. A bottle of champagne. Whatever you’ve got!”
“Two glasses.” Ferguson raised his hat politely.
Mary took his arm, her teeth flashing in a delighted smile. “I like this man. Where did you find him? I love a gentleman.”
Billy leaned over the bar. “You put him down, woman.”
“It’s not his fault,” Dillon said. “He’s a Brigadier. All that army training.”
“A Brigadier General.” Her eyes widened.
“Well, yes, that’s true in your army,” Ferguson said uncomfortably.
“Well, you go and join Bob Carney, honey. Mary’s gonna take care of you right now.”
Carney was just finishing an order of steak and french fries, a beer at his elbow, and looked up as they approached. “Mr. Dillon?” he said.
“This is a friend of mine, Brigadier Charles Ferguson,” Dillon told him. “May we join you?”
Carney smiled. “I’m impressed, but I should warn you, Brigadier, all I made was corporal and that was in the Marines.”
“Grenadier Guards,” Ferguson told him, “hope you don’t mind?”
“Hell, no, I guess we elite unit boys have got to stick together. Sit down.” As they each pulled up a chair he went back to his steak and said to Dillon, “You ever in the army, Dillon?”
“Not exactly,” Dillon told him.
“Hell, there’s nothing exact about it, not that you hear about the Irish Army too much except that they seem to spend most of their time fighting for the United Nations in Beirut or Angola or someplace. Of course, there is the other lot, the IRA.” He stopped cutting the last piece of steak for a moment, then carried on. “But no, that wouldn’t be possible, would it, Dillon?”
He smiled and Ferguson said, “My dear chap, be reasonable, what on earth would the IRA be interested in here? What’s more to the point, why would I be involved?”
“I don’t know about that, Brigadier. What I do know is that Dillon here is a mystery to me and a mystery is like a crossword puzzle. I’ve just got to solve it.”
Santiago came in followed by Algaro and the other four stood up. “We’ve got company,” Dillon told Ferguson.
The Brigadier looked round. “Oh, dear,” he said.
Bob Carney pushed his plate away. “Just to save you more questions, Santiago you know and that creep Algaro. The one with the beard is the captain of the
Maria Blanco
, Serra. The others will be crew.”
Billy Jones brought a bottle of Pol Roget in a bucket, opened it for them, then went across to the booth to take Santiago’s order. Dillon poured the champagne, raised his glass and spoke to Carney in Irish.
“Jesus,” Carney said. “What in the hell are you saying, Dillon?”
“Irish, the language of kings. A very ancient toast. May the wind be always at your back. Appropriate for a ship’s captain. I mean, you do have a master’s ticket amongst other things?”
Carney frowned, then turned to Ferguson. “Let’s see if I can put it together. He works for you?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
At that moment, they heard a woman’s voice say, “Please don’t do that.”
The waitress serving the drinks at Santiago’s table was a small girl, rather pretty with her blonde hair in a plait bound up at the back. She was very young, very vulnerable. Algaro was running his hand over her buttocks and started to move down a leg.
“I hate to see that,” Carney said and his face was hard.
Dillon said, “I couldn’t agree more. To say he’s in from the stable would be an insult to horses.”
The girl pulled away, the crew laughing, and Santiago looked across, his eyes meeting Dillon’s. He smiled, turned and whispered to Algaro, who nodded and got to his feet.
“Now let’s keep our heads here,” Ferguson said.
Algaro crossed to the bar and sat on a vacant stool. As the girl passed, he put an arm round her waist and whispered in her ear. She went red in the face, close to tears. “Leave me alone,” she said and struggled to free herself.
Dillon glanced across. Santiago raised his glass and toasted him, a half-smile on his face, as Algaro slipped a hand up her skirt. Billy Jones was serving at the other end of the bar and he turned to see what was happening. Carney got to his feet, picked up his glass and walked to the bar. He put an arm around the girl’s shoulders and eased her away, then he poured what was left of his beer into Algaro’s crotch.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I didn’t see you there,” and he turned and walked back to the table.
Everyone stopped talking and Dillon took the bottle from the ice bucket and refilled the Brigadier’s glass. Algaro stood up and looked down at his trousers in disbelief. “Why, you little creep, I’m going to break your left arm for that.”
He moved to the table fast, arms extended, and Carney turned, crouching to defend himself, but it was Dillon who struck first, reversed his grip on the champagne bottle and smashed it across the side of Algaro’s skull not once but twice, the bottle splintering, champagne going everywhere. Algaro pulled himself up, hands on the edge of the table, and Dillon, still seated, kicked sideways at the kneecap. Algaro cried out and fell to one side. He lay there for a moment, then forced himself up on to one knee.
Dillon jumped up and raised a knee into the unprotected face. “You’ve never learned to lie down, have you?”
The other members of the crew of the
Maria Blanco
were on their feet, one of them picking up a chair, and Billy Jones came round the bar in a rush, a baseball bat in his hand. “Can it or I’ll call the law. He asked for it, he got it. Just get him out of here.”
They stopped dead, not so much because of Billy as Santiago, who said in Spanish, “No trouble. Just get him and leave.”
Captain Serra nodded and Guerra, the mate, and Pinto went and helped Algaro to his feet. He appeared dazed, blood on his face, and they led him out followed by the others. Santiago stood up and raised his glass, emptied it and left.
Conversation resumed and Mary brought a brush and pan to sweep up the glass. Billy said to Dillon, “I couldn’t get there fast enough. I thank you guys. How about another bottle of champagne on the house?”
“Include me out, Billy,” Carney said. “Put the meal on my tab. I’m getting too old for this kind of excitement. I’m going home to bed.” He stood up. “Brigadier, it’s been interesting.”
He started toward the door and Dillon called, “I’d like to dive in the morning. Does that suit you?”
“Nine-thirty,” Carney told him. “Be at the dock,” and he turned and went out.
His jeep was in the car park at Mongoose Junction. He walked along there, thinking about what had happened, was unlocking the door when a hand grabbed his shoulder and as he turned, Guerra punched him in the mouth.
“Now then you bastard, let’s teach you some manners.”
Serra stood a yard or two away supporting Algaro, Santiago beside them. Guerra and the other two crew members moved in fast. Carney ducked the first blow and punched the mate in the stomach, half-turning, giving Pinto a reverse elbow strike in the face and then they were all over him. They held him down, pinning his arms, and Algaro shuffled over.
“Now then,” he said.
It was at that precise moment that Dillon and Ferguson, having taken a raincheck on the champagne, turned the corner. The Irishman went in on the run as Algaro raised a foot to stamp down on Carney’s face, sent him staggering and punched the nearest man sideways in the jaw. Carney was already on his feet. Algaro was past it, but when Captain Serra moved in to help the other three it raised the odds and Dillon and Carney prepared to defend themselves, the jeep at their backs, arms raised, waiting. There was a sudden shot, the sound of it flat on the night air. Everyone stopped dead, turned and found Ferguson standing beside Dillon’s jeep holding the Belgian semi-automatic in one hand.
“Now do let’s stop playing silly buggers, shall we?” he said.
There was a pause and Santiago said in Spanish, “Back to the launch.” The crew shuffled away unwillingly, Serra and Guerra supporting Algaro, who still looked dazed.
“Another time, Brigadier,” Santiago said in English and followed them.
Carney wiped a little blood from his mouth with a handkerchief. “Would somebody kindly tell me what in the hell is going on?”
“Yes, we do need to talk, Captain Carney,” Ferguson said briskly, “and sooner rather than later.”
“Okay, I give in.” Carney smiled bleakly. “Follow me and we’ll go to my place. It’s not too far away.”
Carney said, “It’s the damnedest thing I ever heard of.”
“But you accept it’s true?” Ferguson asked. “I have a copy of the translation of the diary in my briefcase at Caneel, which I’d be happy for you to see.”
“The U-boat thing is perfectly possible,” Carney said. “They were in these waters during World War Two, that’s a known fact, and there are locals who’ll tell you stories about how they used to come ashore by night.” He shook his head. “Hitler in the Bunker, Martin Bormann — I’ve read all those books, and it is an interesting thought that if Bormann landed on Samson Cay and didn’t go down with the boat, it would explain all those sightings of him in South America in the years since the war.”
“Good,” Dillon said. “So you accept the existence of U180, but where would it be?”
“Let me get a chart.” Carney went out and came back with one which he unrolled. It was the Virgin Islands chart for St. Thomas up to Virgin Gorda. “There’s Samson Cay south of Norman Island in the British Virgins. If that hurricane twisted, which they sometimes do, and came in from an easterly direction, the U-boat would definitely be driven somewhere toward the west and south from St. John.”
“Ending where?” Ferguson said.
“It wouldn’t be anywhere usual. By that I mean somewhere people dive, however regularly, and I’ll tell you something else. It would have to be within one hundred feet.”
“What makes you say that?” Dillon asked.
“Henry was a recreational diver, that means no decompression is necessary if you follow the tables. One hundred and thirty feet is absolute maximum for that kind of sport diving, and at that depth he could only afford ten minutes bottom time before going back up to the surface. To examine the submarine and find the diary.” Carney shook his head. “It just wouldn’t be possible, and Henry was sixty-three years of age. He knew his limitations.”