Carney smiled. "I'm a remarkably philosophical fellow, Mr. Dillon. I did two tours in Vietnam. Everything has been a bonus since. So you want to do some diving?"

"That's right."

"You any good?"

"I manage," Dillon told him. "But I'm always willing to learn."

"Okay. I'll see you at the dock at Caneel at nine o'clock in the morning."

"I'll need some gear."

"No problem, I'll open the shop for you."

"Fine." Dillon swallowed his whisky. "I'll see you then." He hesitated. "Tell me something. You see the two guys in the booth in the far corner? I particularly mean the ugly one with the scar. Do you happen to know who they are?"

"Sure," Carney said. "They work on a big motor yacht from Puerto Rico that calls in here now and then. It's owned by a man called Santiago. It's usually based at Samson Cay, that's over on the British side of things. The younger guy is the mate, Guerra, the other is a real mean son of a b.i.t.c.h called Algaro."

"Why do you say that?"

"He half-killed a fisherman outside one of the bars here about nine months ago. He was lucky to get away without doing some prison time. They laid a real hefty fine on him, but his boss paid it, so I heard. He's the kind of guy to step around."

"I'll certainly remember that." Dillon got up. "Tomorrow then," and he walked out through the crowd.

Billy came down the bar. "You want another beer, Bob?"

"What I need is something to eat, my wife being away and all," Carney said. "What did you make of him?"

"Dillon? He said he was in London with Jenny. Happened to be coming down here and she told him to look us up."

"Well that sure was a h.e.l.l of a coincidence." Carney reached for his gla.s.s and noticed Algaro and Guerra get up and leave. He almost got up and went after them, but what the h.e.l.l, it wasn't his problem, whatever it was, and in any case, Dillon was perfectly capable of looking after himself, he'd never been more certain of anything in his life.

Dillon drove out of Cruz Bay, changing down to climb the steep hill up from the town, thinking about Carney. He'd liked him straightaway, a calm, quiet man of enormous inner strength, but then, remembering his background, that made sense.

He breasted the hill, remembering that in St. John you kept on the left-hand side of the road just like England, was suddenly aware of the headlights coming up behind him very fast. He expected to be overtaken, wasn't, and as the vehicle behind moved right in on his tail knew he was in trouble. He recognized it as a Land-Rover in his rearview mirror an instant before it b.u.mped him, put his foot down hard and pulled away, driving so fast that he went straight past the turning to Caneel Bay.

The Land-Rover had the edge and suddenly it swerved out to the right-hand side of the road and moved alongside. He caught a brief glimpse of Algaro's face, illuminated in the light from the dashboard as he gripped the wheel, and then the Land-Rover swerved in and Dillon spun off the road into the brush, bounced down a shallow slope and came to a halt.

Dillon rolled out of the jeep and got behind a tree. The Land-Rover had stopped and there was silence for a moment. Suddenly a shotgun roared, pellets scything through the branches overhead.

There was silence and then laughter. A voice called, "Welcome to St. John, Mr. Dillon," and the Land-Rover drove away.

Dillon waited until the sound had faded into the night, then he got back into the jeep, engaged four-wheel drive, reversed up the slope onto the road and drove back toward the Caneel turning.

In London it was three-thirty in the morning when the phone rang at the side of Charles Ferguson's bed in his flat at Cavendish Square. He came awake on the instant and reached for it.

"Ferguson here."

Dillon stood on the terrace, a drink in one hand, the cellular telephone in the other. "It's me," he said, "ringing you from the tranquil Virgin Islands, only they're not so tranquil."

"For G.o.d's sake, Dillon, do you know what time it is?"

"Yes, time for a few questions and hopefully some answers. A couple of goons just tried to run me off the road, old son, and guess who they were? Crewmen off Santiago's yacht, the Maria Blanco Maria Blanco. They also loosed off a shotgun in my direction."

Ferguson was immediately alert, sat up and tossed the bedclothes aside. "Are you certain?"

"Of course I am." Dillon was not particularly angry, but made it sound as if he were. "Listen, you devious old sod, I want to know what's going on. I've only been in the d.a.m.ned place a few hours and yet they know me by name. I'd say they were expecting me, as they're here too, and how could that be, Brigadier?"

"I don't know," Ferguson told him. "That's all I can say for the moment. You're settled in all right?"

"Brigadier, I have an insane desire to laugh," Dillon told him. "But yes, I'm settled in, the cottage is fine, the view sublime and I'm diving with Bob Carney in the morning."

"Good, get on with it, then, and watch yourself."

"Watch myself?" Dillon said. "Is that the best you can do?"

"Stop whining, Dillon," Ferguson told him. "This sort of thing's exactly why I chose you for the job. You're still in one piece, right?"

"Just about."

"There you are then. They're trying to put the frighteners on you, that's all."

"That's all, he says."

"Leave it with me. I'll be in touch."

Ferguson put the phone down, switching off the light, and lay there thinking about it. After a while he drifted into sleep again.

Dillon went to the small bar. There were tea and coffee bags there. He boiled the water and opted for a cup of tea, taking it out on the terrace, looking out into the bay where there were lights on some of the boats. More to things than met the eye, he was more convinced than ever, and he hadn't liked the shotgun. It made him feel naked. There was an answer to that of course, a visit to the address Ferguson had given him in St. Thomas, the hardware specialist. That could come in the afternoon after he'd dived with Carney.

The moment he and Guerra were back on board Algaro reported to Santiago. When he was finished Santiago said, "You did well."

Algaro said, "He won't do anything about it, will he, Senor, the police I mean?"

"Of course not, he doesn't want the authorities to know why he's here, that's the beauty of it. That U-boat is in American waters, so legally it should be reported to the Coast Guard, but that's the last thing Dillon and this Brigadier Ferguson he works for want."

Algaro said, "I see."

"Go to bed now," Santiago told him.

Algaro departed and Santiago went to the rail. He could see a light in Cottage Seven. At that moment it went out. "Sleep well, Mr. Dillon," he said softly, turned and went below.

9.

It was nine o'clock the following morning when Ferguson arrived at Downing Street. He had to wait for only five minutes before an aide took him upstairs and showed him into the study where the Prime Minister was seated at his desk, signing one doc.u.ment after another.

He looked up. "Ah, there you are, Brigadier."

"You asked to see me, Prime Minister?"

"Yes, I've had the Deputy Director of the Security Services and Sir Francis on my back about this Virgin Islands affair. Is it true what they tell me, that you've taken on this man Dillon to handle things?"

"Yes," Ferguson said calmly.

"A man with his record? Can you tell me why?"

"Because he's right for the job, sir. Believe me, I find nothing admirable in Dillon's past. His work some years ago for the IRA is known to us although nothing has ever been proven against him. The same applies to his activities on the international scene. He's a gun for hire, Prime Minister. Even the Israelis have used him when it suited them."

"I can't say I like it. I think Carter has a point of view."

"I can pull him out if that is what you wish."

"But you'd rather not?"

"I think he's the man for this particular job. To be frank, it's a dirty one and it has already become apparent since we last spoke that there are people he will have to deal with who play very dirty indeed."

"I see." The Prime Minister sighed. "Very well, Brigadier, I leave it to your own good judgment, but do try and make your peace with Carter."

"I will, Prime Minister," Ferguson said and withdrew.

Jack Lane was waiting in the Daimler. As it drove away he said, "And what was that all about?"

Ferguson told him. "He's got a point, of course."

"You know how I feel, sir, I was always against it. I wouldn't trust Dillon an inch."

"Interesting thing about Dillon," Ferguson said. "One of the things he's always been known for is a kind of twisted sense of honor. If he gives his word he sticks to it and expects others to do the same."

"I find that hard to believe, sir."

"Yes, I suppose most people would."

Ferguson picked up the car phone and rang through to Simon Carter's office. He wasn't there, he was meeting with Pamer at the House of Commons.

"Get a message through to him now," Ferguson told Carter's secretary. "Tell him I need to see them both urgently. I'll meet them on the Terrace at the House in fifteen minutes." He replaced the phone. "You can come with me, Jack, you've never been on the Terrace, have you?"

"What's going on, sir?"

"Wait and see, Jack, wait and see."

Rain drifted across the Thames in a fine spray, clearing the Terrace of people. Except for a few who stood under the awnings, drink in hand, everyone else had taken to the bars and cafes. Ferguson stood by the wall holding a large golfer's umbrella his chauffeur had given him, Lane sheltering with him.

"Doesn't it fill you with a sense of majesty and awe, Jack, the Mother of Parliaments and all that sort of thing?" Ferguson asked.

"Not with rain pouring down my neck, sir."

"Ah, there you are." They turned and saw Carter and Pamer standing in the main entrance to the Terrace. Carter was carrying a black umbrella, which he put up, and he and Pamer joined them.

Ferguson said, "Isn't this cozy?"

"I'm not in the mood for your feeble attempts at humor, Ferguson, now what do you want?" Carter demanded.

"I've just been to see the P.M. I understand you've been complaining again, old boy? Didn't do you any good. He's told me to carry on and use my judgment."

Carter was furious, but he managed to control himself and glanced at Lane. "Who's this?"

"My present a.s.sistant, Detective Inspector Jack Lane. I've borrowed him from Special Branch."

"That's against regulations, you can't do it."

"That's as may be, but I'm not a deckhand on your ship. I run my own and, as my time is limited, let's get down to facts. Dillon arrived in St. John around five o'clock in the evening their time yesterday. He was attacked by two crew members of Santiago's boat, the Maria Blanco Maria Blanco, who ran him off the road in his jeep and fired a shotgun at him."

"My G.o.d!" Pamer said in horror.

Carter frowned. "Is he all right?"

"Oh, yes, a rubber ball our Dillon, always bounces back. Personally I think they were trying it on, ha.s.sling him. Of course the interesting thing is how come they knew who he was and knew he was there?"

"Now look here," Pamer began, "I trust you're not suggesting any lack of security on our part?"

Carter said, "Shut up, Francis, he's got a valid point. This Santiago man is far too well informed." He turned to Ferguson. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Actually, I was thinking of taking a brief holiday," Ferguson told him. "You know, sun, sea and sand, swaying palms? They tell me the Virgins are lovely at this time of the year."

Carter nodded. "You'll stay in touch?"

"Of course, dear old boy." Ferguson smiled and turned to Lane. "Let's go, Jack, we've lots to do."

On the way back to the Ministry Ferguson told his chauffeur to pull in beside a mobile sandwich bar on Victoria Embankment. "This man does the best cup of tea in London, Jack."

The owner greeted him as an old friend. "Rotten day, Brigadier."

"It was worse on the Hook, Fred," the Brigadier said and walked with his cup of tea to the wall overlooking the Thames.

As Lane received his cup of tea he said to Fred, "What did he mean, the Hook?"

"That was a really bad place that was, worst position in the whole of Korea. So many dead bodies that every time you dug another trench, arms and legs came out."

"You knew the Brigadier then?"

"Knew him? I was a platoon sergeant when he was a second lieutenant. He won his first Military Cross carrying me on his back under fire." Fred grinned. "That's why I never charge for the tea."

Lane, impressed, joined Ferguson and leaned on the parapet under the umbrella. "You've got a fan there, sir."

"Fred? Old soldier's tales. Don't listen. I'm going to need the Learjet. Direct flight to St. Thomas should be possible."