“I must say Dillon’s got a point,” Travers put in.

Ferguson said, “The point is well taken and we’ll find the answer in time, but for the moment we’ll just have to get on with it. You’ll leave for the Caribbean tomorrow.”

“Just as we planned?” Dillon said.

“Exactly. British Airways to Antigua, then onwards to St. John.”

Dillon said, “Would you think it likely that Max Santiago will turn up there? He’s had his fingers in everything else so far.”

“We’ll just have to see.”

“As I said,” Lane interrupted. “He has a home in Puerto Rico and that’s very convenient for the Virgin Islands. Apparently he runs one of those multi-million-dollar motor yachts.” He looked at his file. “It’s called the Maria Blanco. Captain and a crew of six.”

“If he turns up you’ll just have to do the best you can,” Ferguson said. “That’s what you’re going to be there for. You’ll have your Platinum Card and traveler’s checks for twenty-five thousand dollars. Your cover is quite simple. You’re a wealthy Irishman.”

“God save us, I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Don’t be stupid, Dillon,” Ferguson told him. “You’re a wealthy Irishman with a company in Cork. General electronics, computers and so on. We’ve provided a nice touch for you. When you arrive in Antigua, there’ll be a seaplane waiting. You can fly a seaplane, I presume?”

“I could fly a Jumbo if I had to, Brigadier, but then you knew that.”

“So I did. What kind of plane did you say it was, Jack?”

“A Cessna 206, sir.” Lane turned to Dillon. “Apparently it’s got floats and wheels so you can land on sea or on land.”

“I know the type,” Dillon said. “I’ve flown planes like it.”

“The center of things in St. John is a town called Cruz Bay,” the Inspector carried on. “On occasions they’ve had a commercial seaplane service round there so there’s a ramp in the harbor, facilities and so on.”

Ferguson passed a folder across. “The documents department have done you proud. Two passports, Irish and British in your own name. Being born in Belfast, you’re entitled to those. C.A.A. commercial pilot’s license with a seaplane rating.”

“They think of everything,” Dillon said.

“You’ll also find your tickets and traveler’s checks in there. You’ll be staying at Caneel Bay, one of the finest resorts in the world. Stayed there once myself some years ago. Paradise, Dillon, you’re a lucky chap, paradise on a private peninsula not too far from Cruz Bay.”

Dillon opened the file and leafed through some of the brochures. “Situated on its own private peninsula, seven beaches, three restaurants,” he read aloud. “It sounds my kind of place.”

“It’s anyone’s kind of place,” Ferguson said. “The two best cottages are 7E and 7D. Ambassadors stay there, Dillon, film stars. I believe Kissinger was in 7E once. Also Harry Truman.”

“I’m overwhelmed,” Dillon said.

“It will all help with your image.”

“One thing,” Lane said. “It’s an old tradition there that there are no telephones in the cottages. There are public telephones dotted around, but we’ve arranged for you to have a cellular portable phone. They’ll give it to you when you check in.”

Dillon nodded. “So I get there. Then what do I do?”

“That’s really up to you,” Ferguson said. “We hoped the girl would be there to assist, but thanks to your misplaced gallantry that isn’t on for the moment. However, I would suggest you contact this diver she mentioned, this Bob Carney. He runs a firm called Paradise Watersports, based at Caneel Bay. There’s a brochure there.”

“Teaches tourists to dive,” Lane said.

Dillon found the brochure and glanced through it. It was attractively set out with excellent underwater photos, but the most interesting one was of Captain Bob Carney himself seated at the wheel of a boat, good-looking, tanned and very fit.

“Jesus,” Dillon said. “If you wanted an actor to play that fella you’d have trouble finding someone suitable at Central Casting.”

Ferguson said, “An interesting man, this Carney chap. Tell him, Jack.”

Lane opened another file.

“Born in Mississippi in nineteen forty-eight, but he spent most of his youth in Atlanta. Wife, Karye, a boy of eight, Walker, girl aged five named Wallis. He did a year at the University of Mississippi, then joined the Marines and went to Vietnam. Did two tours, in sixty-eight and sixty-nine.”

“I always heard that was a bad time,” Dillon said.

“Toward the end of his service he was with the 2nd Combined Action Group. He was wounded, received two Purple Hearts, the Vietnamese Cross of Valour and was recommended for a Bronze Star. That one got lost in channels.”

“And afterwards he took to diving?”

“Not at first. He went to Georgia State University, courtesy of the Marine Corps, and did a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy. Did a year in a graduate school in Oceanography.”

“Is there anything else?”

Lane consulted the file. “He has a captain’s ticket up to sixteen hundred tons, ran supply boats in the Mexican Gulf to the oil rigs, was a welder and diver in the oilfields. Went to St. John in seventy-nine.” Lane closed the file.

“So there’s your man,” Ferguson said. “You’ve got to get him on our side, Dillon. Offer him anything, money no object, within reason, that is.”

Dillon smiled. “I’m surprised at you, Brigadier. Money is never number one on the list to men like Carney.”

“That’s as may be.” Ferguson got up. “That’s it then, I’ll see you again before you leave in the morning. What time is his plane, Jack?”

“Nine o’clock, sir, gets into Antigua just after two in the afternoon their time.”

“Then I certainly won’t see you.” Ferguson sighed. “I suppose I must see you off in the right style. Bring him to the Garrick for dinner at seven-thirty, Garth, but now you must excuse me.”

“He’s all heart, isn’t he?” Dillon said to the Admiral as they emerged onto the pavement.

“Never would have thought of describing him in quite that way,” Travers said and raised his umbrella at a passing cab.

It was perhaps an hour later that Ferguson met Simon Carter in the snug of a public house called the St. George not too far from the Ministry of Defence.

He ordered a gin and tonic. “Thought I’d better bring you up to date,” he said. “There’s a lot happened.”

“Tell me,” Carter said.

So Ferguson did, the attack on Jenny by Smith and Johnson, Santiago, Jenny’s flight, everything. When he finished, Carter sat there thinking about it.

“The Santiago thing – that’s very interesting. Your chap Lane may have a point, the Fascist angle, General Franco and all that.”

“It would certainly fit, but Dillon’s right. None of it explains how Santiago seems to be so well informed.”

“So what do you intend to do about him?”

“Nothing I can do officially,” Ferguson said. “He’s an American citizen, a multi-millionaire businessman and in the eyes of the world, highly respected. I mean, that stuff on the FBI and CIA files is confidential.”

“And there is the fact that we don’t want to involve the Americans in this in any way,” Carter pointed out.

“Heaven forbid, the last thing we want.”

“So we’re in Dillon’s hands,” the Deputy Director said.

“I know and I don’t like it one little bit.” Ferguson stood up. “You’ll let Pamer know where we’re at.”

“Of course,” Carter told him. “Perhaps this Carney chap, the diver you mentioned, can give Dillon a lead.”

“I’ll keep you posted,” Ferguson said and went out.

In Paris, Santiago, who was going to a black-tie dinner at the American Embassy, was adjusting his tie in the mirror when the phone rang. It was Pamer, and Santiago listened while he brought him up to date.

“So they know your name, Max.” Pamer was very agitated. “And all thanks to those damned men who were working for you.”