ordinary one, but a cop all the same, and after some negotiating, Ferguson had succeeded in borrowing him from Special Branch at Scotland Yard to act as his personal assistant.
“Got something for me, Jack?” Ferguson’s voice was ever so slightly plummy.
“Mainly routine, Brigadier. The word is that the Director General of the Security Services is still unhappy at the Prime Minister’s refusal to do away with Group Four’s special status.”
“Good God, don’t they ever give up, those people? I’ve agreed to keep them informed on a need-to-know basis and to liaise with Simon Carter, the Deputy Director, and that damned MP, the one with the fancy title. Extra Minister at the Home Office.”
“Sir Francis Pamer, sir.”
“Yes, well that’s all the cooperation they’re going to get out of me. Anything else?”
Lane smiled. “Actually, I’ve saved the best bit till last. Dillon — Sean Dillon?”
Ferguson turned. “What about him?”
“Had a signal from our contacts in Yugoslavia. Dillon crashed in a light plane this morning, supposedly flying in medical supplies only they turned out to be Stinger missiles. They’re holding him in that castle at Kivo. It’s all here.”
He passed a sheet of paper across and Ferguson put on half-moon spectacles and studied it. He nodded in satisfaction. “Twenty years and the bastard never saw the inside of a prison cell.”
“Well, he’s in one now, sir. I’ve got his record here if you want to look at it.”
“And why would I want to do that? No use to anyone now. You know what the Serbs are like, Jack. Might as well stick it in the dead-letter file. Oh, you can go home now.”
“Good night, sir.”
Lane went out and Ferguson crossed to his drinks cabinet and poured a large Scotch. “Here’s to you, Dillon,” he said softly. “And you can chew on that, you bastard.”
He swallowed the whisky down, returned to his desk and started to work again.
2
East of Puerto Rico in the Caribbean are the Virgin Islands, partly British like Tortola and Virgin Gorda. Across the water are St. Croix, St. Thomas and St. John, proudly American since 1917 when the United States purchased them from the Danish government for twenty-five million dollars.
St. John is reputed to have been discovered by Columbus on his second voyage to the New World in 1493 and without a doubt is probably the most idyllic island in the entire Caribbean, but not that night as a tropical storm, the tail end of Hurricane Able, swept in across the old town of Cruz Bay, stirring the boats at anchor in the harbor, driving rain across the roof tops, the sky exploding into thunder.
To Bob Carney, fast asleep in the house at Chocolate Hole on the other side of Great Cruz Bay, it was the sound of distant guns. He stirred in his sleep, and suddenly it was the same old dream, the mortars landing everywhere, shaking the ground, the screams of the wounded and dying. He’d lost his helmet, flung himself to the ground, arms protecting his head, was not even aware of being hit, only afterwards, as the attack faded and he sat up. There was pain then in both arms and legs from shrapnel wounds, blood on his hands. And then, as the smoke cleared, he became aware of another Marine sitting against a tree, both legs gone above the knees. He was shaking, had a hand outstretched as if begging for help, and Carney cried out in horror and sat bolt upright in bed, awake now.
The same lousy old dream, Vietnam, and that was a long time ago. He switched on the bedside lamp and checked his watch. It was only two-thirty. He sighed and stood up, stretching for a moment, then padded through the dark house to the kitchen, switched on the light and got a beer from the icebox.
He was very tanned, the blond hair faded, both from regular exposure to sea and sun. Around five foot eight, he had an athlete’s body, not surprising in a man who had been a ship’s captain and was now a master diver by profession. Forty-four
“Got something for me, Jack?” Ferguson’s voice was ever so slightly plummy.
“Mainly routine, Brigadier. The word is that the Director General of the Security Services is still unhappy at the Prime Minister’s refusal to do away with Group Four’s special status.”
“Good God, don’t they ever give up, those people? I’ve agreed to keep them informed on a need-to-know basis and to liaise with Simon Carter, the Deputy Director, and that damned MP, the one with the fancy title. Extra Minister at the Home Office.”
“Sir Francis Pamer, sir.”
“Yes, well that’s all the cooperation they’re going to get out of me. Anything else?”
Lane smiled. “Actually, I’ve saved the best bit till last. Dillon — Sean Dillon?”
Ferguson turned. “What about him?”
“Had a signal from our contacts in Yugoslavia. Dillon crashed in a light plane this morning, supposedly flying in medical supplies only they turned out to be Stinger missiles. They’re holding him in that castle at Kivo. It’s all here.”
He passed a sheet of paper across and Ferguson put on half-moon spectacles and studied it. He nodded in satisfaction. “Twenty years and the bastard never saw the inside of a prison cell.”
“Well, he’s in one now, sir. I’ve got his record here if you want to look at it.”
“And why would I want to do that? No use to anyone now. You know what the Serbs are like, Jack. Might as well stick it in the dead-letter file. Oh, you can go home now.”
“Good night, sir.”
Lane went out and Ferguson crossed to his drinks cabinet and poured a large Scotch. “Here’s to you, Dillon,” he said softly. “And you can chew on that, you bastard.”
He swallowed the whisky down, returned to his desk and started to work again.
2
East of Puerto Rico in the Caribbean are the Virgin Islands, partly British like Tortola and Virgin Gorda. Across the water are St. Croix, St. Thomas and St. John, proudly American since 1917 when the United States purchased them from the Danish government for twenty-five million dollars.
St. John is reputed to have been discovered by Columbus on his second voyage to the New World in 1493 and without a doubt is probably the most idyllic island in the entire Caribbean, but not that night as a tropical storm, the tail end of Hurricane Able, swept in across the old town of Cruz Bay, stirring the boats at anchor in the harbor, driving rain across the roof tops, the sky exploding into thunder.
To Bob Carney, fast asleep in the house at Chocolate Hole on the other side of Great Cruz Bay, it was the sound of distant guns. He stirred in his sleep, and suddenly it was the same old dream, the mortars landing everywhere, shaking the ground, the screams of the wounded and dying. He’d lost his helmet, flung himself to the ground, arms protecting his head, was not even aware of being hit, only afterwards, as the attack faded and he sat up. There was pain then in both arms and legs from shrapnel wounds, blood on his hands. And then, as the smoke cleared, he became aware of another Marine sitting against a tree, both legs gone above the knees. He was shaking, had a hand outstretched as if begging for help, and Carney cried out in horror and sat bolt upright in bed, awake now.
The same lousy old dream, Vietnam, and that was a long time ago. He switched on the bedside lamp and checked his watch. It was only two-thirty. He sighed and stood up, stretching for a moment, then padded through the dark house to the kitchen, switched on the light and got a beer from the icebox.
He was very tanned, the blond hair faded, both from regular exposure to sea and sun. Around five foot eight, he had an athlete’s body, not surprising in a man who had been a ship’s captain and was now a master diver by profession. Forty-four
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