Free Thunder Point by Jack Higgins Page B

then I’ll see how soon he can see us. I’ll be back.”
    He went out to his study and Travers poured another cup of tea. It was cold and he walked restlessly across to the window and looked outside. It was still raining, a thoroughly miserable day. As he turned, Ferguson came back.
    “Can’t see us until two o’clock, but I spoke to him personally and he’s going to have a quick look when the package arrives. You and I, old son, are going to have an early luncheon at the Garrick. I’ve told Lane we’ll be there in case he gets a quick result on Samson Cay.”
    “Umbrella weather,” Travers said. “How I loathe it.”
    “Large gin and tonic will work wonders, old boy.” Ferguson ushered him out.
     
     
    They had steak and kidney pie at the Garrick, sitting opposite each other at the long table in the dining room, and coffee in the bar afterwards, which was where Jack Lane found them.
    “Ah, there you are, Jack, got anything for me?” Ferguson demanded.
    “Nothing very exciting, sir. Samson Cay is owned by an American hotel group called Samson Holdings. They have hotels in Las Vegas, Los Angeles and three in Florida, but Samson Cay would appear to be their flagship. I’ve got you a brochure. Strictly a millionaire’s hideaway!”
    He passed it across and they examined it. There were the usual pictures of white beaches, palm trees, cottages in an idyllic setting.
    “Garden of Eden according to this,” Ferguson said. “They even have a landing strip for light aircraft, I see.”
    “And a casino, sir.”
    “Can’t be too big as casinos go,” Travers pointed out. “They only cater for a hundred people.”
    “Isn’t the numbers that count, old boy,” Ferguson said. “It’s the amount of cash across the table. What about during the War, Jack?”
    “There was always a hotel of some sort. In those days it was owned by an American family called Herbert, who were also in the hotel business. Remember Samson Cay is in the British Virgin Islands, which means it comes under the control of Tortola as regards the law, customs and so forth. I spoke to their public record office. According to their files the hotel stayed empty during the War. The occasional fishermen from Tortola, a couple caretaking the property and that’s all.”
    “Doesn’t help but thanks, Jack, you’ve done a good job.”
    “It might help if I knew what it was about, sir.”
    “Later, Jack, later. Off you go and make Britain a safer place to live in.” Lane departed with a grin, and Ferguson turned to Travers.
    “Right, old boy, Downing Street awaits.”
     
     
    The Prime Minister was sitting behind his desk in his study when an aide showed them in. He stood up and came round the desk to shake hands. “Brigadier.”
    “Prime Minister,” Ferguson said. “May I introduce Rear Admiral Travers?”
    “Of course. Do sit down, gentlemen.” He went and sat behind his desk again. “An incredible business this.”
    “An understatement, Prime Minister,” Ferguson replied.
    “You were quite right to bring it to my attention. The royal aspect is what concerns me most.” The phone rang. He picked it up, listened, then said, “Send them up.” As he replaced the receiver he said, “I know you’ve had your problems with the Security Services, Brigadier, but I feel this to be one of those cases where we should honor our agreement to keep them informed about anything of mutual interest. You recall you agreed to liaise with the Deputy Director, Simon Carter, and Sir Francis Pamer?”
    “I did indeed, Prime Minister.”
    “I called both of them in immediately after reading the diary. They’ve been downstairs having a look at it themselves. They’re on their way up.”
    A moment later the door opened and the aide ushered in the two men. Simon Carter was fifty, a small man with hair already snow-white. Never a field agent, he was an ex-academic, one of the faceless men who controlled Britain’s intelligence system. Sir Francis Pamer