Thunder Point by Jack Higgins Page B

van and joined him. The name on his overalls pocket was Johnson.
    Once inside they worked their way methodically through the Admiral’s study, searching every drawer, pulling the books from the shelves, checking for signs of a safe and finding none.
    Finally, Smith said, “Waste of time. It isn’t here. Go and get the van open.”
    He unplugged the Admiral’s word processor and followed Johnson out, putting it in the back of the van. They went back inside and Johnson said, “What else?”
    “See if there’s a television or video in the living room, then take this typewriter.”
    Johnson did as he was told. When he returned to the living room Smith was screwing the head of the telephone back into place.
    “You’re tapping the phone?”
    “Why not? We might hear something to our advantage.”
    “Is that smart? I mean, the kind of people we’re dealing with, Intelligence people, they’re not rubbish.”
    “Look, to all intents and purposes this is just another hit-and-run burglary,” Smith told him. “Anyway, Mr. Santiago wants a result on this one and you don’t screw around with him, believe me. Now let’s get moving.”
     
     
    Mrs. Mishra, the Admiral’s housekeeper, didn’t normally arrive until nine o’clock, but the fact that she’d had the previous day off meant there was laundry to take care of so she had decided to make an early start. As she turned the corner of Lord North Street and walked toward the house, an overcoat over her sari against the early morning chill, she saw the two men come out of the house.
    She hurried forward. “Is there a problem?”
    They turned toward her. Smith said urbanely, “Not that I know of. Who are you, love?”
    “Mrs. Mishra, the housekeeper.”
    “Problem with one of the telephones. We’ve taken care of it. You’ll find everything’s fine now.”
    They got in the van, Johnson behind the wheel, and drove away. Johnson said, “Unfortunate that.”
    “No big deal. She’s Indian, isn’t she? We’re just another couple of white faces to her.”
    Smith lit a cigarette and leaned back, enjoying the view of the river as they turned into Millbank.
     
     
    Mrs. Mishra didn’t notice anything was amiss because the study door was half-closed. She went into the kitchen, put her bag on the table and saw the Admiral’s note. As she was reading it she became aware of a draft, turned and saw the broken pane in the door.
    “Oh my God!” she said in horror.
    She quickly went back along the passage and checked the living room, noticed the absence of the television and video at once. The state of the study confirmed her worst fears and she immediately picked up the phone and dialed 999 for the police emergency service.
     
     
    Travers recognized Jenny Grant at once as she emerged into the arrival hall at Gatwick pushing her suitcase on a trolley. She wore a three-quarter-length tweed coat over a white blouse and jeans and she looked tired and strained, dark circles under her eyes.
    “Jenny?” he said as he approached. “Do you remember me? Garth Travers?”
    “Of course I do, Admiral.” She tried a smile and failed miserably.
    He put his hands lightly on her shoulders. “You look bushed, my dear. Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve got a car waiting. Let me take your case.”
    The driver put the case in the boot of the Daimler and Travers joined her in the rear. As they drove away he said, “I expect you to stay with me, naturally, if that’s all right?”
    “You’re very kind. Will you do something for me?” She was almost pleading. “Will you tell me exactly what happened?”
    “From what witnesses have told the police he simply looked the wrong way and stepped in front of a bus.”
    “What a bloody stupid way to go.” There was a kind of anger in her voice now. “I mean, here we had a sixty-three-year-old man who insisted on diving every day, sometimes to a hundred and thirty feet in hazardous conditions, and he has to die in such a stupid