A Five Year Plan

Chapter Fifteen

‘Kinda late when you came back on board last night, wasn’t it Kate?’

‘Kent,’ she protested. ‘You sound just like my father. Besides, I’m surprised you noticed after the amount of alcohol you put away yesterday.’

They were in the galley, Bowen seated behind the L-shaped dinette, Kate standing behind the inlaid faux-granite counter pouring boiling water on top of some Folger’s Crystals. Down the portside companionway, nearby, they could hear the sound of Sam Brockman singing in his shower.

Bowen said, ‘Well, here’s the thing: what with the play-off on TV and the luxury of this boat, and setting out on this voyage, and because I was in your attractive company, Kate, and because there really wasn’t much else to do yesterday except relax, I guess I did drink a little more than I should have done. But you certainly wouldn’t have noticed it affecting my ability to do the job.’

‘I wouldn’t have seen that, no,’ she admitted. Adding, under her breath, ‘Mostly I try not to notice you and your abilities at all.’

‘What’s that?’

Kate shook her head. ‘So what’s your problem with my time-keeping, sir?’

‘I was just wondering what it was that kept you up so late?’

Kate saw no point in denying where she had been. Very little had actually happened. Unless you counted a small trip before maybe falling head over heels in love. Certainly nothing had happened in the bed department. She shrugged and said, ‘The guy on the next boat invited me over for a drink, that’s all. He makes a pretty good Margarita.’

‘I’m interested to hear it. Margarita’s my favorite cocktail. And would this be the same guy who came over here for a drink yesterday afternoon?’

‘The same guy.’

Bowen looked thoughtful.

‘Something wrong with that?’ asked Kate.

‘He’s certainly a good-looking fellow,’ he remarked.

Bowen started grinning at Kate in a way she found offensive. Like he was some jealous sugar-daddy or something.

‘Meaning?’

He said with apparent innocence, ‘Meaning, he’s a good-looking guy.’

Kate placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of him and then retired behind the galley counter, just in case she felt tempted to tip the hot coffee into his lap. She watched him take a sip and almost wished that the coffee was poisoned, like Bowen’s mind. At the very least she wanted to take the brim of his stupid Tilley hat and tug it down hard, over his eyes and ears, just to see if it would make any difference to the way he conducted himself.

Bowen said, ‘Since he and I are to be neighbors, I guess you’d better tell me his name.’

Kate sipped her coffee and stared out of the full-width windshield, her mind wandering. Although the time was not quite ten o’clock, it was already a hot day. The Tropic of Cancer was only a hundred miles to the south. Confident of her figure, she wanted to wear a bikini for Dave’s benefit; but the idea of wearing anything more revealing than a nun’s habit around Bowen filled her with disgust. She was hoping to go up on the coach roof sunpad and catch some rays while listening in to the bug that had been planted aboard the Britannia during loading by one of the Port Everglade stevedores. The trouble was, a single device had not proven to be enough and Kate was going to have to place another on Rocky’s boat herself. She was still undecided about her costume for the day.

Bowen kept on grinning through Kate’s obdurate silence.

‘He does have a name, doesn’t he? The captain of the Juarista?

‘His name is David Dulanotov and he’s not the captain, he’s the owner,’ Kate said quickly. Almost immediately she regretted her alacrity. Telling Bowen anything was as good as telling him too much, for it was plain he was jealous.

‘The owner, eh? Same as me.’ Bowen allowed the grin to become his irritating chuckle. ‘I should have known. As soon as I saw him, I felt he and I had something in common.’ He drank some more coffee. ‘Peer recognizing peer. You know the kind of thing. And you know boats. So tell me, Kate, how much do you think a boat like the Juarista would cost?’

Kate was uncertain if she should leave him in impotent ignorance or tell him and make him feel small. Finally she couldn’t resist rubbing his nose up against Dave’s obvious wealth. She said, ‘I don’t know. Maybe three million dollars?’

‘Three million bucks. Jesus, he must be worth a bundle.’

‘It’s hardly the biggest boat on the ship, Kent. Rocky’s boat has twenty or thirty feet on David’s.’

‘David?’ Bowen smiled. ‘You know how long it would take me to get that kind of money together? Maybe fifty years.’

‘Don’t tell me, tell your Congressman.’

‘And if that’s what he spends on a goddamn boat, can you imagine what kind of house he lives in?’

Kate found she could imagine all kinds of things about David Dulanotov and most of them involved her being naked.

‘What are you? A real estate agent?’

‘I mean, you don’t spend more on the boat than you do on the house. It stands to reason the guy’s house has got to be three or four times as much as his boat. It’s got to be a seven or eight million dollar place, he’s got. Imagine that. Jesus.’

Kate sighed and looked into her coffee cup.

‘What’s he do for a living? Young fellow like that. Rob banks? Smuggle cocaine?’

‘I see there’s nothing wrong with your imagination. As far as I know he works in the Financial Center on Biscayne Boulevard. Commodities or something.’

‘That’s as good as robbing a bank. Better. Those guys are harder to catch when they get up to something. Fraud, insider dealing, shit like that.’

‘What are you? The Securities and Exchange Commission? Kent, you haven’t the first idea what you’re talking about. You don’t even know the guy.’

‘I know the type,’ insisted Bowen. ‘Maybe better than you think. Maybe better than you.’

Exasperated, Kate tossed the rest of her coffee into the sink.

‘It’s not every day we rub shoulders with multi-millionaires, Kate. It’s natural we should feel curious about these people. That we should be dazzled by them and their wealth.’

‘Is that a personal observation? What is this?’

‘I just want you to be careful, that’s all. We’ve got a job to do here. Don’t get distracted by anything. Don’t get your head turned by anyone. By this guy, for instance.’

‘You know what this is? This is connected to something else,’ said Kate. ‘Which is that you feel uncomfortable on a personal level with me talking to other men. I think you’re jealous.’

‘Me, jealous? That’s ridiculous.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I just don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you to screw things up for yourself, or for this whole operation.’

Kate smiled bitterly. ‘And I suppose the way you were conducting yourself with the captain of the Jade last night somehow evades the category of foolish, does it?’

‘Look Kate, I’m a little older

‘That’s something we can agree on anyway. Better not push your luck and try wiser, OK?’

‘I know where to draw the line.’

‘Don’t you mean spin a line? You were coming onto Rachel Dana like you owned Kansas.’

‘Now wait a minute —’

‘No, you wait a goddamn minute. You’re trying to make me feel guilty. To wrong-foot me about this. Well you can save your shoes. I don’t feel guilty for anybody. And don’t lecture me about keeping my mind on the job, sir. Keeping my mind on the job cost me a husband. Did you ever lose a marriage because of your work? It has its depressing moments. One of the things that gets you through to the other side is the idea that your job means something. That it’s important. That doing it makes a difference. So don’t lecture me about my job. You can leave that job to my husband’s divorce lawyer. Sir.’

Kate walked swiftly out of the galley. A minute or so later Bowen saw her going along the high side of the ship and stopping to speak to the owner of the Juarista. Bowen finished his coffee and then went up to the flybridge. He sat down in one of the pilot’s chairs, switched on the digital scrambler, and picked up the radio handset.

‘This is turkey in the hay calling turkey in the straw. This is turkey in the hay calling turkey in the straw. Are you receiving me? Over.’

There followed a short pause filled with the noise of static and then Bowen heard the voice of the USS Galveston’s duty radio man.

‘Turkey in the hay, this is turkey in the straw, receiving you. Are you secure? Over.’

‘Turkey in the hay, all secure. I want you to relay a message back to FBI headquarters in Washington. Have the Records Division run a check on a David Dulanotov. That’s D-U-L-A-N-O-T-O-V. Also other permutations of that name. Spelling was never my forte. In addition, I’d like to have them check on a boat called the Juarista. That’s J-U-A-R-I-S-T-A. Originally registered in San Diego, California. Everything and anything. Oh yeah, one more thing. All of this information is to be given up by you only on my specific request. Me. ASAC Kent Bowen. It is to be withheld unless specifically asked for. Got that? Over.’

‘Turkey in the hay, this is turkey in the straw. We copy. Over.’

‘This is turkey in the hay, over and out.’

Bowen turned off the radio and leaned back in the fine leather chair. He was quite impressed that Kate could make sense of all these computer screens. Several times he’d watched her run various troubleshooting sequences — that’s what she’d called them anyway — and still he had no idea what she’d been doing. Maybe she did know a lot about boats, but he knew about investigation and all things forensic. Being inquisitive, finding out about people, knowing exactly who you were dealing with — all of that helped keep you ahead in the game. Bowen believed that most rich people usually had something to hide. Along the lines of the old saying that behind every great fortune was a great crime. It would be interesting to see what David Dulanotov’s secret was, and what Kate’s reaction would be when eventually he got to tell her all about it.

‘The boat at the stern of the ship, the one we’re going to steal and use as our getaway, it’s called the Britannia,’ Dave told Al.

They were sitting on the double bed in Al’s stateroom. With no windows or portholes, it was the most secure place on the Juarista. And since Al had never bothered to change his sheets since Costa Rica, it was also the most malodorous.

‘It’s not as fast as this boat, but looking at her I’d say she can do twenty-five knots, no problem. She’s got twin bow thrusters, so there won’t be any difficulty maneuvering her out to sea. Power’s not going to be a problem either. I’ve been watching them. She’s got more solar panels than a fuckin’ space station, and the captain — who, incidentally, looks just like Gilbert Roland — he keeps the engines turned over. The only outstanding question I have about her is how much fuel she has on board.’

Al frowned. ‘Who the fuck is Gilbert Roland?’

‘Played a lot of Mexicans in movies.’ Dave shook his head as Al’s face remained a blank. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘And what about the money?’

‘What about it?’

‘What I mean, motherfucker, is that you don’t know how much fuel there is on this other boat, so maybe you don’t really have a fuckin’ clue about how much money there is either.’

‘That’s a complete non sequitur,’ said Dave. ‘Your pain-in-the-ass conclusion does not follow from the premises you stated. Believe me. It’s there.’

‘If you were Jesus Christ and you swore on the holes in your hands and the wound in your side the money was there, I’d still say, what makes you so fuckin’ sure?’

‘Ye of little faith. Will you forget about the money? The money’s where it’s supposed to be. Which is more than I can say of your attitude. Why can’t you be more like one of those other disciples, Al? Not having seen and yet believed. Just be cool about the fuckin’ money.’ Dave shook his head, weary of Al’s doubt. Changing the subject, he said, ‘Did you find somewhere to lock everyone up?’

Al said, sullenly, ‘I think so. I went right over the accommodation block and the best area seems to be on the lower deck. There’s an engineer’s workshop and end storeroom alongside the engine room. Apart from some tools and shit, place is more or less empty. Door’s good too. Solid steel, outside bolt. If we left the tools, they could probably hammer their way out in a few hours. By that time we’ll be long gone, right?’

‘With the wind.’

Al bent down and drew a baseball kit bag toward him, still wet-looking and smelling bad after several days in the fish-box. He said, ‘Me and you, Scarlett, it’s about time we got to meet our partners in crime. All of them combat veterans. And the first to do the boogie is the nine-mill Heckler & Koch, M5 submachine gun. Weighs no more than a newborn baby, and it’s just as fuckin’ loud. Fires thirty rounds. Effective range around 100 meters.’ He handed over the weapon and showed Dave how to eject the magazine.

‘It’s slung on a length of rubber tube, SEAL style, in case we have to take a bath with it. Fitted with waterproof laser sights, takes a nine-volt battery for up to thirty hours of continuous play. You’d have to be Stevie Wonder not to hit the target with this mother. Guaranteed accuracy or your money back.’

Al reached into the bag and came up with a pistol.

‘Next to do the boogie is the Heckler & Koch forty-five ACP Special operations handgun. Brand loyalty’s a big thing with me, in case you hadn’t noticed. I always eat the same fuckin’ breakfast cereal and I always use the same gun. Two most important things in your day are a good start — that means a good breakfast — and a good gun. There’s enough uncertainty in the world already without trusting new shit that you haven’t used before.’

‘Pretty good Weltanschauung,’ said Dave.

Ignoring him, Al said, ‘And with this pistol, believe me, you got the whole world in your hands. This is the Big John Cannon of handguns. Detachable sound suppresser ’cos we’re gonna’ be working at night and we don’t want to wake folks up before we’re ready. Laser aiming module, like before. Matter of fact, same as they used on the F-14 fighters in Desert Storm. You could hit Baghdad with this artillery. Fires eight shots. Guaranteed take down. But there’s a heavy recoil. So we’ll wear these weightlifters’ gloves. Not because we wanna look like a couple of S&M faggots but because they let you keep a tight grip.’

The last weapon out of the bag was a shotgun.

‘Last, but by no means least to boogie on down is your pump action twelve-gauge shotgun. Mossberg Model 835. Cut back to eighteen inches, same as my dick. I’ve taken off the magazine plug and replaced the front bead. Looks pretty mean, doesn’t it?’ Al chuckled. ‘Well, this’ll sweep the fuckin’ hall for ya, and no mistake. You’ll only have to fire this mother once and your problems are solved. When we’re outside and on the boats I recommend you stick to the submachine gun and your pistol. Dealing with the ship’s crew, the shotgun will be the most effective friendly persuasion.’ Al worked the slide, and pulled the trigger on the empty chamber. ‘Not for nothing is this called a riot gun. And with these three weapons, we are loaded with fuckin’ opportunities.

‘But in case we have to play anyone with a similar hand to our own, we’ll be wearing Kevlar. Tested at the Aberdeen Proving Grounds by the US Government Edgewood Arsenal, this body armor will stop the ACP and the nine-mill, but maybe not the twelve at close range. This is what you want to be wearing when you attend your next local meeting of the Branch Davidians. The truth hurts, but not if you’re wearing Kevin Costner.’

Next to the folded white torso of the body armor, Al laid a walkie-talkie. He said, ‘And of course, our communications devices, in case love tries to tear us apart.’ Al waved his hand at the guns and equipment that were now spread on the bed like Christmas presents. ‘At the risk of sounding like Gunny Sergeant Highway, get to know this shit. Become familiar with it. Could be it’ll save your life. More importantly, you might save mine. Oh yeah. One more thing. What I call the Alias Smith and Jones factor.’

Dave nodded and said, ‘Starring Pete Duel and Ben Murphy.’

‘All the trains and banks they robbed, they never shot anyone? Bullshit. Nobody gives up a fuckin’ payroll without someone gettin’ shot. Remember that. Someone gets in your way and you gotta grease the fucker, then you’d better fuckin’ do it or it could be your ass that’s down. You wanna be very popular with everyone but the railroads and the banks? Then you’d better try stand-up comedy instead of robbery. You wanna take down a score like this one, then you’d better be ready to drop some fuckin’ brass. And lots of it. You understand? It’s survival of the fittest. Capisce?

Dave grinned back at him. He said, ‘All that testosterone, Al. You wanna hear yourself. Like a goddamn pit-bull terrier. Survival of the fittest? That was Charles Darwin’s theory. It was an explanation of natural selection and evolution and shit like that. When he said survival of the fittest he didn’t mean those who were prepared to be the baddest motherfuckers would survive. Fittest doesn’t mean bad, Al. It doesn’t mean anything except what it says: most likely to survive. Fact is that old Darwin thought that being predisposed toward co-operation might well be adaptive and would thus be selected for.

‘The way I look at it, Al, that’s what we’re after. A little co-operation. We wave our guns and make some noise, sure. But let’s do this cleverly. In a social way. A certain amount of aggression may well be called for, sure. It may confer some benefits. But it also has its costs. Most animals have got built-in codes for conflict that set limits to the violence they do to each other. A lot of it is just bluff. Threat displays n’shit like that. To hear you Al, you sound like you actually want to kill somebody. And what you’ve got to understand is that if we use our brains we probably won’t have to use our guns. Your Alias Smith and Jones example is all wrong, man. The point was not that they were too yellow or too dumb to shoot anyone, but that they planned their robberies with sufficient thought and style, and then kept their cool so as they didn’t need to shoot people.’

Al laughed scornfully. ‘And you believe that?’

‘Al, it’s your example, not mine. The question’s kind of academic, on account of how it wasn’t meant to be true in the first place.’

‘Sure it was true,’ insisted Al. ‘It was history. Said so right at the beginning of the show. "Hannibal Hayes and Kid Curry, the two most wanted outlaws in the history of the west." Sure it was true. The only part that wasn’t true was the part how they never shot anyone. They just did that to make sure they picked up the family audience.’

‘Al, it was a fictional scenario, based only very loosely on two historical characters.’ Dave checked himself from saying more. What did he know? What did he care? What the fuck did it matter? He was debating a point with someone whose idea of an effective argument was a bigger handgun than the next guy.

Al said, ‘You know your trouble? You read way too much. Every time you open your mouth some other guy’s thoughts come out. Like you were a vent’s dummy or something.’ He lifted the empty .45 automatic, pointed it at Dave’s reflection in the large mirror behind his bed, and pulled the trigger harmlessly. He said, ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it beats me how you did all that time.’

Dave said, ‘Whatever I did, Al, I did for you and for your boss. Try and remember that sometime.’

Al winked unpleasantly.

‘Hey, it’s always on my mind.’

Dave carried his gear back to his own stateroom, put it in the drawer underneath his bed and then stretched out.

The five years he’d done in Homestead were of little consequence to Al, but Dave knew the experience would be on his own mind for the rest of his natural. He thought about the time and then he thought about the man Tony Nudelli had shot, and the ramifications that had ensued. For Dave and Dave’s fucked-up family. There was no way Naked Tony was going to get away with what had happened. He had some payback coming.

But mostly he thought about Kate and what had happened the night before. Already she was on his mind in a way he’d hardly have thought possible on the strength of one day’s acquaintance. First thing that morning his thoughts had been about her. It’s the girls who resist that you most want to kiss. He could not recall feeling this way about a girl in years and it seemed unthinkable that in four or five days’ time he might sail off into the sunrise and simply never see her again. What made it even more awkward was the certainty that she felt the same way about him. With the only difference being that she wasn’t expecting him to turn thief and take off with millions of dollars of drug money. There could be no question of not going through with the caper. Even if he’d had second thoughts there was still Al to consider. But maybe there was a third possibility. How much did the captain of a small yacht make anyway? Thirty, forty thousand dollars a year? What was that next to some real money? She talked like she’d be willing at least to entertain the proposition. If there was one thing Dave liked it was a good-looking girl with lip. Of course, the timing would be critical. He could hardly tell her what he was going to do before he had done it. Suppose she objected and then gave the game away? No, he wasn’t quite sure how, but he would have to check her out and make sure of her in some other way, up front. He would have to devise a fictional scenario or pose, in order to test her.

After a while Dave went up on deck, and looked toward the Carrera. There were signs that someone had been sunbathing on the roof but Kate was nowhere in sight. Al was up on the side of the Duke, talking to the Jade’s captain and grinning wolfishly. Seeing Dave, he shouted down.

‘Hey boss, we just got ourselves invited to a cocktail party.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Dave, climbing up onto the wall alongside them. ‘Thanks a lot, Captain Dana.’

She said, ‘Eight o’clock. Everyone’s invited. And please, it’s Rachel. With so many captains around this ship is starting to look a little top heavy.’

Dave saw Al glance surreptitiously at Rachel’s tits. Al’s thoughts were an open book to Dave; certainly where they concerned the top-heavy Rachel Dana.

Dave said, ‘Dana. That’s a good name for the captain of an American boat. Any relation?’

‘As a matter of fact he was a distant ancestor of mine,’ confirmed Rachel.

Al bit his lip and said, ‘Who?’

‘A famous writer,’ Dave said, teasing him. ‘R.H. Dana.’

Al rolled his eyes and was about to make another disparaging comment about books when it suddenly dawned on him that Dave was supposed to be his boss, and this Dana guy was a writer who was related to Rachel.

‘He wrote one of the best books ever about the sea,’ said Dave. ‘Two Years before the Mast. But you wouldn’t be interested, Al. Not being much of a reader n’all.’

‘Says who?’

‘I have a copy in my cabin, if you’d like to borrow it,’ said Rachel.

‘I’d love to read it,’ insisted Al.

‘Maybe when you’ve finished reading it, you can tell Rachel what you think,’ said Dave. ‘Give her your literary critique.’

‘Yeah, sure. Why not?’

Rachel smiled pleasantly and ushering Al onto the Jade, said, ‘Well then let’s go and get it, shall we?’

Later that same day, Dave walked round to the port side of the ship to check on his three target vessels.

Up on the roof of Baby Doc, one of the crewmen, with more tattoos than a Maori Hell’s Angel, had the bell cover off the Tracvision antenna and was attaching a wire to the satellite dish.

‘Afternoon,’ said Dave.

‘So I was led to believe,’ said the guy, not even looking round.

‘You got a problem there? Maybe I can help.’

The guy looked around slowly with a who-the-fuck-are-you-to-be-offering-me-advice expression on his smug, tough face. After a moment or two, he finished chewing the inside of his lip and said, ‘We’re not getting a TV signal.’

Dave smiled to himself, marking the guy down as someone with little experience of boats. He said, ‘Too far away.’

‘From the satellite?’ The guy sounded incredulous.

‘Hell no,’ said Dave. ‘From the coast. That thing only works up to the 200-mile limit. After that it’s just white noise and space, the final frontier.’

‘No kidding?’

‘No kidding. Leastways until you get to Europe. But their TV’s shit so don’t hold your breath.’

‘Shit,’ said the guy. ‘What are we gonna do?’

‘Gotta VCR?’

‘Yeah, but no tapes.’

‘Not a problem.’ Dave pointed toward the bow of the Duke. ‘See that big boat up front? The 160-footer. That’s the Jade. She’s owned by Jade Films. They’ve got plenty of videos for loan. That is, if you like porno.’

‘Does Sinatra like spaghetti?’

‘Well then you’re in luck. They’ve got a video library like a Triple X on Times Square.’

Dave was only reporting what Al had said after collecting Rachel’s copy of Two Years before the Mast. His eyes had been out on stalks.

‘As a matter of fact they’re having a cocktail party tonight, at eight. Open invitation. Surprised you haven’t heard about it.’

‘Oh, we haven’t been very sociable so far. Some chick came around earlier but we were all still in bed. Had a few drinks ourselves last night.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘More than a few.’ The guy turned a little friendlier. ‘Hey, you wanna drink?’

‘Sure. Why not?’

‘Then step aboard, my friend. Step aboard the Baby Doc.’

This was better than Dave could have hoped for. He leaped onto the rooftop alongside the tattooed guy and followed him down to the deck. He said, ‘Baby Doc. What was this, the Duvalier family yacht or something?’

‘Nope. Guy who owns her runs some kind of fertility clinic in Geneva. Makes a shitload of money out of women who can’t have any babies. And other gynecological odds and ends. I don’t think he’d ever heard of the Duvalier family or the Tonton Macoutes. Fact is I don’t think he even knew that Haiti existed. Not until he started to sail it around the Caribbean.’ The guy laughed and handed Dave a cold Bud. ‘Found out soon enough then, of course. He’s planning to refurbish her in Europe. Gonna rename her at the same time, I think. If he’s got any sense. Dumb fucker.’

Dave grinned and looked around the shabby interior, wondering how much money might be concealed inside the worn leather furniture. Two big sofas and two matching easy chairs. The rest of the lounge looked suitably clinical. Like a rest room for the guys on E.R. They’d worked the story well enough and certainly picked the right boat. The guy, who told Dave his name was Keach, hadn’t exaggerated. A complete refurbishment was what the Baby Doc needed. And ripping out the interior furnishings would cause no great expense.

Dave took his beer and dropped onto the sofa, hoping he might witness some discomfort under his ass or on Reach’s face. The sofa felt firm enough. Maybe too firm at that. More like an office chair than a comfortable sofa. The stitching on the old leather looked a little too pristine. Like it was new. As if someone had stitched something up inside the leather. Money. Meanwhile Reach’s face, with its puffy eyes — like he’d maybe taken a few punches in his time — and lugubrious mouth stayed cool.

Dave recognized the look. It was the same long-range, armor-piercing, full-metal-jacket stare you developed when you were in the joint. The don’t-mess-with-my-shit-or-I’ll-fucking-kill-you kind of look. So Reach was an ex-con, just like himself. Dave wondered if the guy maybe got the same smell off him.

‘C’mon,’ Keach said coolly. ‘Let’s go outside. You can point out your own boat.’

Dave stayed on the Baby Doc for another fifteen minutes meeting one of the other crewmen, a heavy-set black guy wearing a buzz haircut in a Keith Haring design and the kind of granite face that looked like he’d had it custom-made on Easter Island. Catching sight of his own reflection in the two watchtower gun-barrels of the black’s sunglasses, Dave thought that he himself looked like a fairly regular guy. Hardly the kind of guy who had a gun for all seasons underneath his bed. He looked like just the kind of guy that Kate might take on.

Taking on these guys aboard the Baby Doc looked like a rather more difficult proposition.

On his way back to the Juarista, Dave found his progress along the narrow gangway impeded by a solitary figure staring out to sea. As Dave excused himself, squeezing past the guy, he realized that he knew the face.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you Calgary Stanford? The movie actor?’

‘Yes, I am.’ Stanford’s tone was sad, almost as if being Calgary Stanford was a little too much to bear. Or maybe it was the role he was reported to be planning. Calgary Stanford was the same movie actor who had attended the execution of Benford Halls on the day that Dave had been released from Homestead. Dave was familiar with stories in Premiere about the methodical prep work some movie actors did to get into character. On the whole he thought it was right that they should have to do some work, maybe even endure some hardship in return for the money they got paid. But he drew the line at attending a guy’s execution and wondered if, before the voyage was out, there might not be some way of getting even with the actor on the executed man’s behalf.

Dave said, ‘The Cruel Sea, huh?’ When Stanford looked blank, Dave explained it was a book.

‘I think I saw the movie. British movie, right?’

Dave nodded, wondering if guys in prison were the only people who read books any more. ‘As a matter of fact, I thought you must be watching out for the hurricane.’

‘What hurricane?’

‘You haven’t heard? There’s one coming up from the west.’

This was true. It had been on the radio just after midday. It was a long way behind them, but Dave wanted to spook the actor some.

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Actually no,’ said Dave. ‘It’s called Louisa. But Jesus’d be a pretty good name for a hurricane when you think about it. Hurricane Jesus, or Hurricane Holy Shit, or Hurricane Holy Mother of God. I’ve known some mean bitches in my time, good for spending your money and giving out grief, but none of them could trash a place up the way a real storm can. The way a rock group can. Hurricane Led Zeppelin. That’s a better name for a hurricane. Or Hurricane Keith Moon. Boy, I’ll bet that’s a hurricane that could do some real damage. Not just the TV or the Rolls-Royce that ends up in the swimming pool, but the whole damn hotel.’

‘They say what category this Louisa is?’ asked Stanford.

‘A three, I think.’ Dave sniffed the air. There was a definite smell of marijuana coming off the actor’s breath. The guy was a little stoned. Probably came up on deck to clear his head.

‘That’s not the top category,’ said the actor in his laid-back LA drawl. ‘But it’s still dangerous. Did you know that in one day a hurricane can release as much energy as 500,000 atomic bombs?’

‘What size of A-bomb do you mean?’ asked Dave. ‘Hiroshima, or something bigger?’

Calgary Stanford thought for a moment, blinked hard and then said, ‘I don’t know. But either way it’s a lot of dead people.’ He started to laugh.

‘You seem to know a lot about them,’ observed Dave. ‘Hurricanes, I mean.’

‘Did a movie about a hurricane once. Piece of shit. You wouldn’t have seen it. But that’s the kind of trivia you tend to collect when you’re getting into a role.’ He paused and looked out to sea again. ‘I’ve never been in a real hurricane. Sounds like a blast.’ He laughed again.

‘I have,’ said Dave. ‘It was pretty scary.’

‘Where was that?’

It had been when he was in Homestead. Even behind several feet of reinforced concrete, Dave had thought that the place would blow down. Unfortunately it hadn’t. But for days afterward the inmates were clearing up the damage. ‘Just Miami,’ he said.

‘Where’s this one, right now?’

‘Over Cuba. And heading north-west. Maybe it’ll blow itself out by the time it reaches us. Or maybe the ship will outrun it.’

Stanford snorted and said, ‘Now if it was my boat, that might be a possibility.’ He pointed to the sharp-looking flybridge motor yacht that occupied the space immediately in front of the Britannia. ‘That’s her there. The Comanche. British built Predator. Three 846 K engines. That’s forty knots. But she still sleeps eight.’

‘Nice-looking boat,’ Dave admitted.

‘But this ship. This ship couldn’t outrun Orson Welles.’

‘He was kind of quick on his toes in The Third Man,’ Dave argued. ‘Running through all those sewers in Vienna.’

Stanford blinked blearily and snorted again. ‘Not quick enough, as I recall. Besides, from what I’ve read about that movie, Welles didn’t like being down in those sewers and most of those shots were covered by a body double.’ Noting the look of disappointment that momentarily clouded Dave’s face, Stanford added, ‘It’s a very mendacious business, the movies. Nothing is ever what it seems. And nobody is ever who they’re supposed to be.’

Dave dismissed his small shattered illusion and said, ‘Then to that extent, I guess the movie business is just like life.’